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"The Old Wives' Tale"
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PREFACE TO THIS EDITION
In the
autumn of 1903 I used to dine frequently in a
restaurant in the Rue de Clichy, Paris. Here
were, among others, two waitresses that
attracted my attention. One was a beautiful,
pale young girl, to whom I never spoke, for she
was employed far away from the table which I
affected. The other, a stout, middle-aged
managing Breton woman, had sole command over my
table and me, and gradually she began to assume
such a maternal tone towards me that I saw I
should be compelled to leave that restaurant. If
I was absent for a couple of nights running she
would reproach me sharply: "What! you are
unfaithful to me?" Once, when I complained about
some French beans, she informed me roundly that
French beans were a subject which I did not
understand. I then decided to be eternally
unfaithful to her, and I abandoned the
restaurant. A few nights before the final
parting an old woman came into the restaurant to
dine. She was fat, shapeless, ugly, and
grotesque. She had a ridiculous voice, and
ridiculous gestures. It was easy to see that she
lived alone, and that in the long lapse of years
she had developed the kind of peculiarity which
induces guffaws among the thoughtless. She was
burdened with a lot of small parcels, which she
kept dropping. She chose one seat; and then, not
liking it, chose another; and then another. In a
few moments she had the whole restaurant
laughing at her. That my middle-aged Breton
should laugh was indifferent to me, but I was
pained to see a coarse grimace of giggling on
the pale face of the beautiful young waitress to
whom I had never spoken.
I
reflected, concerning the grotesque diner: "This
woman was once young, slim, perhaps beautiful;
certainly free from these ridiculous mannerisms.
Very probably she is unconscious of her
singularities. Her case is a tragedy. One ought
to be able to make a heartrending novel out of
the history of a woman such as she." Every
stout, ageing woman is not grotesque—far from
it!—but there is an extreme pathos in the mere
fact that every stout ageing woman was once a
young girl with the unique charm of youth in her
form and movements and in her mind. And the fact
that the change from the young girl to the stout
ageing woman is made up of an infinite number of
infinitesimal changes, each unperceived by her,
only intensifies the pathos.
It was at
this instant that I was visited by the idea of
writing the book which ultimately became "The
Old Wives' Tale." Of course I felt that the
woman who caused the ignoble mirth in the
restaurant would not serve me as a type of
heroine. For she was much too old and obviously
unsympathetic. It is an absolute rule that the
principal character of a novel must not be
unsympathetic, and the whole modern tendency of
realistic fiction is against oddness in a
prominent figure. I knew that I must choose the
sort of woman who would pass unnoticed in a
crowd.
I put the
idea aside for a long time, but it was never
very distant from me. For several reasons it
made a special appeal to me. I had always been a
convinced admirer of Mrs. W. K. Clifford's most
precious novel, "Aunt Anne," but I wanted to see
in the story of an old woman many things that
Mrs. W. K. Clifford had omitted from "Aunt
Anne." Moreover, I had always revolted against
the absurd youthfulness, the unfading
youthfulness of the average heroine. And as a
protest against this fashion, I was already, in
1903, planning a novel ("Leonora") of which the
heroine was aged forty, and had daughters old
enough to be in love. The reviewers, by the way,
were staggered by my hardihood in offering a
woman of forty as a subject of serious interest
to the public. But I meant to go much farther
than forty! Finally as a supreme reason, I had
the example and the challenge of Guy de
Maupassant's "Une Vie." In the nineties we used
to regard "Une Vie" with mute awe, as being the
summit of achievement in fiction. And I remember
being very cross with Mr. Bernard Shaw because,
having read "Une Vie" at the suggestion (I
think) of Mr. William Archer, he failed to see
in it anything very remarkable. Here I must
confess that, in 1908, I read "Une Vie" again,
and in spite of a natural anxiety to differ from
Mr. Bernard Shaw, I was gravely disappointed
with it. It is a fine novel, but decidedly
inferior to "Pierre et Jean" or even "Fort Comme
la Mort." To return to the year 1903. "Une Vie"
relates the entire life history of a woman. I
settled in the privacy of my own head that my
book about the development of a young girl into
a stout old lady must be the English "Une Vie."
I have been accused of every fault except a lack
of self-confidence, and in a few weeks I settled
a further point, namely, that my book must "go
one better" than "Une Vie," and that to this end
it must be the life-history of two women instead
of only one. Hence, "The Old Wives' Tale" has
two heroines. Constance was the original; Sophia
was created out of bravado, just to indicate
that I declined to consider Guy de Maupassant as
the last forerunner of the deluge. I was
intimidated by the audacity of my project, but I
had sworn to carry it out. For several years I
looked it squarely in the face at intervals, and
then walked away to write novels of smaller
scope, of which I produced five or six. But I
could not dally forever, and in the autumn of
1907 I actually began to write it, in a village
near Fontainebleau, where I rented half a house
from a retired railway servant. I calculated
that it would be 200,000 words long (which it
exactly proved to be), and I had a vague notion
that no novel of such dimensions (except
Richardson's) had ever been written before. So I
counted the words in several famous Victorian
novels, and discovered to my relief that the
famous Victorian novels average 400,000 words
apiece. I wrote the first part of the novel in
six weeks. It was fairly easy to me, because, in
the seventies, in the first decade of my life, I
had lived in the actual draper's shop of the
Baines's, and knew it as only a child could know
it. Then I went to London on a visit. I tried to
continue the book in a London hotel, but London
was too distracting, and I put the thing away,
and during January and February of 1908, I wrote
"Buried Alive," which was published immediately,
and was received with majestic indifference by
the English public, an indifference which has
persisted to this day.
I then
returned to the Fontainebleau region and gave
"The Old Wives' Tale" no rest till I finished it
at the end of July, 1908. It was published in
the autumn of the same year, and for six weeks
afterward the English public steadily confirmed
an opinion expressed by a certain person in
whose judgment I had confidence, to the effect
that the work was honest but dull, and that when
it was not dull it had a regrettable tendency to
facetiousness. My publishers, though brave
fellows, were somewhat disheartened; however,
the reception of the book gradually became less
and less frigid.
With regard
to the French portion of the story, it was not
until I had written the first part that I saw
from a study of my chronological basis that the
Siege of Paris might be brought into the tale.
The idea was seductive; but I hated, and still
hate, the awful business of research; and I only
knew the Paris of the Twentieth Century. Now I
was aware that my railway servant and his wife
had been living in Paris at the time of the war.
I said to the old man, "By the way, you went
through the Siege of Paris, didn't you?" He
turned to his old wife and said, uncertainly,
"The Siege of Paris? Yes, we did, didn't we?"
The Siege of Paris had been only one incident
among many in their lives. Of course, they
remembered it well, though not vividly, and I
gained much information from them. But the most
useful thing which I gained from them was the
perception, startling at first, that ordinary
people went on living very ordinary lives in
Paris during the siege, and that to the vast
mass of the population the siege was not the
dramatic, spectacular, thrilling, ecstatic
affair that is described in history. Encouraged
by this perception, I decided to include the
siege in my scheme. I read Sarcey's diary of the
siege aloud to my wife, and I looked at the
pictures in Jules Claretie's popular work on the
siege and the commune, and I glanced at the
printed collection of official documents, and
there my research ended.
It has been
asserted that unless I had actually been present
at a public execution, I could not have written
the chapter in which Sophia was at the Auxerre
solemnity. I have not been present at a public
execution, as the whole of my information about
public executions was derived from a series of
articles on them which I read in the Paris
Matin. Mr. Frank Harris, discussing my book in
"Vanity Fair," said it was clear that I had not
seen an execution, (or words to that effect),
and he proceeded to give his own description of
an execution. It was a brief but terribly
convincing bit of writing, quite characteristic
and quite worthy of the author of "Montes the
Matador" and of a man who has been almost
everywhere and seen almost everything. I
comprehended how far short I had fallen of the
truth! I wrote to Mr. Frank Harris, regretting
that his description had not been printed before
I wrote mine, as I should assuredly have
utilized it, and, of course, I admitted that I
had never witnessed an execution. He simply
replied: "Neither have I." This detail is worth
preserving, for it is a reproof to that large
body of readers, who, when a novelist has really
carried conviction to them, assert off hand: "O,
that must be autobiography!"
ARNOLD
BENNETT
CONTENTS
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BOOK I.
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BOOK II.
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BOOK III.
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BOOK IV.
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MRS. BAINES
I. THE SQUARE
II. THE TOOTH
III. A BATTLE
IV. ELEPHANT
V. THE TRAVELLER
VI. ESCAPADE
VII. A DEFEAT
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CONSTANCE
I. REVOLUTION
II. CHRISTMAS AND THE FUTURE
III. CYRIL
IV. CRIME
V. ANOTHER CRIME
VI. THE WIDOW
VII. BRICKS AND MORTAR
VIII. THE PROUDEST MOTHER
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SOPHIA
I. THE ELOPEMENT
II. SUPPER
III. AN AMBITION SATISFIED
IV. A CRISIS FOR GERALD
V. FEVER
VI. THE SIEGE
VII. SUCCESS
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WHAT LIFE IS
I. FRENSHAM'S
II. THE MEETING
III. TOWARDS HOTEL LIFE
IV. END OF SOPHIA
V. END OF CONSTANCE
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BOOK I
MRS. BAINES
CHAPTER I
THE SQUARE
I
Those two
girls, Constance and Sophia Baines, paid no heed
to the manifold interest of their situation, of
which, indeed, they had never been conscious.
They were, for example, established almost
precisely on the fifty-third parallel of
latitude. A little way to the north of them, in
the creases of a hill famous for its religious
orgies, rose the river Trent, the calm and
characteristic stream of middle England.
Somewhat further northwards, in the near
neighbourhood of the highest public-house in the
realm, rose two lesser rivers, the Dane and the
Dove, which, quarrelling in early infancy,
turned their backs on each other, and, the one
by favour of the Weaver and the other by favour
of the Trent, watered between them the whole
width of England, and poured themselves
respectively into the Irish Sea and the German
Ocean. What a county of modest, unnoticed
rivers! What a natural, simple county, content
to fix its boundaries by these tortuous island
brooks, with their comfortable names—Trent,
Mease, Dove, Tern, Dane, Mees, Stour, Tame, and
even hasty Severn! Not that the Severn is
suitable to the county! In the county excess is
deprecated. The county is happy in not exciting
remark. It is content that Shropshire should
possess that swollen bump, the Wrekin, and that
the exaggerated wildness of the Peak should lie
over its border. It does not desire to be a
pancake like Cheshire. It has everything that
England has, including thirty miles of Watling
Street; and England can show nothing more
beautiful and nothing uglier than the works of
nature and the works of man to be seen within
the limits of the county. It is England in
little, lost in the midst of England, unsung by
searchers after the extreme; perhaps
occasionally somewhat sore at this neglect, but
how proud in the instinctive cognizance of its
representative features and traits!
Constance
and Sophia, busy with the intense preoccupations
of youth, recked not of such matters. They were
surrounded by the county. On every side the
fields and moors of Staffordshire, intersected
by roads and lanes, railways, watercourses and
telegraph-lines, patterned by hedges, ornamented
and made respectable by halls and genteel parks,
enlivened by villages at the intersections, and
warmly surveyed by the sun, spread out
undulating. And trains were rushing round curves
in deep cuttings, and carts and waggons trotting
and jingling on the yellow roads, and long,
narrow boats passing in a leisure majestic and
infinite over the surface of the stolid canals;
the rivers had only themselves to support, for
Staffordshire rivers have remained virgin of
keels to this day. One could imagine the
messages concerning prices, sudden death, and
horses, in their flight through the wires under
the feet of birds. In the inns Utopians were
shouting the universe into order over beer, and
in the halls and parks the dignity of England
was being preserved in a fitting manner. The
villages were full of women who did nothing but
fight against dirt and hunger, and repair the
effects of friction on clothes. Thousands of
labourers were in the fields, but the fields
were so broad and numerous that this scattered
multitude was totally lost therein. The cuckoo
was much more perceptible than man, dominating
whole square miles with his resounding call. And
on the airy moors heath-larks played in the
ineffaceable mule- tracks that had served
centuries before even the Romans thought of
Watling Street. In short, the usual daily life
of the county was proceeding with all its
immense variety and importance; but though
Constance and Sophia were in it they were not of
it.
The fact
is, that while in the county they were also in
the district; and no person who lives in the
district, even if he should be old and have
nothing to do but reflect upon things in
general, ever thinks about the county. So far as
the county goes, the district might almost as
well be in the middle of the Sahara. It ignores
the county, save that it uses it nonchalantly
sometimes as leg-stretcher on holiday
afternoons, as a man may use his back garden. It
has nothing in common with the county; it is
richly sufficient to itself. Nevertheless, its
self-sufficiency and the true salt savour of its
life can only be appreciated by picturing it
hemmed in by county. It lies on the face of the
county like an insignificant stain, like a dark
Pleiades in a green and empty sky. And Hanbridge
has the shape of a horse and its rider, Bursley
of half a donkey, Knype of a pair of trousers,
Longshaw of an octopus, and little Turnhill of a
beetle. The Five Towns seem to cling together
for safety. Yet the idea of clinging together
for safety would make them laugh. They are
unique and indispensable. From the north of the
county right down to the south they alone stand
for civilization, applied science, organized
manufacture, and the century—until you come to
Wolverhampton. They are unique and indispensable
because you cannot drink tea out of a teacup
without the aid of the Five Towns; because you
cannot eat a meal in decency without the aid of
the Five Towns. For this the architecture of the
Five Towns is an architecture of ovens and
chimneys; for this its atmosphere is as black as
its mud; for this it burns and smokes all night,
so that Longshaw has been compared to hell; for
this it is unlearned in the ways of agriculture,
never having seen corn except as packing straw
and in quartern loaves; for this, on the other
hand, it comprehends the mysterious habits of
fire and pure, sterile earth; for this it lives
crammed together in slippery streets where the
housewife must change white window-curtains at
least once a fortnight if she wishes to remain
respectable; for this it gets up in the mass at
six a.m., winter and summer, and goes to bed
when the public-houses close; for this it
exists—that you may drink tea out of a teacup
and toy with a chop on a plate. All the everyday
crockery used in the kingdom is made in the Five
Towns—all, and much besides. A district capable
of such gigantic manufacture, of such a perfect
monopoly—and which finds energy also to produce
coal and iron and great men— may be an
insignificant stain on a county, considered
geographically, but it is surely well justified
in treating the county as its back garden once a
week, and in blindly ignoring it the rest of the
time.
Even the
majestic thought that whenever and wherever in
all England a woman washes up, she washes up the
product of the district; that whenever and
wherever in all England a plate is broken the
fracture means new business for the
district—even this majestic thought had probably
never occurred to either of the girls. The fact
is, that while in the Five Towns they were also
in the Square, Bursley and the Square ignored
the staple manufacture as perfectly as the
district ignored the county. Bursley has the
honours of antiquity in the Five Towns. No
industrial development can ever rob it of its
superiority in age, which makes it absolutely
sure in its conceit. And the time will never
come when the other towns—let them swell and
bluster as they may—will not pronounce the name
of Bursley as one pronounces the name of one's
mother. Add to this that the Square was the
centre of Bursley's retail trade (which scorned
the staple as something wholesale, vulgar, and
assuredly filthy), and you will comprehend the
importance and the self-isolation of the Square
in the scheme of the created universe. There you
have it, embedded in the district, and the
district embedded in the county, and the county
lost and dreaming in the heart of England!
The Square
was named after St. Luke. The Evangelist might
have been startled by certain phenomena in his
square, but, except in Wakes Week, when the
shocking always happened, St. Luke's Square
lived in a manner passably saintly—though it
contained five public-houses. It contained five
public-houses, a bank, a barber's, a
confectioner's, three grocers', two chemists',
an ironmonger's, a clothier's, and five
drapers'. These were all the catalogue. St.
Luke's Square had no room for minor
establishments. The aristocracy of the Square
undoubtedly consisted of the drapers (for the
bank was impersonal); and among the five the
shop of Baines stood supreme. No business
establishment could possibly be more respected
than that of Mr. Baines was respected. And
though John Baines had been bedridden for a
dozen years, he still lived on the lips of
admiring, ceremonious burgesses as 'our honoured
fellow-townsman.' He deserved his reputation.
The
Baines's shop, to make which three dwellings had
at intervals been thrown into one, lay at the
bottom of the Square. It formed about one-third
of the south side of the Square, the remainder
being made up of Critchlow's (chemist), the
clothier's, and the Hanover Spirit Vaults.
("Vaults" was a favourite synonym of the
public-house in the Square. Only two of the
public-houses were crude public-houses: the rest
were "vaults.") It was a composite building of
three storeys, in blackish-crimson brick, with a
projecting shop-front and, above and behind
that, two rows of little windows. On the sash of
each window was a red cloth roll stuffed with
sawdust, to prevent draughts; plain white blinds
descended about six inches from the top of each
window. There were no curtains to any of the
windows save one; this was the window of the
drawing-room, on the first floor at the corner
of the Square and King Street. Another window,
on the second storey, was peculiar, in that it
had neither blind nor pad, and was very dirty;
this was the window of an unused room that had a
separate staircase to itself, the staircase
being barred by a door always locked. Constance
and Sophia had lived in continual expectation of
the abnormal issuing from that mysterious room,
which was next to their own. But they were
disappointed. The room had no shameful secret
except the incompetence of the architect who had
made one house out of three; it was just an
empty, unemployable room. The building had also
a considerable frontage on King Street, where,
behind the shop, was sheltered the parlour, with
a large window and a door that led directly by
two steps into the street. A strange peculiarity
of the shop was that it bore no signboard. Once
it had had a large signboard which a memorable
gale had blown into the Square. Mr. Baines had
decided not to replace it. He had always
objected to what he called "puffing," and for
this reason would never hear of such a thing as
a clearance sale. The hatred of "puffing" grew
on him until he came to regard even a sign as
"puffing." Uninformed persons who wished to find
Baines's must ask and learn. For Mr. Baines, to
have replaced the sign would have been to
condone, yea, to participate in, the modern
craze for unscrupulous self-advertisement. This
abstention of Mr. Baines's from indulgence in
signboards was somehow accepted by the more
thoughtful members of the community as evidence
that the height of Mr. Baines's principles was
greater even than they had imagined.
Constance
and Sophia were the daughters of this credit to
human nature. He had no other children.
II
They
pressed their noses against the window of the
show-room, and gazed down into the Square as
perpendicularly as the projecting front of the
shop would allow. The show-room was over the
millinery and silken half of the shop. Over the
woollen and shirting half were the drawing-room
and the chief bedroom. When in quest of articles
of coquetry, you mounted from the shop by a
curving stair, and your head gradually rose
level with a large apartment having a mahogany
counter in front of the window and along one
side, yellow linoleum on the floor, many
cardboard boxes, a magnificent hinged cheval
glass, and two chairs. The window-sill being
lower than the counter, there was a gulf between
the panes and the back of the counter, into
which important articles such as scissors,
pencils, chalk, and artificial flowers were
continually disappearing: another proof of the
architect's incompetence.
The girls
could only press their noses against the window
by kneeling on the counter, and this they were
doing. Constance's nose was snub, but agreeably
so. Sophia had a fine Roman nose; she was a
beautiful creature, beautiful and handsome at
the same time. They were both of them rather
like racehorses, quivering with delicate,
sensitive, and luxuriant life; exquisite,
enchanting proof of the circulation of the
blood; innocent, artful, roguish, prim, gushing,
ignorant, and miraculously wise. Their ages were
sixteen and fifteen; it is an epoch when, if one
is frank, one must admit that one has nothing to
learn: one has learnt simply everything in the
previous six months.
"There she
goes!" exclaimed Sophia.
Up the
Square, from the corner of King Street, passed a
woman in a new bonnet with pink strings, and a
new blue dress that sloped at the shoulders and
grew to a vast circumference at the hem. Through
the silent sunlit solitude of the Square (for it
was Thursday afternoon, and all the shops shut
except the confectioner's and one chemist's)
this bonnet and this dress floated northwards in
search of romance, under the relentless eyes of
Constance and Sophia. Within them, somewhere,
was the soul of Maggie, domestic servant at
Baines's. Maggie had been at the shop since
before the creation of Constance and Sophia. She
lived seventeen hours of each day in an
underground kitchen and larder, and the other
seven in an attic, never going out except to
chapel on Sunday evenings, and once a month on
Thursday afternoons. "Followers" were most
strictly forbidden to her; but on rare occasions
an aunt from Longshaw was permitted as a
tremendous favour to see her in the subterranean
den. Everybody, including herself, considered
that she had a good "place," and was well
treated. It was undeniable, for instance, that
she was allowed to fall in love exactly as she
chose, provided she did not "carry on" in the
kitchen or the yard. And as a fact, Maggie had
fallen in love. In seventeen years she had been
engaged eleven times. No one could conceive how
that ugly and powerful organism could softly
languish to the undoing of even a butty-collier,
nor why, having caught a man in her sweet toils,
she could ever be imbecile enough to set him
free. There are, however, mysteries in the souls
of Maggies. The drudge had probably been
affianced oftener than any woman in Bursley. Her
employers were so accustomed to an interesting
announcement that for years they had taken to
saying naught in reply but 'Really, Maggie!'
Engagements and tragic partings were Maggie's
pastime. Fixed otherwise, she might have studied
the piano instead.
"No gloves,
of course!" Sophia criticized.
"Well, you
can't expect her to have gloves," said
Constance.
Then a
pause, as the bonnet and dress neared the top of
the
Square.
"Supposing
she turns round and sees us?" Constance
suggested.
"I don't
care if she does," said Sophia, with a
haughtiness almost impassioned; and her head
trembled slightly.
There were,
as usual, several loafers at the top of the
Square, in the corner between the bank and the
"Marquis of Granby." And one of these loafers
stepped forward and shook hands with an
obviously willing Maggie. Clearly it was a
rendezvous, open, unashamed. The twelfth victim
had been selected by the virgin of forty, whose
kiss would not have melted lard! The couple
disappeared together down Oldcastle Street.
"WELL!"
cried Constance. "Did you ever see such a
thing?"
While
Sophia, short of adequate words, flushed and bit
her lip.
With the
profound, instinctive cruelty of youth,
Constance and Sophia had assembled in their
favourite haunt, the show-room, expressly to
deride Maggie in her new clothes. They obscurely
thought that a woman so ugly and soiled as
Maggie was had no right to possess new clothes.
Even her desire to take the air of a Thursday
afternoon seemed to them unnatural and somewhat
reprehensible. Why should she want to stir out
of her kitchen? As for her tender yearnings,
they positively grudged these to Maggie. That
Maggie should give rein to chaste passion was
more than grotesque; it was offensive and
wicked. But let it not for an instant be doubted
that they were nice, kind-hearted, well-
behaved, and delightful girls! Because they
were. They were not angels.
"It's too
ridiculous!" said Sophia, severely. She had
youth, beauty, and rank in her favour. And to
her it really was ridiculous.
"Poor old
Maggie!" Constance murmured. Constance was
foolishly good-natured, a perfect manufactory of
excuses for other people; and her benevolence
was eternally rising up and overpowering her
reason.
"What time
did mother say she should be back?" Sophia
asked.
"Not until
supper."
"Oh!
Hallelujah!" Sophia burst out, clasping her
hands in joy. And they both slid down from the
counter just as if they had been little boys,
and not, as their mother called them, "great
girls."
"Let's go
and play the Osborne quadrilles," Sophia
suggested (the Osborne quadrilles being a series
of dances arranged to be performed on
drawing-room pianos by four jewelled hands).
"I couldn't
think of it," said Constance, with a precocious
gesture of seriousness. In that gesture, and in
her tone, was something which conveyed to
Sophia: "Sophia, how can you be so utterly blind
to the gravity of our fleeting existence as to
ask me to go and strum the piano with you?" Yet
a moment before she had been a little boy.
"Why not?"
Sophia demanded.
"I shall
never have another chance like to-day for
getting on with this," said Constance, picking
up a bag from the counter.
She sat
down and took from the bag a piece of loosely
woven canvas, on which she was embroidering a
bunch of roses in coloured wools. The canvas had
once been stretched on a frame, but now, as the
delicate labour of the petals and leaves was
done, and nothing remained to do but the
monotonous background, Constance was content to
pin the stuff to her knee. With the long needle
and several skeins of mustard-tinted wool, she
bent over the canvas and resumed the filling-in
of the tiny squares. The whole design was in
squares—the gradations of red and greens, the
curves of the smallest buds—all was contrived in
squares, with a result that mimicked a fragment
of uncompromising Axminster carpet. Still, the
fine texture of the wool, the regular and rapid
grace of those fingers moving incessantly at
back and front of the canvas, the gentle sound
of the wool as it passed through the holes, and
the intent, youthful earnestness of that lowered
gaze, excused and invested with charm an
activity which, on artistic grounds, could not
possibly be justified. The canvas was destined
to adorn a gilt firescreen in the drawing-room,
and also to form a birthday gift to Mrs. Baines
from her elder daughter. But whether the
enterprise was as secret from Mrs. Baines as
Constance hoped, none save Mrs. Baines knew.
"Con,"
murmured Sophia, "you're too sickening
sometimes."
"Well,"
said Constance, blandly, "it's no use pretending
that this hasn't got to be finished before we go
back to school, because it has." Sophia wandered
about, a prey ripe for the Evil One. "Oh," she
exclaimed joyously—even ecstatically—looking
behind the cheval glass, "here's mother's new
skirt! Miss Dunn's been putting the gimp on it!
Oh, mother, what a proud thing you will be!"
Constance heard swishings behind the glass.
"What are you doing, Sophia?"
"Nothing."
"You surely
aren't putting that skirt on?"
"Why not?"
"You'll
catch it finely, I can tell you!"
Without
further defence, Sophia sprang out from behind
the immense glass. She had already shed a
notable part of her own costume, and the flush
of mischief was in her face. She ran across to
the other side of the room and examined
carefully a large coloured print that was
affixed to the wall.
This print
represented fifteen sisters, all of the same
height and slimness of figure, all of the same
age—about twenty-five or so, and all with
exactly the same haughty and bored beauty. That
they were in truth sisters was clear from the
facial resemblance between them; their demeanour
indicated that they were princesses, offspring
of some impossibly prolific king and queen.
Those hands had never toiled, nor had those
features ever relaxed from the smile of courts.
The princesses moved in a landscape of marble
steps and verandahs, with a bandstand and
strange trees in the distance. One was in a
riding-habit, another in evening attire, another
dressed for tea, another for the theatre;
another seemed to be ready to go to bed. One
held a little girl by the hand; it could not
have been her own little girl, for these
princesses were far beyond human passions. Where
had she obtained the little girl? Why was one
sister going to the theatre, another to tea,
another to the stable, and another to bed? Why
was one in a heavy mantle, and another
sheltering from the sun's rays under a parasol?
The picture was drenched in mystery, and the
strangest thing about it was that all these
highnesses were apparently content with the most
ridiculous and out-moded fashions. Absurd hats,
with veils flying behind; absurd bonnets,
fitting close to the head, and spotted; absurd
coiffures that nearly lay on the nape; absurd,
clumsy sleeves; absurd waists, almost above the
elbow's level; absurd scolloped jackets! And the
skirts! What a sight were those skirts! They
were nothing but vast decorated pyramids; on the
summit of each was stuck the upper half of a
princess. It was astounding that princesses
should consent to be so preposterous and so
uncomfortable. But Sophia perceived nothing
uncanny in the picture, which bore the legend:
"Newest summer fashions from Paris. Gratis
supplement to Myra's Journal." Sophia had never
imagined anything more stylish, lovely, and
dashing than the raiment of the fifteen
princesses.
For
Constance and Sophia had the disadvantage of
living in the middle ages. The crinoline had not
quite reached its full circumference, and the
dress-improver had not even been thought of. In
all the Five Towns there was not a public bath,
nor a free library, nor a municipal park, nor a
telephone, nor yet a board- school. People had
not understood the vital necessity of going away
to the seaside every year. Bishop Colenso had
just staggered Christianity by his shameless
notions on the Pentateuch. Half Lancashire was
starving on account of the American war.
Garroting was the chief amusement of the
homicidal classes. Incredible as it may appear,
there was nothing but a horse-tram running
between Bursley and Hanbridge—and that only
twice an hour; and between the other towns no
stage of any kind! One went to Longshaw as one
now goes to Pekin. It was an era so dark and
backward that one might wonder how people could
sleep in their beds at night for thinking about
their sad state.
Happily the
inhabitants of the Five Towns in that era were
passably pleased with themselves, and they never
even suspected that they were not quite modern
and quite awake. They thought that the
intellectual, the industrial, and the social
movements had gone about as far as these
movements could go, and they were amazed at
their own progress. Instead of being humble and
ashamed, they actually showed pride in their
pitiful achievements. They ought to have looked
forward meekly to the prodigious feats of
posterity; but, having too little faith and too
much conceit, they were content to look behind
and make comparisons with the past. They did not
foresee the miraculous generation which is us. A
poor, blind, complacent people! The ludicrous
horse-car was typical of them. The driver rang a
huge bell, five minutes before starting, that
could he heard from the Wesleyan Chapel to the
Cock Yard, and then after deliberations and
hesitations the vehicle rolled off on its rails
into unknown dangers while passengers shouted
good-bye. At Bleakridge it had to stop for the
turnpike, and it was assisted up the mountains
of Leveson Place and Sutherland Street (towards
Hanbridge) by a third horse, on whose back was
perched a tiny, whip-cracking boy; that boy
lived like a shuttle on the road between Leveson
Place and Sutherland Street, and even in wet
weather he was the envy of all other boys. After
half an hour's perilous transit the car drew up
solemnly in a narrow street by the Signal office
in Hanbridge, and the ruddy driver, having
revolved many times the polished iron handle of
his sole brake, turned his attention to his
passengers in calm triumph, dismissing them with
a sort of unsung doxology.
And this
was regarded as the last word of traction! A
whip- cracking boy on a tip horse! Oh, blind,
blind! You could not foresee the hundred and
twenty electric cars that now rush madly bumping
and thundering at twenty miles an hour through
all the main streets of the district!
So that
naturally Sophia, infected with the pride of her
period, had no misgivings whatever concerning
the final elegance of the princesses. She
studied them as the fifteen apostles of the ne
plus ultra; then, having taken some flowers and
plumes out of a box, amid warnings from
Constance, she retreated behind the glass, and
presently emerged as a great lady in the style
of the princesses. Her mother's tremendous new
gown ballooned about her in all its fantastic
richness and expensiveness. And with the gown
she had put on her mother's importance—that mien
of assured authority, of capacity tested in many
a crisis, which characterized Mrs. Baines, and
which Mrs. Baines seemed to impart to her
dresses even before she had regularly worn them.
For it was a fact that Mrs. Baines's empty
garments inspired respect, as though some
essence had escaped from her and remained in
them.
"Sophia!"
Constance
stayed her needle, and, without lifting her
head, gazed, with eyes raised from the
wool-work, motionless at the posturing figure of
her sister. It was sacrilege that she was
witnessing, a prodigious irreverence. She was
conscious of an expectation that punishment
would instantly fall on this daring, impious
child. But she, who never felt these mad,
amazing impulses, could nevertheless only smile
fearfully.
"Sophia!"
she breathed, with an intensity of alarm that
merged into condoning admiration. "Whatever will
you do next?"
Sophia's
lovely flushed face crowned the extraordinary
structure like a blossom, scarcely controlling
its laughter. She was as tall as her mother, and
as imperious, as crested, and proud; and in
spite of the pigtail, the girlish semi-circular
comb, and the loose foal-like limbs, she could
support as well as her mother the majesty of the
gimp-embroidered dress. Her eyes sparkled with
all the challenges of the untried virgin as she
minced about the showroom. Abounding life
inspired her movements. The confident and fierce
joy of youth shone on her brow. "What thing on
earth equals me?" she seemed to demand with
enchanting and yet ruthless arrogance. She was
the daughter of a respected, bedridden draper in
an insignificant town, lost in the central
labyrinth of England, if you like; yet what
manner of man, confronted with her, would or
could have denied her naive claim to dominion?
She stood, in her mother's hoops, for the desire
of the world. And in the innocence of her soul
she knew it! The heart of a young girl
mysteriously speaks and tells her of her power
long ere she can use her power. If she can find
nothing else to subdue, you may catch her in the
early years subduing a gate-post or drawing
homage from an empty chair. Sophia's
experimental victim was Constance, with
suspended needle and soft glance that shot out
from the lowered face.
Then Sophia
fell, in stepping backwards; the pyramid was
overbalanced; great distended rings of silk
trembled and swayed gigantically on the floor,
and Sophia's small feet lay like the feet of a
doll on the rim of the largest circle, which
curved and arched above them like a cavern's
mouth. The abrupt transition of her features
from assured pride to ludicrous astonishment and
alarm was comical enough to have sent into wild
uncharitable laughter any creature less humane
than Constance. But Constance sprang to her, a
single embodied instinct of benevolence, with
her snub nose, and tried to raise her.
"Oh,
Sophia!" she cried compassionately—that voice
seemed not to know the tones of reproof—"I do
hope you've not messed it, because mother would
be so—"
The words
were interrupted by the sound of groans beyond
the door leading to the bedrooms. The groans,
indicating direst physical torment, grew louder.
The two girls stared, wonder-struck and afraid,
at the door, Sophia with her dark head raised,
and Constance with her arms round Sophia's
waist. The door opened, letting in a
much-magnified sound of groans, and there
entered a youngish, undersized man, who was
frantically clutching his head in his hands and
contorting all the muscles of his face. On
perceiving the sculptural group of two prone,
interlocked girls, one enveloped in a crinoline,
and the other with a wool-work bunch of flowers
pinned to her knee, he jumped back, ceased
groaning, arranged his face, and seriously tried
to pretend that it was not he who had been vocal
in anguish, that, indeed, he was just passing as
a casual, ordinary wayfarer through the showroom
to the shop below. He blushed darkly; and the
girls also blushed.
"Oh, I beg
pardon, I'm sure!" said this youngish man
suddenly; and with a swift turn he disappeared
whence he had come.
He was Mr.
Povey, a person universally esteemed, both
within and without the shop, the surrogate of
bedridden Mr. Baines, the unfailing comfort and
stand-by of Mrs. Baines, the fount and radiating
centre of order and discipline in the shop; a
quiet, diffident, secretive, tedious, and
obstinate youngish man, absolutely faithful,
absolutely efficient in his sphere; without
brilliance, without distinction; perhaps rather
little-minded, certainly narrow-minded; but what
a force in the shop! The shop was inconceivable
without Mr. Povey. He was under twenty and not
out of his apprenticeship when Mr. Baines had
been struck down, and he had at once proved his
worth. Of the assistants, he alone slept in the
house. His bedroom was next to that of his
employer; there was a door between the two
chambers, and the two steps led down from the
larger to the less.
The girls
regained their feet, Sophia with Constance's
help. It was not easy to right a capsized
crinoline. They both began to laugh nervously,
with a trace of hysteria.
"I thought
he'd gone to the dentist's," whispered
Constance.
Mr. Povey's
toothache had been causing anxiety in the
microcosm for two days, and it had been clearly
understood at dinner that Thursday morning that
Mr. Povey was to set forth to Oulsnam Bros., the
dentists at Hillport, without any delay. Only on
Thursdays and Sundays did Mr. Povey dine with
the family. On other days he dined later, by
himself, but at the family table, when Mrs.
Baines or one of the assistants could "relieve"
him in the shop. Before starting out to visit
her elder sister at Axe, Mrs. Baines had
insisted to Mr. Povey that he had eaten
practically nothing but "slops" for twenty-four
hours, and that if he was not careful she would
have him on her hands. He had replied in his
quietest, most sagacious, matter-of-fact
tone—the tone that carried weight with all who
heard it—that he had only been waiting for
Thursday afternoon, and should of course go
instantly to Oulsnams' and have the thing
attended to in a proper manner. He had even
added that persons who put off going to the
dentist's were simply sowing trouble for
themselves.
None could
possibly have guessed that Mr. Povey was afraid
of going to the dentist's. But such was the
case. He had not dared to set forth. The paragon
of commonsense, pictured by most people as being
somehow unliable to human frailties, could not
yet screw himself up to the point of ringing a
dentist's door-bell.
"He did
look funny," said Sophia. "I wonder what he
thought. I couldn't help laughing!"
Constance
made no answer; but when Sophia had resumed her
own clothes, and it was ascertained beyond doubt
that the new dress had not suffered, and
Constance herself was calmly stitching again,
she said, poising her needle as she had poised
it to watch Sophia:
"I was just
wondering whether something oughtn't to be done
for
Mr. Povey."
"What?"
Sophia demanded.
"Has he
gone back to his bedroom?"
"Let's go
and listen," said Sophia the adventuress.
They went,
through the showroom door, past the foot of the
stairs leading to the second storey, down the
long corridor broken in the middle by two steps
and carpeted with a narrow bordered carpet whose
parallel lines increased its apparent length.
They went on tiptoe, sticking close to one
another. Mr. Povey's door was slightly ajar.
They listened; not a sound.
"Mr.
Povey!" Constance coughed discreetly.
No reply.
It was Sophia who pushed the door open.
Constance made an elderly prim plucking gesture
at Sophia's bare arm, but she followed Sophia
gingerly into the forbidden room, which was,
however, empty. The bed had been ruffled, and on
it lay a book, "The Harvest of a Quiet Eye."
"Harvest of
a quiet tooth!" Sophia whispered, giggling very
low.
"Hsh!"
Constance put her lips forward.
From the
next room came a regular, muffled, oratorical
sound, as though some one had begun many years
ago to address a meeting and had forgotten to
leave off and never would leave off. They were
familiar with the sound, and they quitted Mr.
Povey's chamber in fear of disturbing it. At the
same moment Mr. Povey reappeared, this time in
the drawing-room doorway at the other extremity
of the long corridor. He seemed to be trying
ineffectually to flee from his tooth as a
murderer tries to flee from his conscience.
"Oh, Mr.
Povey!" said Constance quickly—for he had
surprised them coming out of his bedroom; "we
were just looking for you."
"To see if
we could do anything for you," Sophia added.
"Oh no,
thanks!" said Mr. Povey.
Then he
began to come down the corridor, slowly.
"You
haven't been to the dentist's," said Constance
sympathetically.
"No, I
haven't," said Mr. Povey, as if Constance was
indicating a fact which had escaped his
attention. "The truth is, I thought it looked
like rain, and if I'd got wet—you see—"
Miserable
Mr. Povey!
"Yes," said
Constance, "you certainly ought to keep out of
draughts. Don't you think it would be a good
thing if you went and sat in the parlour?
There's a fire there."
"I shall be
all right, thank you," said Mr. Povey. And after
a pause: "Well, thanks, I will."
III
The girls
made way for him to pass them at the head of the
twisting stairs which led down to the parlour.
Constance followed, and Sophia followed
Constance.
"Have
father's chair," said Constance.
There were
two rocking-chairs with fluted backs covered by
antimacassars, one on either side of the hearth.
That to the left was still entitled "father's
chair," though its owner had not sat in it since
long before the Crimean war, and would never sit
in it again.
"I think
I'd sooner have the other one," said Mr. Povey,
"because it's on the right side, you see." And
he touched his right cheek.
Having
taken Mrs. Baines's chair, he bent his face down
to the fire, seeking comfort from its warmth.
Sophia poked the fire, whereupon Mr. Povey
abruptly withdrew his face. He then felt
something light on his shoulders. Constance had
taken the antimacassar from the back of the
chair, and protected him with it from the
draughts. He did not instantly rebel, and
therefore was permanently barred from rebellion.
He was entrapped by the antimacassar. It
formally constituted him an invalid, and
Constance and Sophia his nurses. Constance drew
the curtain across the street door. No draught
could come from the window, for the window was
not 'made to open.' The age of ventilation had
not arrived. Sophia shut the other two doors.
And, each near a door, the girls gazed at Mr.
Povey behind his back, irresolute, but filled
with a delicious sense of responsibility.
The
situation was on a different plane now. The
seriousness of Mr. Povey's toothache, which
became more and more manifest, had already wiped
out the ludicrous memory of the encounter in the
showroom. Looking at these two big girls, with
their short-sleeved black frocks and black
aprons, and their smooth hair, and their
composed serious faces, one would have judged
them incapable of the least lapse from an
archangelic primness; Sophia especially
presented a marvellous imitation of saintly
innocence. As for the toothache, its action on
Mr. Povey was apparently periodic; it gathered
to a crisis like a wave, gradually, the torture
increasing till the wave broke and left Mr.
Povey exhausted, but free for a moment from
pain. These crises recurred about once a minute.
And now, accustomed to the presence of the young
virgins, and having tacitly acknowledged by his
acceptance of the antimacassar that his state
was abnormal, he gave himself up frankly to
affliction. He concealed nothing of his agony,
which was fully displayed by sudden contortions
of his frame, and frantic oscillations of the
rocking-chair. Presently, as he lay back
enfeebled in the wash of a spent wave, he
murmured with a sick man's voice:
"I suppose
you haven't got any laudanum?"
The girls
started into life. "Laudanum, Mr. Povey?"
"Yes, to
hold in my mouth."
He sat up,
tense; another wave was forming. The excellent
fellow was lost to all self-respect, all
decency.
"There's
sure to be some in mother's cupboard," said
Sophia.
Constance,
who bore Mrs. Baines's bunch of keys at her
girdle, a solemn trust, moved a little fearfully
to a corner cupboard which was hung in the angle
to the right of the projecting fireplace, over a
shelf on which stood a large copper tea-urn.
That corner cupboard, of oak inlaid with maple
and ebony in a simple border pattern, was
typical of the room. It was of a piece with the
deep green "flock" wall paper, and the tea-urn,
and the rocking-chairs with their antimacassars,
and the harmonium in rosewood with a Chinese
paper-mache tea-caddy on the top of it; even
with the carpet, certainly the most curious
parlour carpet that ever was, being made of
lengths of the stair-carpet sewn together side
by side. That corner cupboard was already old in
service; it had held the medicines of
generations. It gleamed darkly with the grave
and genuine polish which comes from ancient use
alone. The key which Constance chose from her
bunch was like the cupboard, smooth and shining
with years; it fitted and turned very easily,
yet with a firm snap. The single wide door
opened sedately as a portal.
The girls
examined the sacred interior, which had the air
of being inhabited by an army of diminutive
prisoners, each crying aloud with the full
strength of its label to be set free on a
mission.
"There it
is!" said Sophia eagerly.
And there
it was: a blue bottle, with a saffron label,
"Caution.
POISON. Laudanum. Charles Critchlow, M.P.S.
Dispensing Chemist.
St. Luke's Square, Bursley."
Those large
capitals frightened the girls. Constance took
the bottle as she might have taken a loaded
revolver, and she glanced at Sophia. Their
omnipotent, all-wise mother was not present to
tell them what to do. They, who had never
decided, had to decide now. And Constance was
the elder. Must this fearsome stuff, whose very
name was a name of fear, be introduced in spite
of printed warnings into Mr. Povey's mouth? The
responsibility was terrifying.
"Perhaps
I'd just better ask Mr. Critchlow," Constance
faltered.
The
expectation of beneficent laudanum had enlivened
Mr. Povey, had already, indeed, by a sort of
suggestion, half cured his toothache.
"Oh no!" he
said. "No need to ask Mr. Critchlow … Two or
three drops in a little water." He showed
impatience to be at the laudanum.
The girls
knew that an antipathy existed between the
chemist and
Mr. Povey.
"It's sure
to be all right," said Sophia. "I'll get the
water."
With
youthful cries and alarms they succeeded in
pouring four mortal dark drops (one more than
Constance intended) into a cup containing a
little water. And as they handed the cup to Mr.
Povey their faces were the faces of affrighted
comical conspirators. They felt so old and they
looked so young.
Mr. Povey
imbibed eagerly of the potion, put the cup on
the mantelpiece, and then tilted his head to the
right so as to submerge the affected tooth. In
this posture he remained, awaiting the sweet
influence of the remedy. The girls, out of a
nice modesty, turned away, for Mr. Povey must
not swallow the medicine, and they preferred to
leave him unhampered in the solution of a
delicate problem. When next they examined him,
he was leaning back in the rocking-chair with
his mouth open and his eyes shut.
"Has it
done you any good, Mr. Povey?"
"I think
I'll lie down on the sofa for a minute," was Mr.
Povey's strange reply; and forthwith he sprang
up and flung himself on to the horse-hair sofa
between the fireplace and the window, where he
lay stripped of all his dignity, a mere beaten
animal in a grey suit with peculiar coat-tails,
and a very creased waistcoat, and a lapel that
was planted with pins, and a paper collar and
close- fitting paper cuffs.
Constance
ran after him with the antimacassar, which she
spread softly on his shoulders; and Sophia put
another one over his thin little legs, all drawn
up.
They then
gazed at their handiwork, with secret
self-accusations and the most dreadful
misgivings.
"He surely
never swallowed it!" Constance whispered.
"He's
asleep, anyhow," said Sophia, more loudly.
Mr. Povey
was certainly asleep, and his mouth was very
wide open— like a shop-door. The only question
was whether his sleep was not an eternal sleep;
the only question was whether he was not out of
his pain for ever.
Then he
snored—horribly; his snore seemed a portent of
disaster.
Sophia
approached him as though he were a bomb, and
stared, growing bolder, into his mouth.
"Oh, Con,"
she summoned her sister, "do come and look! It's
too droll!"
In an
instant all their four eyes were exploring the
singular landscape of Mr. Povey's mouth. In a
corner, to the right of that interior, was one
sizeable fragment of a tooth, that was attached
to Mr. Povey by the slenderest tie, so that at
each respiration of Mr. Povey, when his body
slightly heaved and the gale moaned in the
cavern, this tooth moved separately, showing
that its long connection with Mr. Povey was
drawing to a close.
"That's the
one," said Sophia, pointing. "And it's as loose
as anything. Did you ever see such a funny
thing?"
The extreme
funniness of the thing had lulled in Sophia the
fear of Mr. Povey's sudden death.
"I'll see
how much he's taken," said Constance,
preoccupied, going to the mantelpiece.
"Why, I do
believe—-" Sophia began, and then stopped,
glancing at the sewing-machine, which stood next
to the sofa.
It was a
Howe sewing-machine. It had a little
tool-drawer, and in the tool-drawer was a small
pair of pliers. Constance, engaged in sniffing
at the lees of the potion in order to estimate
its probable deadliness, heard the well-known
click of the little tool-drawer, and then she
saw Sophia nearing Mr. Povey's mouth with the
pliers.
"Sophia!"
she exclaimed, aghast. "What in the name of
goodness are you doing?"
"Nothing,"
said Sophia.
The next
instant Mr. Povey sprang up out of his laudanum
dream.
"It jumps!"
he muttered; and, after a reflective pause, "but
it's much better." He had at any rate escaped
death.
Sophia's
right hand was behind her back.
Just then a
hawker passed down King Street, crying mussels
and cockles.
"Oh!"
Sophia almost shrieked. "Do let's have mussels
and cockles for tea!" And she rushed to the
door, and unlocked and opened it, regardless of
the risk of draughts to Mr. Povey.
In those
days people often depended upon the caprices of
hawkers for the tastiness of their teas; but it
was an adventurous age, when errant knights of
commerce were numerous and enterprising. You
went on to your doorstep, caught your meal as it
passed, withdrew, cooked it and ate it, quite in
the manner of the early Briton.
Constance
was obliged to join her sister on the top step.
Sophia descended to the second step.
"Fresh
mussels and cockles all alive oh!" bawled the
hawker, looking across the road in the April
breeze. He was the celebrated Hollins, a
professional Irish drunkard, aged in iniquity,
who cheerfully saluted magistrates in the
street, and referred to the workhouse, which he
occasionally visited, as the Bastile.
Sophia was
trembling from head to foot.
"What ARE
you laughing at, you silly thing?" Constance
demanded.
Sophia
surreptitiously showed the pliers, which she had
partly thrust into her pocket. Between their
points was a most perceptible, and even
recognizable, fragment of Mr. Povey.
This was
the crown of Sophia's career as a perpetrator of
the unutterable.
"What!"
Constance's face showed the final contortions of
that horrified incredulity which is forced to
believe.
Sophia
nudged her violently to remind her that they
were in the street, and also quite close to Mr.
Povey.
"Now, my
little missies," said the vile Hollins. "Three
pence a pint, and how's your honoured mother
to-day? Yes, fresh, so help me God!"
CHAPTER II
THE TOOTH
I
The two
girls came up the unlighted stone staircase
which led from Maggie's cave to the door of the
parlour. Sophia, foremost, was carrying a large
tray, and Constance a small one. Constance, who
had nothing on her tray but a teapot, a bowl of
steaming and balmy-scented mussels and cockles,
and a plate of hot buttered toast, went directly
into the parlour on the left. Sophia had in her
arms the entire material and apparatus of a high
tea for two, including eggs, jam, and toast
(covered with the slop-basin turned upside
down), but not including mussels and cockles.
She turned to the right, passed along the
corridor by the cutting-out room, up two steps
into the sheeted and shuttered gloom of the
closed shop, up the showroom stairs, through the
showroom, and so into the bedroom corridor.
Experience had proved it easier to make this
long detour than to round the difficult corner
of the parlour stairs with a large loaded tray.
Sophia knocked with the edge of the tray at the
door of the principal bedroom. The muffled
oratorical sound from within suddenly ceased,
and the door was opened by a very tall, very
thin, black-bearded man, who looked down at
Sophia as if to demand what she meant by such an
interruption.
"I've
brought the tea, Mr. Critchlow," said Sophia.
And Mr.
Critchlow carefully accepted the tray.
"Is that my
little Sophia?" asked a faint voice from the
depths of the bedroom.
"Yes,
father," said Sophia.
But she did
not attempt to enter the room. Mr. Critchlow put
the tray on a white-clad chest of drawers near
the door, and then he shut the door, with no
ceremony. Mr. Critchlow was John Baines's oldest
and closest friend, though decidedly younger
than the draper. He frequently "popped in" to
have a word with the invalid; but Thursday
afternoon was his special afternoon, consecrated
by him to the service of the sick. From two
o'clock precisely till eight o'clock precisely
he took charge of John Baines, reigning
autocratically over the bedroom. It was known
that he would not tolerate invasions, nor even
ambassadorial visits. No! He gave up his weekly
holiday to this business of friendship, and he
must be allowed to conduct the business in his
own way. Mrs. Baines herself avoided disturbing
Mr. Critchlow's ministrations on her husband.
She was glad to do so; for Mr. Baines was never
to be left alone under any circumstances, and
the convenience of being able to rely upon the
presence of a staid member of the Pharmaceutical
Society for six hours of a given day every week
outweighed the slight affront to her
prerogatives as wife and house-mistress. Mr.
Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man, but
when he was in the bedroom she could leave the
house with an easy mind. Moreover, John Baines
enjoyed these Thursday afternoons. For him,
there was 'none like Charles Critchlow.' The two
old friends experienced a sort of grim,
desiccated happiness, cooped up together in the
bedroom, secure from women and fools generally.
How they spent the time did not seem to be
certainly known, but the impression was that
politics occupied them. Undoubtedly Mr.
Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man. He was
a man of habits. He must always have the same
things for his tea. Black-currant jam, for
instance. (He called it "preserve.") The idea of
offering Mr. Critchlow a tea which did not
comprise black-currant jam was inconceivable by
the intelligence of St. Luke's Square. Thus for
years past, in the fruit-preserving season, when
all the house and all the shop smelt richly of
fruit boiling in sugar, Mrs. Baines had filled
an extra number of jars with black-currant jam,
'because Mr. Critchlow wouldn't TOUCH any other
sort.'
So Sophia,
faced with the shut door of the bedroom, went
down to the parlour by the shorter route. She
knew that on going up again, after tea, she
would find the devastated tray on the doormat.
Constance
was helping Mr. Povey to mussels and cockles.
And Mr. Povey still wore one of the
antimacassars. It must have stuck to his
shoulders when he sprang up from the sofa,
woollen antimacassars being notoriously
parasitic things. Sophia sat down, somewhat
self-consciously. The serious Constance was also
perturbed. Mr. Povey did not usually take tea in
the house on Thursday afternoons; his practice
was to go out into the great, mysterious world.
Never before had he shared a meal with the girls
alone. The situation was indubitably unexpected,
unforeseen; it was, too, piquant, and what added
to its piquancy was the fact that Constance and
Sophia were, somehow, responsible for Mr. Povey.
They felt that they were responsible for him.
They had offered the practical sympathy of two
intelligent and well-trained young women, born
nurses by reason of their sex, and Mr. Povey had
accepted; he was now on their hands. Sophia's
monstrous, sly operation in Mr. Povey's mouth
did not cause either of them much alarm,
Constance having apparently recovered from the
first shock of it. They had discussed it in the
kitchen while preparing the teas; Constance's
extraordinarily severe and dictatorial tone in
condemning it had led to a certain heat. But the
success of the impudent wrench justified it
despite any irrefutable argument to the
contrary. Mr. Povey was better already, and he
evidently remained in ignorance of his loss.
"Have
some?" Constance asked of Sophia, with a large
spoon hovering over the bowl of shells.
"Yes,
PLEASE," said Sophia, positively.
Constance
well knew that she would have some, and had only
asked from sheer nervousness.
"Pass your
plate, then."
Now when
everybody was served with mussels, cockles, tea,
and toast, and Mr. Povey had been persuaded to
cut the crust off his toast, and Constance had,
quite unnecessarily, warned Sophia against the
deadly green stuff in the mussels, and Constance
had further pointed out that the evenings were
getting longer, and Mr. Povey had agreed that
they were, there remained nothing to say. An
irksome silence fell on them all, and no one
could lift it off. Tiny clashes of shell and
crockery sounded with the terrible clearness of
noises heard in the night. Each person avoided
the eyes of the others. And both Constance and
Sophia kept straightening their bodies at
intervals, and expanding their chests, and then
looking at their plates; occasionally a prim
cough was discharged. It was a sad example of
the difference between young women's dreams of
social brilliance and the reality of life. These
girls got more and more girlish, until, from
being women at the administering of laudanum,
they sank back to about eight years of
age—perfect children—at the tea-table.
The tension
was snapped by Mr. Povey. "My God!" he muttered,
moved by a startling discovery to this impious
and disgraceful oath (he, the pattern and
exemplar—and in the presence of innocent
girlhood too!). "I've swallowed it!"
"Swallowed
what, Mr. Povey?" Constance inquired.
The tip of
Mr. Povey's tongue made a careful voyage of
inspection all round the right side of his
mouth.
"Oh yes!"
he said, as if solemnly accepting the
inevitable. "I've swallowed it!"
Sophia's
face was now scarlet; she seemed to be looking
for some place to hide it. Constance could not
think of anything to say.
"That tooth
has been loose for two years," said Mr. Povey,
"and now I've swallowed it with a mussel."
"Oh, Mr.
Povey!" Constance cried in confusion, and added,
"There's one good thing, it can't hurt you any
more now."
"Oh!" said
Mr. Povey. "It wasn't THAT tooth that was
hurting me. It's an old stump at the back that's
upset me so this last day or two. I wish it had
been."
Sophia had
her teacup close to her red face. At these words
of Mr. Povey her cheeks seemed to fill out like
plump apples. She dashed the cup into its
saucer, spilling tea recklessly, and then ran
from the room with stifled snorts.
"Sophia!"
Constance protested.
"I must
just—-" Sophia incoherently spluttered in the
doorway. "I shall be all right. Don't—-"
Constance,
who had risen, sat down again.
II
Sophia fled
along the passage leading to the shop and took
refuge in the cutting-out room, a room which the
astonishing architect had devised upon what must
have been a backyard of one of the three
constituent houses. It was lighted from its
roof, and only a wooden partition, eight feet
high, separated it from the passage. Here Sophia
gave rein to her feelings; she laughed and cried
together, weeping generously into her
handkerchief and wildly giggling, in a hysteria
which she could not control. The spectacle of
Mr. Povey mourning for a tooth which he thought
he had swallowed, but which in fact lay all the
time in her pocket, seemed to her to be by far
the most ridiculous, side-splitting thing that
had ever happened or could happen on earth. It
utterly overcame her. And when she fancied that
she had exhausted and conquered its surpassing
ridiculousness, this ridiculousness seized her
again and rolled her anew in depths of mad,
trembling laughter.
Gradually
she grew calmer. She heard the parlour door
open, and Constance descend the kitchen steps
with a rattling tray of tea- things. Tea, then,
was finished, without her! Constance did not
remain in the kitchen, because the cups and
saucers were left for Maggie to wash up as a
fitting coda to Maggie's monthly holiday. The
parlour door closed. And the vision of Mr. Povey
in his antimacassar swept Sophia off into
another convulsion of laughter and tears. Upon
this the parlour door opened again, and Sophia
choked herself into silence while Constance
hastened along the passage. In a minute
Constance returned with her woolwork, which she
had got from the showroom, and the parlour
received her. Not the least curiosity on the
part of Constance as to what had become of
Sophia!
At length
Sophia, a faint meditative smile being all that
was left of the storm in her, ascended slowly to
the showroom, through the shop. Nothing there of
interest! Thence she wandered towards the
drawing-room, and encountered Mr. Critchlow's
tray on the mat. She picked it up and carried it
by way of the showroom and shop down to the
kitchen, where she dreamily munched two pieces
of toast that had cooled to the consistency of
leather. She mounted the stone steps and
listened at the door of the parlour. No sound!
This seclusion of Mr. Povey and Constance was
really very strange. She roved right round the
house, and descended creepingly by the twisted
house-stairs, and listened intently at the other
door of the parlour. She now detected a faint
regular snore. Mr. Povey, a prey to laudanum and
mussels, was sleeping while Constance worked at
her fire-screen! It was now in the highest
degree odd, this seclusion of Mr. Povey and
Constance; unlike anything in Sophia's
experience! She wanted to go into the parlour,
but she could not bring herself to do so. She
crept away again, forlorn and puzzled, and next
discovered herself in the bedroom which she
shared with Constance at the top of the house;
she lay down in the dusk on the bed and began to
read "The Days of Bruce;" but she read only with
her eyes.
Later, she
heard movements on the house-stairs, and the
familiar whining creak of the door at the foot
thereof. She skipped lightly to the door of the
bedroom.
"Good-night, Mr. Povey. I hope you'll be able to
sleep."
Constance's
voice!
"It will
probably come on again."
Mr. Povey's
voice, pessimistic!
Then the
shutting of doors. It was almost dark. She went
back to the bed, expecting a visit from
Constance. But a clock struck eight, and all the
various phenomena connected with the departure
of Mr. Critchlow occurred one after another. At
the same time Maggie came home from the land of
romance. Then long silences! Constance was now
immured with her father, it being her "turn" to
nurse; Maggie was washing up in her cave, and
Mr. Povey was lost to sight in his bedroom. Then
Sophia heard her mother's lively, commanding
knock on the King Street door. Dusk had
definitely yielded to black night in the
bedroom. Sophia dozed and dreamed. When she
awoke, her ear caught the sound of knocking. She
jumped up, tiptoed to the landing, and looked
over the balustrade, whence she had a view of
all the first-floor corridor. The gas had been
lighted; through the round aperture at the top
of the porcelain globe she could see the
wavering flame. It was her mother, still
bonneted, who was knocking at the door of Mr.
Povey's room. Constance stood in the doorway of
her parents' room. Mrs. Baines knocked twice
with an interval, and then said to Constance, in
a resonant whisper that vibrated up the
corridor—-
"He seems
to be fast asleep. I'd better not disturb him."
"But
suppose he wants something in the night?"
"Well,
child, I should hear him moving. Sleep's the
best thing for him."
Mrs. Baines
left Mr. Povey to the effects of laudanum, and
came along the corridor. She was a stout woman,
all black stuff and gold chain, and her skirt
more than filled the width of the corridor.
Sophia watched her habitual heavy mounting
gesture as she climbed the two steps that gave
variety to the corridor. At the gas-jet she
paused, and, putting her hand to the tap, gazed
up into the globe.
"Where's
Sophia?" she demanded, her eyes fixed on the gas
as she lowered the flame.
"I think
she must be in bed, mother," said Constance,
nonchalantly.
The
returned mistress was point by point resuming
knowledge and control of that complicated
machine—her household.
Then
Constance and her mother disappeared into the
bedroom, and the door was shut with a gentle,
decisive bang that to the silent watcher on the
floor above seemed to create a special excluding
intimacy round about the figures of Constance
and her father and mother. The watcher wondered,
with a little prick of jealousy, what they would
be discussing in the large bedroom, her father's
beard wagging feebly and his long arms on the
counterpane, Constance perched at the foot of
the bed, and her mother walking to and fro,
putting her cameo brooch on the dressing-table
or stretching creases out of her gloves.
Certainly, in some subtle way, Constance had a
standing with her parents which was more
confidential than Sophia's.
III
When
Constance came to bed, half an hour later,
Sophia was already in bed. The room was fairly
spacious. It had been the girls' retreat and
fortress since their earliest years. Its
features seemed to them as natural and
unalterable as the features of a cave to a
cave-dweller. It had been repapered twice in
their lives, and each papering stood out in
their memories like an epoch; a third epoch was
due to the replacing of a drugget by a
resplendent old carpet degraded from the
drawing-room. There was only one bed, the
bedstead being of painted iron; they never
interfered with each other in that bed, sleeping
with a detachment as perfect as if they had
slept on opposite sides of St. Luke's Square;
yet if Constance had one night lain down on the
half near the window instead of on the half near
the door, the secret nature of the universe
would have seemed to be altered. The small fire-
grate was filled with a mass of shavings of
silver paper; now the rare illnesses which they
had suffered were recalled chiefly as periods
when that silver paper was crammed into a large
slipper- case which hung by the mantelpiece, and
a fire of coals unnaturally reigned in its
place—the silver paper was part of the order of
the world. The sash of the window would not work
quite properly, owing to a slight subsidence in
the wall, and even when the window was fastened
there was always a narrow slit to the left hand
between the window and its frame; through this
slit came draughts, and thus very keen frosts
were remembered by the nights when Mrs. Baines
caused the sash to be forced and kept at its
full height by means of wedges—the slit of
exposure was part of the order of the world.
They
possessed only one bed, one washstand, and one
dressing- table; but in some other respects they
were rather fortunate girls, for they had two
mahogany wardrobes; this mutual independence as
regards wardrobes was due partly to Mrs.
Baines's strong commonsense, and partly to their
father's tendency to spoil them a little. They
had, moreover, a chest of drawers with a curved
front, of which structure Constance occupied two
short drawers and one long one, and Sophia two
long drawers. On it stood two fancy work-boxes,
in which each sister kept jewellery, a
savings-bank book, and other treasures, and
these boxes were absolutely sacred to their
respective owners. They were different, but one
was not more magnificent than the other. Indeed,
a rigid equality was the rule in the chamber,
the single exception being that behind the door
were three hooks, of which Constance commanded
two.
"Well,"
Sophia began, when Constance appeared. "How's
darling Mr. Povey?" She was lying on her back,
and smiling at her two hands, which she held up
in front of her.
"Asleep,"
said Constance. "At least mother thinks so. She
says sleep is the best thing for him."
"'It will
probably come on again,'" said Sophia.
"What's
that you say?" Constance asked, undressing.
"'It will
probably come on again.'"
These words
were a quotation from the utterances of darling
Mr. Povey on the stairs, and Sophia delivered
them with an exact imitation of Mr. Povey's
vocal mannerism.
"Sophia,"
said Constance, firmly, approaching the bed, "I
wish you wouldn't be so silly!" She had
benevolently ignored the satirical note in
Sophia's first remark, but a strong instinct in
her rose up and objected to further derision.
"Surely you've done enough for one day!" she
added.
For answer
Sophia exploded into violent laughter, which she
made no attempt to control. She laughed too long
and too freely while Constance stared at her.
"I
don't know what's come over you!" said
Constance.
"It's only
because I can't look at it without simply going
off into fits!" Sophia gasped out. And she held
up a tiny object in her left hand.
Constance
started, flushing. "You don't mean to say you've
kept it!" she protested earnestly. "How horrid
you are, Sophia! Give it me at once and let me
throw it away. I never heard of such doings. Now
give it me!"
"No,"
Sophia objected, still laughing. "I wouldn't
part with it for worlds. It's too lovely."
She had
laughed away all her secret resentment against
Constance for having ignored her during the
whole evening and for being on such intimate
terms with their parents. And she was ready to
be candidly jolly with Constance.
"Give it
me," said Constance, doggedly.
Sophia hid
her hand under the clothes. "You can have his
old stump, when it comes out, if you like. But
not this. What a pity it's the wrong one!"
"Sophia,
I'm ashamed of you! Give it me."
Then it was
that Sophia first perceived Constance's extreme
seriousness. She was surprised and a little
intimidated by it. For the expression of
Constance's face, usually so benign and calm,
was harsh, almost fierce. However, Sophia had a
great deal of what is called "spirit," and not
even ferocity on the face of mild Constance
could intimidate her for more than a few
seconds. Her gaiety expired and her teeth were
hidden.
"I've said
nothing to mother—-" Constance proceeded.
"I should
hope you haven't," Sophia put in tersely.
"But I
certainly shall if you don't throw that away,"
Constance finished.
"You can
say what you like," Sophia retorted, adding
contemptuously a term of opprobrium which has
long since passed out of use: "Cant!"
"Will you
give it me or won't you?"
"No!"
It was a
battle suddenly engaged in the bedroom. The
atmosphere had altered completely with the
swiftness of magic. The beauty of Sophia, the
angelic tenderness of Constance, and the
youthful, naive, innocent charm of both of them,
were transformed into something sinister and
cruel. Sophia lay back on the pillow amid her
dark-brown hair, and gazed with relentless
defiance into the angry eyes of Constance, who
stood threatening by the bed. They could hear
the gas singing over the dressing-table, and
their hearts beating the blood wildly in their
veins. They ceased to be young without growing
old; the eternal had leapt up in them from its
sleep.
Constance
walked away from the bed to the dressing-table
and began to loose her hair and brush it,
holding back her head, shaking it, and bending
forward, in the changeless gesture of that rite.
She was so disturbed that she had unconsciously
reversed the customary order of the toilette.
After a moment Sophia slipped out of bed and,
stepping with her bare feet to the chest of
drawers, opened her work-box and deposited the
fragment of Mr. Povey therein; she dropped the
lid with an uncompromising bang, as if to say,
"We shall see if I am to be trod upon, miss!"
Their eyes met again in the looking-glass. Then
Sophia got back into bed.
Five
minutes later, when her hair was quite finished,
Constance knelt down and said her prayers.
Having said her prayers, she went straight to
Sophia's work-box, opened it, seized the
fragment of Mr. Povey, ran to the window, and
frantically pushed the fragment through the slit
into the Square.
"There!"
she exclaimed nervously.
She had
accomplished this inconceivable transgression of
the code of honour, beyond all undoing, before
Sophia could recover from the stupefaction of
seeing her sacred work-box impudently violated.
In a single moment one of Sophia's chief ideals
had been smashed utterly, and that by the
sweetest, gentlest creature she had ever known.
It was a revealing experience for Sophia—and
also for Constance. And it frightened them
equally. Sophia, staring at the text, "Thou God
seest me," framed in straw over the chest of
drawers, did not stir. She was defeated, and so
profoundly moved in her defeat that she did not
even reflect upon the obvious inefficacy of
illuminated texts as a deterrent from
evil-doing. Not that she eared a fig for the
fragment of Mr. Povey! It was the moral aspect
of the affair, and the astounding, inexplicable
development in Constance's character, that
staggered her into silent acceptance of the
inevitable.
Constance,
trembling, took pains to finish undressing with
dignified deliberation. Sophia's behaviour under
the blow seemed too good to be true; but it gave
her courage. At length she turned out the gas
and lay down by Sophia. And there was a little
shuffling, and then stillness for a while.
"And if you
want to know," said Constance in a tone that
mingled amicableness with righteousness,
"mother's decided with Aunt Harriet that we are
BOTH to leave school next term."
CHAPTER III
A BATTLE
I
The day
sanctioned by custom in the Five Towns for the
making of pastry is Saturday. But Mrs. Baines
made her pastry on Friday, because Saturday
afternoon was, of course, a busy time in the
shop. It is true that Mrs. Baines made her
pastry in the morning, and that Saturday morning
in the shop was scarcely different from any
other morning. Nevertheless, Mrs. Baines made
her pastry on Friday morning instead of Saturday
morning because Saturday afternoon was a busy
time in the shop. She was thus free to do her
marketing without breath-taking flurry on
Saturday morning.
On the
morning after Sophia's first essay in dentistry,
therefore, Mrs. Baines was making her pastry in
the underground kitchen. This kitchen, Maggie's
cavern-home, had the mystery of a church, and on
dark days it had the mystery of a crypt. The
stone steps leading down to it from the level of
earth were quite unlighted. You felt for them
with the feet of faith, and when you arrived in
the kitchen, the kitchen, by contrast, seemed
luminous and gay; the architect may have
considered and intended this effect of the
staircase. The kitchen saw day through a wide,
shallow window whose top touched the ceiling and
whose bottom had been out of the girls' reach
until long after they had begun to go to school.
Its panes were small, and about half of them
were of the "knot" kind, through which no object
could be distinguished; the other half were of a
later date, and stood for the march of
civilization. The view from the window consisted
of the vast plate-glass windows of the newly
built Sun vaults, and of passing legs and
skirts. A strong wire grating prevented any
excess of illumination, and also protected the
glass from the caprices of wayfarers in King
Street. Boys had a habit of stopping to kick
with their full strength at the grating.
Forget-me-nots on a brown field ornamented the
walls of the kitchen. Its ceiling was irregular
and grimy, and a beam ran across it; in this
beam were two hooks; from these hooks had once
depended the ropes of a swing, much used by
Constance and Sophia in the old days before they
were grown up. A large range stood out from the
wall between the stairs and the window. The rest
of the furniture comprised a table—against the
wall opposite the range— a cupboard, and two
Windsor chairs. Opposite the foot of the steps
was a doorway, without a door, leading to two
larders, dimmer even than the kitchen, vague
retreats made visible by whitewash, where bowls
of milk, dishes of cold bones, and remainders of
fruit-pies, reposed on stillages; in the corner
nearest the kitchen was a great steen in which
the bread was kept. Another doorway on the other
side of the kitchen led to the first
coal-cellar, where was also the slopstone and
tap, and thence a tunnel took you to the second
coal-cellar, where coke and ashes were stored;
the tunnel proceeded to a distant, infinitesimal
yard, and from the yard, by ways behind Mr.
Critchlow's shop, you could finally emerge,
astonished, upon Brougham Street. The sense of
the vast-obscure of those regions which began at
the top of the kitchen steps and ended in black
corners of larders or abruptly in the common
dailiness of Brougham Street, a sense which
Constance and Sophia had acquired in infancy,
remained with them almost unimpaired as they
grew old.
Mrs. Baines
wore black alpaca, shielded by a white apron
whose string drew attention to the amplitude of
her waist. Her sleeves were turned up, and her
hands, as far as the knuckles, covered with damp
flour. Her ageless smooth paste-board occupied a
corner of the table, and near it were her
paste-roller, butter, some pie- dishes, shredded
apples, sugar, and other things. Those rosy
hands were at work among a sticky substance in a
large white bowl.
"Mother,
are you there?" she heard a voice from above.
"Yes, my
chuck."
Footsteps
apparently reluctant and hesitating clinked on
the stairs, and Sophia entered the kitchen.
"Put this
curl straight," said Mrs. Baines, lowering her
head slightly and holding up her floured hands,
which might not touch anything but flour. "Thank
you. It bothered me. And now stand out of my
light. I'm in a hurry. I must get into the shop
so that I can send Mr. Povey off to the
dentist's. What is Constance doing?"
"Helping
Maggie to make Mr. Povey's bed."
"Oh!"
Though fat,
Mrs. Baines was a comely woman, with fine brown
hair, and confidently calm eyes that indicated
her belief in her own capacity to accomplish
whatever she could be called on to accomplish.
She looked neither more nor less than her age,
which was forty-five. She was not a native of
the district, having been culled by her husband
from the moorland town of Axe, twelve miles off.
Like nearly all women who settle in a strange
land upon marriage, at the bottom of her heart
she had considered herself just a trifle
superior to the strange land and its ways. This
feeling, confirmed by long experience, had never
left her. It was this feeling which induced her
to continue making her own pastry— with two
thoroughly trained "great girls" in the house!
Constance could make good pastry, but it was not
her mother's pastry. In pastry-making everything
can be taught except the "hand," light and firm,
which wields the roller. One is born with this
hand, or without it. And if one is born without
it, the highest flights of pastry are
impossible. Constance was born without it. There
were days when Sophia seemed to possess it; but
there were other days when Sophia's pastry was
uneatable by any one except Maggie. Thus Mrs.
Baines, though intensely proud and fond of her
daughters, had justifiably preserved a certain
condescension towards them. She honestly doubted
whether either of them would develop into the
equal of their mother.
"Now you
little vixen!" she exclaimed. Sophia was
stealing and eating slices of half-cooked apple.
"This comes of having no breakfast! And why
didn't you come down to supper last night?"
"I don't
know. I forgot."
Mrs. Baines
scrutinized the child's eyes, which met hers
with a sort of diffident boldness. She knew
everything that a mother can know of a daughter,
and she was sure that Sophia had no cause to be
indisposed. Therefore she scrutinized those eyes
with a faint apprehension.
"If you
can't find anything better to do," said she,
"butter me the inside of this dish. Are your
hands clean? No, better not touch it."
Mrs. Baines
was now at the stage of depositing little pats
of butter in rows on a large plain of paste. The
best fresh butter! Cooking butter, to say naught
of lard, was unknown in that kitchen on Friday
mornings. She doubled the expanse of paste on
itself and rolled the butter in—supreme
operation!
"Constance
has told you—about leaving school?" said Mrs.
Baines, in the vein of small-talk, as she
trimmed the paste to the shape of a pie-dish.
"Yes,"
Sophia replied shortly. Then she moved away from
the table to the range. There was a
toasting-fork on the rack, and she began to play
with it.
"Well, are
you glad? Your aunt Harriet thinks you are quite
old enough to leave. And as we'd decided in any
case that Constance was to leave, it's really
much simpler that you should both leave
together."
"Mother,"
said Sophia, rattling the toasting-fork, "what
am I going to do after I've left school?"
"I hope,"
Mrs. Baines answered with that sententiousness
which even the cleverest of parents are not
always clever enough to deny themselves, "I hope
that both of you will do what you can to help
your mother—and father," she added.
"Yes," said
Sophia, irritated. "But what am I going to DO?"
"That must
be considered. As Constance is to learn the
millinery, I've been thinking that you might
begin to make yourself useful in the underwear,
gloves, silks, and so on. Then between you, you
would one day be able to manage quite nicely all
that side of the shop, and I should be—"
"I don't
want to go into the shop, mother."
This
interruption was made in a voice apparently cold
and inimical. But Sophia trembled with nervous
excitement as she uttered the words. Mrs. Baines
gave a brief glance at her, unobserved by the
child, whose face was towards the fire. She
deemed herself a finished expert in the reading
of Sophia's moods; nevertheless, as she looked
at that straight back and proud head, she had no
suspicion that the whole essence and being of
Sophia was silently but intensely imploring
sympathy.
"I wish you
would be quiet with that fork," said Mrs.
Baines, with the curious, grim politeness which
often characterized her relations with her
daughters.
The
toasting-fork fell on the brick floor, after
having rebounded from the ash-tin. Sophia
hurriedly replaced it on the rack.
"Then what
SHALL you do?" Mrs. Baines proceeded, conquering
the annoyance caused by the toasting-fork. "I
think it's me that should ask you instead of you
asking me. What shall you do? Your father and I
were both hoping you would take kindly to the
shop and try to repay us for all the—"
Mrs. Baines
was unfortunate in her phrasing that morning.
She happened to be, in truth, rather an
exceptional parent, but that morning she seemed
unable to avoid the absurd pretensions which
parents of those days assumed quite sincerely
and which every good child with meekness
accepted.
Sophia was
not a good child, and she obstinately denied in
her heart the cardinal principle of family life,
namely, that the parent has conferred on the
offspring a supreme favour by bringing it into
the world. She interrupted her mother again,
rudely.
"I don't
want to leave school at all," she said
passionately.
"But you
will have to leave school sooner or later,"
argued Mrs. Baines, with an air of quiet
reasoning, of putting herself on a level with
Sophia. "You can't stay at school for ever, my
pet, can you? Out of my way!"
She hurried
across the kitchen with a pie, which she whipped
into the oven, shutting the iron door with a
careful gesture.
"Yes," said
Sophia. "I should like to be a teacher. That's
what I want to be."
The tap in
the coal-cellar, out of repair, could be heard
distinctly and systematically dropping water
into a jar on the slopstone.
"A
school-teacher?" inquired Mrs. Baines.
"Of course.
What other kind is there?" said Sophia, sharply.
"With
Miss Chetwynd."
"I don't
think your father would like that," Mrs. Baines
replied.
"I'm sure he wouldn't like it."
"Why not?"
"It
wouldn't be quite suitable."
"Why not,
mother?" the girl demanded with a sort of
ferocity. She had now quitted the range. A man's
feet twinkled past the window.
Mrs. Baines
was startled and surprised. Sophia's attitude
was really very trying; her manners deserved
correction. But it was not these phenomena which
seriously affected Mrs. Baines; she was used to
them and had come to regard them as somehow the
inevitable accompaniment of Sophia's beauty, as
the penalty of that surpassing charm which
occasionally emanated from the girl like a
radiance. What startled and surprised Mrs.
Baines was the perfect and unthinkable madness
of Sophia's infantile scheme. It was a
revelation to Mrs. Baines. Why in the name of
heaven had the girl taken such a notion into her
head? Orphans, widows, and spinsters of a
certain age suddenly thrown on the world—these
were the women who, naturally, became teachers,
because they had to become something. But that
the daughter of comfortable parents, surrounded
by love and the pleasures of an excellent home,
should wish to teach in a school was beyond the
horizons of Mrs. Baines's common sense.
Comfortable parents of to-day who have a
difficulty in sympathizing with Mrs. Baines,
should picture what their feelings would be if
their Sophias showed a rude desire to adopt the
vocation of chauffeur.
"It would
take you too much away from home," said Mrs.
Baines, achieving a second pie.
She spoke
softly. The experience of being Sophia's mother
for nearly sixteen years had not been lost on
Mrs. Baines, and though she was now discovering
undreamt-of dangers in Sophia's erratic
temperament, she kept her presence of mind
sufficiently well to behave with diplomatic
smoothness. It was undoubtedly humiliating to a
mother to be forced to use diplomacy in dealing
with a girl in short sleeves. In HER day mothers
had been autocrats. But Sophia was Sophia.
"What if it
did?" Sophia curtly demanded.
"And
there's no opening in Bursley," said Mrs.
Baines.
"Miss
Chetwynd would have me, and then after a time I
could go to her sister."
"Her
sister? What sister?"
"Her sister
that has a big school in London somewhere."
Mrs. Baines
covered her unprecedented emotions by gazing
into the oven at the first pie. The pie was
doing well, under all the circumstances. In
those few seconds she reflected rapidly and
decided that to a desperate disease a desperate
remedy must be applied.
London! She
herself had never been further than Manchester.
London, 'after a time'! No, diplomacy would be
misplaced in this crisis of Sophia's
development!
"Sophia,"
she said, in a changed and solemn voice,
fronting her daughter, and holding away from her
apron those floured, ringed hands, "I don't know
what has come over you. Truly I don't! Your
father and I are prepared to put up with a
certain amount, but the line must be drawn. The
fact is, we've spoilt you, and instead of
getting better as you grow up, you're getting
worse. Now let me hear no more of this, please.
I wish you would imitate your sister a little
more. Of course if you won't do your share in
the shop, no one can make you. If you choose to
be an idler about the house, we shall have to
endure it. We can only advise you for your own
good. But as for this …" She stopped, and let
silence speak, and then finished: "Let me hear
no more of it."
It was a
powerful and impressive speech, enunciated
clearly in such a tone as Mrs. Baines had not
employed since dismissing a young lady assistant
five years ago for light conduct.
"But,
mother—"
A commotion
of pails resounded at the top of the stone
steps. It was Maggie in descent from the
bedrooms. Now, the Baines family passed its life
in doing its best to keep its affairs to itself,
the assumption being that Maggie and all the
shop-staff (Mr. Povey possibly excepted) were
obsessed by a ravening appetite for that which
did not concern them. Therefore the voices of
the Baineses always died away, or fell to a
hushed, mysterious whisper, whenever the foot of
the eavesdropper was heard.
Mrs. Baines
put a floured finger to her double chin. "That
will do," said she, with finality.
Maggie
appeared, and Sophia, with a brusque
precipitation of herself, vanished upstairs.
II
"Now,
really, Mr. Povey, this is not like you," said
Mrs. Baines, who, on her way into the shop, had
discovered the Indispensable in the cutting-out
room.
It is true
that the cutting-out room was almost Mr. Povey's
sanctum, whither he retired from time to time to
cut out suits of clothes and odd garments for
the tailoring department. It is true that the
tailoring department flourished with orders,
employing several tailors who crossed legs in
their own homes, and that appointments were
continually being made with customers for
trying-on in that room. But these considerations
did not affect Mrs. Baines's attitude of
disapproval.
"I'm just
cutting out that suit for the minister," said
Mr. Povey.
The
Reverend Mr. Murley, superintendent of the
Wesleyan Methodist circuit, called on Mr. Baines
every week. On a recent visit Mr. Baines had
remarked that the parson's coat was ageing into
green, and had commanded that a new suit should
be built and presented to Mr. Murley. Mr.
Murley, who had a genuine mediaeval passion for
souls, and who spent his money and health freely
in gratifying the passion, had accepted the
offer strictly on behalf of Christ, and had
carefully explained to Mr. Povey Christ's use
for multifarious pockets.
"I see you
are," said Mrs. Baines tartly. "But that's no
reason why you should be without a coat—and in
this cold room too. You with toothache!"
The fact
was that Mr. Povey always doffed his coat when
cutting out. Instead of a coat he wore a
tape-measure.
"My tooth
doesn't hurt me," said he, sheepishly, dropping
the great scissors and picking up a cake of
chalk.
"Fiddlesticks!" said Mrs. Baines.
This
exclamation shocked Mr. Povey. It was not
unknown on the lips of Mrs. Baines, but she
usually reserved it for members of her own sex.
Mr. Povey could not recall that she had ever
applied it to any statement of his. "What's the
matter with the woman?" he thought. The redness
of her face did not help him to answer the
question, for her face was always red after the
operations of Friday in the kitchen.
"You men
are all alike," Mrs. Baines continued. "The very
thought of the dentist's cures you. Why don't
you go in at once to Mr. Critchlow and have it
out—like a man?"
Mr.
Critchlow extracted teeth, and his shop sign
said "Bone-setter and chemist." But Mr. Povey
had his views.
"I make no
account of Mr. Critchlow as a dentist," said he.
"Then for
goodness' sake go up to Oulsnam's."
"When? I
can't very well go now, and to-morrow is
Saturday."
"Why can't
you go now?"
"Well, of
course, I COULD go now," he admitted.
"Let me
advise you to go, then, and don't come back with
that tooth in your head. I shall be having you
laid up next. Show some pluck, do!"
"Oh!
pluck—!" he protested, hurt.
At that
moment Constance came down the passage singing.
"Constance,
my pet!" Mrs. Baines called.
"Yes,
mother." She put her head into the room. "Oh!"
Mr. Povey was assuming his coat.
"Mr. Povey
is going to the dentist's."
"Yes, I'm
going at once," Mr. Povey confirmed.
"Oh! I'm so
GLAD!" Constance exclaimed. Her face expressed a
pure sympathy, uncomplicated by critical
sentiments. Mr. Povey rapidly bathed in that
sympathy, and then decided that he must show
himself a man of oak and iron.
"It's
always best to get these things done with," said
he, with stern detachment. "I'll just slip my
overcoat on."
"Here it
is," said Constance, quickly. Mr. Povey's
overcoat and hat were hung on a hook immediately
outside the room, in the passage. She gave him
the overcoat, anxious to be of service.
"I didn't
call you in here to be Mr. Povey's valet," said
Mrs. Baines to herself with mild grimness; and
aloud: "I can't stay in the shop long,
Constance, but you can be there, can't you, till
Mr. Povey comes back? And if anything happens
run upstairs and tell me."
"Yes,
mother," Constance eagerly consented. She
hesitated and then turned to obey at once.
"I want to
speak to you first, my pet," Mrs. Baines stopped
her. And her tone was peculiar, charged with
import, confidential, and therefore very
flattering to Constance.
"I think
I'll go out by the side-door," said Mr. Povey.
"It'll be nearer."
This was
truth. He would save about ten yards, in two
miles, by going out through the side-door
instead of through the shop. Who could have
guessed that he was ashamed to be seen going to
the dentist's, afraid lest, if he went through
the shop, Mrs. Baines might follow him and utter
some remark prejudicial to his dignity before
the assistants? (Mrs. Baines could have guessed,
and did.)
"You won't
want that tape-measure," said Mrs. Baines,
dryly, as Mr. Povey dragged open the side-door.
The ends of the forgotten tape-measure were
dangling beneath coat and overcoat.
"Oh!" Mr.
Povey scowled at his forgetfulness.
"I'll put
it in its place," said Constance, offering to
receive the tape-measure.
"Thank
you," said Mr. Povey, gravely. "I don't suppose
they'll be long over my bit of a job," he added,
with a difficult, miserable smile.
Then he
went off down King Street, with an exterior of
gay briskness and dignified joy in the fine May
morning. But there was no May morning in his
cowardly human heart.
"Hi!
Povey!" cried a voice from the Square.
But Mr.
Povey disregarded all appeals. He had put his
hand to the plough, and he would not look back.
"Hi!
Povey!"
Useless!
Mrs. Baines
and Constance were both at the door. A
middle-aged man was crossing the road from
Boulton Terrace, the lofty erection of new shops
which the envious rest of the Square had decided
to call "showy." He waved a hand to Mrs. Baines,
who kept the door open.
"It's Dr.
Harrop," she said to Constance. "I shouldn't be
surprised if that baby's come at last, and he
wanted to tell Mr. Povey."
Constance
blushed, full of pride. Mrs. Povey, wife of "our
Mr. Povey's" renowned cousin, the high-class
confectioner and baker in Boulton Terrace, was a
frequent subject of discussion in the Baines
family,, but this was absolutely the first time
that Mrs. Baines had acknowledged, in presence
of Constance, the marked and growing change
which had characterized Mrs. Povey's condition
during recent months. Such frankness on the part
of her mother, coming after the decision about
leaving school, proved indeed that Constance had
ceased to be a mere girl.
"Good
morning, doctor."
The doctor,
who carried a little bag and wore
riding-breeches (he was the last doctor in
Bursley to abandon the saddle for the dog-
cart), saluted and straightened his high, black
stock.
"Morning!
Morning, missy! Well, it's a boy."
"What?
Yonder?" asked Mrs. Baines, indicating the
confectioner's.
Dr. Harrop
nodded. "I wanted to inform him," said he,
jerking his shoulder in the direction of the
swaggering coward.
"What did I
tell you, Constance?" said Mrs. Baines, turning
to her daughter.
Constance's
confusion was equal to her pleasure. The alert
doctor had halted at the foot of the two steps,
and with one hand in the pocket of his
"full-fall" breeches, he gazed up, smiling out
of little eyes, at the ample matron and the
slender virgin.
"Yes," he
said. "Been up most of th' night. Difficult!
Difficult!"
"It's all
RIGHT, I hope?"
"Oh yes.
Fine child! Fine child! But he put his mother to
some trouble, for all that. Nothing fresh?" This
time he lifted his eyes to indicate Mr. Baines's
bedroom.
"No," said
Mrs. Baines, with a different expression.
"Keeps
cheerful?"
"Yes."
"Good! A
very good morning to you."
He strode
off towards his house, which was lower down the
street.
"I hope
she'll turn over a new leaf now," observed Mrs.
Baines to Constance as she closed the door.
Constance knew that her mother was referring to
the confectioner's wife; she gathered that the
hope was slight in the extreme.
"What did
you want to speak to me about, mother?" she
asked, as a way out of her delicious confusion.
"Shut that
door," Mrs. Baines replied, pointing to the door
which led to the passage; and while Constance
obeyed, Mrs. Baines herself shut the
staircase-door. She then said, in a low, guarded
voice—
"What's all
this about Sophia wanting to be a
school-teacher?"
"Wanting to
be a school-teacher?" Constance repeated, in
tones of amazement.
"Yes.
Hasn't she said anything to you?"
"Not a
word!"
"Well, I
never! She wants to keep on with Miss Chetwynd
and be a teacher." Mrs. Baines had half a mind
to add that Sophia had mentioned London. But she
restrained herself. There are some things which
one cannot bring one's self to say. She added,
"Instead of going into the shop!"
"I never
heard of such a thing!" Constance murmured
brokenly, in the excess of her astonishment. She
was rolling up Mr. Povey's tape-measure.
"Neither
did I!" said Mrs. Baines.
"And shall
you let her, mother?"
"Neither
your father nor I would ever dream of it!" Mrs.
Baines replied, with calm and yet terrible
decision. "I only mentioned it to you because I
thought Sophia would have told you something."
"No,
mother!"
As
Constance put Mr. Povey's tape-measure neatly
away in its drawer under the cutting-out
counter, she thought how serious life was—what
with babies and Sophias. She was very proud of
her mother's confidence in her; this simple
pride filled her ardent breast with a most
agreeable commotion. And she wanted to help
everybody, to show in some way how much she
sympathized with and loved everybody. Even the
madness of Sophia did not weaken her longing to
comfort Sophia.
III
That
afternoon there was a search for Sophia, whom no
one had seen since dinner. She was discovered by
her mother, sitting alone and unoccupied in the
drawing-room. The circumstance was in itself
sufficiently peculiar, for on weekdays the
drawing-room was never used, even by the girls
during their holidays, except for the purpose of
playing the piano. However, Mrs. Baines offered
no comment on Sophia's geographical situation,
nor on her idleness.
"My dear,"
she said, standing at the door, with a
self-conscious effort to behave as though
nothing had happened, "will you come and sit
with your father a bit?"
"Yes,
mother," answered Sophia, with a sort of cold
alacrity.
"Sophia is
coming, father," said Mrs. Baines at the open
door of the bedroom, which was at right-angles
with, and close to, the drawing-room door. Then
she surged swishing along the corridor and went
into the showroom, whither she had been called.
Sophia
passed to the bedroom, the eternal prison of
John Baines. Although, on account of his nervous
restlessness, Mr. Baines was never left alone,
it was not a part of the usual duty of the girls
to sit with him. The person who undertook the
main portion of the vigils was a certain Aunt
Maria—whom the girls knew to be not a real aunt,
not a powerful, effective aunt like Aunt Harriet
of Axe—but a poor second cousin of John Baines;
one of those necessitous, pitiful relatives who
so often make life difficult for a great family
in a small town. The existence of Aunt Maria,
after being rather a "trial" to the Baineses,
had for twelve years past developed into
something absolutely "providential" for them.
(It is to be remembered that in those days
Providence was still busying himself with
everybody's affairs, and foreseeing the future
in the most extraordinary manner. Thus, having
foreseen that John Baines would have a "stroke"
and need a faithful, tireless nurse, he had
begun fifty years in advance by creating Aunt
Maria, and had kept her carefully in
misfortune's way, so that at the proper moment
she would be ready to cope with the stroke. Such
at least is the only theory which will explain
the use by the Baineses, and indeed by all
thinking Bursley, of the word "providential" in
connection with Aunt Maria.) She was a
shrivelled little woman, capable of sitting
twelve hours a day in a bedroom and thriving on
the regime. At nights she went home to her
little cottage in Brougham Street; she had her
Thursday afternoons and generally her Sundays,
and during the school vacations she was supposed
to come only when she felt inclined, or when the
cleaning of her cottage permitted her to come.
Hence, in holiday seasons, Mr. Baines weighed
more heavily on his household than at other
times, and his nurses relieved each other
according to the contingencies of the moment
rather than by a set programme of hours.
The tragedy
in ten thousand acts of which that bedroom was
the scene, almost entirely escaped Sophia's
perception, as it did Constance's. Sophia went
into the bedroom as though it were a mere
bedroom, with its majestic mahogany furniture,
its crimson rep curtains (edged with gold), and
its white, heavily tasselled counterpane. She
was aged four when John Baines had suddenly been
seized with giddiness on the steps of his shop,
and had fallen, and, without losing
consciousness, had been transformed from John
Baines into a curious and pathetic survival of
John Baines. She had no notion of the thrill
which ran through the town on that night when it
was known that John Baines had had a stroke, and
that his left arm and left leg and his right
eyelid were paralyzed, and that the active
member of the Local Board, the orator, the
religious worker, the very life of the town's
life, was permanently done for. She had never
heard of the crisis through which her mother,
assisted by Aunt Harriet, had passed, and out of
which she had triumphantly emerged. She was not
yet old enough even to suspect it. She possessed
only the vaguest memory of her father before he
had finished with the world. She knew him simply
as an organism on a bed, whose left side was
wasted, whose eyes were often inflamed, whose
mouth was crooked, who had no creases from the
nose to the corners of the mouth like other
people, who experienced difficulty in eating
because the food would somehow get between his
gums and his cheek, who slept a great deal but
was excessively fidgety while awake, who seemed
to hear what was said to him a long time after
it was uttered, as if the sense had to travel
miles by labyrinthine passages to his brain, and
who talked very, very slowly in a weak,
trembling voice.
And she had
an image of that remote brain as something with
a red spot on it, for once Constance had said:
"Mother, why did father have a stroke?" and Mrs.
Baines had replied: "It was a haemorrhage of the
brain, my dear, here"—putting a thimbled finger
on a particular part of Sophia's head.
Not merely
had Constance and Sophia never really felt their
father's tragedy; Mrs. Baines herself had
largely lost the sense of it—such is the effect
of use. Even the ruined organism only remembered
fitfully and partially that it had once been
John Baines. And if Mrs. Baines had not, by the
habit of years, gradually built up a gigantic
fiction that the organism remained ever the
supreme consultative head of the family; if Mr.
Critchlow had not obstinately continued to treat
it as a crony, the mass of living and dead
nerves on the rich Victorian bedstead would have
been of no more account than some Aunt Maria in
similar case. These two persons, his wife and
his friend, just managed to keep him morally
alive by indefatigably feeding his importance
and his dignity. The feat was a miracle of
stubborn self-deceiving, splendidly blind
devotion, and incorrigible pride.
When Sophia
entered the room, the paralytic followed her
with his nervous gaze until she had sat down on
the end of the sofa at the foot of the bed. He
seemed to study her for a long time, and then he
murmured in his slow, enfeebled, irregular
voice:
"Is that
Sophia?"
"Yes,
father," she answered cheerfully.
And after
another pause, the old man said: "Ay! It's
Sophia."
And later:
"Your mother said she should send ye."
Sophia saw
that this was one of his bad, dull days. He had,
occasionally, days of comparative nimbleness,
when his wits seized almost easily the meanings
of external phenomena.
Presently
his sallow face and long white beard began to
slip down the steep slant of the pillows, and a
troubled look came into his left eye. Sophia
rose and, putting her hands under his armpits,
lifted him higher in the bed. He was not heavy,
but only a strong girl of her years could have
done it.
"Ay!" he
muttered. "That's it. That's it."
And, with
his controllable right hand, he took her hand as
she stood by the bed. She was so young and
fresh, such an incarnation of the spirit of
health, and he was so far gone in decay and
corruption, that there seemed in this contact of
body with body something unnatural and
repulsive. But Sophia did not so feel it.
"Sophia,"
he addressed her, and made preparatory noises in
his throat while she waited.
He
continued after an interval, now clutching her
arm, "Your mother's been telling me you don't
want to go in the shop."
She turned
her eyes on him, and his anxious, dim gaze met
hers.
She nodded.
"Nay,
Sophia," he mumbled, with the extreme of
slowness. "I'm surprised at ye. . .Trade's bad,
bad! Ye know trade's bad?" He was still
clutching her arm.
She nodded.
She was, in fact, aware of the badness of trade,
caused by a vague war in the United States. The
words "North" and "South" had a habit of
recurring in the conversation of adult persons.
That was all she knew, though people were
starving in the Five Towns as they were starving
in Manchester.
"There's
your mother," his thought struggled on, like an
aged horse over a hilly road. "There's your
mother!" he repeated, as if wishful to direct
Sophia's attention to the spectacle of her
mother. "Working hard! Con—Constance and you
must help her. . . . Trade's bad! What can I do.
. .lying here?"
The heat
from his dry fingers was warming her arm. She
wanted to move, but she could not have withdrawn
her arm without appearing impatient. For a
similar reason she would not avert her glance. A
deepening flush increased the lustre of her
immature loveliness as she bent over him. But
though it was so close he did not feel that
radiance. He had long outlived a susceptibility
to the strange influences of youth and beauty.
"Teaching!"
he muttered. "Nay, nay! I canna' allow that."
Then his
white beard rose at the tip as he looked up at
the ceiling above his head, reflectively.
"You
understand me?" he questioned finally.
She nodded
again; he loosed her arm, and she turned away.
She could not have spoken. Glittering tears
enriched her eyes. She was saddened into a
profound and sudden grief by the ridiculousness
of the scene. She had youth, physical
perfection; she brimmed with energy, with the
sense of vital power; all existence lay before
her; when she put her lips together she felt
capable of outvying no matter whom in fortitude
of resolution. She had always hated the shop.
She did not understand how her mother and
Constance could bring themselves to be
deferential and flattering to every customer
that entered. No, she did not understand it; but
her mother (though a proud woman) and Constance
seemed to practise such behaviour so naturally,
so unquestioningly, that she had never imparted
to either of them her feelings; she guessed that
she would not be comprehended. But long ago she
had decided that she would never "go into the
shop." She knew that she would be expected to do
something, and she had fixed on teaching as the
one possibility. These decisions had formed part
of her inner life for years past. She had not
mentioned them, being secretive and scarcely
anxious for unpleasantness. But she had been
slowly preparing herself to mention them. The
extraordinary announcement that she was to leave
school at the same time as Constance had taken
her unawares, before the preparations ripening
in her mind were complete—before, as it were,
she had girded up her loins for the fray. She
had been caught unready, and the opposing forces
had obtained the advantage of her. But did they
suppose she was beaten?
No argument
from her mother! No hearing, even! Just a curt
and haughty 'Let me hear no more of this'! And
so the great desire of her life, nourished year
after year in her inmost bosom, was to be
flouted and sacrificed with a word! Her mother
did not appear ridiculous in the affair, for her
mother was a genuine power, commanding by turns
genuine love and genuine hate, and always, till
then, obedience and the respect of reason. It
was her father who appeared tragically
ridiculous; and, in turn, the whole movement
against her grew grotesque in its absurdity.
Here was this antique wreck, helpless, useless,
powerless—merely pathetic —actually thinking
that he had only to mumble in order to make her
'understand'! He knew nothing; he perceived
nothing; he was a ferocious egoist, like most
bedridden invalids, out of touch with life,—and
he thought himself justified in making
destinies, and capable of making them! Sophia
could not, perhaps, define the feelings which
overwhelmed her; but she was conscious of their
tendency. They aged her, by years. They aged her
so that, in a kind of momentary ecstasy of
insight, she felt older than her father himself.
"You will
be a good girl," he said. "I'm sure o' that."
It was too
painful. The grotesqueness of her father's
complacency humiliated her past bearing. She was
humiliated, not for herself, but for him.
Singular creature! She ran out of the room.
Fortunately
Constance was passing in the corridor, otherwise
Sophia had been found guilty of a great breach
of duty.
"Go to
father," she whispered hysterically to
Constance, and fled upwards to the second floor.
IV
At supper,
with her red, downcast eyes, she had returned to
sheer girlishness again, overawed by her mother.
The meal had an unusual aspect. Mr. Povey, safe
from the dentist's, but having lost two teeth in
two days, was being fed on 'slops'—bread and
milk, to wit; he sat near the fire. The others
had cold pork, half a cold apple-pie, and
cheese; but Sophia only pretended to eat; each
time she tried to swallow, the tears came into
her eyes, and her throat shut itself up. Mrs.
Baines and Constance had a too careful air of
eating just as usual. Mrs. Baines's handsome
ringlets dominated the table under the gas.
"I'm not so
set up with my pastry to-day," observed Mrs.
Baines, critically munching a fragment of
pie-crust.
She rang a
little hand-bell. Maggie appeared from the cave.
She wore a plain white bib-less apron, but no
cap.
"Maggie,
will you have some pie?"
"Yes, if
you can spare it, ma'am."
This was
Maggie's customary answer to offers of food.
"We can
always spare it, Maggie," said her mistress, as
usual.
"Sophia, if you aren't going to use that plate,
give it to me."
Maggie
disappeared with liberal pie.
Mrs. Baines
then talked to Mr. Povey about his condition,
and in particular as to the need for precautions
against taking cold in the bereaved gum. She was
a brave and determined woman; from start to
finish she behaved as though nothing whatever in
the household except her pastry and Mr. Povey
had deviated that day from the normal. She
kissed Constance and Sophia with the most exact
equality, and called them 'my chucks' when they
went up to bed.
Constance,
excellent kind heart, tried to imitate her
mother's tactics as the girls undressed in their
room. She thought she could not do better than
ignore Sophia's deplorable state.
"Mother's
new dress is quite finished, and she's going to
wear it on Sunday," said she, blandly.
"If you say
another word I'll scratch your eyes out!" Sophia
turned on her viciously, with a catch in her
voice, and then began to sob at intervals. She
did not mean this threat, but its utterance gave
her relief. Constance, faced with the fact that
her mother's shoes were too big for her, decided
to preserve her eyesight.
Long after
the gas was out, rare sobs from Sophia shook the
bed, and they both lay awake in silence.
"I suppose
you and mother have been talking me over finely
to- day?" Sophia burst forth, to Constance's
surprise, in a wet voice.
"No," said
Constance soothingly. "Mother only told me."
"Told you
what?"
"That you
wanted to be a teacher."
"And I will
be, too!" said Sophia, bitterly.
"You don't
know mother," thought Constance; but she made no
audible comment.
There was
another detached, hard sob. And then, such is
the astonishing talent of youth, they both fell
asleep.
The next
morning, early, Sophia stood gazing out of the
window at the Square. It was Saturday, and all
over the Square little stalls, with yellow linen
roofs, were being erected for the principal
market of the week. In those barbaric days
Bursley had a majestic edifice, black as basalt,
for the sale of dead animals by the limb and
rib—it was entitled 'the Shambles'—but
vegetables, fruit, cheese, eggs, and pikelets
were still sold under canvas. Eggs are now
offered at five farthings apiece in a palace
that cost twenty-five thousand pounds. Yet you
will find people in Bursley ready to assert that
things generally are not what they were, and
that in particular the romance of life has gone.
But until it has gone it is never romance. To
Sophia, though she was in a mood which usually
stimulates the sense of the romantic, there was
nothing of romance in this picturesque tented
field. It was just the market. Holl's, the
leading grocer's, was already open, at the
extremity of the Square, and a boy apprentice
was sweeping the pavement in front of it. The
public-houses were open, several of them
specializing in hot rum at 5.30 a.m. The town-
crier, in his blue coat with red facings,
crossed the Square, carrying his big bell by the
tongue. There was the same shocking hole in one
of Mrs. Povey's (confectioner's)
window-curtains—a hole which even her recent
travail could scarcely excuse. Such matters it
was that Sophia noticed with dull, smarting
eyes.
"Sophia,
you'll take your death of cold standing there
like that!"
She jumped.
The voice was her mother's. That vigorous woman,
after a calm night by the side of the paralytic,
was already up and neatly dressed. She carried a
bottle and an egg-cup, and a small quantity of
jam in a table-spoon.
"Get into
bed again, do! There's a dear! You're
shivering."
White
Sophia obeyed. It was true; she was shivering.
Constance awoke. Mrs. Baines went to the
dressing-table and filled the egg- cup out of
the bottle.
"Who's that
for, mother?" Constance asked sleepily.
"It's for
Sophia," said Mrs. Baines, with good cheer.
"Now, Sophia!" and she advanced with the egg-cup
in one hand and the table-spoon in the other.
"What is
it, mother?" asked Sophia, who well knew what it
was.
"Castor-oil, my dear," said Mrs. Baines,
winningly.
The
ludicrousness of attempting to cure obstinacy
and yearnings for a freer life by means of
castor-oil is perhaps less real than apparent.
The strange interdependence of spirit and body,
though only understood intelligently in these
intelligent days, was guessed at by sensible
mediaeval mothers. And certainly, at the period
when Mrs. Baines represented modernity,
castor-oil was still the remedy of remedies. It
had supplanted cupping. And, if part of its
vogue was due to its extreme unpleasantness, it
had at least proved its qualities in many a
contest with disease. Less than two years
previously old Dr. Harrop (father of him who
told Mrs. Baines about Mrs. Povey), being then
aged eighty-six, had fallen from top to bottom
of his staircase. He had scrambled up, taken a
dose of castor-oil at once, and on the morrow
was as well as if he had never seen a staircase.
This episode was town property and had sunk deep
into all hearts.
"I don't
want any, mother," said Sophia, in dejection.
"I'm quite well."
"You simply
ate nothing all day yesterday," said Mrs.
Baines. And she added, "Come!" As if to say,
"There's always this silly fuss with castor-oil.
Don't keep me waiting."
"I don't
WANT any," said Sophia, irritated and captious.
The two
girls lay side by side, on their backs. They
seemed very thin and fragile in comparison with
the solidity of their mother. Constance wisely
held her peace.
Mrs. Baines
put her lips together, meaning: "This is
becoming tedious. I shall have to be angry in
another moment!"
"Come!"
said she again.
The girls
could hear her foot tapping on the floor.
"I really
don't want it, mamma," Sophia fought. "I suppose
I ought to know whether I need it or not!" This
was insolence.
"Sophia,
will you take this medicine, or won't you?"
In
conflicts with her children, the mother's
ultimatum always took the formula in which this
phrase was cast. The girls knew, when things had
arrived at the pitch of 'or won't you' spoken in
Mrs. Baines's firmest tone, that the end was
upon them. Never had the ultimatum failed.
There was a
silence.
"And I'll
thank you to mind your manners," Mrs. Baines
added.
"I won't
take it," said Sophia, sullenly and flatly; and
she hid her face in the pillow.
It was a
historic moment in the family life. Mrs. Baines
thought the last day had come. But still she
held herself in dignity while the apocalypse
roared in her ears.
"OF COURSE
I CAN'T FORCE YOU TO TAKE IT," she said with
superb evenness, masking anger by compassionate
grief. "You're a big girl and a naughty girl.
And if you will be ill you must."
Upon this
immense admission, Mrs. Baines departed.
Constance
trembled.
Nor was
that all. In the middle of the morning, when
Mrs. Baines was pricing new potatoes at a stall
at the top end of the Square, and Constance
choosing threepennyworth of flowers at the same
stall, whom should they both see, walking all
alone across the empty corner by the Bank, but
Sophia Baines! The Square was busy and populous,
and Sophia was only visible behind a foreground
of restless, chattering figures. But she was
unmistakably seen. She had been beyond the
Square and was returning. Constance could
scarcely believe her eyes. Mrs. Baines's heart
jumped. For let it be said that the girls never
under any circumstances went forth without
permission, and scarcely ever alone. That Sophia
should be at large in the town, without leave,
without notice, exactly as if she were her own
mistress, was a proposition which a day earlier
had been inconceivable. Yet there she was, and
moving with a leisureliness that must be
described as effrontery!
Red with
apprehension, Constance wondered what would
happen. Mrs. Baines said nought of her feelings,
did not even indicate that she had seen the
scandalous, the breath-taking sight. And they
descended the Square laden with the lighter
portions of what they had bought during an hour
of buying. They went into the house by the King
Street door; and the first thing they heard was
the sound of the piano upstairs. Nothing
happened. Mr. Povey had his dinner alone; then
the table was laid for them, and the bell rung,
and Sophia came insolently downstairs to join
her mother and sister. And nothing happened. The
dinner was silently eaten, and Constance having
rendered thanks to God, Sophia rose abruptly to
go.
"Sophia!"
"Yes,
mother."
"Constance,
stay where you are," said Mrs. Baines suddenly
to Constance, who had meant to flee. Constance
was therefore destined to be present at the
happening, doubtless in order to emphasize its
importance and seriousness.
"Sophia,"
Mrs. Baines resumed to her younger daughter in
an ominous voice. "No, please shut the door.
There is no reason why everybody in the house
should hear. Come right into the room— right in!
That's it. Now, what were you doing out in the
town this morning?"
Sophia was
fidgeting nervously with the edge of her little
black apron, and worrying a seam of the carpet
with her toes. She bent her head towards her
left shoulder, at first smiling vaguely. She
said nothing, but every limb, every glance,
every curve, was speaking. Mrs. Baines sat
firmly in her own rocking-chair, full of the
sensation that she had Sophia, as it were,
writhing on the end of a skewer. Constance was
braced into a moveless anguish.
"I will
have an answer," pursued Mrs. Baines. "What were
you doing out in the town this morning?"
"I just
went out," answered Sophia at length, still with
eyes downcast, and in a rather simpering tone.
"Why did
you go out? You said nothing to me about going
out. I heard Constance ask you if you were
coming with us to the market, and you said, very
rudely, that you weren't."
"I didn't
say it rudely," Sophia objected.
"Yes you
did. And I'll thank you not to answer back."
"I didn't
mean to say it rudely, did I, Constance?"
Sophia's head turned sharply to her sister.
Constance knew not where to look.
"Don't
answer back," Mrs. Baines repeated sternly. "And
don't try to drag Constance into this, for I
won't have it."
"Oh, of
course Constance is always right!" observed
Sophia, with an irony whose unparalleled
impudence shook Mrs. Baines to her massive
foundations.
"Do you
want me to have to smack you, child?"
Her temper
flashed out and you could see ringlets vibrating
under the provocation of Sophia's sauciness.
Then Sophia's lower lip began to fall and to
bulge outwards, and all the muscles of her face
seemed to slacken.
"You are a
very naughty girl," said Mrs. Baines, with
restraint. ("I've got her," said Mrs. Baines to
herself. "I may just as well keep my temper.")
And a sob
broke out of Sophia. She was behaving like a
little child. She bore no trace of the young
maiden sedately crossing the Square without
leave and without an escort.
("I knew
she was going to cry," said Mrs. Baines,
breathing relief.)
"I'm
waiting," said Mrs. Baines aloud.
A second
sob. Mrs. Baines manufactured patience to meet
the demand.
"You tell
me not to answer back, and then you say you're
waiting,"
Sophia blubbered thickly.
"What's
that you say? How can I tell what you say if you
talk like that?" (But Mrs. Baines failed to hear
out of discretion, which is better than valour.)
"It's of no
consequence," Sophia blurted forth in a sob. She
was weeping now, and tears were ricocheting off
her lovely crimson cheeks on to the carpet; her
whole body was trembling.
"Don't be a
great baby," Mrs. Baines enjoined, with a touch
of rough persuasiveness in her voice.
"It's you
who make me cry," said Sophia, bitterly. "You
make me cry and then you call me a great baby!"
And sobs ran through her frame like waves one
after another. She spoke so indistinctly that
her mother now really had some difficulty in
catching her words.
"Sophia,"
said Mrs. Baines, with god-like calm, "it is not
I who make you cry. It is your guilty conscience
makes you cry. I have merely asked you a
question, and I intend to have an answer."
"I've told
you." Here Sophia checked the sobs with an
immense effort.
"What have
you told me?"
"I just
went out."
"I will
have no trifling," said Mrs. Baines. "What did
you go out for, and without telling me? If you
had told me afterwards, when I came in, of your
own accord, it might have been different. But
no, not a word! It is I who have to ask! Now,
quick! I can't wait any longer."
("I gave
way over the castor-oil, my girl," Mrs. Baines
said in her own breast. "But not again! Not
again.!")
"I don't
know," Sophia murmured.
"What do
you mean—you don't know?"
The sobbing
recommenced tempestuously. "I mean I don't know.
I just went out." Her voice rose; it was noisy,
but scarcely articulate. "What if I did go out?"
"Sophia, I
am not going to be talked to like this. If you
think because you're leaving school you can do
exactly as you like—"
"Do I want
to leave school?" yelled Sophia, stamping. In a
moment a hurricane of emotion overwhelmed her,
as though that stamping of the foot had released
the demons of the storm. Her face was
transfigured by uncontrollable passion. "You all
want to make me miserable!" she shrieked with
terrible violence. "And now I can't even go out!
You are a horrid, cruel woman, and I hate you!
And you can do what you like! Put me in prison
if you like! I know you'd be glad if I was
dead!"
She dashed
from the room, banging the door with a shock
that made the house rattle. And she had shouted
so loud that she might have been heard in the
shop, and even in the kitchen. It was a
startling experience for Mrs. Baines. Mrs.
Baines, why did you saddle yourself with a
witness? Why did you so positively say that you
intended to have an answer?
"Really,"
she stammered, pulling her dignity about her
shoulders like a garment that the wind has
snatched off. "I never dreamed that poor girl
had such a dreadful temper! What a pity it is,
for her OWN sake!" It was the best she could do.
Constance,
who could not bear to witness her mother's
humiliation, vanished very quietly from the
room. She got halfway upstairs to the second
floor, and then, hearing the loud, rapid,
painful, regular intake of sobbing breaths, she
hesitated and crept down again.
This was
Mrs. Baines's first costly experience of the
child thankless for having been brought into the
world. It robbed her of her profound, absolute
belief in herself. She had thought she knew
everything in her house and could do everything
there. And lo! she had suddenly stumbled against
an unsuspected personality at large in her
house, a sort of hard marble affair that
informed her by means of bumps that if she did
not want to be hurt she must keep out of the
way.
V
On the
Sunday afternoon Mrs. Baines was trying to
repose a little in the drawing-room, where she
had caused a fire to be lighted. Constance was
in the adjacent bedroom with her father. Sophia
lay between blankets in the room overhead with a
feverish cold. This cold and her new dress were
Mrs. Baines's sole consolation at the moment.
She had prophesied a cold for Sophia, refuser of
castor- oil, and it had come. Sophia had
received, for standing in her nightdress at a
draughty window of a May morning, what Mrs.
Baines called 'nature's slap in the face.' As
for the dress, she had worshipped God in it, and
prayed for Sophia in it, before dinner; and its
four double rows of gimp on the skirt had been
accounted a great success. With her
lace-bordered mantle and her low, stringed
bonnet she had assuredly given a unique lustre
to the congregation at chapel. She was stout;
but the fashions, prescribing vague outlines,
broad downward slopes, and vast amplitudes, were
favourable to her shape. It must not be supposed
that stout women of a certain age never seek to
seduce the eye and trouble the meditations of
man by other than moral charms. Mrs. Baines knew
that she was comely, natty, imposing, and
elegant; and the knowledge gave her real
pleasure. She would look over her shoulder in
the glass as anxious as a girl: make no mistake.
She did not
repose; she could not. She sat thinking, in
exactly the same posture as Sophia's two
afternoons previously. She would have been
surprised to hear that her attitude, bearing,
and expression powerfully recalled those of her
reprehensible daughter. But it was so. A good
angel made her restless, and she went idly to
the window and glanced upon the empty, shuttered
Square. She too, majestic matron, had strange,
brief yearnings for an existence more romantic
than this; shootings across her spirit's
firmament of tailed comets; soft, inexplicable
melancholies. The good angel, withdrawing her
from such a mood, directed her gaze to a
particular spot at the top of the square.
She passed
at once out of the room—not precisely in a
hurry, yet without wasting time. In a recess
under the stairs, immediately outside the door,
was a box about a foot square and eighteen
inches deep covered with black American cloth.
She bent down and unlocked this box, which was
padded within and contained the Baines silver
tea-service. She drew from the box teapot,
sugar- bowl, milk-jug, sugar-tongs, hot-water
jug, and cake-stand (a flattish dish with an
arching semicircular handle)—chased vessels,
silver without and silver-gilt within;
glittering heirlooms that shone in the dark
corner like the secret pride of respectable
families. These she put on a tray that always
stood on end in the recess. Then she looked
upwards through the banisters to the second
floor.
"Maggie!"
she piercingly whispered.
"Yes, mum,"
came a voice.
"Are you
dressed?"
"Yes, mum.
I'm just coming."
"Well, put
on your muslin." "Apron," Mrs. Baines implied.
Maggie
understood.
"Take these
for tea," said Mrs. Baines when Maggie
descended.
"Better rub them over. You know where the cake
is—that new one.
The best cups. And the silver spoons."
They both
heard a knock at the side-door, far off, below.
"There!"
exclaimed Mrs. Baines. "Now take these right
down into the kitchen before you open."
"Yes, mum,"
said Maggie, departing.
Mrs. Baines
was wearing a black alpaca apron. She removed it
and put on another one of black satin
embroidered with yellow flowers, which, by
merely inserting her arm into the chamber, she
had taken from off the chest of drawers in her
bedroom. Then she fixed herself in the
drawing-room.
Maggie
returned, rather short of breath, convoying the
visitor.
"Ah! Miss
Chetwynd," said Mrs. Baines, rising to welcome.
"I'm sure I'm delighted to see you. I saw you
coming down the Square, and I said to myself,
'Now, I do hope Miss Chetwynd isn't going to
forget us.'"
Miss
Chetwynd, simpering momentarily, came forward
with that self- conscious, slightly histrionic
air, which is one of the penalties of pedagogy.
She lived under the eyes of her pupils. Her life
was one ceaseless effort to avoid doing anything
which might influence her charges for evil or
shock the natural sensitiveness of their
parents. She had to wind her earthly way through
a forest of the most delicate
susceptibilities—fern-fronds that stretched
across the path, and that she must not even
accidentally disturb with her skirt as she
passed. No wonder she walked mincingly! No
wonder she had a habit of keeping her elbows
close to her sides, and drawing her mantle tight
in the streets! Her prospectus talked about 'a
sound and religious course of training,' 'study
embracing the usual branches of English, with
music by a talented master, drawing, dancing,
and calisthenics.' Also 'needlework plain and
ornamental;' also 'moral influence;' and finally
about terms, 'which are very moderate, and every
particular, with references to parents and
others, furnished on application.' (Sometimes,
too, without application.) As an illustration of
the delicacy of fern- fronds, that single word
'dancing' had nearly lost her Constance and
Sophia seven years before!
She was a
pinched virgin, aged forty, and not 'well off;'
in her family the gift of success had been
monopolized by her elder sister. For these
characteristics Mrs. Baines, as a matron in easy
circumstances, pitied Miss Chetwynd. On the
other hand, Miss Chetwynd could choose ground
from which to look down upon Mrs. Baines, who
after all was in trade. Miss Chetwynd had no
trace of the local accent; she spoke with a
southern refinement which the Five Towns, while
making fun of it, envied. All her O's had a
genteel leaning towards 'ow,' as ritualism leans
towards Romanism. And she was the fount of
etiquette, a wonder of correctness; in the eyes
of her pupils' parents not so much 'a perfect
LADY' as 'a PERFECT lady.' So that it was an
extremely nice question whether, upon the whole,
Mrs. Baines secretly condescended to Miss
Chetwynd or Miss Chetwynd to Mrs. Baines.
Perhaps Mrs. Baines, by virtue of her wifehood,
carried the day.
Miss
Chetwynd, carefully and precisely seated, opened
the conversation by explaining that even if Mrs.
Baines had not written she should have called in
any case, as she made a practice of calling at
the home of her pupils in vacation time: which
was true. Mrs. Baines, it should be stated, had
on Friday afternoon sent to Miss Chetwynd one of
her most luxurious notes—lavender- coloured
paper with scalloped edges, the selectest mode
of the day—to announce, in her Italian hand,
that Constance and Sophia would both leave
school at the end of the next term, and giving
reasons in regard to Sophia.
Before the
visitor had got very far, Maggie came in with a
lacquered tea-caddy and the silver teapot and a
silver spoon on a lacquered tray. Mrs. Baines,
while continuing to talk, chose a key from her
bunch, unlocked the tea-caddy, and transferred
four teaspoonfuls of tea from it to the teapot
and relocked the caddy.
"Strawberry," she mysteriously whispered to
Maggie; and Maggie disappeared, bearing the tray
and its contents.
"And how is
your sister? It is quite a long time since she
was down here," Mrs. Baines went on to Miss
Chetwynd, after whispering "strawberry."
The remark
was merely in the way of small-talk—for the
hostess felt a certain unwilling hesitation to
approach the topic of daughters—but it happened
to suit the social purpose of Miss Chetwynd to a
nicety. Miss Chetwynd was a vessel brimming with
great tidings.
"She is
very well, thank you," said Miss Chetwynd, and
her expression grew exceedingly vivacious. Her
face glowed with pride as she added, "Of course
everything is changed now."
"Indeed?"
murmured Mrs. Baines, with polite curiosity.
"Yes," said
Miss Chetwynd. "You've not heard?"
"No," said
Mrs. Baines. Miss Chetwynd knew that she had not
heard.
"About
Elizabeth's engagement? To the Reverend
Archibald Jones?"
It is the
fact that Mrs. Baines was taken aback. She did
nothing indiscreet; she did not give vent to her
excusable amazement that the elder Miss Chetwynd
should be engaged to any one at all, as some
women would have done in the stress of the
moment. She kept her presence of mind.
"This is
really MOST interesting!" said she.
It was. For
Archibald Jones was one of the idols of the
Wesleyan Methodist Connexion, a special preacher
famous throughout England. At 'Anniversaries'
and 'Trust sermons,' Archibald Jones had
probably no rival. His Christian name helped
him; it was a luscious, resounding mouthful for
admirers. He was not an itinerant minister,
migrating every three years. His function was to
direct the affairs of the 'Book Room,' the
publishing department of the Connexion. He lived
in London, and shot out into the provinces at
week-ends, preaching on Sundays and giving a
lecture, tinctured with bookishness, 'in the
chapel' on Monday evenings. In every town he
visited there was competition for the privilege
of entertaining him. He had zeal, indefatigable
energy, and a breezy wit. He was a widower of
fifty, and his wife had been dead for twenty
years. It had seemed as if women were not for
this bright star. And here Elizabeth Chetwynd,
who had left the Five Towns a quarter of a
century before at the age of twenty, had caught
him! Austere, moustached, formidable,
desiccated, she must have done it with her
powerful intellect! It must be a union of
intellects! He had been impressed by hers, and
she by his, and then their intellects had
kissed. Within a week fifty thousand women in
forty counties had pictured to themselves this
osculation of intellects, and shrugged their
shoulders, and decided once more that men were
incomprehensible. These great ones in London,
falling in love like the rest! But no! Love was
a ribald and voluptuous word to use in such a
matter as this. It was generally felt that the
Reverend Archibald Jones and Miss Chetwynd the
elder would lift marriage to what would now be
termed an astral plane.
After tea
had been served, Mrs. Baines gradually recovered
her position, both in her own private esteem and
in the deference of Miss Aline Chetwynd.
"Yes," said
she. "You can talk about your sister, and you
can call HIM Archibald, and you can mince up
your words. But have you got a tea-service like
this? Can you conceive more perfect strawberry
jam than this? Did not my dress cost more than
you spend on your clothes in a year? Has a man
ever looked at you? After all, is there not
something about my situation … in short,
something …?"
She did not
say this aloud. She in no way deviated from the
scrupulous politeness of a hostess. There was
nothing in even her tone to indicate that Mrs.
John Baines was a personage. Yet it suddenly
occurred to Miss Chetwynd that her pride in
being the prospective sister-in-law of the Rev.
Archibald Jones would be better for a while in
her pocket. And she inquired after Mr. Baines.
After this the conversation limped somewhat.
"I suppose
you weren't surprised by my letter?" said Mrs.
Baines.
"I was and
I wasn't," answered Miss Chetwynd, in her
professional manner and not her manner of a
prospective sister-in-law. "Of course I am
naturally sorry to lose two such good pupils,
but we can't keep our pupils for ever." She
smiled; she was not without fortitude—it is
easier to lose pupils than to replace them.
"Still"—a pause—"what you say of Sophia is
perfectly true, perfectly. She is quite as
advanced as Constance. Still"—another pause and
a more rapid enunciation—"Sophia is by no means
an ordinary girl."
"I hope she
hasn't been a very great trouble to you?"
"Oh NO!"
exclaimed Miss Chetwynd. "Sophia and I have got
on very well together. I have always tried to
appeal to her reason. I have never FORCED her …
Now, with some girls … In some ways I look on
Sophia as the most remarkable girl—not pupil—but
the most remarkable—what shall I
say?—individuality, that I have ever met with."
And her demeanour added, "And, mind you, this is
something —from me!"
"Indeed!"
said Mrs. Baines. She told herself, "I am not
your common foolish parent. I see my children
impartially. I am incapable of being flattered
concerning them."
Nevertheless she was flattered, and the thought
shaped itself that really Sophia was no ordinary
girl.
"I suppose
she has talked to you about becoming a teacher?"
asked
Miss Chetwynd, taking a morsel of the
unparalleled jam.
She held
the spoon with her thumb and three fingers. Her
fourth finger, in matters of honest labour,
would never associate with the other three;
delicately curved, it always drew proudly away
from them.
"Has she
mentioned that to you?" Mrs. Baines demanded,
startled.
"Oh yes!"
said Miss Chetwynd. "Several times. Sophia is a
very secretive girl, very—but I think I may say
I have always had her confidence. There have
been times when Sophia and I have been very near
each other. Elizabeth was much struck with her.
Indeed, I may tell you that in one of her last
letters to me she spoke of Sophia and said she
had mentioned her to Mr. Jones, and Mr. Jones
remembered her quite well."
Impossible
for even a wise, uncommon parent not to be
affected by such an announcement!
"I dare say
your sister will give up her school now,"
observed
Mrs. Baines, to divert attention from her
self-consciousness.
"Oh NO!"
And this time Mrs. Baines had genuinely shocked
Miss Chetwynd. "Nothing would induce Elizabeth
to give up the cause of education. Archibald
takes the keenest interest in the school. Oh no!
Not for worlds!"
"THEN YOU
THINK SOPHIA WOULD MAKE A GOOD TEACHER?" asked
Mrs. Baines with apparent inconsequence, and
with a smile. But the words marked an epoch in
her mind. All was over.
"I think
she is very much set on it and—"
"That
wouldn't affect her father—or me," said Mrs.
Baines quickly.
"Certainly
not! I merely say that she is very much set on
it. Yes, she would, at any rate, make a teacher
far superior to the average." ("That girl has
got the better of her mother without me!" she
reflected.) "Ah! Here is dear Constance!"
Constance,
tempted beyond her strength by the sounds of the
visit and the colloquy, had slipped into the
room.
"I've left
both doors open, mother," she excused herself
for quitting her father, and kissed Miss
Chetwynd.
She
blushed, but she blushed happily, and really
made a most creditable debut as a young lady.
Her mother rewarded her by taking her into the
conversation. And history was soon made.
So Sophia
was apprenticed to Miss Aline Chetwynd. Mrs.
Baines bore herself greatly. It was Miss
Chetwynd who had urged, and her respect for Miss
Chetwynd … Also somehow the Reverend Archibald
Jones came into the cause.
Of course
the idea of Sophia ever going to London was
ridiculous, ridiculous! (Mrs. Baines secretly
feared that the ridiculous might happen; but,
with the Reverend Archibald Jones on the spot,
the worst could be faced.) Sophia must
understand that even the apprenticeship in
Bursley was merely a trial. They would see how
things went on. She had to thank Miss Chetwynd.
"I made
Miss Chetwynd come and talk to mother," said
Sophia magnificently one night to simple
Constance, as if to imply, 'Your Miss Chetwynd
is my washpot.'
To
Constance, Sophia's mere enterprise was just as
staggering as her success. Fancy her
deliberately going out that Saturday morning,
after her mother's definite decision, to enlist
Miss Chetwynd in her aid!
There is no
need to insist on the tragic grandeur of Mrs.
Baines's renunciation—a renunciation which
implied her acceptance of a change in the
balance of power in her realm. Part of its
tragedy was that none, not even Constance, could
divine the intensity of Mrs. Baines's suffering.
She had no confidant; she was incapable of
showing a wound. But when she lay awake at night
by the organism which had once been her husband,
she dwelt long and deeply on the martyrdom of
her life. What had she done to deserve it?
Always had she conscientiously endeavoured to be
kind, just, patient. And she knew herself to be
sagacious and prudent. In the frightful and
unguessed trials of her existence as a wife,
surely she might have been granted consolations
as a mother! Yet no; it had not been! And she
felt all the bitterness of age against
youth—youth egotistic, harsh, cruel,
uncompromising; youth that is so crude, so
ignorant of life, so slow to understand! She had
Constance. Yes, but it would be twenty years
before Constance could appreciate the sacrifice
of judgment and of pride which her mother had
made, in a sudden decision, during that
rambling, starched, simpering interview with
Miss Aline Chetwynd. Probably Constance thought
that she had yielded to Sophia's passionate
temper! Impossible to explain to Constance that
she had yielded to nothing but a perception of
Sophia's complete inability to hear reason and
wisdom. Ah! Sometimes as she lay in the dark,
she would, in fancy, snatch her heart from her
bosom and fling it down before Sophia, bleeding,
and cry: "See what I carry about with me, on
your account!" Then she would take it back and
hide it again, and sweeten her bitterness with
wise admonitions to herself.
All this
because Sophia, aware that if she stayed in the
house she would be compelled to help in the
shop, chose an honourable activity which freed
her from the danger. Heart, how absurd of you to
bleed!
CHAPTER IV
ELEPHANT
I
"Sophia,
will you come and see the elephant? Do come!"
Constance entered the drawing-room with this
request on her eager lips.
"No," said
Sophia, with a touch of condescension. "I'm far
too busy for elephants."
Only two
years had passed; but both girls were grown up
now; long sleeves, long skirts, hair that had
settled down in life; and a demeanour immensely
serious, as though existence were terrific in
its responsibilities; yet sometimes childhood
surprisingly broke through the crust of gravity,
as now in Constance, aroused by such things as
elephants, and proclaimed with vivacious
gestures that it was not dead after all. The
sisters were sharply differentiated. Constance
wore the black alpaca apron and the scissors at
the end of a long black elastic, which indicated
her vocation in the shop. She was proving a
considerable success in the millinery
department. She had learnt how to talk to
people, and was, in her modest way, very
self-possessed. She was getting a little
stouter. Everybody liked her. Sophia had
developed into the student. Time had accentuated
her reserve. Her sole friend was Miss Chetwynd,
with whom she was, having regard to the
disparity of their ages, very intimate. At home
she spoke little. She lacked amiability; as her
mother said, she was 'touchy.' She required
diplomacy from others, but did not render it
again. Her attitude, indeed, was one of
half-hidden disdain, now gentle, now coldly
bitter. She would not wear an apron, in an age
when aprons were almost essential to decency.
No! She would not wear an apron, and there was
an end of it. She was not so tidy as Constance,
and if Constance's hands had taken on the coarse
texture which comes from commerce with needles,
pins, artificial flowers, and stuffs, Sophia's
fine hands were seldom innocent of ink. But
Sophia was splendidly beautiful. And even her
mother and Constance had an instinctive idea
that that face was, at any rate, a partial
excuse for her asperity.
"Well,"
said Constance, "if you won't, I do believe I
shall ask mother if she will."
Sophia,
bending over her books, made no answer. But the
top of her head said: "This has no interest for
me whatever."
Constance
left the room, and in a moment returned with her
mother.
"Sophia,"
said her mother, with gay excitement, "you might
go and sit with your father for a bit while
Constance and I just run up to the playground to
see the elephant. You can work just as well in
there as here. Your father's asleep."
"Oh, very,
well!" Sophia agreed haughtily. "Whatever is all
this fuss about an elephant? Anyhow, it'll be
quieter in your room. The noise here is
splitting." She gave a supercilious glance into
the Square as she languidly rose.
It was the
morning of the third day of Bursley Wakes; not
the modern finicking and respectable, but an
orgiastic carnival, gross in all its
manifestations of joy. The whole centre of the
town was given over to the furious pleasures of
the people. Most of the Square was occupied by
Wombwell's Menagerie, in a vast oblong tent,
whose raging beasts roared and growled day and
night. And spreading away from this supreme
attraction, right up through the market-place
past the Town Hall to Duck Bank, Duck Square and
the waste land called the 'playground' were
hundreds of booths with banners displaying all
the delights of the horrible. You could see the
atrocities of the French Revolution, and of the
Fiji Islands, and the ravages of unspeakable
diseases, and the living flesh of a nearly nude
human female guaranteed to turn the scale at
twenty- two stone, and the skeletons of the
mysterious phantoscope, and the bloody contests
of champions naked to the waist (with the chance
of picking up a red tooth as a relic). You could
try your strength by hitting an image of a
fellow-creature in the stomach, and test your
aim by knocking off the heads of other images
with a wooden ball. You could also shoot with
rifles at various targets. All the streets were
lined with stalls loaded with food in heaps,
chiefly dried fish, the entrails of animals, and
gingerbread. All the public-houses were crammed,
and frenzied jolly drunkards, men and women,
lunged along the pavements everywhere, their
shouts vying with the trumpets, horns, and drums
of the booths, and the shrieking, rattling toys
that the children carried.
It was a
glorious spectacle, but not a spectacle for the
leading families. Miss Chetwynd's school was
closed, so that the daughters of leading
families might remain in seclusion till the
worst was over. The Baineses ignored the Wakes
in every possible way, choosing that week to
have a show of mourning goods in the left- hand
window, and refusing to let Maggie outside on
any pretext. Therefore the dazzling social
success of the elephant, which was quite easily
drawing Mrs. Baines into the vortex, cannot
imaginably be over-estimated.
On the
previous night one of the three Wombwell
elephants had suddenly knelt on a man in the
tent; he had then walked out of the tent and
picked up another man at haphazard from the
crowd which was staring at the great pictures in
front, and tried to put this second man into his
mouth. Being stopped by his Indian attendant
with a pitchfork, he placed the man on the
ground and stuck his tusk through an artery of
the victim's arm. He then, amid unexampled
excitement, suffered himself to be led away. He
was conducted to the rear of the tent, just in
front of Baines's shuttered windows, and by
means of stakes, pulleys, and ropes forced to
his knees. His head was whitewashed, and six men
of the Rifle Corps were engaged to shoot at him
at a distance of five yards, while constables
kept the crowd off with truncheons. He died
instantly, rolling over with a soft thud. The
crowd cheered, and, intoxicated by their
importance, the Volunteers fired three more
volleys into the carcase, and were then borne
off as heroes to different inns. The elephant,
by the help of his two companions, was got on to
a railway lorry and disappeared into the night.
Such was the greatest sensation that has ever
occurred, or perhaps will ever occur, in
Bursley. The excitement about the repeal of the
Corn Laws, or about Inkerman, was feeble
compared to that excitement. Mr. Critchlow, who
had been called on to put a hasty tourniquet
round the arm of the second victim, had popped
in afterwards to tell John Baines all about it.
Mr. Baines's interest, however, had been slight.
Mr. Critchlow succeeded better with the ladies,
who, though they had witnessed the shooting from
the drawing-room, were thirsty for the most
trifling details.
The next
day it was known that the elephant lay near the
playground, pending the decision of the Chief
Bailiff and the Medical Officer as to his
burial. And everybody had to visit the corpse.
No social exclusiveness could withstand the
seduction of that dead elephant. Pilgrims
travelled from all the Five Towns to see him.
"We're
going now," said Mrs. Baines, after she had
assumed her bonnet and shawl.
"All
right," said Sophia, pretending to be absorbed
in study, as she sat on the sofa at the foot of
her father's bed.
And
Constance, having put her head in at the door,
drew her mother after her like a magnet.
Then Sophia
heard a remarkable conversation in the passage.
"Are you
going up to see the elephant, Mrs. Baines?"
asked the voice of Mr. Povey.
"Yes. Why?"
"I think I
had better come with you. The crowd is sure to
be very rough." Mr. Povey's tone was firm; he
had a position.
"But the
shop?"
"We shall
not be long," said Mr. Povey.
"Oh yes,
mother," Constance added appealingly.
Sophia felt
the house thrill as the side-door banged. She
sprang up and watched the three cross King
Street diagonally, and so plunge into the Wakes.
This triple departure was surely the crowning
tribute to the dead elephant! It was simply
astonishing. It caused Sophia to perceive that
she had miscalculated the importance of the
elephant. It made her regret her scorn of the
elephant as an attraction. She was left behind;
and the joy of life was calling her. She could
see down into the Vaults on the opposite side of
the street, where working men—potters and
colliers—in their best clothes, some with high
hats, were drinking, gesticulating, and laughing
in a row at a long counter.
She
noticed, while she was thus at the bedroom
window, a young man ascending King Street,
followed by a porter trundling a flat barrow of
luggage. He passed slowly under the very window.
She flushed. She had evidently been startled by
the sight of this young man into no ordinary
state of commotion. She glanced at the books on
the sofa, and then at her father. Mr. Baines,
thin and gaunt, and acutely pitiable, still
slept. His brain had almost ceased to be active
now; he had to be fed and tended like a bearded
baby, and he would sleep for hours at a stretch
even in the daytime. Sophia left the room. A
moment later she ran into the shop, an
apparition that amazed the three young lady
assistants. At the corner near the window on the
fancy side a little nook had been formed by
screening off a portion of the counter with
large flower-boxes placed end-up. This corner
had come to be known as "Miss Baines's corner."
Sophia hastened to it, squeezing past a young
lady assistant in the narrow space between the
back of the counter and the shelf-lined wall.
She sat down in Constance's chair and pretended
to look for something. She had examined herself
in the cheval-glass in the showroom, on her way
from the sick-chamber. When she heard a voice
near the door of the shop asking first for Mr.
Povey and then for Mrs. Baines, she rose, and
seizing the object nearest to her, which
happened to be a pair of scissors, she hurried
towards the showroom stairs as though the
scissors had been a grail, passionately sought
and to be jealously hidden away. She wanted to
stop and turn round, but something prevented
her. She was at the end of the counter, under
the curving stairs, when one of the assistants
said:
"I suppose
you don't know when Mr. Povey or your mother are
likely to be back, Miss Sophia? Here's—"
It was a
divine release for Sophia.
"They're—I—" she stammered, turning round
abruptly. Luckily she was still sheltered behind
the counter.
The young
man whom she had seen in the street came boldly
forward.
"Good
morning, Miss Sophia," said he, hat in hand. "It
is a long time since I had the pleasure of
seeing you."
Never had
she blushed as she blushed then. She scarcely
knew what she was doing as she moved slowly
towards her sister's corner again, the young man
following her on the customer's side of the
counter.
II
She knew
that he was a traveller for the most renowned
and gigantic of all Manchester wholesale
firms—Birkinshaws. But she did not know his
name, which was Gerald Scales. He was a rather
short but extremely well-proportioned man of
thirty, with fair hair, and a distinguished
appearance, as became a representative of
Birkinshaws. His broad, tight necktie, with an
edge of white collar showing above it, was
particularly elegant. He had been on the road
for Birkinshaws for several years; but Sophia
had only seen him once before in her life, when
she was a little girl, three years ago. The
relations between the travellers of the great
firms and their solid, sure clients in small
towns were in those days often cordially
intimate. The traveller came with the lustre of
a historic reputation around him; there was no
need to fawn for orders; and the client's
immense and immaculate respectability made him
the equal of no matter what ambassador. It was a
case of mutual esteem, and of that
confidence-generating phenomenon, "an old
account." The tone in which a commercial
traveller of middle age would utter the phrase
"an old account" revealed in a flash all that
was romantic, prim, and stately in mid-Victorian
commerce. In the days of Baines, after one of
the elaborately engraved advice-circulars had
arrived ('Our Mr.———will have the pleasure of
waiting upon you on—day next, the—inst.') John
might in certain cases be expected to say, on
the morning of—day, 'Missis, what have ye gotten
for supper to-night?'
Mr. Gerald
Scales had never been asked to supper; he had
never even seen John Baines; but, as the
youthful successor of an aged traveller who had
had the pleasure of St. Luke's Square, on behalf
of Birkinshaws, since before railways, Mrs.
Baines had treated him with a faint agreeable
touch of maternal familiarity; and, both her
daughters being once in the shop during his
visit, she had on that occasion commanded the
gawky girls to shake hands with him.
Sophia had
never forgotten that glimpse. The young man
without a name had lived in her mind, brightly
glowing, as the very symbol and incarnation of
the masculine and the elegant.
The renewed
sight of him seemed to have wakened her out of a
sleep. Assuredly she was not the same Sophia. As
she sat in her sister's chair in the corner,
entrenched behind the perpendicular boxes,
playing nervously with the scissors, her
beautiful face was transfigured into the
ravishingly angelic. It would have been
impossible for Mr. Gerald Scales, or anybody
else, to credit, as he gazed at those lovely,
sensitive, vivacious, responsive features, that
Sophia was not a character of heavenly sweetness
and perfection. She did not know what she was
doing; she was nothing but the exquisite
expression of a deep instinct to attract and
charm. Her soul itself emanated from her in an
atmosphere of allurement and acquiescence. Could
those laughing lips hang in a heavy pout? Could
that delicate and mild voice be harsh? Could
those burning eyes be coldly inimical? Never!
The idea was inconceivable! And Mr. Gerald
Scales, with his head over the top of the boxes,
yielded to the spell. Remarkable that Mr. Gerald
Scales, with all his experience, should have had
to come to Bursley to find the pearl, the
paragon, the ideal! But so it was. They met in
an equal abandonment; the only difference
between them was that Mr. Scales, by force of
habit, kept his head.
"I see it's
your wakes here," said he.
He was
polite to the wakes; but now, with the least
inflection in the world, he put the wakes at its
proper level in the scheme of things as a local
unimportance! She adored him for this; she was
athirst for sympathy in the task of scorning
everything local.
"I expect
you didn't know," she said, implying that there
was every reason why a man of his mundane
interests should not know.
"I should
have remembered if I had thought," said he. "But
I didn't think. What's this about an elephant?"
"Oh!" she
exclaimed. "Have you heard of that?"
"My porter
was full of it."
"Well," she
said, "of course it's a very big thing in
Bursley."
As she
smiled in gentle pity of poor Bursley, he
naturally did the same. And he thought how much
more advanced and broad the younger generation
was than the old! He would never have dared to
express his real feelings about Bursley to Mrs.
Baines, or even to Mr. Povey (who was, however,
of no generation); yet here was a young woman
actually sharing them.
She told
him all the history of the elephant.
"Must have
been very exciting," he commented, despite
himself.
"Do you
know," she replied, "it WAS."
After all,
Bursley was climbing in their opinion.
"And mother
and my sister and Mr. Povey have all gone to see
it.
That's why they're not here."
That the
elephant should have caused both Mr. Povey and
Mrs. Baines to forget that the representative of
Birkinshaws was due to call was indeed a final
victory for the elephant.
"But not
you!" he exclaimed.
"No," she
said. "Not me."
"Why didn't
you go too?" He continued his flattering
investigations with a generous smile.
"I simply
didn't care to," said she, proudly nonchalant.
"And I
suppose you are in charge here?"
"No," she
answered. "I just happened to have run down here
for these scissors. That's all."
"I often
see your sister," said he. "'Often' do I
say?—that is, generally, when I come; but never
you."
"I'm never
in the shop," she said. "It's just an accident
to-day."
"Oh! So you
leave the shop to your sister?"
"Yes." She
said nothing of her teaching.
Then there
was a silence. Sophia was very thankful to be
hidden from the curiosity of the shop. The shop
could see nothing of her, and only the back of
the young man; and the conversation had been
conducted in low voices. She tapped her foot,
stared at the worn, polished surface of the
counter, with the brass yard-measure nailed
along its edge, and then she uneasily turned her
gaze to the left and seemed to be examining the
backs of the black bonnets which were perched on
high stands in the great window. Then her eyes
caught his for an important moment.
"Yes," she
breathed. Somebody had to say something. If the
shop missed the murmur of their voices the shop
would wonder what had happened to them.
Mr. Scales
looked at his watch. '"I dare say if I come in
again about two—" he began.
"Oh yes,
they're SURE to be in then," she burst out
before he could finish his sentence.
He left
abruptly, queerly, without shaking hands (but
then it would have been difficult—she argued—for
him to have put his arm over the boxes), and
without expressing the hope of seeing her again.
She peeped through the black bonnets, and saw
the porter put the leather strap over his
shoulders, raise the rear of the barrow, and
trundle off; but she did not see Mr. Scales. She
was drunk; thoughts were tumbling about in her
brain like cargo loose in a rolling ship. Her
entire conception of herself was being altered;
her attitude towards life was being altered. The
thought which knocked hardest against its
fellows was, "Only in these moments have I begun
to live!"
And as she
flitted upstairs to resume watch over her father
she sought to devise an innocent-looking method
by which she might see Mr. Scales when he next
called. And she speculated as to what his name
was.
III
When Sophia
arrived in the bedroom, she was startled because
her father's head and beard were not in their
accustomed place on the pillow. She could only
make out something vaguely unusual sloping off
the side of the bed. A few seconds passed—not to
be measured in time—and she saw that the upper
part of his body had slipped down, and his head
was hanging, inverted, near the floor between
the bed and the ottoman. His face, neck, and
hands were dark and congested; his mouth was
open, and the tongue protruded between the
black, swollen, mucous lips; his eyes were
prominent and coldly staring. The fact was that
Mr. Baines had wakened up, and, being restless,
had slid out partially from his bed and died of
asphyxia. After having been unceasingly watched
for fourteen years, he had, with an invalid's
natural perverseness, taken advantage of
Sophia's brief dereliction to expire. Say what
you will, amid Sophia's horror, and her terrible
grief and shame, she had visitings of the idea:
he did it on purpose!
She ran out
of the room, knowing by intuition that he was
dead, and shrieked out, "Maggie," at the top of
her voice; the house echoed.
"Yes,
miss," said Maggie, quite close, coming out of
Mr. Povey's chamber with a slop-pail.
"Fetch Mr.
Critchlow at once. Be quick. Just as you are.
It's father—"
Maggie,
perceiving darkly that disaster was in the air,
and instantly filled with importance and a sort
of black joy, dropped her pail in the exact
middle of the passage, and almost fell down the
crooked stairs. One of Maggie's deepest
instincts, always held in check by the stern
dominance of Mrs. Baines, was to leave pails
prominent on the main routes of the house; and
now, divining what was at hand, it flamed into
insurrection.
No
sleepless night had ever been so long to Sophia
as the three minutes which elapsed before Mr.
Critchlow came. As she stood on the mat outside
the bedroom door she tried to draw her mother
and Constance and Mr. Povey by magnetic force
out of the wakes into the house, and her muscles
were contracted in this strange effort. She felt
that it was impossible to continue living if the
secret of the bedroom remained unknown one
instant longer, so intense was her torture, and
yet that the torture which could not be borne
must be borne. Not a sound in the house! Not a
sound from the shop! Only the distant murmur of
the wakes!
"Why did I
forget father?" she asked herself with awe. "I
only meant to tell him that they were all out,
and run back. Why did I forget father?" She
would never be able to persuade anybody that she
had literally forgotten her father's existence
for quite ten minutes; but it was true, though
shocking.
Then there
were noises downstairs.
"Bless us!
Bless us!" came the unpleasant voice of Mr.
Critchlow as he bounded up the stairs on his
long legs; he strode over the pail. "What's
amiss?" He was wearing his white apron, and he
carried his spectacles in his bony hand.
"It's
father—he's—" Sophia faltered.
She stood
away so that he should enter the room first. He
glanced at her keenly, and as it were
resentfully, and went in. She followed, timidly,
remaining near the door while Mr. Critchlow
inspected her handiwork. He put on his
spectacles with strange deliberation, and then,
bending his knees outwards, thus lowered his
body so that he could examine John Baines
point-blank. He remained staring like this, his
hands on his sharp apron-covered knees, for a
little space; and then he seized the inert mass
and restored it to the bed, and wiped those
clotted lips with his apron.
Sophia
heard loud breathing behind her. It was Maggie.
She heard a huge, snorting sob; Maggie was
showing her emotion.
"Go fetch
doctor!" Mr. Critchlow rasped. "And don't stand
gaping there!"
"Run for
the doctor, Maggie," said Sophia.
"How came
ye to let him fall?" Mr. Critchlow demanded.
"I was out
of the room. I just ran down into the shop—"
"Gallivanting with that young Scales!" said Mr.
Critchlow, with devilish ferocity. "Well, you've
killed yer father; that's all!"
He must
have been at his shop door and seen the entry of
the traveller! And it was precisely
characteristic of Mr. Critchlow to jump in the
dark at a horrible conclusion, and to be right
after all. For Sophia Mr. Critchlow had always
been the personification of malignity and
malevolence, and now these qualities in him made
him, to her, almost obscene. Her pride brought
up tremendous reinforcements, and she approached
the bed.
"Is he
dead?" she asked in a quiet tone. (Somewhere
within a voice was whispering, "So his name is
Scales.")
"Don't I
tell you he's dead?"
"Pail on
the stairs!"
This mild
exclamation came from the passage. Mrs. Baines,
misliking the crowds abroad, had returned alone;
she had left Constance in charge of Mr. Povey.
Coming into her house by the shop and showroom,
she had first noted the phenomenon of the pail
—proof of her theory of Maggie's incurable
untidiness.
"Been to
see the elephant, I reckon!" said Mr. Critchlow,
in fierce sarcasm, as he recognized Mrs.
Baines's voice.
Sophia
leaped towards the door, as though to bar her
mother's entrance. But Mrs. Baines was already
opening the door.
"Well, my
pet—" she was beginning cheerfully.
Mr.
Critchlow confronted her. And he had no more
pity for the wife than for the daughter. He was
furiously angry because his precious property
had been irretrievably damaged by the momentary
carelessness of a silly girl. Yes, John Baines
was his property, his dearest toy! He was
convinced that he alone had kept John Baines
alive for fourteen years, that he alone had
fully understood the case and sympathized with
the sufferer, that none but he had been capable
of displaying ordinary common sense in the
sick-room. He had learned to regard John Baines
as, in some sort, his creation. And now, with
their stupidity, their neglect, their elephants,
between them they had done for John Baines. He
had always known it would come to that, and it
had come to that.
"She let
him fall out o' bed, and ye're a widow now,
missis!" he announced with a virulence hardly
conceivable. His angular features and dark eyes
expressed a murderous hate for every woman named
Baines.
"Mother!"
cried Sophia, "I only ran down into the shop
to—to—"
She seized
her mother's arm in frenzied agony.
"My child!"
said Mrs. Baines, rising miraculously to the
situation with a calm benevolence of tone and
gesture that remained for ever sublime in the
stormy heart of Sophia, "do not hold me." With
infinite gentleness she loosed herself from
those clasping hands. "Have you sent for the
doctor?" she questioned Mr. Critchlow.
The fate of
her husband presented no mysteries to Mrs.
Baines. Everybody had been warned a thousand
times of the danger of leaving the paralytic,
whose life depended on his position, and whose
fidgetiness was thereby a constant menace of
death to him. For five thousand nights she had
wakened infallibly every time he stirred, and
rearranged him by the flicker of a little oil
lamp. But Sophia, unhappy creature, had merely
left him. That was all.
Mr.
Critchlow and the widow gazed, helplessly
waiting, at the pitiable corpse, of which the
salient part was the white beard. They knew not
that they were gazing at a vanished era. John
Baines had belonged to the past, to the age when
men really did think of their souls, when
orators by phrases could move crowds to fury or
to pity, when no one had learnt to hurry, when
Demos was only turning in his sleep, when the
sole beauty of life resided in its inflexible
and slow dignity, when hell really had no
bottom, and a gilt-clasped Bible really was the
secret of England's greatness. Mid-Victorian
England lay on that mahogany bed. Ideals had
passed away with John Baines. It is thus that
ideals die; not in the conventional pageantry of
honoured death, but sorrily, ignobly, while
one's head is turned—
And Mr.
Povey and Constance, very self-conscious, went
and saw the dead elephant, and came back; and at
the corner of King Street, Constance exclaimed
brightly—
"Why! who's
gone out and left the side-door open?"
For the
doctor had at length arrived, and Maggie, in
showing him upstairs with pious haste, had
forgotten to shut the door.
And they
took advantage of the side-door, rather
guiltily, to avoid the eyes of the shop. They
feared that in the parlour they would be the
centre of a curiosity half ironical and half
reproving; for had they not accomplished an
escapade? So they walked slowly.
The real
murderer was having his dinner in the commercial
room up at the Tiger, opposite the Town Hall.
IV
Several
shutters were put up in the windows of the shop,
to indicate a death, and the news instantly
became known in trading circles throughout the
town. Many people simultaneously remarked upon
the coincidence that Mr. Baines should have died
while there was a show of mourning goods in his
establishment. This coincidence was regarded as
extremely sinister, and it was apparently felt
that, for the sake of the mind's peace, one
ought not to inquire into such things too
closely. From the moment of putting up the
prescribed shutters, John Baines and his funeral
began to acquire importance in Bursley, and
their importance grew rapidly almost from hour
to hour. The wakes continued as usual, except
that the Chief Constable, upon representations
being made to him by Mr. Critchlow and other
citizens, descended upon St. Luke's Square and
forbade the activities of Wombwell's orchestra.
Wombwell and the Chief Constable differed as to
the justice of the decree, but every well-minded
person praised the Chief Constable, and he
himself considered that he had enhanced the
town's reputation for a decent propriety. It was
noticed, too, not without a shiver of the
uncanny, that that night the lions and tigers
behaved like lambs, whereas on the previous
night they had roared the whole Square out of
its sleep.
The Chief
Constable was not the only individual enlisted
by Mr. Critchlow in the service of his friend's
fame. Mr. Critchlow spent hours in recalling the
principal citizens to a due sense of John
Baines's past greatness. He was determined that
his treasured toy should vanish underground with
due pomp, and he left nothing undone to that
end. He went over to Hanbridge on the still
wonderful horse-car, and saw the
editor-proprietor of the Staffordshire Signal
(then a two-penny weekly with no thought of
Football editions), and on the very day of the
funeral the Signal came out with a long and
eloquent biography of John Baines. This
biography, giving details of his public life,
definitely restored him to his legitimate
position in the civic memory as an ex-chief
bailiff, an ex-chairman of the Burial Board, and
of the Five Towns Association for the
Advancement of Useful Knowledge, and also as a
"prime mover" in the local Turnpike Act, in the
negotiations for the new Town Hall, and in the
Corinthian facade of the Wesleyan Chapel; it
narrated the anecdote of his courageous speech
from the portico of the Shambles during the
riots of 1848, and it did not omit a eulogy of
his steady adherence to the wise old English
maxims of commerce and his avoidance of
dangerous modern methods. Even in the sixties
the modern had reared its shameless head. The
panegyric closed with an appreciation of the
dead man's fortitude in the terrible affliction
with which a divine providence had seen fit to
try him; and finally the Signal uttered its
absolute conviction that his native town would
raise a cenotaph to his honour. Mr. Critchlow,
being unfamiliar with the word "cenotaph,"
consulted Worcester's Dictionary, and when he
found that it meant "a sepulchral monument to
one who is buried elsewhere," he was as pleased
with the Signal's language as with the idea, and
decided that a cenotaph should come to pass.
The house
and shop were transformed into a hive of
preparation for the funeral. All was changed.
Mr. Povey kindly slept for three nights on the
parlour sofa, in order that Mrs. Baines might
have his room. The funeral grew into an
obsession, for multitudinous things had to be
performed and done sumptuously and in strict
accordance with precedent. There were the family
mourning, the funeral repast, the choice of the
text on the memorial card, the composition of
the legend on the coffin, the legal
arrangements, the letters to relations, the
selection of guests, and the questions of
bell-ringing, hearse, plumes, number of horses,
and grave-digging. Nobody had leisure for the
indulgence of grief except Aunt Maria, who,
after she had helped in the laying-out, simply
sat down and bemoaned unceasingly for hours her
absence on the fatal morning. "If I hadn't been
so fixed on polishing my candle-sticks," she
weepingly repeated, "he mit ha' been alive and
well now." Not that Aunt Maria had been informed
of the precise circumstances of the death; she
was not clearly aware that Mr. Baines had died
through a piece of neglect. But, like Mr.
Critchlow, she was convinced that there had been
only one person in the world truly capable of
nursing Mr. Baines. Beyond the family, no one
save Mr. Critchlow and Dr. Harrop knew just how
the martyr had finished his career. Dr. Harrop,
having been asked bluntly if an inquest would be
necessary, had reflected a moment and had then
replied: "No." And he added, "Least said soonest
mended—mark me!" They had marked him. He was
commonsense in breeches.
As for Aunt
Maria, she was sent about her snivelling
business by Aunt Harriet. The arrival in the
house of this genuine aunt from Axe, of this
majestic and enormous widow whom even the
imperial Mrs. Baines regarded with a certain
awe, set a seal of ultimate solemnity on the
whole event. In Mr. Povey's bedroom Mrs. Baines
fell like a child into Aunt Harriet's arms and
sobbed:
"If it had
been anything else but that elephant!"
Such was
Mrs. Baines's sole weakness from first to last.
Aunt
Harriet was an exhaustless fountain of authority
upon every detail concerning interments. And, to
a series of questions ending with the word
"sister," and answers ending with the word
"sister," the prodigious travail incident to the
funeral was gradually and successfully
accomplished. Dress and the repast exceeded all
other matters in complexity and difficulty. But
on the morning of the funeral Aunt Harriet had
the satisfaction of beholding her younger sister
the centre of a tremendous cocoon of crape,
whose slightest pleat was perfect. Aunt Harriet
seemed to welcome her then, like a veteran,
formally into the august army of relicts. As
they stood side by side surveying the special
table which was being laid in the showroom for
the repast, it appeared inconceivable that they
had reposed together in Mr. Povey's limited bed.
They descended from the showroom to the kitchen,
where the last delicate dishes were inspected.
The shop was, of course, closed for the day, but
Mr. Povey was busy there, and in Aunt Harriet's
all-seeing glance he came next after the dishes.
She rose from the kitchen to speak with him.
"You've got
your boxes of gloves all ready?" she questioned
him.
"Yes, Mrs.
Maddack."
"You'll not
forget to have a measure handy?"
"No, Mrs.
Maddack."
"You'll
find you'll want more of
seven-and-three-quarters and eights than
anything."
"Yes. I
have allowed for that."
"If you
place yourself behind the side-door and put your
boxes on the harmonium, you'll be able to catch
every one as they come in."
"That is
what I had thought of, Mrs. Maddack."
She went
upstairs. Mrs. Baines had reached the showroom
again, and was smoothing out creases in the
white damask cloth and arranging glass dishes of
jam at equal distances from each other.
"Come,
sister," said Mrs. Maddack. "A last look."
And they
passed into the mortuary bedroom to gaze at Mr.
Baines before he should be everlastingly nailed
down. In death he had recovered some of his
earlier dignity; but even so he was a startling
sight. The two widows bent over him, one on
either side, and gravely stared at that twisted,
worn white face all neatly tucked up in linen.
"I shall
fetch Constance and Sophia," said Mrs. Maddack,
with tears in her voice. "Do you go into the
drawing-room, sister."
But Mrs.
Maddack only succeeded in fetching Constance.
Then there
was the sound of wheels in King Street. The long
rite of the funeral was about to begin. Every
guest, after having been measured and presented
with a pair of the finest black kid gloves by
Mr. Povey, had to mount the crooked stairs and
gaze upon the carcase of John Baines, going
afterwards to the drawing-room to condole
briefly with the widow. And every guest, while
conscious of the enormity of so thinking,
thought what an excellent thing it was that John
Baines should be at last dead and gone. The
tramping on the stairs was continual, and
finally Mr. Baines himself went downstairs,
bumping against corners, and led a cortege of
twenty vehicles.
The funeral
tea was not over at seven o'clock, five hours
after the commencement of the rite. It was a
gigantic and faultless meal, worthy of John
Baines's distant past. Only two persons were
absent from it—John Baines and Sophia. The
emptiness of Sophia's chair was much noticed;
Mrs. Maddack explained that Sophia was very
high-strung and could not trust herself. Great
efforts were put forth by the company to be
lugubrious and inconsolable, but the secret
relief resulting from the death would not be
entirely hidden. The vast pretence of acute
sorrow could not stand intact against that
secret relief and the lavish richness of the
food.
To the
offending of sundry important relatives from a
distance, Mr. Critchlow informally presided over
that assemblage of grave men in high stocks and
crinolined women. He had closed his shop, which
had never before been closed on a weekday, and
he had a great deal to say about this
extraordinary closure. It was due as much to the
elephant as to the funeral. The elephant had
become a victim to the craze for souvenirs.
Already in the night his tusks had been stolen;
then his feet disappeared for umbrella-stands,
and most of his flesh had departed in little
hunks. Everybody in Bursley had resolved to
participate in the elephant. One consequence was
that all the chemists' shops in the town were
assaulted by strings of boys. 'Please a pennorth
o' alum to tak' smell out o' a bit o' elephant.'
Mr. Critchlow hated boys.
"'I'll alum
ye!' says I, and I did. I alummed him out o' my
shop with a pestle. If there'd been one there'd
been twenty between opening and nine o'clock.
'George,' I says to my apprentice, 'shut shop
up. My old friend John Baines is going to his
long home to- day, and I'll close. I've had
enough o' alum for one day.'"
The
elephant fed the conversation until after the
second relay of hot muffins. When Mr. Critchlow
had eaten to his capacity, he took the Signal
importantly from his pocket, posed his
spectacles, and read the obituary all through in
slow, impressive accents. Before he reached the
end Mrs. Baines began to perceive that
familiarity had blinded her to the heroic
qualities of her late husband. The fourteen
years of ceaseless care were quite genuinely
forgotten, and she saw him in his strength and
in his glory. When Mr. Critchlow arrived at the
eulogy of the husband and father, Mrs. Baines
rose and left the showroom. The guests looked at
each other in sympathy for her. Mr. Critchlow
shot a glance at her over his spectacles and
continued steadily reading. After he had
finished he approached the question of the
cenotaph.
Mrs.
Baines, driven from the banquet by her feelings,
went into the drawing-room. Sophia was there,
and Sophia, seeing tears in her mother's eyes,
gave a sob, and flung herself bodily against her
mother, clutching her, and hiding her face in
that broad crape, which abraded her soft skin.
"Mother,"
she wept passionately, "I want to leave the
school now.
I want to please you. I'll do anything in the
world to please you.
I'll go into the shop if you'd like me to!" Her
voice lost itself
in tears.
"Calm
yourself, my pet," said Mrs. Baines, tenderly,
caressing her. It was a triumph for the mother
in the very hour when she needed a triumph.
CHAPTER V
THE
TRAVELLER
I
'Equisite,
1s. 11d.'
These
singular signs were being painted in shiny black
on an unrectangular parallelogram of white
cardboard by Constance one evening in the
parlour. She was seated, with her left side to
the fire and to the fizzing gas, at the
dining-table, which was covered with a checked
cloth in red and white. Her dress was of dark
crimson; she wore a cameo brooch and a gold
chain round her neck; over her shoulders was
thrown a white knitted shawl, for the weather
was extremely cold, the English climate being
much more serious and downright at that day than
it is now. She bent low to the task, holding her
head slightly askew, putting the tip of her
tongue between her lips, and expending all the
energy of her soul and body in an intense effort
to do what she was doing as well as it could be
done.
"Splendid!"
said Mr. Povey.
Mr. Povey
was fronting her at the table; he had his elbows
on the table, and watched her carefully, with
the breathless and divine anxiety of a dreamer
who is witnessing the realization of his dream.
And Constance, without moving any part of her
frame except her head, looked up at him and
smiled for a moment, and he could see her
delicious little nostrils at the end of her snub
nose.
Those two,
without knowing or guessing it, were making
history— the history of commerce. They had no
suspicion that they were the forces of the
future insidiously at work to destroy what the
forces of the past had created, but such was the
case. They were conscious merely of a desire to
do their duty in the shop and to the shop;
probably it had not even occurred to them that
this desire, which each stimulated in the breast
of the other, had assumed the dimensions of a
passion. It was ageing Mr. Povey, and it had
made of Constance a young lady tremendously
industrious and preoccupied.
Mr. Povey
had recently been giving attention to the
question of tickets. It is not too much to say
that Mr. Povey, to whom heaven had granted a
minimum share of imagination, had nevertheless
discovered his little parcel of imagination in
the recesses of being, and brought it
effectively to bear on tickets. Tickets ran in
conventional grooves. There were heavy oblong
tickets for flannels, shirting, and other stuffs
in the piece; there were smaller and lighter
tickets for intermediate goods; and there were
diamond-shaped tickets (containing nothing but
the price) for bonnets, gloves, and flimflams
generally. The legends on the tickets gave no
sort of original invention. The words 'lasting,'
'durable,' 'unshrinkable,' 'latest,' 'cheap,'
'stylish,' 'novelty,' 'choice' (as an
adjective), 'new,' and 'tasteful,' exhausted the
entire vocabulary of tickets. Now Mr. Povey
attached importance to tickets, and since he was
acknowledged to be the best window-dresser in
Bursley, his views were entitled to respect. He
dreamed of other tickets, in original shapes,
with original legends. In brief, he achieved, in
regard to tickets, the rare feat of ridding
himself of preconceived notions, and of
approaching a subject with fresh, virginal eyes.
When he indicated the nature of his wishes to
Mr. Chawner, the wholesale stationer who
supplied all the Five Towns with shop-tickets,
Mr. Chawner grew uneasy and worried; Mr. Chawner
was indeed shocked. For Mr. Chawner there had
always been certain well-defined genera of
tickets, and he could not conceive the existence
of other genera. When Mr. Povey suggested
circular tickets—tickets with a blue and a red
line round them, tickets with legends such as
'unsurpassable,' 'very dainty,' or 'please
note,' Mr. Chawner hummed and hawed, and finally
stated that it would be impossible to
manufacture these preposterous tickets, these
tickets which would outrage the decency of
trade.
If Mr.
Povey had not happened to be an exceedingly
obstinate man, he might have been defeated by
the crass Toryism of Mr. Chawner. But Mr. Povey
was obstinate, and he had resources of ingenuity
which Mr. Chawner little suspected. The great,
tramping march of progress was not to be impeded
by Mr. Chawner. Mr. Povey began to make his own
tickets. At first he suffered as all reformers
and inventors suffer. He used the internal
surface of collar-boxes and ordinary ink and
pens, and the result was such as to give
customers the idea that Baineses were too poor
or too mean to buy tickets like other shops. For
bought tickets had an ivory-tinted gloss, and
the ink was black and glossy, and the edges were
very straight and did not show yellow between
two layers of white. Whereas Mr. Povey's tickets
were of a bluish-white, without gloss; the ink
was neither black nor shiny, and the edges were
amateurishly rough: the tickets had an
unmistakable air of having been 'made out of
something else'; moreover, the lettering had not
the free, dashing style of Mr. Chawner's
tickets.
And did
Mrs. Baines encourage him in his single-minded
enterprise on behalf of HER business? Not a bit!
Mrs. Baines's attitude, when not disdainful, was
inimical! So curious is human nature, so blind
is man to his own advantage! Life was very
complex for Mr. Povey. It might have been less
complex had Bristol board and Chinese ink been
less expensive; with these materials he could
have achieved marvels to silence all prejudice
and stupidity; but they were too costly. Still,
he persevered, and Constance morally supported
him; he drew his inspiration and his courage
from Constance. Instead of the internal surface
of collar-boxes, he tried the external surface,
which was at any rate shiny. But the ink would
not 'take' on it. He made as many experiments as
Edison was to make, and as many failures. Then
Constance was visited by a notion for mixing
sugar with ink. Simple, innocent creature—why
should providence have chosen her to be the
vessel of such a sublime notion? Puzzling
enigma, which, however, did not exercise Mr.
Povey! He found it quite natural that she should
save him. Save him she did. Sugar and ink would
'take' on anything, and it shone like a 'patent
leather' boot. Further, Constance developed a
'hand' for lettering which outdid Mr. Povey's.
Between them they manufactured tickets by the
dozen and by the score—tickets which, while
possessing nearly all the smartness and finish
of Mr. Chawner's tickets, were much superior to
these in originality and strikingness. Constance
and Mr. Povey were delighted and fascinated by
them. As for Mrs. Baines, she said little, but
the modern spirit was too elated by its success
to care whether she said little or much. And
every few days Mr. Povey thought of some new and
wonderful word to put on a ticket.
His last
miracle was the word 'exquisite.' 'Exquisite,'
pinned on a piece of broad tartan ribbon,
appeared to Constance and Mr. Povey as the
finality of appropriateness. A climax worthy to
close the year! Mr. Povey had cut the card and
sketched the word and figures in pencil, and
Constance was doing her executive portion of the
undertaking. They were very happy, very
absorbed, in this strictly business matter. The
clock showed five minutes past ten. Stern duty,
a pure desire for the prosperity of the shop,
had kept them at hard labour since before eight
o'clock that morning!
The
stairs-door opened, and Mrs. Baines appeared, in
bonnet and furs and gloves, all clad for going
out. She had abandoned the cocoon of crape, but
still wore weeds. She was stouter than ever.
"What!" she
cried. "Not ready! Now really!"
"Oh,
mother! How you made me jump!" Constance
protested. "What time is it? It surely isn't
time to go yet!"
"Look at
the clock!" said Mrs. Baines, drily.
"Well, I
never!" Constance murmured, confused.
"Come, put
your things together, and don't keep me
waiting," said Mrs. Baines, going past the table
to the window, and lifting the blind to peep
out. "Still snowing," she observed. "Oh, the
band's going away at last! I wonder how they can
play at all in this weather. By the way, what
was that tune they gave us just now? I couldn't
make out whether it was 'Redhead,' or—"
"Band?"
questioned Constance—the simpleton!
Neither she
nor Mr. Povey had heard the strains of the
Bursley Town Silver Prize Band which had been
enlivening the season according to its usual
custom. These two practical, duteous,
commonsense young and youngish persons had been
so absorbed in their efforts for the welfare of
the shop that they had positively not only
forgotten the time, but had also failed to
notice the band! But if Constance had had her
wits about her she would at least have pretended
that she had heard it.
"What's
this?" asked Mrs. Baines, bringing her vast form
to the table and picking up a ticket.
Mr. Povey
said nothing. Constance said: "Mr. Povey thought
of it to-day. Don't you think it's very good,
mother?"
"I'm afraid
I don't," Mrs. Baines coldly replied.
She had
mildly objected already to certain words; but
'exquisite' seemed to her silly; it seemed out
of place; she considered that it would merely
bring ridicule on her shop. 'Exquisite' written
upon a window-ticket! No! What would John Baines
have thought of 'exquisite'?
"'Exquisite!'" She repeated the word with a
sarcastic inflection, putting the accent, as
every one put it, on the second syllable. "I
don't think that will quite do."
"But why
not, mother?"
"It's not
suitable, my dear."
She dropped
the ticket from her gloved hand. Mr. Povey had
darkly flashed. Though he spoke little, he was
as sensitive as he was obstinate. On this
occasion he said nothing. He expressed his
feelings by seizing the ticket and throwing it
into the fire.
The
situation was extremely delicate. Priceless
employes like Mr. Povey cannot be treated as
machines, and Mrs. Baines of course instantly
saw that tact was needed.
"Go along
to my bedroom and get ready, my pet," said she
to Constance. "Sophia is there. There's a good
fire. I must just speak to Maggie." She
tactfully left the room.
Mr. Povey
glanced at the fire and the curling red remains
of the ticket. Trade was bad; owing to weather
and war, destitution was abroad; and he had been
doing his utmost for the welfare of the shop;
and here was the reward!
Constance's
eyes were full of tears. "Never mind!" she
murmured, and went upstairs.
It was all
over in a moment.
II
In the
Wesleyan Methodist Chapel on Duck Bank there was
a full and influential congregation. For in
those days influential people were not merely
content to live in the town where their fathers
had lived, without dreaming of country
residences and smokeless air—they were content
also to believe what their fathers had believed
about the beginning and the end of all. There
was no such thing as the unknowable in those
days. The eternal mysteries were as simple as an
addition sum; a child could tell you with
absolute certainty where you would be and what
you would be doing a million years hence, and
exactly what God thought of you. Accordingly,
every one being of the same mind, every one met
on certain occasions in certain places in order
to express the universal mind. And in the
Wesleyan Methodist Chapel, for example, instead
of a sparse handful of persons disturbingly
conscious of being in a minority, as now, a
magnificent and proud majority had collected,
deeply aware of its rightness and its
correctness.
And the
minister, backed by minor ministers, knelt and
covered his face in the superb mahogany rostrum;
and behind him, in what was then still called
the 'orchestra' (though no musical instruments
except the grand organ had sounded in it for
decades), the choir knelt and covered their
faces; and all around in the richly painted
gallery and on the ground-floor, multitudinous
rows of people, in easy circumstances of body
and soul, knelt in high pews and covered their
faces. And there floated before them, in the
intense and prolonged silence, the clear vision
of Jehovah on a throne, a God of sixty or so
with a moustache and a beard, and a
non-committal expression which declined to say
whether or not he would require more bloodshed;
and this God, destitute of pinions, was
surrounded by white-winged creatures that wafted
themselves to and fro while chanting; and afar
off was an obscene monstrosity, with cloven
hoofs and a tail very dangerous and rude and
interfering, who could exist comfortably in the
middle of a coal- fire, and who took a malignant
and exhaustless pleasure in coaxing you by false
pretences into the same fire; but of course you
had too much sense to swallow his wicked
absurdities. Once a year, for ten minutes by the
clock, you knelt thus, in mass, and by
meditation convinced yourself that you had too
much sense to swallow his wicked absurdities.
And the hour was very solemn, the most solemn of
all the hours.
Strange
that immortal souls should be found with the
temerity to reflect upon mundane affairs in that
hour! Yet there were undoubtedly such in the
congregation; there were perhaps many to whom
the vision, if clear, was spasmodic and
fleeting. And among them the inhabitants of the
Baines family pew! Who would have supposed that
Mr. Povey, a recent convert from Primitive
Methodism in King Street to Wesleyan Methodism
on Duck Bank, was dwelling upon window-tickets
and the injustice of women, instead of upon his
relations with Jehovah and the tailed one? Who
would have supposed that the gentle-eyed
Constance, pattern of daughters, was risking her
eternal welfare by smiling at the tailed one,
who, concealing his tail, had assumed the image
of Mr. Povey? Who would have supposed that Mrs.
Baines, instead of resolving that Jehovah and
not the tailed one should have ultimate rule
over her, was resolving that she and not Mr.
Povey should have ultimate rule over her house
and shop? It was a pew-ful that belied its
highly satisfactory appearance. (And possibly
there were other pew-fuls equally deceptive.)
Sophia
alone, in the corner next to the wall, with her
beautiful stern face pressed convulsively
against her hands, was truly busy with immortal
things. Turbulent heart, the violence of her
spiritual life had made her older! Never was a
passionate, proud girl in a harder case than
Sophia! In the splendour of her remorse for a
fatal forgetfulness, she had renounced that
which she loved and thrown herself into that
which she loathed. It was her nature so to do.
She had done it haughtily, and not with
kindness, but she had done it with the whole
force of her will. Constance had been compelled
to yield up to her the millinery department, for
Sophia's fingers had a gift of manipulating
ribbons and feathers that was beyond Constance.
Sophia had accomplished miracles in the
millinery. Yes, and she would be utterly polite
to customers; but afterwards, when the customers
were gone, let mothers, sisters, and Mr. Poveys
beware of her fiery darts!
But why,
when nearly three months had elapsed after her
father's death, had she spent more and more time
in the shop, secretly aflame with expectancy?
Why, when one day a strange traveller entered
the shop and announced himself the new
representative of Birkinshaws—why had her very
soul died away within her and an awful sickness
seized her? She knew then that she had been her
own deceiver. She recognized and admitted,
abasing herself lower than the lowest, that her
motive in leaving Miss Chetwynd's and joining
the shop had been, at the best, very mixed, very
impure. Engaged at Miss Chetwynd's, she might
easily have never set eyes on Gerald Scales
again. Employed in the shop, she could not fail
to meet him. In this light was to be seen the
true complexion of the splendour of her remorse.
A terrible thought for her! And she could not
dismiss it. It contaminated her existence, this
thought! And she could confide in no one. She
was incapable of showing a wound. Quarter had
succeeded quarter, and Gerald Scales was no more
heard of. She had sacrificed her life for worse
than nothing. She had made her own tragedy. She
had killed her father, cheated and shamed
herself with a remorse horribly spurious,
exchanged content for misery and pride for
humiliation—and with it all, Gerald Scales had
vanished! She was ruined.
She took to
religion, and her conscientious Christian
virtues, practised with stern inclemency, were
the canker of the family. Thus a year and a half
had passed.
And then,
on this last day of the year, the second year of
her shame and of her heart's widowhood, Mr.
Scales had reappeared. She had gone casually
into the shop and found him talking to her
mother and Mr. Povey. He had come back to the
provincial round and to her. She shook his hand
and fled, because she could not have stayed.
None had noticed her agitation, for she had held
her body as in a vice. She knew the reason
neither of his absence nor of his return. She
knew nothing. And not a word had been said at
meals. And the day had gone and the night come;
and now she was in chapel, with Constance by her
side and Gerald Scales in her soul! Happy beyond
previous conception of happiness! Wretched
beyond an unutterable woe! And none knew! What
was she to pray for? To what purpose and end
ought she to steel herself? Ought she to hope,
or ought she to despair? "O God, help me!" she
kept whispering to Jehovah whenever the heavenly
vision shone through the wrack of her
meditation. "O God, help me!" She had a
conscience that, when it was in the mood for
severity, could be unspeakably cruel to her.
And
whenever she looked, with dry, hot eyes, through
her gloved fingers, she saw in front of her on
the wall a marble tablet inscribed in gilt
letters, the cenotaph! She knew all the lines by
heart, in their spacious grandiloquence; lines
such as:
EVER READY
WITH HIS TONGUE HIS PEN AND HIS PURSE TO HELP
THE CHURCH OF HIS FATHERS IN HER HE LIVED AND IN
HER HE DIED CHERISHING A DEEP AND ARDENT
AFFECTION FOR HIS BELOVED FAITH AND CREED.
And again:
HIS
SYMPATHIES EXTENDED BEYOND HIS OWN COMMUNITY HE
WAS ALWAYS TO THE FORE IN GOOD WORKS AND HE
SERVED THE CIRCUIT THE TOWN AND THE DISTRICT
WITH GREAT ACCEPTANCE AND USEFULNESS.
Thus had
Mr. Critchlow's vanity been duly appeased.
As the
minutes sped in the breathing silence of the
chapel the emotional tension grew tighter;
worshippers sighed heavily, or called upon
Jehovah for a sign, or merely coughed an
invocation. And then at last the clock in the
middle of the balcony gave forth the single
stroke to which it was limited; the ministers
rose, and the congregation after them; and
everybody smiled as though it was the
millennium, and not simply the new year, that
had set in. Then, faintly, through walls and
shut windows, came the sound of bells and of
steam syrens and whistles. The superintendent
minister opened his hymn-book, and the hymn was
sung which had been sung in Wesleyan Chapels on
New Year's morn since the era of John Wesley
himself. The organ finished with a clanguor of
all its pipes; the minister had a few last words
with Jehovah, and nothing was left to do except
to persevere in well-doing. The people leaned
towards each other across the high backs of the
pews.
"A happy
New Year!"
"Eh, thank
ye! The same to you!"
"Another
Watch Night service over!"
"Eh, yes!"
And a sigh.
Then the
aisles were suddenly crowded, and there was a
good- humoured, optimistic pushing towards the
door. In the Corinthian porch occurred a great
putting-on of cloaks, ulsters, goloshes, and
even pattens, and a great putting-up of
umbrellas. And the congregation went out into
the whirling snow, dividing into several black,
silent-footed processions, down Trafalgar Road,
up towards the playground, along the
market-place, and across Duck Square in the
direction of St. Luke's Square.
Mr. Povey
was between Mrs. Baines and Constance.
"You must
take my arm, my pet," said Mrs. Baines to
Sophia.
Then Mr.
Povey and Constance waded on in front through
the drifts. Sophia balanced that enormous
swaying mass, her mother. Owing to their hoops,
she had much difficulty in keeping close to her.
Mrs. Baines laughed with the complacent ease of
obesity, yet a fall would have been almost
irremediable for her; and so Sophia had to laugh
too. But, though she laughed, God had not helped
her. She did not know where she was going, nor
what might happen to her next.
"Why, bless
us!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines, as they turned the
corner into King Street. "There's some one
sitting on our door-step!"
There was:
a figure swathed in an ulster, a maud over the
ulster, and a high hat on the top of all. It
could not have been there very long, because it
was only speckled with snow. Mr. Povey plunged
forward.
"It's Mr.
Scales, of all people!" said Mr. Povey.
"Mr.
Scales!" cried Mrs. Baines.
And, "Mr.
Scales!" murmured Sophia, terribly afraid.
Perhaps she
was afraid of miracles. Mr. Scales sitting on
her mother's doorstep in the middle of the snowy
night had assuredly the air of a miracle, of
something dreamed in a dream, of something
pathetically and impossibly appropriate—'pat,'
as they say in the Five Towns. But he was a
tangible fact there. And years afterwards, in
the light of further knowledge of Mr. Scales,
Sophia came to regard his being on the doorstep
as the most natural and characteristic thing in
the world. Real miracles never seem to be
miracles, and that which at the first blush
resembles one usually proves to be an instance
of the extremely prosaic.
III
"Is that
you, Mrs. Baines?" asked Gerald Scales, in a
half-witted voice, looking up, and then getting
to his feet. "Is this your house? So it is!
Well, I'd no idea I was sitting on your
doorstep."
He smiled
timidly, nay, sheepishly, while the women and
Mr. Povey surrounded him with their astonished
faces under the light of the gas-lamp. Certainly
he was very pale.
"But
whatever is the matter, Mr. Scales?" Mrs. Baines
demanded in an anxious tone. "Are you ill? Have
you been suddenly—"
"Oh no,"
said the young man lightly. "It's nothing. Only
I was set on just now, down there,"—he pointed
to the depths of King Street.
"Set on!"
Mrs. Baines repeated, alarmed.
"That makes
the fourth case in a week, that we KNOW of!"
said Mr.
Povey. "It really is becoming a scandal."
The fact
was that, owing to depression of trade, lack of
employment, and rigorous weather, public
security in the Five Towns was at that period
not as perfect as it ought to have been. In the
stress of hunger the lower classes were
forgetting their manners—and this in spite of
the altruistic and noble efforts of their social
superiors to relieve the destitution due, of
course, to short-sighted improvidence. When (the
social superiors were asking in despair) will
the lower classes learn to put by for a rainy
day? (They might have said a snowy and a frosty
day.) It was 'really too bad' of the lower
classes, when everything that could be done was
being done for them, to kill, or even attempt to
kill, the goose that lays the golden eggs! And
especially in a respectable town! What, indeed,
were things coming to? Well, here was Mr. Gerald
Scales, gentleman from Manchester, a witness and
victim to the deplorable moral condition of the
Five Towns. What would he think of the Five
Towns? The evil and the danger had been a topic
of discussion in the shop for a week past, and
now it was brought home to them.
"I hope you
weren't—" said Mrs. Baines, apologetically and
sympathetically.
"Oh no!"
Mr. Scales interrupted her quite gaily. "I
managed to beat them off. Only my elbow—"
Meanwhile
it was continuing to snow.
"Do come
in!" said Mrs. Baines.
"I couldn't
think of troubling you," said Mr. Scales. "I'm
all right now, and I can find my way to the
Tiger."
"You must
come in, if it's only for a minute," said Mrs.
Baines, with decision. She had to think of the
honour of the town.
"You're
very kind," said Mr. Scales.
The door
was suddenly opened from within, and Maggie
surveyed them from the height of the two steps.
"A happy
New Year, mum, to all of you."
"Thank you,
Maggie," said Mrs. Baines, and primly added:
"The same
to you!" And in her own mind she said that
Maggie could best prove her desire for a happy
new year by contriving in future not to 'scamp
her corners,' and not to break so much crockery.
Sophia,
scarce knowing what she did, mounted the steps.
"Mr. Scales
ought to let our New Year in, my pet," Mrs.
Baines stopped her.
"Oh, of
course, mother!" Sophia concurred with, a gasp,
springing back nervously.
Mr. Scales
raised his hat, and duly let the new year, and
much snow, into the Baines parlour. And there
was a vast deal of stamping of feet, agitating
of umbrellas, and shaking of cloaks and ulsters
on the doormat in the corner by the harmonium.
And Maggie took away an armful of everything
snowy, including goloshes, and received
instructions to boil milk and to bring 'mince.'
Mr. Povey said "B-r-r-r!" and shut the door
(which was bordered with felt to stop
ventilation); Mrs. Baines turned up the gas till
it sang, and told Sophia to poke the fire, and
actually told Constance to light the second gas.
Excitement
prevailed.
The
placidity of existence had been agreeably
disturbed (yes, agreeably, in spite of horror at
the attack on Mr. Scales's elbow) by an
adventure. Moreover, Mr. Scales proved to be in
evening- dress. And nobody had ever worn
evening-dress in that house before.
Sophia's
blood was in her face, and it remained there,
enhancing the vivid richness of her beauty. She
was dizzy with a strange and disconcerting
intoxication. She seemed to be in a world of
unrealities and incredibilities. Her ears heard
with indistinctness, and the edges of things and
people had a prismatic colouring. She was in a
state of ecstatic, unreasonable, inexplicable
happiness. All her misery, doubts, despair,
rancour, churlishness, had disappeared. She was
as softly gentle as Constance. Her eyes were the
eyes of a fawn, and her gestures delicious in
their modest and sensitive grace. Constance was
sitting on the sofa, and, after glancing about
as if for shelter, she sat down on the sofa by
Constance's side. She tried not to stare at Mr.
Scales, but her gaze would not leave him. She
was sure that he was the most perfect man in the
world. A shortish man, perhaps, but a perfect.
That such perfection could be was almost past
her belief. He excelled all her dreams of the
ideal man. His smile, his voice, his hand, his
hair—never were such! Why, when he spoke—it was
positively music! When he smiled—it was heaven!
His smile, to Sophia, was one of those natural
phenomena which are so lovely that they make you
want to shed tears. There is no hyperbole in
this description of Sophia's sensations, but
rather an under-statement of them. She was
utterly obsessed by the unique qualities of Mr.
Scales. Nothing would have persuaded her that
the peer of Mr. Scales existed among men, or
could possibly exist. And it was her intense and
profound conviction of his complete pre-eminence
that gave him, as he sat there in the
rocking-chair in her mother's parlour, that air
of the unreal and the incredible.
"I stayed
in the town on purpose to go to a New Year's
party at
Mr. Lawton's," Mr. Scales was saying.
"Ah! So you
know Lawyer Lawton!" observed Mrs. Baines,
impressed, for Lawyer Lawton did not consort
with tradespeople. He was jolly with them, and
he did their legal business for them, but he was
not of them. His friends came from afar.
"My people
are old acquaintances of his," said Mr. Scales,
sipping the milk which Maggie had brought.
"Now, Mr.
Scales, you must taste my mince. A happy month
for every tart you eat, you know," Mrs. Baines
reminded him.
He bowed.
"And it was as I was coming away from there that
I got into difficulties." He laughed.
Then he
recounted the struggle, which had, however, been
brief, as the assailants lacked pluck. He had
slipped and fallen on his elbow on the kerb, and
his elbow might have been broken, had not the
snow been so thick. No, it did not hurt him now;
doubtless a mere bruise. It was fortunate that
the miscreants had not got the better of him,
for he had in his pocket-book a considerable sum
of money in notes—accounts paid! He had often
thought what an excellent thing it would be if
commercials could travel with dogs, particularly
in winter. There was nothing like a dog.
"You are
fond of dogs?" asked Mr. Povey, who had always
had a secret but impracticable ambition to keep
a dog.
"Yes," said
Mr. Scales, turning now to Mr. Povey.
"Keep one?"
asked Mr. Povey, in a sporting tone.
"I have a
fox-terrier bitch," said Mr. Scales, "that took
a first at Knutsford; but she's getting old
now."
The sexual
epithet fell queerly on the room. Mr. Povey,
being a man of the world, behaved as if nothing
had happened; but Mrs. Baines's curls protested
against this unnecessary coarseness. Constance
pretended not to hear. Sophia did not
understandingly hear. Mr. Scales had no
suspicion that he was transgressing a convention
by virtue of which dogs have no sex. Further, he
had no suspicion of the local fame of Mrs.
Baines's mince-tarts. He had already eaten more
mince-tarts than he could enjoy, before
beginning upon hers, and Mrs. Baines missed the
enthusiasm to which she was habituated from
consumers of her pastry.
Mr. Povey,
fascinated, proceeded in the direction of dogs,
and it grew more and more evident that Mr.
Scales, who went out to parties in evening
dress, instead of going in respectable broad-
cloth to watch-night services, who knew the
great ones of the land, and who kept dogs of an
inconvenient sex, was neither an ordinary
commercial traveller nor the kind of man to
which the Square was accustomed. He came from a
different world.
"Lawyer
Lawton's party broke up early—at least I mean,
considering—" Mrs. Baines hesitated.
After a
pause Mr. Scales replied, "Yes, I left
immediately the clock struck twelve. I've a
heavy day to-morrow—I mean to-day."
It was not
an hour for a prolonged visit, and in a few
minutes Mr. Scales was ready again to depart. He
admitted a certain feebleness ('wankiness,' he
playfully called it, being proud of his skill in
the dialect), and a burning in his elbow; but
otherwise he was quite well—thanks to Mrs.
Baines's most kind hospitality … He really
didn't know how he came to be sitting on her
doorstep. Mrs. Baines urged him, if he met a
policeman on his road to the Tiger, to furnish
all particulars about the attempted highway
robbery, and he said he decidedly would.
He took his
leave with distinguished courtliness.
"If I have
a moment I shall run in to-morrow morning just
to let you know I'm all right," said he, in the
white street.
"Oh, do!"
said Constance. Constance's perfect innocence
made her strangely forward at times.
"A happy
New Year and many of them!"
"Thanks!
Same to you! Don't get lost."
"Straight
up the Square and first on the right," called
the commonsense of Mr. Povey.
Nothing
else remained to say, and the visitor
disappeared silently in the whirling snow.
"Brrr!" murmured Mr. Povey, shutting the door.
Everybody felt: "What a funny ending of the old
year!"
"Sophia, my
pet," Mrs. Baines began.
But Sophia
had vanished to bed.
"Tell her
about her new night-dress," said Mrs. Baines to
Constance.
"Yes,
mother."
"I don't
know that I'm so set up with that young man,
after all,"
Mrs. Baines reflected aloud.
"Oh,
mother!" Constance protested. "I think he's just
lovely."
"He never
looks you straight in the face," said Mrs.
Baines.
"Don't tell
ME!" laughed Constance, kissing her mother good
night. "You're only on your high horse because
he didn't praise your mince. I noticed
it."
IV
"If anybody
thinks I'm going to stand the cold in this
showroom any longer, they're mistaken," said
Sophia the next morning loudly, and in her
mother's hearing. And she went down into the
shop carrying bonnets.
She
pretended to be angry, but she was not. She
felt, on the contrary, extremely joyous, and
charitable to all the world. Usually she would
take pains to keep out of the shop; usually she
was preoccupied and stern. Hence her presence on
the ground-floor, and her demeanour, excited
interest among the three young lady assistants
who sat sewing round the stove in the middle of
the shop, sheltered by the great pile of
shirtings and linseys that fronted the entrance.
Sophia
shared Constance's corner. They had hot bricks
under their feet, and fine-knitted wraps on
their shoulders. They would have been more
comfortable near the stove, but greatness has
its penalties. The weather was exceptionally
severe. The windows were thickly frosted over,
so that Mr. Povey's art in dressing them was
quite wasted. And—rare phenomenon!—the doors of
the shop were shut. In the ordinary way they
were not merely open, but hidden by a display of
'cheap lines.' Mr. Povey, after consulting Mrs.
Baines, had decided to close them, foregoing the
customary display. Mr. Povey had also, in order
to get a little warmth into his limbs,
personally assisted two casual labourers to
scrape the thick frozen snow off the pavement;
and he wore his kid mittens. All these things
together proved better than the evidence of
barometers how the weather nipped.
Mr. Scales
came about ten o'clock. Instead of going to Mr.
Povey's counter, he walked boldly to Constance's
corner, and looked over the boxes, smiling and
saluting. Both the girls candidly delighted in
his visit. Both blushed; both laughed—without
knowing why they laughed. Mr. Scales said he was
just departing and had slipped in for a moment
to thank all of them for their kindness of last
night—'or rather this morning.' The girls
laughed again at this witticism. Nothing could
have been more simple than his speech. Yet it
appeared to them magically attractive. A
customer entered, a lady; one of the assistants
rose from the neighbourhood of the stove, but
the daughters of the house ignored the customer;
it was part of the etiquette of the shop that
customers, at any rate chance customers, should
not exist for the daughters of the house, until
an assistant had formally drawn attention to
them. Otherwise every one who wanted a
pennyworth of tape would be expecting to be
served by Miss Baines, or Miss Sophia, if Miss
Sophia were there. Which would have been
ridiculous.
Sophia,
glancing sidelong, saw the assistant parleying
with the customer; and then the assistant came
softly behind the counter and approached the
corner.
"Miss
Constance, can you spare a minute?" the
assistant whispered discreetly.
Constance
extinguished her smile for Mr. Scales, and,
turning away, lighted an entirely different and
inferior smile for the customer.
"Good
morning, Miss Baines. Very cold, isn't it?"
"Good
morning, Mrs. Chatterley. Yes, it is. I suppose
you're getting anxious about those—" Constance
stopped.
Sophia was
now alone with Mr. Scales, for in order to
discuss the unnameable freely with Mrs.
Chatterley her sister was edging up the counter.
Sophia had dreamed of a private conversation as
something delicious and impossible. But chance
had favoured her. She was alone with him. And
his neat fair hair and his blue eyes and his
delicate mouth were as wonderful to her as ever.
He was gentlemanly to a degree that impressed
her more than anything had impressed her in her
life. And all the proud and aristocratic
instinct that was at the base of her character
sprang up and seized on his gentlemanliness like
a famished animal seizing on food.
"The last
time I saw you," said Mr. Scales, in a new tone,
"you said you were never in the shop."
"What?
Yesterday? Did I?"
"No, I mean
the last time I saw you alone," said he.
"Oh!" she
exclaimed. "It's just an accident."
"That's
exactly what you said last time."
"Is it?"
Was it his
manner, or what he said, that flattered her,
that intensified her beautiful vivacity?
"I suppose
you don't often go out?" he went on.
"What? In
this weather?"
"Any time."
"I go to
chapel," said she, "and marketing with mother."
There was a little pause. "And to the Free
Library."
"Oh yes.
You've got a Free Library here now, haven't
you?"
"Yes. We've
had it over a year."
"And you
belong to it? What do you read?"
"Oh,
stories, you know. I get a fresh book out once a
week."
"Saturdays,
I suppose?"
"No," she
said. "Wednesdays." And she smiled. "Usually."
"It's
Wednesday to-day," said he. "Not been already?"
She shook
her head. "I don't think I shall go to-day. It's
too cold. I don't think I shall venture out
to-day."
"You must
be very fond of reading," said he.
Then Mr.
Povey appeared, rubbing his mittened hands. And
Mrs.
Chatterley went.
"I'll run
and fetch mother," said Constance.
Mrs. Baines
was very polite to the young man. He related his
interview with the police, whose opinion was
that he had been attacked by stray members of a
gang from Hanbridge. The young lady assistants,
with ears cocked, gathered the nature of Mr.
Scales's adventure, and were thrilled to the
point of questioning Mr. Povey about it after
Mr. Scales had gone. His farewell was marked by
much handshaking, and finally Mr. Povey ran
after him into the Square to mention something
about dogs.
At
half-past one, while Mrs. Baines was dozing
after dinner, Sophia wrapped herself up, and
with a book under her arm went forth into the
world, through the shop. She returned in less
than twenty minutes. But her mother had already
awakened, and was hovering about the back of the
shop. Mothers have supernatural gifts.
Sophia
nonchalantly passed her and hurried into the
parlour where she threw down her muff and a book
and knelt before the fire to warm herself.
Mrs. Baines
followed her. "Been to the Library?" questioned
Mrs.
Baines.
"Yes,
mother. And it's simply perishing."
"I wonder
at your going on a day like to-day. I thought
you always went on Thursdays?"
"So I do.
But I'd finished my book."
"What is
this?" Mrs. Baines picked up the volume, which
was covered with black oil-cloth.
She picked
it up with a hostile air. For her attitude
towards the Free Library was obscurely inimical.
She never read anything herself except The
Sunday at Home, and Constance never read
anything except The Sunday at Home. There were
scriptural commentaries, Dugdale's Gazetteer,
Culpepper's Herbal, and works by Bunyan and
Flavius Josephus in the drawing-room bookcase;
also Uncle Tom's Cabin. And Mrs. Baines, in
considering the welfare of her daughters, looked
askance at the whole remainder of printed
literature. If the Free Library had not formed
part of the Famous Wedgwood Institution, which
had been opened with immense eclat by the
semi-divine Gladstone; if the first book had not
been ceremoniously 'taken out' of the Free
Library by the Chief Bailiff in person—a
grandfather of stainless renown—Mrs. Baines
would probably have risked her authority in
forbidding the Free Library.
"You
needn't be afraid," said Sophia, laughing. "It's
Miss
Sewell's Experience of Life."
"A novel, I
see," observed Mrs. Baines, dropping the book.
Gold and
jewels would probably not tempt a Sophia of
these days to read Experience of Life; but to
Sophia Baines the bland story had the piquancy
of the disapproved.
The next
day Mrs. Baines summoned Sophia into her
bedroom.
"Sophia,"
said she, trembling, "I shall be glad if you
will not walk about the streets with young men
until you have my permission."
The girl
blushed violently. "I—I—"
"You were
seen in Wedgwood Street," said Mrs. Baines.
"Who's been
gossiping—Mr. Critchlow, I suppose?" Sophia
exclaimed scornfully.
"No one has
been 'gossiping,'" said Mrs. Baines. "Well, if I
meet some one by accident in the street I can't
help it, can I?" Sophia's voice shook.
"You know
what I mean, my child," said Mrs. Baines, with
careful calm.
Sophia
dashed angrily from the room.
"I like the
idea of him having 'a heavy day'!" Mrs. Baines
reflected ironically, recalling a phrase which
had lodged in her mind. And very vaguely, with
an uneasiness scarcely perceptible, she
remembered that 'he,' and no other, had been in
the shop on the day her husband died.
CHAPTER VI
ESCAPADE
I
The
uneasiness of Mrs. Baines flowed and ebbed,
during the next three months, influenced by
Sophia's moods. There were days when Sophia was
the old Sophia—the forbidding, difficult,
waspish, and even hedgehog Sophia. But there
were other days on which Sophia seemed to be
drawing joy and gaiety and goodwill from some
secret source, from some fount whose nature and
origin none could divine. It was on these days
that the uneasiness of Mrs. Baines waxed. She
had the wildest suspicions; she was almost
capable of accusing Sophia of carrying on a
clandestine correspondence; she saw Sophia and
Gerald Scales deeply and wickedly in love; she
saw them with their arms round each other's
necks. … And then she called herself a
middle-aged fool, to base such a structure of
suspicion on a brief encounter in the street and
on an idea, a fancy, a curious and irrational
notion! Sophia had a certain streak of pure
nobility in that exceedingly heterogeneous
thing, her character. Moreover, Mrs. Baines
watched the posts, and she also watched
Sophia—she was not the woman to trust to a
streak of pure nobility—and she came to be sure
that Sophia's sinfulness, if any, was not such
as could be weighed in a balance, or collected
together by stealth and then suddenly placed
before the girl on a charger.
Still, she
would have given much to see inside Sophia's
lovely head. Ah! Could she have done so, what
sleep-destroying wonders she would have
witnessed! By what bright lamps burning in what
mysterious grottoes and caverns of the brain
would her mature eyes have been dazzled! Sophia
was living for months on the exhaustless ardent
vitality absorbed during a magical two minutes
in Wedgwood Street. She was living chiefly on
the flaming fire struck in her soul by the shock
of seeing Gerald Scales in the porch of the
Wedgwood Institution as she came out of the Free
Library with Experience Of Life tucked into her
large astrakhan muff. He had stayed to meet her,
then: she knew it! "After all," her heart said,
"I must be very beautiful, for I have attracted
the pearl of men!" And she remembered her face
in the glass. The value and the power of beauty
were tremendously proved to her. He, the great
man of the world, the handsome and elegant man
with a thousand strange friends and a thousand
interests far remote from her, had remained in
Bursley on the mere chance of meeting her! She
was proud, but her pride was drowned in bliss.
"I was just looking at this inscription about
Mr. Gladstone." "So you decided to come out as
usual!" "And may I ask what book you have
chosen?" These were the phrases she heard, and
to which she responded with similar phrases. And
meanwhile a miracle of ecstasy had opened—opened
like a flower. She was walking along Wedgwood
Street by his side, slowly, on the scraped
pavements, where marble bulbs of snow had defied
the spade and remained. She and he were exactly
of the same height, and she kept looking into
his face and he into hers. This was all the
miracle. Except that she was not walking on the
pavement—she was walking on the intangible sward
of paradise! Except that the houses had receded
and faded, and the passers-by were subtilized
into unnoticeable ghosts! Except that her mother
and Constance had become phantasmal beings
existing at an immense distance!
What had
happened? Nothing! The most commonplace
occurrence! The eternal cause had picked up a
commercial traveller (it might have been a clerk
or curate, but it in fact was a commercial
traveller), and endowed him with all the
glorious, unique, incredible attributes of a
god, and planted him down before Sophia in order
to produce the eternal effect. A miracle
performed specially for Sophia's benefit! No one
else in Wedgwood Street saw the god walking
along by her side. No one else saw anything but
a simple commercial traveller. Yes, the most
commonplace occurrence!
Of course
at the corner of the street he had to go. "Till
next time!" he murmured. And fire came out of
his eyes and lighted in Sophia's lovely head
those lamps which Mrs. Baines was mercifully
spared from seeing. And he had shaken hands and
raised his hat. Imagine a god raising his hat!
And he went off on two legs, precisely like a
dashing little commercial traveller.
And,
escorted by the equivocal Angel of Eclipses, she
had turned into King Street, and arranged her
face, and courageously met her mother. Her
mother had not at first perceived the unusual;
for mothers, despite their reputation to the
contrary, really are the blindest creatures.
Sophia, the naive ninny, had actually supposed
that her walking along a hundred yards of
pavement with a god by her side was not going to
excite remark! What a delusion! It is true,
certainly, that no one saw the god by direct
vision. But Sophia's cheeks, Sophia's eyes, the
curve of Sophia's neck as her soul yearned
towards the soul of the god—these phenomena were
immeasurably more notable than Sophia guessed.
An account of them, in a modified form to
respect Mrs. Baines's notorious dignity, had
healed the mother of her blindness and led to
that characteristic protest from her, "I shall
be glad if you will not walk about the streets
with young men," etc.
When the
period came for the reappearance of Mr. Scales,
Mrs. Baines outlined a plan, and when the
circular announcing the exact time of his
arrival was dropped into the letter-box, she
formulated the plan in detail. In the first
place, she was determined to be indisposed and
invisible herself, so that Mr. Scales might be
foiled in any possible design to renew social
relations in the parlour. In the second place,
she flattered Constance with a single hint—oh,
the vaguest and briefest!—and Constance
understood that she was not to quit the shop on
the appointed morning. In the third place, she
invented a way of explaining to Mr. Povey that
the approaching advent of Gerald Scales must not
be mentioned. And in the fourth place, she
deliberately made appointments for Sophia with
two millinery customers in the showroom, so that
Sophia might be imprisoned in the showroom.
Having thus
left nothing to chance, she told herself that
she was a foolish woman full of nonsense. But
this did not prevent her from putting her lips
together firmly and resolving that Mr. Scales
should have no finger in the pie of HER family.
She had acquired information concerning Mr.
Scales, at secondhand, from Lawyer Pratt. More
than this, she posed the question in a broader
form—why should a young girl be permitted any
interest in any young man whatsoever? The
everlasting purpose had made use of Mrs. Baines
and cast her off, and,, like most persons in a
similar situation, she was, unconsciously and
quite honestly, at odds with the everlasting
purpose.
II
On the day
of Mr. Scales's visit to the shop to obtain
orders and money on behalf of Birkinshaws, a
singular success seemed to attend the
machinations of Mrs. Baines. With Mr. Scales
punctuality was not an inveterate habit, and he
had rarely been known, in the past, to fulfil
exactly the prophecy of the letter of advice
concerning his arrival. But that morning his
promptitude was unexampled. He entered the shop,
and by chance Mr. Povey was arranging
unshrinkable flannels in the doorway. The two
youngish little men talked amiably about
flannels, dogs, and quarter-day (which was just
past), and then Mr. Povey led Mr. Scales to his
desk in the dark corner behind the high pile of
twills, and paid the quarterly bill, in notes
and gold—as always; and then Mr. Scales offered
for the august inspection of Mr. Povey all that
Manchester had recently invented for the
temptation of drapers, and Mr. Povey gave him an
order which, if not reckless, was nearer
'handsome' than 'good.' During the process Mr.
Scales had to go out of the shop twice or three
times in order to bring in from his barrow at
the kerb-stone certain small black boxes edged
with brass. On none of these excursions did Mr.
Scales glance wantonly about him in satisfaction
of the lust of the eye. Even if he had permitted
himself this freedom he would have seen nothing
more interesting than three young lady
assistants seated round the stove and sewing
with pricked fingers from which the chilblains
were at last deciding to depart. When Mr. Scales
had finished writing down the details of the
order with his ivory-handled stylo, and repacked
his boxes, he drew the interview to a conclusion
after the manner of a capable commercial
traveller; that is to say, he implanted in Mr.
Povey his opinion that Mr. Povey was a wise, a
shrewd and an upright man, and that the world
would be all the better for a few more like him.
He inquired for Mrs. Baines, and was deeply
pained to hear of her indisposition while
finding consolation in the assurance that the
Misses Baines were well. Mr. Povey was on the
point of accompanying the pattern of commercial
travellers to the door, when two customers
simultaneously came in—ladies. One made straight
for Mr. Povey, whereupon Mr. Scales parted from
him at once, it being a universal maxim in shops
that even the most distinguished commercial
shall not hinder the business of even the least
distinguished customer. The other customer had
the effect of causing Constance to pop up from
her cloistral corner. Constance had been there
all the time, but of course, though she heard
the remembered voice, her maidenliness had not
permitted that she should show herself to Mr.
Scales.
Now, as he
was leaving, Mr. Scales saw her, with her
agreeable snub nose and her kind, simple eyes.
She was requesting the second customer to mount
to the showroom, where was Miss Sophia. Mr.
Scales hesitated a moment, and in that moment
Constance, catching his eye, smiled upon him,
and nodded. What else could she do? Vaguely
aware though she was that her mother was not
'set up' with Mr. Scales, and even feared the
possible influence of the young man on Sophia,
she could not exclude him from her general
benevolence towards the universe. Moreover, she
liked him; she liked him very much and thought
him a very fine specimen of a man.
He left the
door and went across to her. They shook hands
and opened a conversation instantly; for
Constance, while retaining all her modesty, had
lost all her shyness in the shop, and could
chatter with anybody. She sidled towards her
corner, precisely as Sophia had done on another
occasion, and Mr. Scales put his chin over the
screening boxes, and eagerly prosecuted the
conversation.
There was
absolutely nothing in the fact of the interview
itself to cause alarm to a mother, nothing to
render futile the precautions of Mrs. Baines on
behalf of the flower of Sophia's innocence. And
yet it held danger for Mrs. Baines, all
unconscious in her parlour. Mrs. Baines could
rely utterly on Constance not to be led away by
the dandiacal charms of Mr. Scales (she knew in
what quarter sat the wind for Constance); in her
plan she had forgotten nothing, except Mr.
Povey; and it must be said that she could not
possibly have foreseen the effect on the
situation of Mr. Povey's character.
Mr. Povey,
attending to his customer, had noticed the
bright smile of Constance on the traveller, and
his heart did not like it. And when he saw the
lively gestures of a Mr. Scales in apparently
intimate talk with a Constance hidden behind
boxes, his uneasiness grew into fury. He was a
man capable of black and terrible furies.
Outwardly insignificant, possessing a mind as
little as his body, easily abashed, he was none
the less a very susceptible young man, soon
offended, proud, vain, and obscurely passionate.
You might offend Mr. Povey without guessing it,
and only discover your sin when Mr. Povey had
done something too decisive as a result of it.
The reason
of his fury was jealousy. Mr. Povey had made
great advances since the death of John Baines.
He had consolidated his position, and he was in
every way a personage of the first importance.
His misfortune was that he could never translate
his importance, or his sense of his importance,
into terms of outward demeanour. Most people,
had they been told that Mr. Povey was seriously
aspiring to enter the Baines family, would have
laughed. But they would have been wrong. To
laugh at Mr. Povey was invariably wrong. Only
Constance knew what inroads he had effected upon
her.
The
customer went, but Mr. Scales did not go. Mr.
Povey, free to reconnoitre, did so. From the
shadow of the till he could catch glimpses of
Constance's blushing, vivacious face. She was
obviously absorbed in Mr. Scales. She and he had
a tremendous air of intimacy. And the murmur of
their chatter continued. Their chatter was
nothing, and about nothing, but Mr. Povey
imagined that they were exchanging eternal vows.
He endured Mr. Scales's odious freedom until it
became insufferable, until it deprived him of
all his self-control; and then he retired into
his cutting-out room. He meditated there in a
condition of insanity for perhaps a minute, and
excogitated a device. Dashing back into the
shop, he spoke up, half across the shop, in a
loud, curt tone:
"Miss
Baines, your mother wants you at once."
He was
launched on the phrase before he noticed that,
during his absence, Sophia had descended from
the showroom and joined her sister and Mr.
Scales. The danger and scandal were now less, he
perceived, but he was glad he had summoned
Constance away, and he was in a state to despise
consequences.
The three
chatterers, startled, looked at Mr. Povey, who
left the shop abruptly. Constance could do
nothing but obey the call.
She met him
at the door of the cutting-out room in the
passage leading to the parlour.
"Where is
mother? In the parlour?" Constance inquired
innocently.
There was a
dark flush on Mr. Povey's face. "If you wish to
know," said he in a hard voice, "she hasn't
asked for you and she doesn't want you."
He turned
his back on her, and retreated into his lair.
"Then
what—?" she began, puzzled.
He fronted
her. "Haven't you been gabbling long enough with
that jackanapes?" he spit at her. There were
tears in his eyes.
Constance,
though without experience in these matters,
comprehended. She comprehended perfectly and
immediately. She ought to have put Mr. Povey
into his place. She ought to have protested with
firm, dignified finality against such a
ridiculous and monstrous outrage as that which
Mr. Povey had committed. Mr. Povey ought to have
been ruined for ever in her esteem and in her
heart. But she hesitated.
"And only
last Sunday—afternoon," Mr. Povey blubbered.
(Not that
anything overt had occurred, or been
articulately said, between them last Sunday
afternoon. But they had been alone together, and
had each witnessed strange and disturbing
matters in the eyes of the other.)
Tears now
fell suddenly from Constance's eyes. "You ought
to be ashamed—" she stammered.
Still, the
tears were in her eyes, and in his too. What he
or she merely said, therefore, was of secondary
importance.
Mrs.
Baines, coming from the kitchen, and hearing
Constance's voice, burst upon the scene, which
silenced her. Parents are sometimes silenced.
She found Sophia and Mr. Scales in the shop.
III
That
afternoon Sophia, too busy with her own affairs
to notice anything abnormal in the relations
between her mother and Constance, and quite
ignorant that there had been an unsuccessful
plot against her, went forth to call upon Miss
Chetwynd, with whom she had remained very
friendly: she considered that she and Miss
Chetwynd formed an aristocracy of intellect, and
the family indeed tacitly admitted this. She
practised no secrecy in her departure from the
shop; she merely dressed, in her second-best
hoop, and went, having been ready at any moment
to tell her mother, if her mother caught her and
inquired, that she was going to see Miss
Chetwynd. And she did go to see Miss Chetwynd,
arriving at the house-school, which lay amid
trees on the road to Turnhill, just beyond the
turnpike, at precisely a quarter-past four. As
Miss Chetwynd's pupils left at four o'clock, and
as Miss Chetwynd invariably took a walk
immediately afterwards, Sophia was able to
contain her surprise upon being informed that
Miss Chetwynd was not in. She had not intended
that Miss Chetwynd should be in.
She turned
off to the right, up the side road which,
starting from the turnpike, led in the direction
of Moorthorne and Red Cow, two mining villages.
Her heart beat with fear as she began to follow
that road, for she was upon a terrific
adventure. What most frightened her, perhaps,
was her own astounding audacity. She was alarmed
by something within herself which seemed to be
no part of herself and which produced in her
curious, disconcerting, fleeting impressions of
unreality.
In the
morning she had heard the voice of Mr. Scales
from the showroom—that voice whose even distant
murmur caused creepings of the skin in her back.
And she had actually stood on the counter in
front of the window in order to see down
perpendicularly into the Square; by so doing she
had had a glimpse of the top of his luggage on a
barrow, and of the crown of his hat occasionally
when he went outside to tempt Mr. Povey. She
might have gone down into the shop—there was no
slightest reason why she should not; three
months had elapsed since the name of Mr. Scales
had been mentioned, and her mother had evidently
forgotten the trifling incident of New Year's
Day—but she was incapable of descending the
stairs! She went to the head of the stairs and
peeped through the balustrade—and she could not
get further. For nearly a hundred days those
extraordinary lamps had been brightly burning in
her head; and now the light-giver had come
again, and her feet would not move to the
meeting; now the moment had arrived for which
alone she had lived, and she could not seize it
as it passed! "Why don't I go downstairs?" she
asked herself. "Am I afraid to meet him?"
The
customer sent up by Constance had occupied the
surface of her life for ten minutes, trying on
hats; and during this time she was praying
wildly that Mr. Scales might not go, and
asserting that it was impossible he should go
without at least asking for her. Had she not
counted the days to this day? When the customer
left Sophia followed her downstairs, and saw Mr.
Scales chatting with Constance. All her
self-possession instantly returned to her, and
she joined them with a rather mocking smile.
After Mr. Povey's strange summons had withdrawn
Constance from the corner, Mr. Scales's tone had
changed; it had thrilled her. "You are YOU," it
had said, "there is you—and there is the rest of
the universe!" Then he had not forgotten; she
had lived in his heart; she had not for three
months been the victim of her own fancies! … She
saw him put a piece of folded white paper on the
top edge of the screening box and flick it down
to her. She blushed scarlet, staring at it as it
lay on the counter. He said nothing, and she
could not speak. … He had prepared that paper,
then, beforehand, on the chance of being able to
give it to her! This thought was exquisite but
full of terror. "I must really go," he had said,
lamely, with emotion in his voice, and he had
gone—like that! And she put the piece of paper
into the pocket of her apron, and hastened away.
She had not even seen, as she turned up the
stairs, her mother standing by the till—that
spot which was the conning- tower of the whole
shop. She ran, ran, breathless to the bedroom.
"I am a
wicked girl!" she said quite frankly, on the
road to the rendezvous. "It is a dream that I am
going to meet him. It cannot be true. There is
time to go back. If I go back I am safe. I have
simply called at Miss Chetwynd's and she wasn't
in, and no one can say a word. But if I go on—if
I'm seen! What a fool I am to go on!"
And she
went on, impelled by, amongst other things, an
immense, naive curiosity, and the vanity which
the bare fact of his note had excited. The Loop
railway was being constructed at that period,
and hundreds of navvies were at work on it
between Bursley and Turnhill. When she came to
the new bridge over the cutting, he was there,
as he had written that he would be.
They were
very nervous, they greeted each other stiffly
and as though they had met then for the first
time that day. Nothing was said about his note,
nor about her response to it. Her presence was
treated by both of them as a basic fact of the
situation which it would be well not to disturb
by comment. Sophia could not hide her shame, but
her shame only aggravated the stinging charm of
her beauty. She was wearing a hard Amazonian
hat, with a lifted veil, the final word of
fashion that spring in the Five Towns; her face,
beaten by the fresh breeze, shone rosily; her
eyes glittered under the dark hat, and the
violent colours of her Victorian frock— green
and crimson—could not spoil those cheeks. If she
looked earthwards, frowning, she was the more
adorable so. He had come down the clayey incline
from the unfinished red bridge to welcome her,
and when the salutations were over they stood
still, he gazing apparently at the horizon and
she at the yellow marl round the edges of his
boots. The encounter was as far away from
Sophia's ideal conception as Manchester from
Venice.
"So this is
the new railway!" said she.
"Yes," said
he. "This is your new railway. You can see it
better from the bridge."
"But it's
very sludgy up there," she objected with a pout.
"Further on
it's quite dry," he reassured her.
From the
bridge they had a sudden view of a raw gash in
the earth; and hundreds of men were crawling
about in it, busy with minute operations, like
flies in a great wound. There was a continuous
rattle of picks, resembling a muffled shower of
hail, and in the distance a tiny locomotive was
leading a procession of tiny waggons.
"And those
are the navvies!" she murmured.
The
unspeakable doings of the navvies in the Five
Towns had reached even her: how they drank and
swore all day on Sundays, how their huts and
houses were dens of the most appalling infamy,
how they were the curse of a God-fearing and
respectable district! She and Gerald Scales
glanced down at these dangerous beasts of prey
in their yellow corduroys and their open shirts
revealing hairy chests. No doubt they both
thought how inconvenient it was that railways
could not be brought into existence without the
aid of such revolting and swinish animals. They
glanced down from the height of their nice
decorum and felt the powerful attraction of
similar superior manners. The manners of the
navvies were such that Sophia could not even
regard them, nor Gerald Scales permit her to
regard them, without blushing.
In a united
blush they turned away, up the gradual slope.
Sophia knew no longer what she was doing. For
some minutes she was as helpless as though she
had been in a balloon with him.
"I got my
work done early," he said; and added
complacently, "As a matter of fact I've had a
pretty good day."
She was
reassured to learn that he was not neglecting
his duties. To be philandering with a commercial
traveller who has finished a good day's work
seemed less shocking than dalliance with a
neglecter of business; it seemed indeed, by
comparison, respectable.
"It must be
very interesting," she said primly.
"What, my
trade?"
"Yes.
Always seeing new places and so on."
"In a way
it is," he admitted judicially. "But I can tell
you it was much more agreeable being in Paris."
"Oh! Have
you been to Paris?"
"Lived
there for nearly two years," he said carelessly.
Then, looking at her, "Didn't you notice I never
came for a long time?"
"I didn't
know you were in Paris," she evaded him.
"I went to
start a sort of agency for Birkinshaws," he
said.
"I suppose
you talk French like anything."
"Of course
one has to talk French," said he. "I learnt
French when I was a child from a governess—my
uncle made me—but I forgot most of it at school,
and at the Varsity you never learn anything
—precious little, anyhow! Certainly not French!"
She was
deeply impressed. He was a much greater
personage than she had guessed. It had never
occurred to her that commercial travellers had
to go to a university to finish their complex
education. And then, Paris! Paris meant
absolutely nothing to her but pure, impossible,
unattainable romance. And he had been there! The
clouds of glory were around him. He was a hero,
dazzling. He had come to her out of another
world. He was her miracle. He was almost too
miraculous to be true.
She, living
her humdrum life at the shop! And he, elegant,
brilliant, coming from far cities! They
together, side by side, strolling up the road
towards the Moorthorne ridge! There was nothing
quite like this in the stories of Miss Sewell.
"Your uncle
…?" she questioned vaguely.
"Yes, Mr.
Boldero. He's a partner in Birkinshaws."
"Oh!"
"You've
heard of him? He's a great Wesleyan."
"Oh yes,"
she said. "When we had the Wesleyan Conference
here, he—"
"He's
always very great at Conferences," said Gerald
Scales.
"I didn't
know he had anything to do with Birkinshaws."
"He isn't a
working partner of course," Mr. Scales
explained. "But he means me to be one. I have to
learn the business from the bottom. So now you
understand why I'm a traveller."
"I see,"
she said, still more deeply impressed.
"I'm an
orphan," said Gerald. "And Uncle Boldero took me
in hand when I was three."
"I SEE!"
she repeated.
It seemed
strange to her that Mr. Scales should be a
Wesleyan— just like herself. She would have been
sure that he was 'Church.' Her notions of
Wesleyanism, with her notions of various other
things, were sharply modified.
"Now tell
me about you," Mr. Scales suggested.
"Oh! I'm
nothing!" she burst out.
The
exclamation was perfectly sincere. Mr. Scales's
disclosures concerning himself, while they
excited her, discouraged her.
"You're the
finest girl I've ever met, anyhow," said Mr.
Scales with gallant emphasis, and he dug his
stick into the soft ground.
She blushed
and made no answer.
They walked
on in silence, each wondering apprehensively
what might happen next.
Suddenly
Mr. Scales stopped at a dilapidated low brick
wall, built in a circle, close to the side of
the road.
"I expect
that's an old pit-shaft," said he.
"Yes, I
expect it is."
He picked
up a rather large stone and approached the wall.
"Be
careful!" she enjoined him.
"Oh! It's
all right," he said lightly. "Let's listen. Come
near and listen."
She
reluctantly obeyed, and he threw the stone over
the dirty ruined wall, the top of which was
about level with his hat. For two or three
seconds there was no sound. Then a faint
reverberation echoed from the depths of the
shaft. And on Sophia's brain arose dreadful
images of the ghosts of miners wandering for
ever in subterranean passages, far, far beneath.
The noise of the falling stone had awakened for
her the secret terrors of the earth. She could
scarcely even look at the wall without a spasm
of fear.
"How
strange," said Mr. Scales, a little awe in his
voice, too, "that that should be left there like
that! I suppose it's very deep."
"Some of
them are," she trembled.
"I must
just have a look," he said, and put his hands on
the top of the wall.
"Come
away!" she cried.
"Oh! It's
all right!" he said again, soothingly. "The
wall's as firm as a rock." And he took a slight
spring and looked over.
She
shrieked loudly. She saw him at the distant
bottom of the shaft, mangled, drowning. The
ground seemed to quake under her feet. A
horrible sickness seized her. And she shrieked
again. Never had she guessed that existence
could be such pain.
He slid
down from the wall, and turned to her. "No
bottom to be seen!" he said. Then, observing her
transformed face, he came close to her, with a
superior masculine smile. "Silly little thing!"
he said coaxingly, endearingly, putting forth
all his power to charm.
He
perceived at once that he had miscalculated the
effects of his action. Her alarm changed swiftly
to angry offence. She drew back with a haughty
gesture, as if he had intended actually to touch
her. Did he suppose, because she chanced to be
walking with him, that he had the right to
address her familiarly, to tease her, to call
her 'silly little thing' and to put his face
against hers? She resented his freedom with
quick and passionate indignation.
She showed
him her proud back and nodding head and wrathful
skirts; and hurried off without a word, almost
running. As for him, he was so startled by
unexpected phenomena that he did nothing for a
moment—merely stood looking and feeling foolish.
Then she
heard him in pursuit. She was too proud to stop
or even to reduce her speed.
"I didn't
mean to—" he muttered behind her.
No
recognition from her.
"I suppose
I ought to apologize," he said.
"I should
just think you ought," she answered, furious.
"Well, I
do!" said he. "Do stop a minute."
"I'll thank
you not to follow me, Mr. Scales." She paused,
and scorched him with her displeasure. Then she
went forward. And her heart was in torture
because it could not persuade her to remain with
him, and smile and forgive, and win his smile.
"I shall
write to you," he shouted down the slope.
She kept
on, the ridiculous child. But the agony she had
suffered as he clung to the frail wall was not
ridiculous, nor her dark vision of the mine, nor
her tremendous indignation when, after
disobeying her, he forgot that she was a queen.
To her the scene was sublimely tragic. Soon she
had recrossed the bridge, but not the same she!
So this was the end of the incredible adventure!
When she
reached the turnpike she thought of her mother
and of Constance. She had completely forgotten
them; for a space they had utterly ceased to
exist for her.
IV
"You've
been out, Sophia?" said Mrs. Baines in the
parlour, questioningly. Sophia had taken off her
hat and mantle hurriedly in the cutting-out
room, for she was in danger of being late for
tea; but her hair and face showed traces of the
March breeze. Mrs. Baines, whose stoutness
seemed to increase, sat in the rocking- chair
with a number of The Sunday at Home in her hand.
Tea was set.
"Yes,
mother. I called to see Miss Chetwynd."
"I wish
you'd tell me when you are going out."
"I looked
all over for you before I started."
"No, you
didn't, for I haven't stirred from this room
since four o'clock. … You should not say things
like that," Mrs. Baines added in a gentler tone.
Mrs. Baines
had suffered much that day. She knew that she
was in an irritable, nervous state, and
therefore she said to herself, in her quality of
wise woman, "I must watch myself. I mustn't let
myself go." And she thought how reasonable she
was. She did not guess that all her gestures
betrayed her; nor did it occur to her that few
things are more galling than the spectacle of a
person, actuated by lofty motives, obviously
trying to be kind and patient under what he
considers to be extreme provocation.
Maggie
blundered up the kitchen stairs with the teapot
and hot toast; and so Sophia had an excuse for
silence. Sophia too had suffered much, suffered
excruciatingly; she carried at that moment a
whole tragedy in her young soul, unaccustomed to
such burdens. Her attitude towards her mother
was half fearful and half defiant; it might be
summed up in the phrase which she had repeated
again and again under her breath on the way
home, "Well, mother can't kill me!"
Mrs. Baines
put down the blue-covered magazine and twisted
her rocking-chair towards the table.
"You can
pour out the tea," said Mrs. Baines.
"Where's
Constance?"
"She's not
very well. She's lying down."
"Anything
the matter with her?"
"No."
This was
inaccurate. Nearly everything was the matter
with Constance, who had never been less
Constance than during that afternoon. But Mrs.
Baines had no intention of discussing
Constance's love-affairs with Sophia. The less
said to Sophia about love, the better! Sophia
was excitable enough already!
They sat
opposite to each other, on either side of the
fire—the monumental matron whose black bodice
heavily overhung the table, whose large rounded
face was creased and wrinkled by what seemed
countless years of joy and disillusion; and the
young, slim girl, so fresh, so virginal, so
ignorant, with all the pathos of an unsuspecting
victim about to be sacrificed to the minotaur of
Time! They both ate hot toast, with careless
haste, in silence, preoccupied, worried, and
outwardly nonchalant.
"And what
has Miss Chetwynd got to say?" Mrs. Baines
inquired.
"She wasn't
in."
Here was a
blow for Mrs. Baines, whose suspicions about
Sophia, driven off by her certainties regarding
Constance, suddenly sprang forward in her mind,
and prowled to and fro like a band of tigers.
Still, Mrs.
Baines was determined to be calm and careful.
"Oh!
What time did you call?"
"I don't
know. About half-past four." Sophia finished her
tea quickly, and rose. "Shall I tell Mr. Povey
he can come?"
(Mr. Povey
had his tea after the ladies of the house.)
"Yes, if
you will stay in the shop till I come. Light me
the gas before you go."
Sophia took
a wax taper from a vase on the mantelpiece,
stuck it in the fire and lit the gas, which
exploded in its crystal cloister with a mild
report.
"What's all
that clay on your boots, child?" asked Mrs.
Baines.
"Clay?"
repeated Sophia, staring foolishly at her boots.
"Yes," said
Mrs. Baines. "It looks like marl. Where on earth
have you been?"
She
interrogated her daughter with an upward gaze,
frigid and unconsciously hostile, through her
gold-rimmed glasses.
"I must
have picked it up on the roads," said Sophia,
and hastened to the door.
"Sophia!"
"Yes,
mother."
"Shut the
door."
Sophia
unwillingly shut the door which she had half
opened.
"Come
here."
Sophia
obeyed, with falling lip.
"You are
deceiving me, Sophia," said Mrs. Baines, with
fierce solemnity. "Where have you been this
afternoon?"
Sophia's
foot was restless on the carpet behind the
table. "I haven't been anywhere," she murmured
glumly.
"Have you
seen young Scales?"
"Yes," said
Sophia with grimness, glancing audaciously for
an instant at her mother. ("She can't kill me:
She can't kill me," her heart muttered. And she
had youth and beauty in her favour, while her
mother was only a fat middle-aged woman. "She
can't kill me," said her heart, with the
trembling, cruel insolence of the
mirror-flattered child.)
"How came
you to meet him?"
No answer.
"Sophia,
you heard what I said!"
Still no
answer. Sophia looked down at the table. ("She
can't kill me.")
"If you are
going to be sullen, I shall have to suppose the
worst," said Mrs. Baines.
Sophia kept
her silence.
"Of
course," Mrs. Baines resumed, "if you choose to
be wicked, neither your mother nor any one else
can stop you. There are certain things I CAN do,
and these I SHALL do … Let me warn you that
young Scales is a thoroughly bad lot. I know all
about him. He has been living a wild life
abroad, and if it hadn't been that his uncle is
a partner in Birkinshaws, they would never have
taken him on again." A pause. "I hope that one
day you will be a happy wife, but you are much
too young yet to be meeting young men, and
nothing would ever induce me to let you have
anything to do with this Scales. I won't have
it. In future you are not to go out alone. You
understand me?"
Sophia kept
silence.
"I hope you
will be in a better frame of mind to-morrow. I
can only hope so. But if you aren't, I shall
take very severe measures. You think you can
defy me. But you never were more mistaken in
your life. I don't want to see any more of you
now. Go and tell Mr. Povey; and call Maggie for
the fresh tea. You make me almost glad that your
father died even as he did. He has, at any rate,
been spared this."
Those words
'died even as he did' achieved the intimidation
of Sophia. They seemed to indicate that Mrs.
Baines, though she had magnanimously never
mentioned the subject to Sophia, knew exactly
how the old man had died. Sophia escaped from
the room in fear, cowed. Nevertheless, her
thought was, "She hasn't killed me. I made up my
mind I wouldn't talk, and I didn't."
In the
evening, as she sat in the shop primly and
sternly sewing at hats—while her mother wept in
secret on the first floor, and Constance
remained hidden on the second—Sophia lived over
again the scene at the old shaft; but she lived
it differently, admitting that she had been
wrong, guessing by instinct that she had shown a
foolish mistrust of love. As she sat in the
shop, she adopted just the right attitude and
said just the right things. Instead of being a
silly baby she was an accomplished and dazzling
woman, then. When customers came in, and the
young lady assistants unobtrusively turned
higher the central gas, according to the regime
of the shop, it was really extraordinary that
they could not read in the heart of the
beautiful Miss Baines the words which blazed
there; "YOU'RE THE FINEST GIRL I EVER MET," and
"I SHALL WRITE TO YOU." The young lady
assistants had their notions as to both
Constance and Sophia, but the truth, at least as
regarded Sophia, was beyond the flight of their
imaginations. When eight o'clock struck and she
gave the formal order for dust-sheets, the shop
being empty, they never supposed that she was
dreaming about posts and plotting how to get
hold of the morning's letters before Mr. Povey.
CHAPTER VII
A DEFEAT
I
It was
during the month of June that Aunt Harriet came
over from Axe to spend a few days with her
little sister, Mrs. Baines. The railway between
Axe and the Five Towns had not yet been opened;
but even if it had been opened Aunt Harriet
would probably not have used it. She had always
travelled from Axe to Bursley in the same
vehicle, a small waggonette which she hired from
Bratt's livery stables at Axe, driven by a
coachman who thoroughly understood the
importance, and the peculiarities, of Aunt
Harriet.
Mrs. Baines
had increased in stoutness, so that now Aunt
Harriet had very little advantage over her,
physically. But the moral ascendency of the
elder still persisted. The two vast widows
shared Mrs. Baines's bedroom, spending much of
their time there in long, hushed
conversations—interviews from which Mrs. Baines
emerged with the air of one who has received
enlightenment and Aunt Harriet with the air of
one who has rendered it. The pair went about
together, in the shop, the showroom, the
parlour, the kitchen, and also into the town,
addressing each other as 'Sister,' 'Sister.'
Everywhere it was 'sister,' 'sister,' 'my
sister,' 'your dear mother,' 'your Aunt
Harriet.' They referred to each other as
oracular sources of wisdom and good taste.
Respectability stalked abroad when they were
afoot. The whole Square wriggled uneasily as
though God's eye were peculiarly upon it. The
meals in the parlour became solemn collations,
at which shone the best silver and the finest
diaper, but from which gaiety and naturalness
seemed to be banished. (I say 'seemed' because
it cannot be doubted that Aunt Harriet was
natural, and there were moments when she
possibly considered herself to be practising
gaiety—a gaiety more desolating than her
severity.) The younger generation was
extinguished, pressed flat and lifeless under
the ponderosity of the widows.
Mr. Povey
was not the man to be easily flattened by
ponderosity of any kind, and his suppression was
a striking proof of the prowess of the widows;
who, indeed, went over Mr. Povey like traction-
engines, with the sublime unconsciousness of
traction-engines, leaving an inanimate object in
the road behind them, and scarce aware even of
the jolt. Mr. Povey hated Aunt Harriet, but,
lying crushed there in the road, how could he
rebel? He felt all the time that Aunt Harriet
was adding him up, and reporting the result at
frequent intervals to Mrs. Baines in the
bedroom. He felt that she knew everything about
him—even to those tears which had been in his
eyes. He felt that he could hope to do nothing
right for Aunt Harriet, that absolute perfection
in the performance of duty would make no more
impression on her than a caress on the fly-
wheel of a traction-engine. Constance, the dear
Constance, was also looked at askance. There was
nothing in Aunt Harriet's demeanour to her that
you could take hold of, but there was
emphatically something that you could not take
hold of—a hint, an inkling, that insinuated to
Constance, "Have a care, lest peradventure you
become the second cousin of the scarlet woman."
Sophia was
petted. Sophia was liable to be playfully tapped
by Aunt Harriet's thimble when Aunt Harriet was
hemming dusters (for the elderly lady could lift
a duster to her own dignity). Sophia was called
on two separate occasions, 'My little
butterfly.' And Sophia was entrusted with the
trimming of Aunt Harriet's new summer bonnet.
Aunt Harriet deemed that Sophia was looking
pale. As the days passed, Sophia's pallor was
emphasized by Aunt Harriet until it developed
into an article of faith, to which you were
compelled to subscribe on pain of
excommunication. Then dawned the day when Aunt
Harriet said, staring at Sophia as an
affectionate aunt may: "That child would do with
a change." And then there dawned another day
when Aunt Harriet, staring at Sophia
compassionately, as a devoted aunt may, said:
"It's a pity that child can't have a change."
And Mrs. Baines also stared—and said: "It is."
And on
another day Aunt Harriet said: "I've been
wondering whether my little Sophia would care to
come and keep her old aunt company a while."
There were
few things for which Sophia would have cared
less. The girl swore to herself angrily that she
would not go, that no allurement would induce
her to go. But she was in a net; she was in the
meshes of family correctness. Do what she would,
she could not invent a reason for not going.
Certainly she could not tell her aunt that she
merely did not want to go. She was capable of
enormities, but not of that. And then began Aunt
Harriet's intricate preparations for going. Aunt
Harriet never did anything simply. And she could
not be hurried. Seventy-two hours before leaving
she had to commence upon her trunk; but first
the trunk had to be wiped by Maggie with a damp
cloth under the eye and direction of Aunt
Harriet. And the liveryman at Axe had to be
written to, and the servants at Axe written to,
and the weather prospects weighed and
considered. And somehow, by the time these
matters were accomplished, it was tacitly
understood that Sophia should accompany her kind
aunt into the bracing moorland air of Axe. No
smoke at Axe! No stuffiness at Axe! The spacious
existence of a wealthy widow in a residential
town with a low death-rate and famous scenery!
"Have you packed your box, Sophia?" No, she had
not. "Well, I will come and help you."
Impossible
to bear up against the momentum of a massive
body like
Aunt Harriet's! It was irresistible.
The day of
departure came, throwing the entire household
into a commotion. Dinner was put a quarter of an
hour earlier than usual so that Aunt Harriet
might achieve Axe at her accustomed hour of tea.
After dinner Maggie was the recipient of three
amazing muslin aprons, given with a regal
gesture. And the trunk and the box were brought
down, and there was a slight odour of black kid
gloves in the parlour. The waggonette was due
and the waggonette appeared ("I can always rely
upon Bladen!" said Aunt Harriet), and the door
was opened, and Bladen, stiff on his legs,
descended from the box and touched his hat to
Aunt Harriet as she filled up the doorway.
"Have you
baited, Bladen?" asked she.
"Yes'm,"
said he, assuringly.
Bladen and
Mr. Povey carried out the trunk and the box, and
Constance charged herself with parcels which she
bestowed in the corners of the vehicle according
to her aunt's prescription; it was like stowing
the cargo of a vessel.
"Now,
Sophia, my chuck!" Mrs. Baines called up the
stairs. And
Sophia came slowly downstairs. Mrs. Baines
offered her mouth.
Sophia glanced at her.
"You
needn't think I don't see why you're sending me
away!" exclaimed Sophia in a hard, furious
voice, with glistening eyes. "I'm not so blind
as all that!" She kissed her mother—nothing but
a contemptuous peck. Then, as she turned away
she added: "But you let Constance do just as she
likes!"
This was
her sole bitter comment on the episode, but into
it she put all the profound bitterness
accumulated during many mutinous nights.
Mrs. Baines
concealed a sigh. The explosion certainly
disturbed her. She had hoped that the smooth
surface of things would not be ruffled.
Sophia
bounced out. And the assembly, including several
urchins, watched with held breath while Aunt
Harriet, after having bid majestic good-byes,
got on to the step and introduced herself
through the doorway of the waggonette into the
interior of the vehicle; it was an operation
like threading a needle with cotton too thick.
Once within, her hoops distended in sudden
release, filling the waggonette. Sophia
followed, agilely.
As, with
due formalities, the equipage drove off, Mrs.
Baines gave another sigh, one of relief. The
sisters had won. She could now await the
imminent next advent of Mr. Gerald Scales with
tranquillity.
II
Those
singular words of Sophia's, 'But you let
Constance do just as she likes,' had disturbed
Mrs. Baines more than was at first apparent.
They worried her like a late fly in autumn. For
she had said nothing to any one about
Constance's case, Mrs. Maddack of course
excepted. She had instinctively felt that she
could not show the slightest leniency towards
the romantic impulses of her elder daughter
without seeming unjust to the younger, and she
had acted accordingly. On the memorable morn of
Mr. Povey's acute jealousy, she had, temporarily
at any rate, slaked the fire, banked it down,
and hidden it; and since then no word had passed
as to the state of Constance's heart. In the
great peril to be feared from Mr. Scales,
Constance's heart had been put aside as a thing
that could wait; so one puts aside the mending
of linen when earthquake shocks are about. Mrs.
Baines was sure that Constance had not chattered
to Sophia concerning Mr. Povey. Constance, who
understood her mother, had too much commonsense
and too nice a sense of propriety to do that—and
yet here was Sophia exclaiming, 'But you let
Constance do just as she likes.' Were the
relations between Constance and Mr. Povey, then,
common property? Did the young lady assistants
discuss them?
As a fact,
the young lady assistants did discuss them; not
in the shop—for either one of the principal
parties, or Mrs. Baines herself, was always in
the shop, but elsewhere. They discussed little
else, when they were free; how she had looked at
him to- day, and how he had blushed, and so
forth interminably. Yet Mrs. Baines really
thought that she alone knew. Such is the power
of the ineradicable delusion that one's own
affairs, and especially one's own children, are
mysteriously different from those of others.
After
Sophia's departure Mrs. Baines surveyed her
daughter and her manager at supper-time with a
curious and a diffident eye. They worked,
talked, and ate just as though Mrs. Baines had
never caught them weeping together in the
cutting-out room. They had the most
matter-of-fact air. They might never have heard
whispered the name of love. And there could be
no deceit beneath that decorum; for Constance
would not deceive. Still, Mrs. Baines's
conscience was unruly. Order reigned, but
nevertheless she knew that she ought to do
something, find out something, decide something;
she ought, if she did her duty, to take
Constance aside and say: "Now, Constance, my
mind is freer now. Tell me frankly what has been
going on between you and Mr. Povey. I have never
understood the meaning of that scene in the
cutting-out room. Tell me." She ought to have
talked in this strain. But she could not. That
energetic woman had not sufficient energy left.
She wanted rest, rest—even though it were a
coward's rest, an ostrich's tranquillity—after
the turmoil of apprehensions caused by Sophia.
Her soul cried out for peace. She was not,
however, to have peace.
On the very
first Sunday after Sophia's departure, Mr. Povey
did not go to chapel in the morning, and he
offered no reason for his unusual conduct. He
ate his breakfast with appetite, but there was
something peculiar in his glance that made Mrs.
Baines a little uneasy; this something she could
not seize upon and define. When she and
Constance returned from chapel Mr. Povey was
playing "Rock of Ages" on the harmonium—again
unusual! The serious part of the dinner
comprised roast beef and Yorkshire pudding—the
pudding being served as a sweet course before
the meat. Mrs. Baines ate freely of these
things, for she loved them, and she was always
hungry after a sermon. She also did well with
the Cheshire cheese. Her intention was to sleep
in the drawing-room after the repast. On Sunday
afternoons she invariably tried to sleep in the
drawing- room, and she did not often fail. As a
rule the girls accompanied her thither from the
table, and either 'settled down' likewise or
crept out of the room when they perceived the
gradual sinking of the majestic form into the
deep hollows of the easy-chair. Mrs. Baines was
anticipating with pleasure her somnolent Sunday
afternoon.
Constance
said grace after meat, and the formula on this
particular occasion ran thus—
"Thank God
for our good dinner, Amen.—Mother, I must just
run upstairs to my room." ('MY room'-Sophia
being far away.)
And off she
ran, strangely girlish.
"Well,
child, you needn't be in such a hurry," said
Mrs. Baines, ringing the bell and rising.
She hoped
that Constance would remember the conditions
precedent to sleep.
"I should
like to have a word with you, if it's all the
same to you, Mrs. Baines," said Mr. Povey
suddenly, with obvious nervousness. And his tone
struck a rude unexpected blow at Mrs. Baines's
peace of mind. It was a portentous tone.
"What
about?" asked she, with an inflection subtly to
remind Mr.
Povey what day it was.
"About
Constance," said the astonishing man.
"Constance!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines with a
histrionic air of bewilderment.
Maggie
entered the room, solely in response to the
bell, yet a thought jumped up in Mrs. Baines's
brain, "How prying servants are, to be sure!"
For quite five seconds she had a grievance
against Maggie. She was compelled to sit down
again and wait while Maggie cleared the table.
Mr. Povey put both his hands in his pockets, got
up, went to the window, whistled, and generally
behaved in a manner which foretold the worst.
At last
Maggie vanished, shutting the door.
"What is
it, Mr. Povey?"
"Oh!" said
Mr. Povey, facing her with absurd nervous
brusqueness, as though pretending: "Ah, yes! We
have something to say—I was forgetting!" Then he
began: "It's about Constance and me."
Yes, they
had evidently plotted this interview. Constance
had evidently taken herself off on purpose to
leave Mr. Povey unhampered. They were in league.
The inevitable had come. No sleep! No repose!
Nothing but worry once more!
"I'm not at
all satisfied with the present situation," said
Mr.
Povey, in a tone that corresponded to his words.
"I don't
know what you mean, Mr. Povey," said Mrs. Baines
stiffly.
This was a simple lie.
"Well,
really, Mrs. Baines!" Mr. Povey protested, "I
suppose you won't deny that you know there is
something between me and Constance? I suppose
you won't deny that?"
"What is
there between you and Constance? I can assure
you I—"
"That
depends on you," Mr. Povey interrupted her. When
he was nervous his manners deteriorated into a
behaviour that resembled rudeness. "That depends
on you!" he repeated grimly.
"But—"
"Are we to
be engaged or are we not?" pursued Mr. Povey, as
though Mrs. Baines had been guilty of some grave
lapse and he was determined not to spare her.
"That's what I think ought to be settled, one
way or the other. I wish to be perfectly open
and aboveboard—in the future, as I have been in
the past."
"But you
have said nothing to me at all!" Mrs. Baines
remonstrated, lifting her eyebrows. The way in
which the man had sprung this matter upon her
was truly too audacious.
Mr. Povey
approached her as she sat at the table, shaking
her ringlets and looking at her hands.
"You know
there's something between us!" he insisted.
"How should
I know there is something between you? Constance
has never said a word to me. And have you?"
"Well,"
said he. "We've hidden nothing."
"What is
there between you and Constance? If I may ask!"
"That
depends on you," said he again.
"Have you
asked her to be your wife?"
"No. I
haven't exactly asked her to be my wife." He
hesitated.
"You see—"
Mrs. Baines
collected her forces. "Have you kissed her?"
This in a cold voice.
Mr. Povey
now blushed. "I haven't exactly kissed her," he
stammered, apparently shocked by the
inquisition. "No, I should not say that I had
kissed her."
It might
have been that before committing himself he felt
a desire for Mrs. Baines's definition of a kiss.
"You are
very extraordinary," she said loftily. It was no
less than the truth.
"All I want
to know is—have you got anything against me?" he
demanded roughly. "Because if so—"
"Anything
against you, Mr. Povey? Why should I have
anything against you?"
"Then why
can't we be engaged?"
She
considered that he was bullying her. "That's
another question," said she.
"Why can't
we be engaged? Ain't I good enough?"
The fact
was that he was not regarded as good enough.
Mrs. Maddack had certainly deemed that he was
not good enough. He was a solid mass of
excellent qualities; but he lacked brilliance,
importance, dignity. He could not impose
himself. Such had been the verdict.
And now,
while Mrs. Baines was secretly reproaching Mr.
Povey for his inability to impose himself, he
was most patently imposing himself on her—and
the phenomenon escaped her! She felt that he was
bullying her, but somehow she could not perceive
his power. Yet the man who could bully Mrs.
Baines was surely no common soul!
"You know
my very high opinion of you," she said.
Mr. Povey
pursued in a mollified tone. "Assuming that
Constance is willing to be engaged, do I
understand you consent?"
"But
Constance is too young."
"Constance
is twenty. She is more than twenty."
"In any
case you won't expect me to give you an answer
now."
"Why not?
You know my position."
She did.
From a practical point of view the match would
be ideal: no fault could be found with it on
that side. But Mrs. Baines could not extinguish
the idea that it would be a 'come-down' for her
daughter. Who, after all, was Mr. Povey? Mr.
Povey was nobody.
"I must
think things over," she said firmly, putting her
lips together. "I can't reply like this. It is a
serious matter."
"When can I
have your answer? To-morrow?"
"No—really—"
"In a week,
then?"
"I cannot
bind myself to a date," said Mrs. Baines,
haughtily. She felt that she was gaining ground.
"Because I
can't stay on here indefinitely as things are,"
Mr.
Povey burst out, and there was a touch of
hysteria in his tone.
"Now, Mr.
Povey, please do be reasonable."
"That's all
very well," he went on. "That's all very well.
But what I say is that employers have no right
to have male assistants in their houses unless
they are prepared to let their daughters marry!
That's what I say! No RIGHT!"
Mrs. Baines
did not know what to answer.
The
aspirant wound up: "I must leave if that's the
case."
"If what's
the case?" she asked herself. "What has come
over him?" And aloud: "You know you would place
me in a very awkward position by leaving, and I
hope you don't want to mix up two quite
different things. I hope you aren't trying to
threaten me."
"Threaten
you!" he cried. "Do you suppose I should leave
here for fun? If I leave it will be because I
can't stand it. That's all. I can't stand it. I
want Constance, and if I can't have her, then I
can't stand it. What do you think I'm made of?"
"I'm sure—"
she began.
"That's all
very well!" he almost shouted.
"But please
let me speak,' she said quietly.
"All I say
is I can't stand it. That's all. … Employers
have no right. … We have our feelings like other
men."
He was
deeply moved. He might have appeared somewhat
grotesque to the strictly impartial observer of
human nature. Nevertheless he was deeply and
genuinely moved, and possibly human nature could
have shown nothing more human than Mr. Povey at
the moment when, unable any longer to restrain
the paroxysm which had so surprisingly overtaken
him, he fled from the parlour, passionately, to
the retreat of his bedroom.
"That's the
worst of those quiet calm ones," said Mrs.
Baines to herself. "You never know if they won't
give way. And when they do, it's awful—awful. …
What did I do, what did I say, to bring it on?
Nothing! Nothing!"
And where
was her afternoon sleep? What was going to
happen to her daughter? What could she say to
Constance? How next could she meet Mr. Povey?
Ah! It needed a brave, indomitable woman not to
cry out brokenly: "I've suffered too much. Do
anything you like; only let me die in peace!"
And so saying, to let everything indifferently
slide!
III
Neither Mr.
Povey nor Constance introduced the delicate
subject to her again, and she was determined not
to be the first to speak of it. She considered
that Mr. Povey had taken advantage of his
position, and that he had also been infantile
and impolite. And somehow she privately blamed
Constance for his behaviour. So the matter hung,
as it were, suspended in the ether between the
opposing forces of pride and passion.
Shortly
afterwards events occurred compared to which the
vicissitudes of Mr. Povey's heart were of no
more account than a shower of rain in April. And
fate gave no warning of them; it rather
indicated a complete absence of events. When the
customary advice circular arrived from
Birkinshaws, the name of 'our Mr. Gerald Scales'
was replaced on it by another and an unfamiliar
name. Mrs. Baines, seeing the circular by
accident, experienced a sense of relief, mingled
with the professional disappointment of a
diplomatist who has elaborately provided for
contingencies which have failed to happen. She
had sent Sophia away for nothing; and no doubt
her maternal affection had exaggerated a
molehill into a mountain. Really, when she
reflected on the past, she could not recall a
single fact that would justify her theory of an
attachment secretly budding between Sophia and
the young man Scales! Not a single little fact!
All she could bring forward was that Sophia had
twice encountered Scales in the street.
She felt a
curious interest in the fate of Scales, for whom
in her own mind she had long prophesied evil,
and when Birkinshaws' representative came she
took care to be in the shop; her intention was
to converse with him, and ascertain as much as
was ascertainable, after Mr. Povey had
transacted business. For this purpose, at a
suitable moment, she traversed the shop to Mr.
Povey's side, and in so doing she had a fleeting
view of King Street, and in King Street of a
familiar vehicle. She stopped, and seemed to
catch the distant sound of knocking. Abandoning
the traveller, she hurried towards the parlour,
in the passage she assuredly did hear knocking,
angry and impatient knocking, the knocking of
someone who thinks he has knocked too long.
"Of course
Maggie is at the top of the house!" she muttered
sarcastically.
She
unchained, unbolted, and unlocked the side-door.
"At last!"
It was Aunt Harriet's voice, exacerbated. "What!
You, sister? You're soon up. What a blessing!"
The two
majestic and imposing creatures met on the mat,
craning forward so that their lips might meet
above their terrific bosoms.
"What's the
matter?" Mrs. Baines asked, fearfully.
"Well, I do
declare!" said Mrs. Maddack. "And I've driven
specially over to ask you!"
"Where's
Sophia?" demanded Mrs. Baines.
"You don't
mean to say she's not come, sister?" Mrs.
Maddack sank down on to the sofa.
"Come?"
Mrs. Baines repeated. "Of course she's not come!
What do you mean, sister?"
"The very
moment she got Constance's letter yesterday,
saying you were ill in bed and she'd better come
over to help in the shop, she started. I got
Bratt's dog-cart for her."
Mrs. Baines
in her turn also sank down on to the sofa.
"I've not
been ill," she said. "And Constance hasn't
written for a week! Only yesterday I was telling
her—"
"Sister—it
can't be! Sophia had letters from Constance
every morning. At least she said they were from
Constance. I told her to be sure and write me
how you were last night, and she promised
faithfully she would. And it was because I got
nothing by this morning's post that I decided to
come over myself, to see if it was anything
serious."
"Serious it
is!" murmured Mrs. Baines.
"What—"
"Sophia's
run off. That's the plain English of it!" said
Mrs.
Baines with frigid calm.
"Nay! That
I'll never believe. I've looked after Sophia
night and day as if she was my own, and—"
"If she
hasn't run off, where is she?"
Mrs.
Maddack opened the door with a tragic gesture.
"Bladen,"
she called in a loud voice to the driver of the
waggonette, who was standing on the pavement.
"Yes'm."
"It was
Pember drove Miss Sophia yesterday, wasn't it?"
"Yes'm."
She
hesitated. A clumsy question might enlighten a
member of the class which ought never to be
enlightened about one's private affairs.
"He didn't
come all the way here?"
"No'm. He
happened to say last night when he got back as
Miss
Sophia had told him to set her down at Knype
Station."
"I thought
so!" said Mrs. Maddack, courageously.
"Yes'm."
"Sister!"
she moaned, after carefully shutting the door.
They clung
to each other.
The horror
of what had occurred did not instantly take full
possession of them, because the power of
credence, of imaginatively realizing a supreme
event, whether of great grief or of great
happiness, is ridiculously finite. But every
minute the horror grew more clear, more intense,
more tragically dominant over them. There were
many things that they could not say to each
other,—from pride, from shame, from the
inadequacy of words. Neither could utter the
name of Gerald Scales. And Aunt Harriet could
not stoop to defend herself from a possible
charge of neglect; nor could Mrs. Baines stoop
to assure her sister that she was incapable of
preferring such a charge. And the sheer, immense
criminal folly of Sophia could not even be
referred to: it was unspeakable. So the
interview proceeded, lamely, clumsily,
inconsequently, leading to naught.
Sophia was
gone. She was gone with Gerald Scales.
That
beautiful child, that incalculable, untamable,
impossible creature, had committed the final
folly; without pretext or excuse, and with what
elaborate deceit! Yes, without excuse! She had
not been treated harshly; she had had a degree
of liberty which would have astounded and
shocked her grandmothers; she had been petted,
humoured, spoilt. And her answer was to disgrace
the family by an act as irrevocable as it was
utterly vicious. If among her desires was the
desire to humiliate those majesties, her mother
and Aunt Harriet, she would have been content
could she have seen them on the sofa there,
humbled, shamed, mortally wounded! Ah, the
monstrous Chinese cruelty of youth!
What was to
be done? Tell dear Constance? No, this was not,
at the moment, an affair for the younger
generation. It was too new and raw for the
younger generation. Moreover, capable, proud,
and experienced as they were, they felt the need
of a man's voice, and a man's hard, callous
ideas. It was a case for Mr. Critchlow. Maggie
was sent to fetch him, with a particular request
that he should come to the side-door. He came
expectant, with the pleasurable anticipation of
disaster, and he was not disappointed. He passed
with the sisters the happiest hour that had
fallen to him for years. Quickly he arranged the
alternatives for them. Would they tell the
police, or would they take the risks of waiting?
They shied away, but with fierce brutality he
brought them again and again to the immediate
point of decision. … Well, they could not tell
the police! They simply could not. Then they
must face another danger. … He had no mercy for
them. And while he was torturing them there
arrived a telegram, despatched from Charing
Cross, "I am all right, Sophia." That proved, at
any rate, that the child was not heartless, not
merely careless.
Only
yesterday, it seemed to Mrs. Baines, she had
borne Sophia; only yesterday she was a baby, a
schoolgirl to be smacked. The years rolled up in
a few hours. And now she was sending telegrams
from a place called Charing Cross! How unlike
was the hand of the telegram to Sophia's hand!
How mysteriously curt and inhuman was that
official hand, as Mrs. Baines stared at it
through red, wet eyes!
Mr.
Critchlow said some one should go to Manchester,
to ascertain about Scales. He went himself, that
afternoon, and returned with the news that an
aunt of Scales had recently died, leaving him
twelve thousand pounds, and that he had, after
quarrelling with his uncle Boldero, abandoned
Birkinshaws at an hour's notice and vanished
with his inheritance.
"It's as
plain as a pikestaff," said Mr. Critchlow. "I
could ha' warned ye o' all this years ago, even
since she killed her father!"
Mr.
Critchlow left nothing unsaid.
During the
night Mrs. Baines lived through all Sophia's
life, lived through it more intensely than ever
Sophia had done.
The next
day people began to know. A whisper almost
inaudible went across the Square, and into the
town: and in the stillness every one heard it.
"Sophia Baines run off with a commercial!"
In another
fortnight a note came, also dated from London.
"Dear
Mother, I am married to Gerald Scales. Please
don't worry about me. We are going abroad. Your
affectionate Sophia. Love to Constance." No
tear-stains on that pale blue sheet! No sign of
agitation!
And Mrs.
Baines said: "My life is over." It was, though
she was scarcely fifty. She felt old, old and
beaten. She had fought and been vanquished. The
everlasting purpose had been too much for her.
Virtue had gone out of her—the virtue to hold up
her head and look the Square in the face. She,
the wife of John Baines! She, a Syme of Axe!
Old houses,
in the course of their history, see sad sights,
and never forget them! And ever since, in the
solemn physiognomy of the triple house of John
Baines at the corner of St. Luke's Square and
King Street, have remained the traces of the
sight it saw on the morning of the afternoon
when Mr. and Mrs. Povey returned from their
honeymoon—the sight of Mrs. Baines getting into
the waggonette for Axe; Mrs. Baines, encumbered
with trunks and parcels, leaving the scene of
her struggles and her defeat, whither she had
once come as slim as a wand, to return stout and
heavy, and heavy-hearted, to her childhood;
content to live with her grandiose sister until
such time as she should be ready for burial! The
grimy and impassive old house perhaps heard her
heart saying: "Only yesterday they were little
girls, ever so tiny, and now—" The driving-off
of a waggonette can be a dreadful thing.
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BOOK II
CONSTANCE
CHAPTER I
REVOLUTION
I
"Well,"
said Mr. Povey, rising from the rocking-chair
that in a previous age had been John Baines's,
"I've got to make a start some time, so I may as
well begin now!"
And he went
from the parlour into the shop. Constance's eye
followed him as far as the door, where their
glances met for an instant in the transient gaze
which expresses the tenderness of people who
feel more than they kiss.
It was on
the morning of this day that Mrs. Baines,
relinquishing the sovereignty of St. Luke's
Square, had gone to live as a younger sister in
the house of Harriet Maddack at Axe. Constance
guessed little of the secret anguish of that
departure. She only knew that it was just like
her mother, having perfectly arranged the entire
house for the arrival of the honeymoon couple
from Buxton, to flit early away so as to spare
the natural blushing diffidence of the said
couple. It was like her mother's commonsense and
her mother's sympathetic comprehension. Further,
Constance did not pursue her mother's feelings,
being far too busy with her own. She sat there
full of new knowledge and new importance,
brimming with experience and strange, unexpected
aspirations, purposes, yes—and cunnings! And
yet, though the very curves of her cheeks seemed
to be mysteriously altering, the old Constance
still lingered in that frame, an innocent soul
hesitating to spread its wings and quit for ever
the body which had been its home; you could see
the timid thing peeping wistfully out of the
eyes of the married woman.
Constance
rang the bell for Maggie to clear the table; and
as she did so she had the illusion that she was
not really a married woman and a house-mistress,
but only a kind of counterfeit. She did most
fervently hope that all would go right in the
house—at any rate until she had grown more
accustomed to her situation.
The hope
was to be disappointed. Maggie's rather silly,
obsequious smile concealed but for a moment the
ineffable tragedy that had lain in wait for
unarmed Constance.
"If you
please, Mrs. Povey," said Maggie, as she crushed
cups together on the tin tray with her great,
red hands, which always looked like something
out of a butcher's shop; then a pause, "Will you
please accept of this?"
Now, before
the wedding Maggie had already, with tears of
affection, given Constance a pair of blue glass
vases (in order to purchase which she had been
obliged to ask for special permission to go
out), and Constance wondered what was coming now
from Maggie's pocket. A small piece of folded
paper came from Maggie's pocket. Constance
accepted of it, and read: "I begs to give one
month's notice to leave. Signed Maggie. June 10,
1867."
"Maggie!"
exclaimed the old Constance, terrified by this
incredible occurrence, ere the married woman
could strangle her.
"I never
give notice before, Mrs. Povey," said Maggie,
"so I don't know as I know how it ought for be
done—not rightly. But I hope as you'll accept of
it, Mrs. Povey."
"Oh! of
course," said Mrs. Povey, primly, just as if
Maggie was not the central supporting pillar of
the house, just as if Maggie had not assisted at
her birth, just as if the end of the world had
not abruptly been announced, just as if St.
Luke's Square were not inconceivable without
Maggie. "But why—"
"Well, Mrs.
Povey, I've been a-thinking it over in my
kitchen, and I said to myself: 'If there's going
to be one change there'd better be two,' I says.
Not but what I wouldn't work my fingers to the
bone for ye, Miss Constance."
Here Maggie
began to cry into the tray.
Constance
looked at her. Despite the special muslin of
that day she had traces of the slatternliness of
which Mrs. Baines had never been able to cure
her. She was over forty, big, gawky. She had no
figure, no charms of any kind. She was what was
left of a woman after twenty-two years in the
cave of a philanthropic family. And in her cave
she had actually been thinking things over!
Constance detected for the first time, beneath
the dehumanized drudge, the stirrings of a
separate and perhaps capricious individuality.
Maggie's engagements had never been real to her
employers. Within the house she had never been,
in practice, anything but 'Maggie'—an organism.
And now she was permitting herself ideas about
changes!
"You'll
soon be suited with another, Mrs. Povey," said
Maggie.
"There's many a—many a—" She burst into sobs.
"But if you
really want to leave, what are you crying for,
Maggie?" asked Mrs. Povey, at her wisest. "Have
you told mother?"
"No, miss,"
Maggie whimpered, absently wiping her wrinkled
cheeks with ineffectual muslin. "I couldn't seem
to fancy telling your mother. And as you're the
mistress now, I thought as I'd save it for you
when you come home. I hope you'll excuse me,
Mrs. Povey."
"Of course
I'm very sorry. You've been a very good servant.
And in these days—"
The child
had acquired this turn of speech from her
mother. It did not appear to occur to either of
them that they were living in the sixties.
"Thank ye,
miss."
"And what
are you thinking of doing, Maggie? You know you
won't get many places like this."
"To tell ye
the truth, Mrs. Povey, I'm going to get married
mysen."
"Indeed!"
murmured Constance, with the perfunctoriness of
habit in replying to these tidings.
"Oh! but I
am, mum," Maggie insisted. "It's all settled.
Mr.
Hollins, mum."
"Not
Hollins, the fish-hawker!"
"Yes, mum.
I seem to fancy him. You don't remember as him
and me was engaged in '48. He was my first,
like. I broke it off because he was in that
Chartist lot, and I knew as Mr. Baines would
never stand that. Now he's asked me again. He's
been a widower this long time."
"I'm sure I
hope you'll be happy, Maggie. But what about his
habits?"
"He won't
have no habits with me, Mrs. Povey."
A woman was
definitely emerging from the drudge.
When
Maggie, having entirely ceased sobbing, had put
the folded cloth in the table-drawer and
departed with the tray, her mistress became
frankly the girl again. No primness about her as
she stood alone there in the parlour; no
pretence that Maggie's notice to leave was an
everyday document, to be casually glanced at—as
one glances at an unpaid bill! She would be
compelled to find a new servant, making solemn
inquiries into character, and to train the new
servant, and to talk to her from heights from
which she had never addressed Maggie. At that
moment she had an illusion that there were no
other available, suitable servants in the whole
world. And the arranged marriage? She felt that
this time—the thirteenth or fourteenth time—the
engagement was serious and would only end at the
altar. The vision of Maggie and Hollins at the
altar shocked her. Marriage was a series of
phenomena, and a general state, very holy and
wonderful—too sacred, somehow, for such
creatures as Maggie and Hollins. Her vague,
instinctive revolt against such a usage of
matrimony centred round the idea of a strong,
eternal smell of fish. However, the projected
outrage on a hallowed institution troubled her
much less than the imminent problem of domestic
service.
She ran
into the shop—or she would have run if she had
not checked her girlishness betimes—and on her
lips, ready to be whispered importantly into a
husband's astounded ear, were the words, "Maggie
has given notice! Yes! Truly!" But Samuel Povey
was engaged. He was leaning over the counter and
staring at an outspread paper upon which a
certain Mr. Yardley was making strokes with a
thick pencil. Mr. Yardley, who had a long red
beard, painted houses and rooms. She knew him
only by sight. In her mind she always associated
him with the sign over his premises in Trafalgar
Road, "Yardley Bros., Authorised plumbers.
Painters. Decorators. Paper-hangers. Facia
writers." For years, in childhood, she had
passed that sign without knowing what sort of
things 'Bros,' and 'Facia' were, and what was
the mysterious similarity between a plumber and
a version of the Bible. She could not interrupt
her husband, he was wholly absorbed; nor could
she stay in the shop (which appeared just a
little smaller than usual), for that would have
meant an unsuccessful endeavour to front the
young lady-assistants as though nothing in
particular had happened to her. So she went
sedately up the showroom stairs and thus to the
bedroom floors of the house—her house! Mrs.
Povey's house! She even climbed to Constance's
old bedroom; her mother had stripped the
bed—that was all, except a slight diminution of
this room, corresponding to that of the shop!
Then to the drawing-room. In the recess outside
the drawing-room door the black box of silver
plate still lay. She had expected her mother to
take it; but no! Assuredly her mother was one to
do things handsomely—when she did them. In the
drawing-room, not a tassel of an antimacassar
touched! Yes, the fire-screen, the luscious
bunch of roses on an expanse of mustard, which
Constance had worked for her mother years ago,
was gone! That her mother should have clung to
just that one souvenir, out of all the heavy
opulence of the drawing-room, touched Constance
intimately. She perceived that if she could not
talk to her husband she must write to her
mother. And she sat down at the oval table and
wrote, "Darling mother, I am sure you will be
very surprised to hear. … She means it. … I
think she is making a serious mistake. Ought I
to put an advertisement in the Signal, or will
it do if. … Please write by return. We are back
and have enjoyed ourselves very much. Sam says
he enjoys getting up late. …" And so on to the
last inch of the fourth scolloped page.
She was
obliged to revisit the shop for a stamp, stamps
being kept in Mr. Povey's desk in the corner—a
high desk, at which you stood. Mr. Povey was now
in earnest converse with Mr. Yardley at the
door, and twilight, which began a full hour
earlier in the shop than in the Square, had cast
faint shadows in corners behind counters.
"Will you
just run out with this to the pillar, Miss
Dadd?"
"With
pleasure, Mrs. Povey."
"Where are
you going to?" Mr. Povey interrupted his
conversation to stop the flying girl.
"She's just
going to the post for me," Constance called out
from the region of the till.
"Oh! All
right!"
A trifle! A
nothing! Yet somehow, in the quiet customerless
shop, the episode, with the scarce perceptible
difference in Samuel's tone at his second
remark, was delicious to Constance. Somehow it
was the REAL beginning of her wifehood. (There
had been about nine other real beginnings in the
past fortnight.)
Mr. Povey
came in to supper, laden with ledgers and
similar works which Constance had never even
pretended to understand. It was a sign from him
that the honeymoon was over. He was proprietor
now, and his ardour for ledgers most
justifiable. Still, there was the question of
her servant.
"Never!" he
exclaimed, when she told him all about the end
of the world. A 'never' which expressed extreme
astonishment and the liveliest concern!
But
Constance had anticipated that he would have
been just a little more knocked down, bowled
over, staggered, stunned, flabbergasted. In a
swift gleam of insight she saw that she had been
in danger of forgetting her role of experienced,
capable married woman.
"I shall
have to set about getting a fresh one," she said
hastily, with an admirable assumption of light
and easy casualness.
Mr. Povey
seemed to think that Hollins would suit Maggie
pretty well. He made no remark to the betrothed
when she answered the final bell of the night.
He opened
his ledgers, whistling.
"I think I
shall go up, dear," said Constance. "I've a lot
of things to put away."
"Do," said
he. "Call out when you've done."
II
"Sam!" she
cried from the top of the crooked stairs.
No answer.
The door at the foot was closed.
"Sam!"
"Hello?"
Distantly, faintly.
"I've done
all I'm going to do to-night."
And she ran
back along the corridor, a white figure in the
deep gloom, and hurried into bed, and drew the
clothes up to her chin.
In the life
of a bride there are some dramatic moments. If
she has married the industrious apprentice, one
of those moments occurs when she first occupies
the sacred bed-chamber of her ancestors, and the
bed on which she was born. Her parents' room had
always been to Constance, if not sacred, at
least invested with a certain moral solemnity.
She could not enter it as she would enter
another room. The course of nature, with its
succession of deaths, conceptions, and births,
slowly makes such a room august with a
mysterious quality which interprets the grandeur
of mere existence and imposes itself on all.
Constance had the strangest sensations in that
bed, whose heavy dignity of ornament symbolized
a past age; sensations of sacrilege and
trespass, of being a naughty girl to whom
punishment would accrue for this shocking freak.
Not since she was quite tiny had she slept in
that bed—one night with her mother, before her
father's seizure, when he had been away. What a
limitless, unfathomable bed it was then! Now it
was just a bed—so she had to tell herself—like
any other bed. The tiny child that, safely
touching its mother, had slept in the vast
expanse, seemed to her now a pathetic little
thing; its image made her feel melancholy. And
her mind dwelt on sad events: the death of her
father, the flight of darling Sophia; the
immense grief, and the exile, of her mother. She
esteemed that she knew what life was, and that
it was grim. And she sighed. But the sigh was an
affectation, meant partly to convince herself
that she was grown- up, and partly to keep her
in countenance in the intimidating bed. This
melancholy was factitious, was less than
transient foam on the deep sea of her joy. Death
and sorrow and sin were dim shapes to her; the
ruthless egoism of happiness blew them away with
a puff, and their wistful faces vanished. To see
her there in the bed, framed in mahogany and
tassels, lying on her side, with her young
glowing cheeks, and honest but not artless gaze,
and the rich curve of her hip lifting the
counterpane, one would have said that she had
never heard of aught but love.
Mr. Povey
entered, the bridegroom, quickly, firmly,
carrying it off rather well, but still
self-conscious. "After all," his shoulders were
trying to say, "what's the difference between
this bedroom and the bedroom of a
boarding-house? Indeed, ought we not to feel
more at home here? Besides, confound it, we've
been married a fortnight!"
"Doesn't it
give you a funny feeling, sleeping in this room?
It does me," said Constance. Women, even
experienced women, are so foolishly frank. They
have no decency, no self-respect.
"Really?"
replied Mr. Povey, with loftiness, as who should
say: "What an extraordinary thing that a
reasonable creature can have such fancies! Now
to me this room is exactly like any other room."
And he added aloud, glancing away from the
glass, where he was unfastening his necktie:
"It's not a bad room at all." This, with the
judicial air of an auctioneer.
Not for an
instant did he deceive Constance, who read his
real sensations with accuracy. But his futile
poses did not in the slightest degree lessen her
respect for him. On the contrary, she admired
him the more for them; they were a sort of
embroidery on the solid stuff of his character.
At that period he could not do wrong for her.
The basis of her regard for him was, she often
thought, his honesty, his industry, his genuine
kindliness of act, his grasp of the business,
his perseverance, his passion for doing at once
that which had to be done. She had the greatest
admiration for his qualities, and he was in her
eyes an indivisible whole; she could not admire
one part of him and frown upon another. Whatever
he did was good because he did it. She knew that
some people were apt to smile at certain phases
of his individuality; she knew that far down in
her mother's heart was a suspicion that she had
married ever so little beneath her. But this
knowledge did not disturb her. She had no doubt
as to the correctness of her own estimate.
Mr. Povey
was an exceedingly methodical person, and he was
also one of those persons who must always be
'beforehand' with time. Thus at night he would
arrange his raiment so that in the morning it
might be reassumed in the minimum of minutes. He
was not a man, for example, to leave the
changing of studs from one shirt to another till
the morrow. Had it been practicable, he would
have brushed his hair the night before.
Constance already loved to watch his meticulous
preparations. She saw him now go into his old
bedroom and return with a paper collar, which he
put on the dressing-table next to a black
necktie. His shop-suit was laid out on a chair.
"Oh, Sam!"
she exclaimed impulsively, "you surely aren't
going to begin wearing those horrid paper
collars again!" During the honeymoon he had worn
linen collars.
Her tone
was perfectly gentle, but the remark,
nevertheless, showed a lack of tact. It implied
that all his life Mr. Povey had been enveloping
his neck in something which was horrid. Like all
persons with a tendency to fall into the
ridiculous, Mr. Povey was exceedingly sensitive
to personal criticisms. He flushed darkly.
"I didn't
know they were 'horrid,'" he snapped. He was
hurt and angry. Anger had surprised him
unawares.
Both of
them suddenly saw that they were standing on the
edge of a chasm, and drew back. They had
imagined themselves to be wandering safely in a
flowered meadow, and here was this bottomless
chasm! It was most disconcerting.
Mr. Povey's
hand hovered undecided over the collar.
"However—" he muttered.
She could
feel that he was trying with all his might to be
gentle and pacific. And she was aghast at her
own stupid clumsiness, she so experienced!
"Just as
you like, dear," she said quickly. "Please!"
"Oh no!"
And he did his best to smile, and went off
gawkily with the collar and came back with a
linen one.
Her passion
for him burned stronger than ever. She knew then
that she did not love him for his good
qualities, but for something boyish and naive
that there was about him, an indescribable
something that occasionally, when his face was
close to hers, made her dizzy.
The chasm
had disappeared. In such moments, when each must
pretend not to have seen or even suspected the
chasm, small-talk is essential.
"Wasn't
that Mr. Yardley in the shop to-night?" began
Constance.
"Yes."
"What did
he want?"
"I'd sent
for him. He's going to paint us a signboard."
Useless for
Samuel to make-believe that nothing in this
world is more ordinary than a signboard.
"Oh!"
murmured Constance. She said no more, the
episode of the paper collar having weakened her
self-confidence.
But a
signboard!
What with
servants, chasms, and signboards, Constance
considered that her life as a married woman
would not be deficient in excitement. Long
afterwards, she fell asleep, thinking of Sophia.
III
A few days
later Constance was arranging the more precious
of her wedding presents in the parlour; some had
to be wrapped in tissue and in brown paper and
then tied with string and labelled; others had
special cases of their own, leather without and
velvet within. Among the latter was the
resplendent egg-stand holding twelve silver-gilt
egg-cups and twelve chased spoons to match,
presented by Aunt Harriet. In the Five Towns'
phrase, 'it must have cost money.' Even if Mr.
and Mrs. Povey had ten guests or ten children,
and all the twelve of them were simultaneously
gripped by a desire to eat eggs at breakfast or
tea—even in this remote contingency Aunt Harriet
would have been pained to see the egg-stand in
use; such treasures are not designed for use.
The presents, few in number, were mainly of this
character, because, owing to her mother's heroic
cession of the entire interior, Constance
already possessed every necessary. The fewness
of the presents was accounted for by the fact
that the wedding had been strictly private and
had taken place at Axe. There is nothing like
secrecy in marriage for discouraging the
generous impulses of one's friends. It was Mrs.
Baines, abetted by both the chief parties, who
had decided that the wedding should be private
and secluded. Sophia's wedding had been
altogether too private and secluded; but the
casting of a veil over Constance's (whose union
was irreproachable) somehow justified, after the
event, the circumstances of Sophia's, indicating
as it did that Mrs. Baines believed in secret
weddings on principle. In such matters Mrs.
Baines was capable of extraordinary subtlety.
And while
Constance was thus taking her wedding presents
with due seriousness, Maggie was cleaning the
steps that led from the pavement of King Street
to the side-door, and the door was ajar. It was
a fine June morning.
Suddenly,
over the sound of scouring, Constance heard a
dog's low growl and then the hoarse voice of a
man:
"Mester in,
wench?"
"Happen he
is, happen he isn't," came Maggie's answer. She
had no fancy for being called wench.
Constance
went to the door, not merely from curiosity, but
from a feeling that her authority and her
responsibilities as house- mistress extended to
the pavement surrounding the house.
The famous
James Boon, of Buck Row, the greatest
dog-fancier in the Five Towns, stood at the
bottom of the steps: a tall, fat man, clad in
stiff, stained brown and smoking a black clay
pipe less than three inches long. Behind him
attended two bull-dogs.
"Morning,
missis!" cried Boon, cheerfully. "I've heerd
tell as th' mister is looking out for a dog, as
you might say."
"I don't
stay here with them animals a-sniffing at me—no,
that I don't!" observed Maggie, picking herself
up.
"Is he?"
Constance hesitated. She knew that Samuel had
vaguely referred to dogs; she had not, however,
imagined that he regarded a dog as aught but a
beautiful dream. No dog had ever put paw into
that house, and it seemed impossible that one
should ever do so. As for those beasts of prey
on the pavement …!
"Ay!" said
James Boon, calmly.
"I'll tell
him you're here," said Constance. "But I don't
know if he's at liberty. He seldom is at this
time of day. Maggie, you'd better come in."
She went
slowly to the shop, full of fear for the future.
"Sam," she
whispered to her husband, who was writing at his
desk, "here's a man come to see you about a
dog."
Assuredly
he was taken aback. Still, he behaved with much
presence of mind.
"Oh, about
a dog! Who is it?"
"It's that
Jim Boon. He says he's heard you want one."
The
renowned name of Jim Boon gave him pause; but he
had to go through with the affair, and he went
through with it, though nervously. Constance
followed his agitated footsteps to the side-
door.
"Morning,
Boon."
"Morning,
master."
They began
to talk dogs, Mr. Povey, for his part, with due
caution.
"Now,
there's a dog!" said Boon, pointing to one of
the bull-dogs, a miracle of splendid ugliness.
"Yes,"
responded Mr. Povey, insincerely. "He is a
beauty. What's it worth now, at a venture?"
"I'll tak'
a hundred and twenty sovereigns for her," said
Boon.
"Th' other's a bit cheaper—a hundred."
"Oh, Sam!"
gasped Constance.
And even
Mr. Povey nearly lost his nerve. "That's more
than I want to give," said he timidly.
"But look
at her!" Boon persisted, roughly snatching up
the more expensive animal, and displaying her
cannibal teeth.
Mr. Povey
shook his head. Constance glanced away.
"That's not
quite the sort of dog I want," said Mr. Povey.
"Fox-terrier?"
"Yes,
that's more like," Mr. Povey agreed eagerly.
"What'll ye
run to?"
"Oh," said
Mr. Povey, largely, "I don't know."
"Will ye
run to a tenner?"
"I thought
of something cheaper."
"Well, hoo
much? Out wi' it, mester."
"Not more
than two pounds," said Mr. Povey. He would have
said one pound had he dared. The prices of dogs
amazed him.
"I thowt it
was a dog as ye wanted!" said Boon. "Look 'ere,
mester. Come up to my yard and see what I've
got."
"I will,"
said Mr. Povey.
"And bring
missis along too. Now, what about a cat for th'
missis?
Or a gold-fish?"
The end of
the episode was that a young lady aged some
twelve months entered the Povey household on
trial. Her exiguous legs twinkled all over the
parlour, and she had the oddest appearance in
the parlour. But she was so confiding, so
affectionate, so timorous, and her black nose
was so icy in that hot weather, that Constance
loved her violently within an hour. Mr. Povey
made rules for her. He explained to her that she
must never, never go into the shop. But she
went, and he whipped her to the squealing point,
and Constance cried an instant, while admiring
her husband's firmness.
The dog was
not all.
On another
day Constance, prying into the least details of
the parlour, discovered a box of cigars inside
the lid of the harmonium, on the keyboard. She
was so unaccustomed to cigars that at first she
did not realize what the object was. Her father
had never smoked, nor drunk intoxicants; nor had
Mr. Critchlow. Nobody had ever smoked in that
house, where tobacco had always been regarded as
equally licentious with cards, 'the devil's
playthings.' Certainly Samuel had never smoked
in the house, though the sight of the cigar-box
reminded Constance of an occasion when her
mother had announced an incredulous suspicion
that Mr. Povey, fresh from an excursion into the
world on a Thursday evening, 'smelt of smoke.'
She closed
the harmonium and kept silence.
That very
night, coming suddenly into the parlour, she
caught Samuel at the harmonium. The lid went
down with a resonant bang that awoke sympathetic
vibrations in every corner of the room.
"What is
it?" Constance inquired, jumping.
"Oh,
nothing!" replied Mr. Povey, carelessly. Each
was deceiving the other: Mr. Povey hid his
crime, and Constance hid her knowledge of his
crime. False, false! But this is what marriage
is.
And the
next day Constance had a visit in the shop from
a possible new servant, recommended to her by
Mr. Holl, the grocer.
"Will you
please step this way?" said Constance, with
affable primness, steeped in the novel sense of
what it is to be the sole responsible mistress
of a vast household. She preceded the girl to
the parlour, and as they passed the open door of
Mr. Povey's cutting-out room, Constance had the
clear vision and titillating odour of her
husband smoking a cigar. He was in his
shirt-sleeves, calmly cutting out, and Fan (the
lady companion), at watch on the bench, yapped
at the possible new servant.
"I think I
shall try that girl," said she to Samuel at tea.
She said nothing as to the cigar; nor did he.
On the
following evening, after supper, Mr. Povey burst
out:
"I think
I'll have a weed! You didn't know I smoked, did
you?"
Thus Mr.
Povey came out in his true colours as a blood, a
blade, and a gay spark.
But dogs
and cigars, disconcerting enough in their
degree, were to the signboard, when the
signboard at last came, as skim milk is to hot
brandy. It was the signboard that, more
startlingly than anything else, marked the dawn
of a new era in St. Luke's Square. Four men
spent a day and a half in fixing it; they had
ladders, ropes, and pulleys, and two of them
dined on the flat lead roof of the projecting
shop-windows. The signboard was thirty-five feet
long and two feet in depth; over its centre was
a semicircle about three feet in radius; this
semicircle bore the legend, judiciously
disposed, "S. Povey. Late." All the sign-board
proper was devoted to the words, "John Baines,"
in gold letters a foot and a half high, on a
green ground.
The Square
watched and wondered; and murmured: "Well, bless
us!
What next?"
It was
agreed that in giving paramount importance to
the name of his late father-in-law, Mr. Povey
had displayed a very nice feeling.
Some asked
with glee: "What'll the old lady have to say?"
Constance
asked herself this, but not with glee. When
Constance walked down the Square homewards, she
could scarcely bear to look at the sign; the
thought of what her mother might say frightened
her. Her mother's first visit of state was
imminent, and Aunt Harriet was to accompany her.
Constance felt almost sick as the day
approached. When she faintly hinted her
apprehensions to Samuel, he demanded, as if
surprised—
"Haven't
you mentioned it in one of your letters?"
"Oh NO!"
"If that's
all," said he, with bravado, "I'll write and
tell her myself."
IV
So that
Mrs. Baines was duly apprised of the signboard
before her arrival. The letter written by her to
Constance after receiving Samuel's letter, which
was merely the amiable epistle of a son-in- law
anxious to be a little more than correct,
contained no reference to the signboard. This
silence, however, did not in the least allay
Constance's apprehensions as to what might occur
when her mother and Samuel met beneath the
signboard itself. It was therefore with a
fearful as well as an eager, loving heart that
Constance opened her side-door and ran down the
steps when the waggonette stopped in King Street
on the Thursday morning of the great visit of
the sisters. But a surprise awaited her. Aunt
Harriet had not come. Mrs. Baines explained, as
she soundly kissed her daughter, that at the
last moment Aunt Harriet had not felt well
enough to undertake the journey. She sent her
fondest love, and cake. Her pains had recurred.
It was these mysterious pains which had
prevented the sisters from coming to Bursley
earlier. The word "cancer"—the continual terror
of stout women—had been on their lips, without
having been actually uttered; then there was a
surcease, and each was glad that she had
refrained from the dread syllables. In view of
the recurrence, it was not unnatural that Mrs.
Baines's vigorous cheerfulness should be
somewhat forced.
"What is
it, do you think?" Constance inquired.
Mrs. Baines
pushed her lips out and raised her eyebrows—a
gesture which meant that the pains might mean
God knew what.
"I hope
she'll be all right alone," observed Constance.
"Of course," said Mrs. Baines, quickly. "But you
don't suppose I was going to disappoint you, do
you?" she added, looking round as if to defy the
fates in general.
This
speech, and its tone, gave intense pleasure to
Constance; and, laden with parcels, they mounted
the stairs together, very content with each
other, very happy in the discovery that they
were still mother and daughter, very intimate in
an inarticulate way.
Constance
had imagined long, detailed, absorbing, and
highly novel conversations between herself and
her mother upon this their first meeting after
her marriage. But alone in the bedroom, and with
a clear half-hour to dinner, they neither of
them seemed to have a great deal to impart.
Mrs. Baines
slowly removed her light mantle and laid it with
precautions on the white damask counterpane.
Then, fingering her weeds, she glanced about the
chamber. Nothing was changed. Though Constance
had, previous to her marriage, envisaged certain
alterations, she had determined to postpone
them, feeling that one revolutionist in a house
was enough.
"Well, my
chick, you all right?" said Mrs. Baines, with
hearty and direct energy, gazing straight into
her daughter's eyes.
Constance
perceived that the question was universal in its
comprehensiveness, the one unique expression
that the mother would give to her maternal
concern and curiosity, and that it condensed
into six words as much interest as would have
overflowed into a whole day of the chatter of
some mothers. She met the candid glance,
flushing.
"Oh YES!"
she answered with ecstatic fervour. "Perfectly!"
And Mrs.
Baines nodded, as if dismissing THAT. "You're
stouter," said she, curtly. "If you aren't
careful you'll be as big as any of us."
"Oh,
mother!"
The
interview fell to a lower plane of emotion. It
even fell as far as Maggie. What chiefly
preoccupied Constance was a subtle change in her
mother. She found her mother fussy in trifles.
Her manner of laying down her mantle, of
smoothing out her gloves, and her anxiety that
her bonnet should not come to harm, were rather
trying, were perhaps, in the very slightest
degree, pitiable. It was nothing; it was barely
perceptible, and yet it was enough to alter
Constance's mental attitude to her mother. "Poor
dear!" thought Constance. "I'm afraid she's not
what she was." Incredible that her mother could
have age in less than six weeks! Constance did
not allow for the chemistry that had been going
on in herself.
The
encounter between Mrs. Baines and her son-in-law
was of the most satisfactory nature. He was
waiting in the parlour for her to descend. He
made himself exceedingly agreeable, kissing her,
and flattering her by his evidently sincere
desire to please. He explained that he had kept
an eye open for the waggonette, but had been
called away. His "Dear me!" on learning about
Aunt Harriet lacked nothing in conviction,
though both women knew that his affection for
Aunt Harriet would never get the better of his
reason. To Constance, her husband's behaviour
was marvellously perfect. She had not suspected
him to be such a man of the world. And her eyes
said to her mother, quite unconsciously: "You
see, after all, you didn't rate Sam as high as
you ought to have done. Now you see your
mistake."
As they sat
waiting for dinner, Constance and Mrs. Baines on
the sofa, and Samuel on the edge of the nearest
rocking-chair, a small scuffling noise was heard
outside the door which gave on the kitchen
steps, the door yielded to pressure, and Fan
rushed importantly in, deranging mats. Fan's
nose had been hinting to her that she was behind
the times, not up-to-date in the affairs of the
household, and she had hurried from the kitchen
to make inquiries. It occurred to her en route
that she had been washed that morning. The
spectacle of Mrs. Baines stopped her. She stood,
with her legs slightly out-stretched, her nose
lifted, her ears raking forward, her bright eyes
blinking, and her tail undecided. "I was sure
I'd never smelt anything like that before," she
was saying to herself, as she stared at Mrs.
Baines.
And Mrs.
Baines, staring at Fan, had a similar though not
the same sentiment. The silence was terrible.
Constance took on the mien of a culprit, and Sam
had obviously lost his easy bearing of a man of
the world. Mrs. Baines was merely thunderstruck.
A dog!
Suddenly
Fan's tail began to wag more quickly; and then,
having looked in vain for encouragement to her
master and mistress, she gave one mighty spring
and alighted in Mrs. Baines's lap. It was an aim
she could not have missed. Constance emitted an
"Oh, FAN!" of shocked terror, and Samuel
betrayed his nervous tension by an involuntary
movement. But Fan had settled down into that
titanic lap as into heaven. It was a greater
flattery than Mr. Povey's.
"So your
name's Fan!" murmured Mrs. Baines, stroking the
animal.
"You are a dear!"
"Yes, isn't
she?" said Constance, with inconceivable
rapidity.
The danger
was past. Thus, without any explanation, Fan
became an accepted fact.
The next
moment Maggie served the Yorkshire pudding.
"Well,
Maggie," said Mrs. Baines. "So you are going to
get married this time? When is it?"
"Sunday,
ma'am."
"And you
leave here on Saturday?"
"Yes,
ma'am."
"Well, I
must have a talk with you before I go."
During the
dinner, not a word as to the signboard! Several
times the conversation curved towards that
signboard in the most alarming fashion, but
invariably it curved away again, like a train
from another train when two trains are
simultaneously leaving a station. Constance had
frights, so serious as to destroy her anxiety
about the cookery. In the end she comprehended
that her mother had adopted a silently
disapproving attitude. Fan was socially very
useful throughout the repast.
After
dinner Constance was on pins lest Samuel should
light a cigar. She had not requested him not to
do so, for though she was entirely sure of his
affection, she had already learned that a
husband is possessed by a demon of contrariety
which often forces him to violate his higher
feelings. However, Samuel did not light a cigar.
He went off to superintend the shutting-up of
the shop, while Mrs. Baines chatted with Maggie
and gave her L5 for a wedding present. Then Mr.
Critchlow called to offer his salutations.
A little
before tea Mrs. Baines announced that she would
go out for a short walk by herself.
"Where has
she gone to?" smiled Samuel, superiorly, as with
Constance at the window he watched her turn down
King Street towards the church.
"I expect
she has gone to look at father's grave," said
Constance.
"Oh!"
muttered Samuel, apologetically.
Constance
was mistaken. Before reaching the church, Mrs.
Baines deviated to the right, got into Brougham
Street and thence, by Acre Lane, into Oldcastle
Street, whose steep she climbed. Now, Oldcastle
Street ends at the top of St. Luke's Square, and
from the corner Mrs. Baines had an excellent
view of the signboard. It being Thursday
afternoon, scarce a soul was about. She returned
to her daughter's by the same extraordinary
route, and said not a word on entering. But she
was markedly cheerful.
The
waggonette came after tea, and Mrs. Baines made
her final preparations to depart. The visit had
proved a wonderful success; it would have been
utterly perfect if Samuel had not marred it at
the very door of the waggonette. Somehow, he
contrived to be talking of Christmas. Only a
person of Samuel's native clumsiness would have
mentioned Christmas in July.
"You know
you'll spend Christmas with us!" said he into
the waggonette.
"Indeed I
shan't!" replied Mrs. Baines. "Aunt Harriet and
I will expect you at Axe. We've already settled
that."
Mr. Povey
bridled. "Oh no!" he protested, hurt by this
summariness.
Having had
no relatives, except his cousin the
confectioner, for many years, he had dreamt of
at last establishing a family Christmas under
his own roof, and the dream was dear to him.
Mrs. Baines
said nothing. "We couldn't possibly leave the
shop," said Mr. Povey.
"Nonsense!"
Mrs. Baines retorted, putting her lips together.
"Christmas Day is on a Monday."
The
waggonette in starting jerked her head towards
the door and set all her curls shaking. No white
in those curls yet, scarcely a touch of grey!
"I shall
take good care we don't go there anyway," Mr.
Povey mumbled, in his heat, half to himself and
half to Constance.
He had
stained the brightness of the day.
CHAPTER II
CHRISTMAS
AND THE FUTURE
I
Mr. Povey
was playing a hymn tune on the harmonium, it
having been decided that no one should go to
chapel. Constance, in mourning, with a white
apron over her dress, sat on a hassock in front
of the fire; and near her, in a rocking-chair,
Mrs. Baines swayed very gently to and fro. The
weather was extremely cold. Mr. Povey's mittened
hands were blue and red; but, like many
shopkeepers, he had apparently grown almost
insensible to vagaries of temperature. Although
the fire was immense and furious, its influence,
owing to the fact that the mediaeval grate was
designed to heat the flue rather than the room,
seemed to die away at the borders of the fender.
Constance could not have been much closer to it
without being a salamander. The era of good
old-fashioned Christmases, so agreeably
picturesque for the poor, was not yet at an end.
Yes, Samuel
Povey had won the battle concerning the locus of
the family Christmas. But he had received the
help of a formidable ally, death. Mrs. Harriet
Maddack had passed away, after an operation,
leaving her house and her money to her sister.
The solemn rite of her interment had deeply
affected all the respectability of the town of
Axe, where the late Mr. Maddack had been a
figure of consequence; it had even shut up the
shop in St. Luke's Square for a whole day. It
was such a funeral as Aunt Harriet herself would
have approved, a tremendous ceremonial which
left on the crushed mind an ineffaceable,
intricate impression of shiny cloth, crape,
horses with arching necks and long manes, the
drawl of parsons, cake, port, sighs, and
Christian submission to the inscrutable decrees
of Providence. Mrs. Baines had borne herself
with unnatural calmness until the funeral was
over: and then Constance perceived that the
remembered mother of her girlhood existed no
longer. For the majority of human souls it would
have been easier to love a virtuous principle,
or a mountain, than to love Aunt Harriet, who
was assuredly less a woman than an institution.
But Mrs. Baines had loved her, and she had been
the one person to whom Mrs. Baines looked for
support and guidance. When she died, Mrs. Baines
paid the tribute of respect with the last
hoarded remains of her proud fortitude, and
weepingly confessed that the unconquerable had
been conquered, the inexhaustible exhausted; and
became old with whitening hair.
She had
persisted in her refusal to spend Christmas in
Bursley, but both Constance and Samuel knew that
the resistance was only formal. She soon
yielded. When Constance's second new servant
took it into her head to leave a week before
Christmas, Mrs. Baines might have pointed out
the finger of Providence at work again, and this
time in her favour. But no! With amazing pliancy
she suggested that she should bring one of her
own servants to 'tide Constance over' Christmas.
She was met with all the forms of loving
solicitude, and she found that her daughter and
son-in-law had 'turned out of' the state bedroom
in her favour. Intensely flattered by this
attention (which was Mr. Povey's magnanimous
idea), she nevertheless protested strongly.
Indeed she 'would not hear of it.'
"Now,
mother, don't be silly," Constance had said
firmly. "You don't expect us to be at all the
trouble of moving back again, do you?" And Mrs.
Baines had surrendered in tears.
Thus had
come Christmas. Perhaps it was fortunate that,
the Axe servant being not quite the ordinary
servant, but a benefactor where a benefactor was
needed, both Constance and her mother thought it
well to occupy themselves in household work,
'sparing' the benefactor as much as possible.
Hence Constance's white apron.
"There he
is!" said Mr. Povey, still playing, but with his
eye on the street.
Constance
sprang up eagerly. Then there was a knock on the
door. Constance opened, and an icy blast swept
into the room. The postman stood on the steps,
his instrument for knocking (like a drumstick)
in one hand, a large bundle of letters in the
other, and a yawning bag across the pit of his
stomach.
"Merry
Christmas, ma'am!" cried the postman, trying to
keep warm by cheerfulness.
Constance,
taking the letters, responded, while Mr. Povey,
playing the harmonium with his right hand, drew
half a crown from his pocket with the left.
"Here you
are!" he said, giving it to Constance, who gave
it to the postman.
Fan, who
had been keeping her muzzle warm with the
extremity of her tail on the sofa, jumped down
to superintend the transaction.
"Brrr!"
vibrated Mr. Povey as Constance shut the door.
"What
lots!" Constance exclaimed, rushing to the fire.
"Here, mother! Here, Sam!"
The girl
had resumed possession of the woman's body.
Though the
Baines family had few friends (sustained
hospitality being little practised in those
days) they had, of course, many acquaintances,
and, like other families, they counted their
Christmas cards as an Indian counts scalps. The
tale was satisfactory. There were between thirty
and forty envelopes. Constance extracted
Christmas cards rapidly, reading their contents
aloud, and then propping them up on the
mantelpiece. Mrs. Baines assisted. Fan dealt
with the envelopes on the floor. Mr. Povey, to
prove that his soul was above toys and gewgaws,
continued to play the harmonium.
"Oh,
mother!" Constance murmured in a startled,
hesitant voice, holding an envelope.
"What is
it, my chuck?"
"It's——"
The
envelope was addressed to "Mrs. and Miss Baines"
in large, perpendicular, dashing characters
which Constance instantly recognised as
Sophia's. The stamps were strange, the postmark
'Paris.' Mrs. Baines leaned forward and looked.
"Open it,
child," she said.
The
envelope contained an English Christmas card of
a common type, a spray of holly with greetings,
and on it was written, "I do hope this will
reach you on Christmas morning. Fondest love."
No signature, nor address.
Mrs. Baines
took it with a trembling hand, and adjusted her
spectacles. She gazed at it a long time.
"And it has
done!" she said, and wept.
She tried
to speak again, but not being able to command
herself, held forth the card to Constance and
jerked her head in the direction of Mr. Povey.
Constance rose and put the card on the keyboard
of the harmonium.
"Sophia!"
she whispered.
Mr. Povey
stopped playing. "Dear, dear!" he muttered.
Fan,
perceiving that nobody was interested in her
feats, suddenly stood still.
Mrs. Baines
tried once more to speak, but could not. Then,
her ringlets shaking beneath the band of her
weeds, she found her feet, stepped to the
harmonium, and, with a movement almost
convulsive, snatched the card from Mr. Povey,
and returned to her chair.
Mr. Povey
abruptly left the room, followed by Fan. Both
the women were in tears, and he was tremendously
surprised to discover a dangerous lump in his
own throat. The beautiful and imperious vision
of Sophia, Sophia as she had left them,
innocent, wayward, had swiftly risen up before
him and made even him a woman too! Yet he had
never liked Sophia. The awful secret wound in
the family pride revealed itself to him as never
before, and he felt intensely the mother's
tragedy, which she carried in her breast as Aunt
Harriet had carried a cancer.
At dinner
he said suddenly to Mrs. Baines, who still wept:
"Now, mother, you must cheer up, you know."
"Yes, I
must," she said quickly. And she did do.
Neither
Samuel nor Constance saw the card again. Little
was said. There was nothing to say. As Sophia
had given no address she must be still ashamed
of her situation. But she had thought of her
mother and sister. She … she did not even know
that Constance was married … What sort of a
place was Paris? To Bursley, Paris was nothing
but the site of a great exhibition which had
recently closed.
Through the
influence of Mrs. Baines a new servant was found
for Constance in a village near Axe, a raw,
comely girl who had never been in a 'place.' And
through the post it was arranged that this
innocent should come to the cave on the
thirty-first of December. In obedience to the
safe rule that servants should never be allowed
to meet for the interchange of opinions, Mrs.
Baines decided to leave with her own servant on
the thirtieth. She would not be persuaded to
spend the New Year in the Square. On the
twenty-ninth poor Aunt Maria died all of a
sudden in her cottage in Brougham Street.
Everybody was duly distressed, and in particular
Mrs. Baines's demeanour under this affliction
showed the perfection of correctness. But she
caused it to be understood that she should not
remain for the funeral. Her nerves would be
unequal to the ordeal; and, moreover, her
servant must not stay to corrupt the new girl,
nor could Mrs. Baines think of sending her
servant to Axe in advance, to spend several days
in idle gossip with her colleague.
This
decision took the backbone out of Aunt Maria's
funeral, which touched the extreme of modesty: a
hearse and a one-horse coach. Mr. Povey was
glad, because he happened to be very busy. An
hour before his mother-in-law's departure he
came into the parlour with the proof of a
poster.
"What is
that, Samuel?" asked Mrs. Baines, not dreaming
of the blow that awaited her.
"It's for
my first Annual Sale," replied Mr. Povey with
false tranquillity.
Mrs. Baines
merely tossed her head. Constance, happily for
Constance, was not present at this final defeat
of the old order.
Had she been there, she would certainly not have
known where to
look.
II
"Forty next
birthday!" Mr. Povey exclaimed one day, with an
expression and in a tone that were at once
mock-serious and serious. This was on his
thirty-ninth birthday.
Constance
was startled. She had, of course, been aware
that they were getting older, but she had never
realized the phenomenon. Though customers
occasionally remarked that Mr. Povey was
stouter, and though when she helped him to
measure himself for a new suit of clothes the
tape proved the fact, he had not changed for
her. She knew that she too had become somewhat
stouter; but for herself, she remained exactly
the same Constance. Only by recalling dates and
by calculations could she really grasp that she
had been married a little over six years and not
a little over six months. She had to admit that,
if Samuel would be forty next birthday, she
would be twenty-seven next birthday. But it
would not be a real twenty-seven; nor would
Sam's forty be a real forty, like other people's
twenty-sevens and forties. Not long since she
had been in the habit of regarding a man of
forty as senile, as practically in his grave.
She
reflected, and the more she reflected the more
clearly she saw that after all the almanacs had
not lied. Look at Fan! Yes, it must be five
years since the memorable morning when doubt
first crossed the minds of Samuel and Constance
as to Fan's moral principles. Samuel's
enthusiasm for dogs was equalled by his
ignorance of the dangers to which a young female
of temperament may be exposed, and he was much
disturbed as doubt developed into certainty.
Fan, indeed, was the one being who did not
suffer from shock and who had no fears as to the
results. The animal, having a pure mind, was
bereft of modesty. Sundry enormities had she
committed, but none to rank with this one! The
result was four quadrupeds recognizable as
fox-terriers. Mr. Povey breathed again. Fan had
had more luck than she deserved, for the result
might have been simply anything. Her owners
forgave her and disposed of these fruits of
iniquity, and then married her lawfully to a
husband who was so high up in the world that he
could demand a dowry. And now Fan was a
grandmother, with fixed ideas and habits, and a
son in the house, and various grandchildren
scattered over the town. Fan was a sedate and
disillusioned dog. She knew the world as it was,
and in learning it she had taught her owners
above a bit.
Then there
was Maggie Hollins. Constance could still
vividly recall the self-consciousness with which
she had one day received Maggie and the heir of
the Hollinses; but it was a long time ago. After
staggering half the town by the production of
this infant (of which she nearly died) Maggie
allowed the angels to waft it away to heaven,
and everybody said that she ought to be very
thankful—at her age. Old women dug up out of
their minds forgotten histories of the
eccentricities of the goddess Lucina. Mrs.
Baines was most curiously interested; she talked
freely to Constance, and Constance began to see
what an incredible town Bursley had always
been—and she never suspected it! Maggie was now
mother of other children, and the draggled, lame
mistress of a drunken home, and looked sixty.
Despite her prophecy, her husband had conserved
his 'habits.' The Poveys ate all the fish they
could, and sometimes more than they enjoyed,
because on his sober days Hollins invariably
started his round at the shop, and Constance had
to buy for Maggie's sake. The worst of the
worthless husband was that he seldom failed to
be cheery and polite. He never missed asking
after the health of Mrs. Baines. And when
Constance replied that her mother was 'pretty
well considering,' but that she would not come
over to Bursley again until the Axe railway was
opened, as she could not stand the drive, he
would shake his grey head and be sympathetically
gloomy for an instant.
All these
changes in six years! The almanacs were in the
right of it.
But nothing
had happened to her. Gradually she had obtained
a sure ascendency over her mother, yet without
seeking it, merely as the outcome of time's
influences on her and on her mother
respectively. Gradually she had gained skill and
use in the management of her household and of
her share of the shop, so that these machines
ran smoothly and effectively and a sudden
contretemps no longer frightened her. Gradually
she had constructed a chart of Samuel's
individuality, with the submerged rocks and
perilous currents all carefully marked, so that
she could now voyage unalarmed in those seas.
But nothing happened. Unless their visits to
Buxton could be called happenings! Decidedly the
visit to Buxton was the one little hill that
rose out of the level plain of the year. They
had formed the annual habit of going to Buxton
for ten days. They had a way of saying: "Yes, we
always go to Buxton. We went there for our
honeymoon, you know." They had become confirmed
Buxtonites, with views concerning St. Anne's
Terrace, the Broad Walk and Peel's Cavern. They
could not dream of deserting their Buxton. It
was the sole possible resort. Was it not the
highest town in England? Well, then! They always
stayed at the same lodgings, and grew to be
special favourites of the landlady, who
whispered of them to all her other guests as
having come to her house for their honeymoon,
and as never missing a year, and as being most
respectable, superior people in quite a large
way of business. Each year they walked out of
Buxton station behind their luggage on a truck,
full of joy and pride because they knew all the
landmarks, and the lie of all the streets, and
which were the best shops.
At the
beginning, the notion of leaving the shop to
hired custody had seemed almost fantastic, and
the preparations for absence had been very
complicated. Then it was that Miss Insull had
detached herself from the other young lady
assistants as a creature who could be absolutely
trusted. Miss Insull was older than Constance;
she had a bad complexion, and she was not
clever, but she was one of your reliable ones.
The six years had witnessed the slow, steady
rise of Miss Insull. Her employers said 'Miss
Insull' in a tone quite different from that in
which they said 'Miss Hawkins,' or 'Miss Dadd.'
'Miss Insull' meant the end of a discussion.
'Better tell Miss Insull.' 'Miss Insull will see
to that.' 'I shall ask Miss Insull.' Miss Insull
slept in the house ten nights every year. Miss
Insull had been called into consultation when it
was decided to engage a fourth hand in the shape
of an apprentice.
Trade had
improved in the point of excellence. It was now
admitted to be good—a rare honour for trade! The
coal-mining boom was at its height, and
colliers, in addition to getting drunk, were
buying American organs and expensive
bull-terriers. Often they would come to the shop
to purchase cloth for coats for their dogs. And
they would have good cloth. Mr. Povey did not
like this. One day a butty chose for his dog the
best cloth of Mr. Povey's shop— at 12s. a yard.
"Will ye make it up? I've gotten th'
measurements," asked the collier. "No, I won't!"
said Mr. Povey, hotly. "And what's more, I won't
sell you the cloth either! Cloth at 12s. a yard
on a dog's back indeed! I'll thank you to get
out of my shop!" The incident became historic,
in the Square. It finally established that Mr.
Povey was a worthy son-in-law and a solid and
successful man. It vindicated the old
pre-eminence of "Baines's." Some surprise was
expressed that Mr. Povey showed no desire nor
tendency towards entering the public life of the
town. But he never would, though a keen
satirical critic of the Local Board in private.
And at the chapel he remained a simple private
worshipper, refusing stewardships and
trusteeships.
III
Was
Constance happy? Of course there was always
something on her mind, something that had to be
dealt with, either in the shop or in the house,
something to employ all the skill and experience
which she had acquired. Her life had much in it
of laborious tedium—tedium never-ending and
monotonous. And both she and Samuel worked
consistently hard, rising early, 'pushing
forward,' as the phrase ran, and going to bed
early from sheer fatigue; week after week and
month after month as season changed
imperceptibly into season. In June and July it
would happen to them occasionally to retire
before the last silver of dusk was out of the
sky. They would lie in bed and talk placidly of
their daily affairs. There would be a noise in
the street below. "Vaults closing!" Samuel would
say, and yawn. "Yes, it's quite late," Constance
would say. And the Swiss clock would rapidly
strike eleven on its coil of resonant wire. And
then, just before she went to sleep, Constance
might reflect upon her destiny, as even the
busiest and smoothest women do, and she would
decide that it was kind. Her mother's gradual
decline and lonely life at Axe saddened her. The
cards which came now and then at extremely long
intervals from Sophia had been the cause of more
sorrow than joy. The naive ecstasies of her
girlhood had long since departed—the price paid
for experience and self-possession and a true
vision of things. The vast inherent melancholy
of the universe did not exempt her. But as she
went to sleep she would be conscious of a vague
contentment. The basis of this contentment was
the fact that she and Samuel comprehended and
esteemed each other, and made allowances for
each other. Their characters had been tested and
had stood the test. Affection, love, was not to
them a salient phenomenon in their relations.
Habit had inevitably dulled its glitter. It was
like a flavouring, scarce remarked; but had it
been absent, how they would have turned from
that dish!
Samuel
never, or hardly ever, set himself to meditate
upon the problem whether or not life had come up
to his expectations. But he had, at times,
strange sensations which he did not analyze, and
which approached nearer to ecstasy than any
feeling of Constance's. Thus, when he was in one
of his dark furies, molten within and black
without, the sudden thought of his wife's
unalterable benignant calm, which nothing could
overthrow, might strike him into a wondering
cold. For him she was astoundingly feminine. She
would put flowers on the mantelpiece, and then,
hours afterwards, in the middle of a meal, ask
him unexpectedly what he thought of her
'garden;' and he gradually divined that a
perfunctory reply left her unsatisfied; she
wanted a genuine opinion; a genuine opinion
mattered to her. Fancy calling flowers on a
mantelpiece a 'garden'! How charming, how
childlike! Then she had a way, on Sunday
mornings, when she descended to the parlour all
ready for chapel, of shutting the door at the
foot of the stairs with a little bang, shaking
herself, and turning round swiftly as if for his
inspection, as if saying: "Well, what about
this? Will this do?" A phenomenon always
associated in his mind with the smell of kid
gloves! Invariably she asked him about the
colours and cut of her dresses. Would he prefer
this, or that? He could not take such questions
seriously until one day he happened to hint,
merely hint, that he was not a thorough-going
admirer of a certain new dress—it was her first
new dress after the definite abandonment of
crinolines. She never wore it again. He thought
she was not serious at first, and remonstrated
against a joke being carried too far. She said:
"It's not a bit of use you talking, I shan't
wear it again." And then he so far appreciated
her seriousness as to refrain, by discretion,
from any comment. The incident affected him for
days. It flattered him; it thrilled him; but it
baffled him. Strange that a woman subject to
such caprices should be so sagacious, capable,
and utterly reliable as Constance was! For the
practical and commonsense side of her eternally
compelled his admiration. The very first example
of it—her insistence that the simultaneous
absence of both of them from the shop for half
an hour or an hour twice a day would not mean
the immediate downfall of the business—had
remained in his mind ever since. Had she not
been obstinate—in her benevolent way—against the
old superstition which he had acquired from his
employers, they might have been eating
separately to that day. Then her handling of her
mother during the months of the siege of Paris,
when Mrs. Baines was convinced that her sinful
daughter was in hourly danger of death, had been
extraordinarily fine, he considered. And the
sequel, a card for Constance's birthday, had
completely justified her attitude.
Sometimes
some blundering fool would jovially exclaim to
them:
"What about
that baby?"
Or a woman
would remark quietly: "I often feel sorry you've
no children."
And they
would answer that really they did not know what
they would do if there was a baby. What with the
shop and one thing or another …! And they were
quite sincere.
IV
It is
remarkable what a little thing will draw even
the most regular and serious people from the
deep groove of their habits. One morning in
March, a boneshaker, an affair on two equal
wooden wheels joined by a bar of iron, in the
middle of which was a wooden saddle, disturbed
the gravity of St. Luke's Square. True, it was
probably the first boneshaker that had ever
attacked the gravity of St. Luke's Square. It
came out of the shop of Daniel Povey, the
confectioner and baker, and Samuel Povey's
celebrated cousin, in Boulton Terrace. Boulton
Terrace formed nearly a right angle with the
Baines premises, and at the corner of the angle
Wedgwood Street and King Street left the Square.
The boneshaker was brought forth by Dick Povey,
the only son of Daniel, now aged eleven years,
under the superintendence of his father, and the
Square soon perceived that Dick had a natural
talent for breaking- in an untrained boneshaker.
After a few attempts he could remain on the back
of the machine for at least ten yards, and his
feats had the effect of endowing St. Luke's
Square with the attractiveness of a circus.
Samuel Povey watched with candid interest from
the ambush of his door, while the unfortunate
young lady assistants, though aware of the
performance that was going on, dared not stir
from the stove. Samuel was tremendously tempted
to sally out boldly, and chat with his cousin
about the toy; he had surely a better right to
do so than any other tradesman in the Square,
since he was of the family; but his diffidence
prevented him from moving. Presently Daniel
Povey and Dick went to the top of the Square
with the machine, opposite Holl's, and Dick,
being carefully installed in the saddle, essayed
to descend the gentle paven slopes of the
Square. He failed time after time; the machine
had an astonishing way of turning round, running
uphill, and then lying calmly on its side. At
this point of Dick's life-history every
shop-door in the Square was occupied by an
audience. At last the boneshaker displayed less
unwillingness to obey, and lo! in a moment Dick
was riding down the Square, and the spectators
held their breath as if he had been Blondin
crossing Niagara. Every second he ought to have
fallen off, but he contrived to keep upright.
Already he had accomplished twenty yards—thirty
yards! It was a miracle that he was performing!
The transit continued, and seemed to occupy
hours. And then a faint hope rose in the breast
of the watchers that the prodigy might arrive at
the bottom of the Square. His speed was
increasing with his 'nack.' But the Square was
enormous, boundless. Samuel Povey gazed at the
approaching phenomenon, as a bird at a serpent,
with bulging, beady eyes. The child's speed went
on increasing and his path grew straighter. Yes,
he would arrive; he would do it! Samuel Povey
involuntarily lifted one leg in his nervous
tension. And now the hope that Dick would arrive
became a fear, as his pace grew still more
rapid. Everybody lifted one leg, and gaped. And
the intrepid child surged on, and, finally
victorious, crashed into the pavement in front
of Samuel at the rate of quite six miles an
hour.
Samuel
picked him up, unscathed. And somehow this
picking up of Dick invested Samuel with
importance, gave him a share in the glory of the
feat itself.
Daniel
Povey same running and joyous. "Not so bad for a
start, eh?" exclaimed the great Daniel. Though
by no means a simple man, his pride in his
offspring sometimes made him a little naive.
Father and
son explained the machine to Samuel, Dick
incessantly repeating the exceedingly strange
truth that if you felt you were falling to your
right you must turn to your right and vice
versa. Samuel found himself suddenly admitted,
as it were, to the inner fellowship of the
boneshaker, exalted above the rest of the
Square. In another adventure more thrilling
events occurred. The fair-haired Dick was one of
those dangerous, frenzied madcaps who are born
without fear. The secret of the machine had been
revealed to him in his recent transit, and he
was silently determining to surpass himself.
Precariously balanced, he descended the Square
again, frowning hard, his teeth set, and
actually managed to swerve into King Street.
Constance, in the parlour, saw an
incomprehensible winged thing fly past the
window. The cousins Povey sounded an alarm and
protest and ran in pursuit; for the gradient of
King Street is, in the strict sense, steep.
Half-way down King Street Dick was travelling at
twenty miles an hour, and heading straight for
the church, as though he meant to disestablish
it and perish. The main gate of the churchyard
was open, and that affrighting child, with a
lunatic's luck, whizzed safely through the
portals into God's acre. The cousins Povey
discovered him lying on a green grave, clothed
in pride. His first words were: "Dad, did you
pick my cap up?" The symbolism of the amazing
ride did not escape the Square; indeed, it was
much discussed.
This
incident led to a friendship between the
cousins. They formed a habit of meeting in the
Square for a chat. The meetings were the subject
of comment, for Samuel's relations with the
greater Daniel had always been of the most
distant. It was understood that Samuel
disapproved of Mrs. Daniel Povey even, more than
the majority of people disapproved of her. Mrs.
Daniel Povey, however, was away from home;
probably, had she not been, Samuel would not
even have gone to the length of joining Daniel
on the neutral ground of the open Square. But
having once broken the ice, Samuel was glad to
be on terms of growing intimacy with his cousin.
The friendship flattered him, for Daniel,
despite his wife, was a figure in a world larger
than Samuel's; moreover, it consecrated his
position as the equal of no matter what
tradesman (apprentice though he had been), and
also he genuinely liked and admired Daniel,
rather to his own astonishment.
Every one
liked Daniel Povey; he was a favourite among all
ranks. The leading confectioner, a member of the
Local Board, and a sidesman at St. Luke's, he
was, and had been for twenty-five years, very
prominent in the town. He was a tall, handsome
man, with a trimmed, greying beard, a jolly
smile, and a flashing, dark eye. His good humour
seemed to be permanent. He had dignity without
the slightest stiffness; he was welcomed by his
equals and frankly adored by his inferiors. He
ought to have been Chief Bailiff, for he was
rich enough; but there intervened a mysterious
obstacle between Daniel Povey and the supreme
honour, a scarcely tangible impediment which
could not be definitely stated. He was capable,
honest, industrious, successful, and an
excellent speaker; and if he did not belong to
the austerer section of society, if, for
example, he thought nothing of dropping into the
Tiger for a glass of beer, or of using an oath
occasionally, or of telling a facetious
story—well, in a busy, broad-minded town of
thirty thousand inhabitants, such proclivities
are no bar whatever to perfect esteem. But—how
is one to phrase it without wronging Daniel
Povey? He was entirely moral; his views were
unexceptionable. The truth is that, for the
ruling classes of Bursley, Daniel Povey was just
a little too fanatical a worshipper of the god
Pan. He was one of the remnant who had kept
alive the great Pan tradition from the days of
the Regency through the vast, arid Victorian
expanse of years. The flighty character of his
wife was regarded by many as a judgment upon him
for the robust Rabelaisianism of his more
private conversation, for his frank interest in,
his eternal preoccupation with, aspects of life
and human activity which, though essential to
the divine purpose, are not openly recognized as
such—even by Daniel Poveys. It was not a
question of his conduct; it was a question of
the cast of his mind. If it did not explain his
friendship with the rector of St. Luke's, it
explained his departure from the Primitive
Methodist connexion, to which the Poveys as a
family had belonged since Primitive Methodism
was created in Turnhill in 1807.
Daniel
Povey had a way of assuming that every male was
boiling over with interest in the sacred cult of
Pan. The assumption, though sometimes causing
inconvenience at first, usually conquered by
virtue of its inherent truthfulness. Thus it
fell out with Samuel. Samuel had not suspected
that Pan had silken cords to draw him. He had
always averted his eyes from the god—that is to
say, within reason. Yet now Daniel, on perhaps a
couple of fine mornings a week, in full Square,
with Fan sitting behind on the cold stones, and
Mr. Critchlow ironic at his door in a long white
apron, would entertain Samuel Povey for half an
hour with Pan's most intimate lore, and Samuel
Povey would not blench. He would, on the
contrary, stand up to Daniel like a little man,
and pretend with all his might to be,
potentially, a perfect arch-priest of the god.
Daniel taught him a lot; turned over the page of
life for him, as it were, and, showing the
reverse side, seemed to say: "You were missing
all that." Samuel gazed upwards at the handsome
long nose and rich lips of his elder cousin, so
experienced, so agreeable, so renowned, so
esteemed, so philosophic, and admitted to
himself that he had lived to the age of forty in
a state of comparative boobyism. And then he
would gaze downwards at the faint patch of flour
on Daniel's right leg, and conceive that life
was, and must be, life.
Not many
weeks after his initiation into the cult he was
startled by Constance's preoccupied face one
evening. Now, a husband of six years' standing,
to whom it has not happened to become a father,
is not easily startled by such a face as
Constance wore. Years ago he had frequently been
startled, had frequently lived in suspense for a
few days. But he had long since grown impervious
to these alarms. And now he was startled
again—but as a man may be startled who is not
altogether surprised at being startled. And
seven endless days passed, and Samuel and
Constance glanced at each other like guilty
things, whose secret refuses to be kept. Then
three more days passed, and another three. Then
Samuel Povey remarked in a firm, masculine,
fact-fronting tone:
"Oh,
there's no doubt about it!"
And they
glanced at each other like conspirators who have
lighted a fuse and cannot take refuge in flight.
Their eyes said continually, with a delicious,
an enchanting mixture of ingenuous modesty and
fearful joy:
"Well,
we've gone and done it!"
There it
was, the incredible, incomprehensible
future—coming!
Samuel had
never correctly imagined the manner of its
heralding. He had imagined in his early
simplicity that one day Constance, blushing,
might put her mouth to his ear and
whisper—something positive. It had not occurred
in the least like that. But things are so
obstinately, so incurably unsentimental.
"I think we
ought to drive over and tell mother, on Sunday,"
said
Constance.
His impulse
was to reply, in his grand, offhand style: "Oh,
a letter will do!"
But he
checked himself and said, with careful
deference: "You think that will be better than
writing?"
All was
changed. He braced every fibre to meet destiny,
and to help Constance to meet it.
The weather
threatened on Sunday. He went to Axe without
Constance. His cousin drove him there in a
dog-cart, and he announced that he should walk
home, as the exercise would do him good. During
the drive Daniel, in whom he had not confided,
chattered as usual, and Samuel pretended to
listen with the same attitude as usual; but
secretly he despised Daniel for a man who has
got something not of the first importance on the
brain. His perspective was truer than Daniel's.
He walked
home, as he had decided, over the wavy moorland
of the county dreaming in the heart of England.
Night fell on him in mid- career, and he was
tired. But the earth, as it whirled through
naked space, whirled up the moon for him, and he
pressed on at a good speed. A wind from Arabia
wandering cooled his face. And at last, over the
brow of Toft End, he saw suddenly the Five Towns
a- twinkle on their little hills down in the
vast amphitheatre. And one of those lamps was
Constance's lamp—one, somewhere. He lived, then.
He entered into the shadow of nature. The
mysteries made him solemn. What! A boneshaker,
his cousin, and then this!
"Well, I'm
damned! Well, I'm damned!" he kept repeating, he
who never swore.
CHAPTER III
CYRIL
I
Constance
stood at the large, many-paned window in the
parlour. She was stouter. Although always plump,
her figure had been comely, with a neat,
well-marked waist. But now the shapeliness had
gone; the waist-line no longer existed, and
there were no more crinolines to create it
artificially. An observer not under the charm of
her face might have been excused for calling her
fat and lumpy. The face, grave, kind, and
expectant, with its radiant, fresh cheeks, and
the rounded softness of its curves, atoned for
the figure. She was nearly twenty-nine years of
age.
It was late
in October. In Wedgwood Street, next to Boulton
Terrace, all the little brown houses had been
pulled down to make room for a palatial covered
market, whose foundations were then being dug.
This destruction exposed a vast area of sky to
the north-east. A great dark cloud with an
untidy edge rose massively out of the depths and
curtained off the tender blue of approaching
dusk; while in the west, behind Constance, the
sun was setting in calm and gorgeous melancholy
on the Thursday hush of the town. It was one of
those afternoons which gather up all the sadness
of the moving earth and transform it into
beauty.
Samuel
Povey turned the corner from Wedgwood Street,
and crossed
King Street obliquely to the front-door, which
Constance opened.
He seemed tired and anxious.
"Well?"
demanded Constance, as he entered.
"She's no
better. There's no getting away from it, she's
worse. I should have stayed, only I knew you'd
be worrying. So I caught the three-fifty."
"How is
that Mrs. Gilchrist shaping as a nurse?"
"She's very
good," said Samuel, with conviction. "Very
good!"
"What a
blessing! I suppose you didn't happen to see the
doctor?"
"Yes, I
did."
"What did
he say to you?"
Samuel gave
a deprecating gesture. "Didn't say anything
particular. With dropsy, at that stage, you know
…"
Constance
had returned to the window, her expectancy
apparently unappeased.
"I don't
like the look of that cloud," she murmured.
"What! Are
they out still?" Samuel inquired, taking off his
overcoat.
"Here they
are!" cried Constance. Her features suddenly
transfigured, she sprang to the door, pulled it
open, and descended the steps.
A
perambulator was being rapidly pushed up the
slope by a breathless girl.
"Amy,"
Constance gently protested, "I told you not to
venture far."
"I hurried
all I could, mum, soon as I seed that cloud,"
the girl puffed, with the air of one who is
seriously thankful to have escaped a great
disaster.
Constance
dived into the recesses of the perambulator and
extricated from its cocoon the centre of the
universe, and scrutinized him with quiet
passion, and then rushed with him into the
house, though not a drop of rain had yet fallen.
"Precious!"
exclaimed Amy, in ecstasy, her young virginal
eyes following him till he disappeared. Then she
wheeled away the perambulator, which now had no
more value nor interest than an egg-shell. It
was necessary to take it right round to the
Brougham Street yard entrance, past the front of
the closed shop.
Constance
sat down on the horsehair sofa and hugged and
kissed her prize before removing his bonnet.
"Here's
Daddy!" she said to him, as if imparting strange
and rapturous tidings. "Here's Daddy come back
from hanging up his coat in the passage! Daddy
rubbing his hands!" And then, with a swift
transition of voice and features: "Do look at
him, Sam!"
Samuel,
preoccupied, stooped forward. "Oh, you little
scoundrel! Oh, you little scoundrel!" he greeted
the baby, advancing his finger towards the
baby's nose.
The baby,
who had hitherto maintained a passive
indifference to external phenomena, lifted
elbows and toes, blew bubbles from his tiny
mouth, and stared at the finger with the most
ravishing, roguish smile, as though saying: "I
know that great sticking-out limb, and there is
a joke about it which no one but me can see, and
which is my secret joy that you shall never
share."
"Tea
ready?" Samuel asked, resuming his gravity and
his ordinary pose.
"You must
give the girl time to take her things off," said
Constance. "We'll have the table drawn, away
from the fire, and baby can lie on his shawl on
the hearthrug while we're having tea." Then to
the baby, in rapture: "And play with his toys;
all his nice, nice toys!"
"You know
Miss Insull is staying for tea?"
Constance,
her head bent over the baby, who formed a white
patch on her comfortable brown frock, nodded
without speaking.
Samuel
Povey, walking to and fro, began to enter into
details of his hasty journey to Axe. Old Mrs.
Baines, having beheld her grandson, was
preparing to quit this world. Never again would
she exclaim, in her brusque tone of genial
ruthlessness: 'Fiddlesticks!' The situation was
very difficult and distressing, for Constance
could not leave her baby, and she would not,
until the last urgency, run the risks of a
journey with him to Axe. He was being weaned. In
any case Constance could not have undertaken the
nursing of her mother. A nurse had to be found.
Mr. Povey had discovered one in the person of
Mrs. Gilchrist, the second wife of a farmer at
Malpas in Cheshire, whose first wife had been a
sister of the late John Baines. All the credit
of Mrs. Gilchrist was due to Samuel Povey. Mrs.
Baines fretted seriously about Sophia, who had
given no sign of life for a very long time. Mr.
Povey went to Manchester and ascertained
definitely from the relatives of Scales that
nothing was known of the pair. He did not go to
Manchester especially on this errand. About once
in three weeks, on Tuesdays, he had to visit the
Manchester warehouses; but the tracking of
Scales's relative cost him so much trouble and
time that, curiously, he came to believe that he
had gone to Manchester one Tuesday for no other
end. Although he was very busy indeed in the
shop, he flew over to Axe and back whenever he
possibly could, to the neglect of his affairs.
He was glad to do all that was in his power;
even if he had not done it graciously his
sensitive, tyrannic conscience would have forced
him to do it. But nevertheless he felt rather
virtuous, and worry and fatigue and loss of
sleep intensified this sense of virtue.
"So that if
there is any sudden change they will telegraph,"
he finished, to Constance.
She raised
her head. The words, clinching what had led up
to them, drew her from her dream and she saw,
for a moment, her mother in an agony.
"But you
don't surely mean—?" she began, trying to
disperse the painful vision as unjustified by
the facts.
"My dear
girl," said Samuel, with head singing, and hot
eyes, and a consciousness of high tension in
every nerve of his body, "I simply mean that if
there's any sudden change they will telegraph."
While they
had tea, Samuel sitting opposite to his wife,
and Miss Insull nearly against the wall (owing
to the moving of the table), the baby rolled
about on the hearthrug, which had been covered
with a large soft woollen shawl, originally the
property of his great-grandmother. He had no
cares, no responsibilities. The shawl was so
vast that he could not clearly distinguish
objects beyond its confines. On it lay an
indiarubber ball, an indiarubber doll, a rattle,
and fan. He vaguely recollected all four items,
with their respective properties. The fire also
was an old friend. He had occasionally tried to
touch it, but a high bright fence always came in
between. For ten months he had never spent a day
without making experiments on this shifting
universe in which he alone remained firm and
stationary. The experiments were chiefly
conducted out of idle amusement, but he was
serious on the subject of food. Lately the
behaviour of the universe in regard to his food
had somewhat perplexed him, had indeed annoyed
him. However, he was of a forgetful, happy
disposition, and so long as the universe
continued to fulfil its sole end as a machinery
for the satisfaction, somehow, of his imperious
desires, he was not inclined to remonstrate. He
gazed at the flames and laughed, and laughed
because he had laughed. He pushed the ball away
and wriggled after it, and captured it with the
assurance of practice. He tried to swallow the
doll, and it was not until he had tried several
times to swallow it that he remembered the
failure of previous efforts and philosophically
desisted. He rolled with a fearful shock, arms
and legs in air, against the mountainous flank
of that mammoth Fan, and clutched at Fan's ear.
The whole mass of Fan upheaved and vanished from
his view, and was instantly forgotten by him. He
seized the doll and tried to swallow it, and
repeated the exhibition of his skill with the
ball. Then he saw the fire again and laughed.
And so he existed for centuries: no
responsibilities, no appetites; and the shawl
was vast. Terrific operations went on over his
head. Giants moved to and fro. Great vessels
were carried off and great books were brought
and deep voices rumbled regularly in the spaces
beyond the shawl. But he remained oblivious. At
last he became aware that a face was looking
down at his. He recognized it, and immediately
an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach
disturbed him; he tolerated it for fifty years
or so, and then he gave a little cry. Life had
resumed its seriousness.
"Black
alpaca. B quality. Width 20, t.a. 22 yards,"
Miss Insull read out of a great book. She and
Mr. Povey were checking stock.
And Mr.
Povey responded, "Black alpaca B quality. Width
20, t.a. 22 yards. It wants ten minutes yet." He
had glanced at the clock.
"Does it?"
said Constance, well knowing that it wanted ten
minutes.
The baby
did not guess that a high invisible god named
Samuel Povey, whom nothing escaped, and who
could do everything at once, was controlling his
universe from an inconceivable distance. On the
contrary, the baby was crying to himself, There
is no God.
His weaning
had reached the stage at which a baby really
does not know what will happen next. The
annoyance had begun exactly three months after
his first tooth, such being the rule of the
gods, and it had grown more and more
disconcerting. No sooner did he accustom himself
to a new phenomenon than it mysteriously ceased,
and an old one took its place which he had
utterly forgotten. This afternoon his mother
nursed him, but not until she had foolishly
attempted to divert him from the seriousness of
life by means of gewgaws of which he was sick.
Still; once at her rich breast, he forgave and
forgot all. He preferred her simple natural
breast to more modern inventions. And he had no
shame, no modesty. Nor had his mother. It was an
indecent carouse at which his father and Miss
Insull had to assist. But his father had shame.
His father would have preferred that, as Miss
Insull had kindly offered to stop and work on
Thursday afternoon, and as the shop was chilly,
the due rotation should have brought the bottle
round at half-past five o'clock, and not the
mother's breast. He was a self-conscious parent,
rather apologetic to the world, rather apt to
stand off and pretend that he had nothing to do
with the affair; and he genuinely disliked that
anybody should witness the intimate scene of HIS
wife feeding HIS baby. Especially Miss Insull,
that prim, dark, moustached spinster! He would
not have called it an outrage on Miss Insull, to
force her to witness the scene, but his idea
approached within sight of the word.
Constance
blandly offered herself to the child, with the
unconscious primitive savagery of a young
mother, and as the baby fed, thoughts of her own
mother flitted to and fro ceaselessly like vague
shapes over the deep sea of content which filled
her mind. This illness of her mother's was
abnormal, and the baby was now, for the first
time perhaps, entirely normal in her
consciousness. The baby was something which
could be disturbed, not something which did
disturb. What a change! What a change that had
seemed impossible until its full accomplishment!
For months
before the birth, she had glimpsed at nights and
in other silent hours the tremendous upset. She
had not allowed herself to be silly in advance;
by temperament she was too sagacious, too well
balanced for that; but she had had fitful
instants of terror, when solid ground seemed to
sink away from her, and imagination shook at
what faced her. Instants only! Usually she could
play the comedy of sensible calmness to almost
perfection. Then the appointed time drew nigh.
And still she smiled, and Samuel smiled. But the
preparations, meticulous, intricate,
revolutionary, belied their smiles. The intense
resolve to keep Mrs. Baines, by methods
scrupulous or unscrupulous, away from Bursley
until all was over, belied their smiles. And
then the first pains, sharp, shocking, cruel,
heralds of torture! But when they had withdrawn,
she smiled, again, palely. Then she was in bed,
full of the sensation that the whole house was
inverted and disorganized, hopelessly. And the
doctor came into the room. She smiled at the
doctor apologetically, foolishly, as if saying:
"We all come to it. Here I am." She was calm
without. Oh, but what a prey of abject fear
within! "I am at the edge of the precipice," her
thought ran; "in a moment I shall be over." And
then the pains—not the heralds but the
shattering army, endless, increasing in terror
as they thundered across her. Yet she could
think, quite clearly: "Now I'm in the middle of
it. This is it, the horror that I have not dared
to look at. My life's in the balance. I may
never get up again. All has at last come to
pass. It seemed as if it would never come, as if
this thing could not happen to me. But at last
it has come to pass!"
Ah! Some
one put the twisted end of a towel into her hand
again— she had loosed it; and she pulled,
pulled, enough to break cables. And then she
shrieked. It was for pity. It was for some one
to help her, at any rate to take notice of her.
She was dying. Her soul was leaving her. And she
was alone, panic-stricken, in the midst of a
cataclysm a thousand times surpassing all that
she had imagined of sickening horror. "I cannot
endure this," she thought passionately. "It is
impossible that I should be asked to endure
this!" And then she wept; beaten, terrorized,
smashed and riven. No commonsense now! No wise
calmness now! No self-respect now! Why, not even
a woman now! Nothing but a kind of animalized
victim! And then the supreme endless spasm,
during which she gave up the ghost and bade
good-bye to her very self.
She was
lying quite comfortable in the soft bed; idle,
silly: happiness forming like a thin crust over
the lava of her anguish and her fright. And by
her side was the soul that had fought its way
out of her, ruthlessly; the secret disturber
revealed to the light of morning. Curious to
look at! Not like any baby that she had ever
seen; red, creased, brutish! But—for some reason
that she did not examine—she folded it in an
immense tenderness.
Sam was by
the bed, away from her eyes. She was so
comfortable and silly that she could not move
her head nor even ask him to come round to her
eyes. She had to wait till he came.
In the
afternoon the doctor returned, and astounded her
by saying that hers had been an ideal
confinement. She was too weary to rebuke him for
a senseless, blind, callous old man. But she
knew what she knew. "No one will ever guess,"
she thought, "no one ever can guess, what I've
been through! Talk as you like. I KNOW, now."
Gradually
she had resumed cognizance of her household,
perceiving that it was demoralized from top to
bottom, and that when the time came to begin
upon it she would not be able to settle where to
begin, even supposing that the baby were not
there to monopolize her attention. The task
appalled her. Then she wanted to get up. Then
she got up. What a blow to self-confidence! She
went back to bed like a little scared rabbit to
its hole, glad, glad to be on the soft pillows
again. She said: "Yet the time must come when I
shall be downstairs, and walking about and
meeting people, and cooking and superintending
the millinery." Well, it did come— except that
she had to renounce the millinery to Miss
Insull—but it was not the same. No, different!
The baby pushed everything else on to another
plane. He was a terrific intruder; not one
minute of her old daily life was left; he made
no compromise whatever. If she turned away her
gaze from him he might pop off into eternity and
leave her.
And now she
was calmly and sensibly giving him suck in
presence of Miss Insull. She was used to his
importance, to the fragility of his organism, to
waking twice every night, to being fat. She was
strong again. The convulsive twitching that for
six months had worried her repose, had quite
disappeared. The state of being a mother was
normal, and the baby was so normal that she
could not conceive the house without him.
All in ten
months!
When the
baby was installed in his cot for the night, she
came downstairs and found Miss Insull and Samuel
still working, and Larder than ever, but at
addition sums now. She sat down, leaving the
door open at the foot of the stairs. She had
embroidery in hand: a cap. And while Miss Insull
and Samuel combined pounds, shillings, and
pence, whispering at great speed, she bent over
the delicate, intimate, wasteful handiwork,
drawing the needle with slow exactitude. Then
she would raise her head and listen.
"Excuse
me," said Miss Insull, "I think I hear baby
crying."
"And two
are eight and three are eleven. He must cry,"
said Mr.
Povey, rapidly, without looking up.
The baby's
parents did not make a practice of discussing
their domestic existence even with Miss Insull;
but Constance had to justify herself as a
mother.
"I've made
perfectly sure he's comfortable," said
Constance. "He's only crying because he fancies
he's neglected. And we think he can't begin too
early to learn."
"How right
you are!" said Miss Insull. "Two and carry
three."
That
distant, feeble, querulous, pitiful cry
continued obstinately. It continued for thirty
minutes. Constance could not proceed with her
work. The cry disintegrated her will, dissolved
her hard sagacity.
Without a
word she crept upstairs, having carefully
deposed the cap on her rocking-chair.
Mr. Povey
hesitated a moment and then bounded up after
her, startling Fan. He shut the door on Miss
Insull, but Fan was too quick for him. He saw
Constance with her hand on the bedroom door.
"My dear
girl," he protested, holding himself in. "Now
what ARE you going to do?"
"I'm just
listening," said Constance.
"Do be
reasonable and come downstairs."
He spoke in
a low voice, scarcely masking his nervous
irritation, and tiptoed along the corridor
towards her and up the two steps past the
gas-burner. Fan followed, wagging her tail
expectant.
"Suppose
he's not well?" Constance suggested.
"Pshaw!"
Mr. Povey exclaimed contemptuously. "You
remember what happened last night and what you
said!"
They
argued, subduing their tones to the false
semblance of good- will, there in the closeness
of the corridor. Fan, deceived, ceased to wag
her tail and then trotted away. The baby's cry,
behind the door, rose to a mysterious despairing
howl, which had such an effect on Constance's
heart that she could have walked through fire to
reach the baby. But Mr. Povey's will held her.
And she rebelled, angry, hurt, resentful.
Commonsense, the ideal of mutual forbearance,
had winged away from that excited pair. It would
have assuredly ended in a quarrel, with Samuel
glaring at her in black fury from the other side
of a bottomless chasm, had not Miss Insull most
surprisingly burst up the stairs.
Mr. Povey
turned to face her, swallowing his emotion.
"A
telegram!" said Miss Insull. "The postmaster
brought it down himself—"
"What? Mr.
Derry?" asked Samuel, opening the telegram with
an affectation of majesty.
"Yes. He
said it was too late for delivery by rights. But
as it seemed very important …"
Samuel
scanned it and nodded gravely; then gave it to
his wife.
Tears came into her eyes.
"I'll get
Cousin Daniel to drive me over at once," said
Samuel, master of himself and of the situation.
"Wouldn't
it be better to hire?" Constance suggested. She
had a prejudice against Daniel.
Mr. Povey
shook his head. "He offered," he replied. "I
can't refuse his offer."
"Put your
thick overcoat on, dear," said Constance, in a
dream, descending with him.
"I hope it
isn't—" Miss Insull stopped.
"Yes it is,
Miss Insull," said Samuel, deliberately.
In less
than a minute he was gone.
Constance
ran upstairs. But the cry had ceased. She turned
the door-knob softly, slowly, and crept into the
chamber. A night- light made large shadows among
the heavy mahogany and the crimson, tasselled
rep in the close-curtained room. And between the
bed and the ottoman (on which lay Samuel's
newly-bought family Bible) the cot loomed in the
shadows. She picked up the night-light and stole
round the bed. Yes, he had decided to fall
asleep. The hazard of death afar off had just
defeated his devilish obstinacy. Fate had bested
him. How marvellously soft and delicate that
tear-stained cheek! How frail that tiny, tiny
clenched hand! In Constance grief and joy were
mystically united.
II
The
drawing-room was full of visitors, in frocks of
ceremony. The old drawing-room, but newly and
massively arranged with the finest Victorian
furniture from dead Aunt Harriet's house at Axe;
two "Canterburys," a large bookcase, a splendid
scintillant table solid beyond lifting,
intricately tortured chairs and armchairs! The
original furniture of the drawing-room was now
down in the parlour, making it grand. All the
house breathed opulence; it was gorged with
quiet, restrained expensiveness; the least
considerable objects, in the most modest
corners, were what Mrs. Baines would have termed
'good.' Constance and Samuel had half of all
Aunt Harriet's money and half of Mrs. Baines's;
the other half was accumulating for a
hypothetical Sophia, Mr. Critchlow being the
trustee. The business continued to flourish.
People knew that Samuel Povey was buying houses.
Yet Samuel and Constance had not made friends;
they had not, in the Five Towns phrase,
'branched out socially,' though they had very
meetly branched out on subscription lists. They
kept themselves to themselves (emphasizing the
preposition). These guests were not their
guests; they were the guests of Cyril.
He had been
named Samuel because Constance would have him
named after his father, and Cyril because his
father secretly despised the name of Samuel; and
he was called Cyril; 'Master Cyril,' by Amy,
definite successor to Maggie. His mother's
thoughts were on Cyril as long as she was awake.
His father, when not planning Cyril's welfare,
was earning money whose unique object could be
nothing but Cyril's welfare. Cyril was the pivot
of the house; every desire ended somewhere in
Cyril. The shop existed now solely for him. And
those houses that Samuel bought by private
treaty, or with a shamefaced air at
auctions—somehow they were aimed at Cyril.
Samuel and Constance had ceased to be
self-justifying beings; they never thought of
themselves save as the parents of Cyril.
They
realized this by no means fully. Had they been
accused of monomania they would have smiled the
smile of people confident in their commonsense
and their mental balance. Nevertheless, they
were monomaniacs. Instinctively they concealed
the fact as much as possible; They never
admitted it even to themselves. Samuel, indeed,
would often say: "That child is not everybody.
That child must be kept in his place." Constance
was always teaching him consideration for his
father as the most important person in the
household. Samuel was always teaching him
consideration for his mother as the most
important person in the household. Nothing was
left undone to convince him that he was a
cipher, a nonentity, who ought to be very glad
to be alive. But he knew all about his
importance. He knew that the entire town was
his. He knew that his parents were deceiving
themselves. Even when he was punished he well
knew that it was because he was so important. He
never imparted any portion of this knowledge to
his parents; a primeval wisdom prompted him to
retain it strictly in his own bosom.
He was four
and a half years old, dark, like his father;
handsome like his aunt, and tall for his age;
not one of his features resembled a feature of
his mother's, but sometimes he 'had her look.'
From the capricious production of inarticulate
sounds, and then a few monosyllables that
described concrete things and obvious desires,
he had gradually acquired an astonishing
idiomatic command over the most difficult of
Teutonic languages; there was nothing that he
could not say. He could walk and run, was full
of exact knowledge about God, and entertained no
doubt concerning the special partiality of a
minor deity called Jesus towards himself.
Now, this
party was his mother's invention and scheme. His
father, after flouting it, had said that if it
was to be done at all, it should be done well,
and had brought to the doing all his organizing
skill. Cyril had accepted it at first—merely
accepted it; but, as the day approached and the
preparations increased in magnitude, he had come
to look on it with favour, then with enthusiasm.
His father having taken him to Daniel Povey's
opposite, to choose cakes, he had shown, by his
solemn and fastidious waverings, how seriously
he regarded the affair.
Of course
it had to occur on a Thursday afternoon. The
season was summer, suitable for pale and fragile
toilettes. And the eight children who sat round
Aunt Harriet's great table glittered like the
sun. Not Constance's specially provided napkins
could hide that wealth and profusion of white
lace and stitchery. Never in after-life are the
genteel children of the Five Towns so richly
clad as at the age of four or five years. Weeks
of labour, thousands of cubic feet of gas, whole
nights stolen from repose, eyesight, and general
health, will disappear into the manufacture of a
single frock that accidental jam may ruin in ten
seconds. Thus it was in those old days; and thus
it is to-day. Cyril's guests ranged in years
from four to six; they were chiefly older than
their host; this was a pity, it impaired his
importance; but up to four years a child's sense
of propriety, even of common decency, is
altogether too unreliable for a respectable
party.
Round about
the outskirts of the table were the elders,
ladies the majority; they also in their best,
for they had to meet each other. Constance
displayed a new dress, of crimson silk; after
having mourned for her mother she had definitely
abandoned the black which, by reason of her
duties in the shop, she had constantly worn from
the age of sixteen to within a few months of
Cyril's birth; she never went into the shop now,
except casually, on brief visits of inspection.
She was still fat; the destroyer of her figure
sat at the head of the table. Samuel kept close
to her; he was the only male, until Mr.
Critchlow astonishingly arrived; among the
company Mr. Critchlow had a grand-niece. Samuel,
if not in his best, was certainly not in his
everyday suit. With his large frilled
shirt-front, and small black tie, and his little
black beard and dark face over that, he looked
very nervous and self-conscious. He had not the
habit of entertaining. Nor had Constance; but
her benevolence ever bubbling up to the calm
surface of her personality made
self-consciousness impossible for her. Miss
Insull was also present, in shop-black, 'to
help.' Lastly there was Amy, now as the years
passed slowly assuming the character of a
faithful retainer, though she was only twenty-
three. An ugly, abrupt, downright girl, with
convenient notions of pleasure! For she would
rise early and retire late in order to contrive
an hour to go out with Master Cyril; and to be
allowed to put Master Cyril to bed was, really,
her highest bliss.
All these
elders were continually inserting arms into the
fringe of fluffy children that surrounded the
heaped table; removing dangerous spoons out of
cups into saucers, replacing plates, passing
cakes, spreading jam, whispering consolations,
explanations, and sage counsel. Mr. Critchlow,
snow-white now but unbent, remarked that there
was 'a pretty cackle,' and he sniffed. Although
the window was slightly open, the air was heavy
with the natural human odour which young
children transpire. More than one mother,
pressing her nose into a lacy mass, to whisper,
inhaled that pleasant perfume with a voluptuous
thrill.
Cyril,
while attending steadily to the demands of his
body, was in a mood which approached the ideal.
Proud and radiant, he combined urbanity with a
certain fine condescension. His bright eyes, and
his manner of scraping up jam with a spoon,
said: "I am the king of this party. This party
is solely in my honour. I know that. We all know
it. Still, I will pretend that we are equals,
you and I." He talked about his picture-books to
a young woman on his right named Jennie, aged
four, pale, pretty, the belle in fact, and Mr.
Critchlow's grand-niece. The boy's
attractiveness was indisputable; he could put on
quite an aristocratic air. It was the most
delicious sight to see them, Cyril and Jennie,
so soft and delicate, so infantile on their
piles of cushions and books, with their white
socks and black shoes dangling far distant from
the carpet; and yet so old, so self-contained!
And they were merely an epitome of the whole
table. The whole table was bathed in the charm
and mystery of young years, of helpless
fragility, gentle forms, timid elegance,
unshamed instincts, and waking souls. Constance
and Samuel were very satisfied; full of praise
for other people's children, but with the
reserve that of course Cyril was hors concours.
They both really did believe, at that moment,
that Cyril was, in some subtle way which they
felt but could not define, superior to all other
infants.
Some one,
some officious relative of a visitor, began to
pass a certain cake which had brown walls, a
roof of cocoa-nut icing, and a yellow body
studded with crimson globules. Not a
conspicuously gorgeous cake, not a cake to which
a catholic child would be likely to attach
particular importance; a good, average cake! Who
could have guessed that it stood, in Cyril's
esteem, as the cake of cakes? He had insisted on
his father buying it at Cousin Daniel's, and
perhaps Samuel ought to have divined that for
Cyril that cake was the gleam that an ardent
spirit would follow through the wilderness.
Samuel, however, was not a careful observer, and
seriously lacked imagination. Constance knew
only that Cyril had mentioned the cake once or
twice. Now by the hazard of destiny that cake
found much favour, helped into popularity as it
was by the blundering officious relative who,
not dreaming what volcano she was treading on,
urged its merits with simpering enthusiasm. One
boy took two slices, a slice in each hand; he
happened to be the visitor of whom the
cake-distributor was a relative, and she
protested; she expressed the shock she suffered.
Whereupon both Constance and Samuel sprang
forward and swore with angelic smiles that
nothing could be more perfect than the propriety
of that dear little fellow taking two slices of
that cake. It was this hullaballoo that drew
Cyril's attention to the evanescence of the cake
of cakes. His face at once changed from calm
pride to a dreadful anxiety. His eyes bulged
out. His tiny mouth grew and grew, like a mouth
in a nightmare. He was no longer human; he was a
cake-eating tiger being balked of his prey.
Nobody noticed him. The officious fool of a
woman persuaded Jennie to take the last slice of
the cake, which was quite a thin slice.
Then every
one simultaneously noticed Cyril, for he gave a
yell. It was not the cry of a despairing soul
who sees his beautiful iridescent dream
shattered at his feet; it was the cry of the
strong, masterful spirit, furious. He turned
upon Jennie, sobbing, and snatched at her cake.
Unaccustomed to such behaviour from hosts, and
being besides a haughty put-you-in-your-place
beauty of the future, Jennie defended her cake.
After all, it was not she who had taken two
slices at once. Cyril hit her in the eye, and
then crammed most of the slice of cake into his
enormous mouth. He could not swallow it, nor
even masticate it, for his throat was rigid and
tight. So the cake projected from his red lips,
and big tears watered it. The most awful mess
you can conceive! Jennie wept loudly, and one or
two others joined her in sympathy, but the rest
went on eating tranquilly, unmoved by the horror
which transfixed their elders.
A host to
snatch food from a guest! A host to strike a
guest! A gentleman to strike a lady!
Constance
whipped up Cyril from his chair and flew with
him to his own room (once Samuel's), where she
smacked him on the arm and told him he was a
very, very naughty boy and that she didn't know
what his father would say. She took the food out
of his disgusting mouth—or as much of it as she
could get at—and then she left him, on the bed.
Miss Jennie was still in tears when, blushing
scarlet and trying to smile, Constance returned
to the drawing- room. Jennie would not be
appeased. Happily Jennie's mother (being about
to present Jennie with a little brother—she
hoped) was not present. Miss Insull had promised
to see Jennie home, and it was decided that she
should go. Mr. Critchlow, in high sardonic
spirits, said that he would go too; the three
departed together, heavily charged with
Constance's love and apologies. Then all
pretended, and said loudly, that what had
happened was naught, that such things were
always happening at children's parties. And
visitors' relatives asseverated that Cyril was a
perfect darling and that really Mrs. Povey must
not …
But the
attempt to keep up appearance was a failure.
The
Methuselah of visitors, a gaping girl of nearly
eight years, walked across the room to where
Constance was standing, and said in a loud,
confidential, fatuous voice:
"Cyril HAS
been a rude boy, hasn't he, Mrs. Povey?"
The
clumsiness of children is sometimes tragic.
Later,
there was a trickling stream of fluffy bundles
down the crooked stairs and through the parlour
and so out into King Street. And Constance
received many compliments and sundry appeals
that darling Cyril should be forgiven.
"I thought
you said that boy was in his bedroom," said
Samuel to
Constance, coming into the parlour when the last
guest had gone.
Each avoided the other's eyes.
"Yes, isn't
he?"
"No."
"The little
jockey!" ("Jockey," an essay in the playful,
towards making light of the jockey's sin!) "I
expect he's been in search of Amy."
She went to
the top of the kitchen stairs and called out:
"Amy, is
Master Cyril down there?"
"Master
Cyril? No, mum. But he was in the parlour a bit
ago, after the first and second lot had gone. I
told him to go upstairs and be a good boy."
Not for a
few moments did the suspicion enter the minds of
Samuel and Constance that Cyril might be
missing, that the house might not contain Cyril.
But having once entered, the suspicion became a
certainty. Amy, cross-examined, burst into
sudden tears, admitting that the side-door might
have been open when, having sped 'the second
lot,' she criminally left Cyril alone in the
parlour in order to descend for an instant to
her kitchen. Dusk was gathering. Amy saw the
defenceless innocent wandering about all night
in the deserted streets of a great city. A
similar vision with precise details of canals,
tramcar-wheels, and cellar-flaps, disturbed
Constance. Samuel said that anyhow he could not
have got far, that some one was bound to remark
and recognize him, and restore him. "Yes, of
course," thought sensible Constance. "But
supposing—"
They all
three searched the entire house again. Then, in
the drawing-room (which was in a sad condition
of anticlimax) Amy exclaimed:
"Eh,
master! There's town-crier crossing the Square.
Hadn't ye better have him cried?"
"Run out
and stop him," Constance commanded.
And Amy
flew.
Samuel and
the aged town-crier parleyed at the side door,
the women in the background.
"I canna'
cry him without my bell," drawled the crier,
stroking his shabby uniform. "My bell's at wum
(home). I mun go and fetch my bell. Yo' write it
down on a bit o' paper for me so as I can read
it, and I'll foot off for my bell. Folk wouldna'
listen to me if I hadna' gotten my bell."
Thus was
Cyril cried.
"Amy," said
Constance, when she and the girl were alone,
"there's no use in you standing blubbering
there. Get to work and clear up that
drawing-room, do! The child is sure to be found
soon. Your master's gone out, too."
Brave
words! Constance aided in the drawing-room and
kitchen. Theirs was the woman's lot in a great
crisis. Plates have always to be washed.
Very
shortly afterwards, Samuel Povey came into the
kitchen by the underground passage which led
past the two cellars to the yard and to Brougham
Street. He was carrying in his arms an obscene
black mass. This mass was Cyril, once white.
Constance
screamed. She was at liberty to give way to her
feelings, because Amy happened to be upstairs.
"Stand
away!" cried Mr. Povey. "He isn't fit to touch."
And Mr.
Povey made as if to pass directly onward,
ignoring the mother.
"Wherever
did you find him?"
"I found
him in the far cellar," said Mr. Povey,
compelled to stop, after all. "He was down there
with me yesterday, and it just occurred to me
that he might have gone there again."
"What! All
in the dark?"
"He'd
lighted a candle, if you please! I'd left a
candle-stick and a box of matches handy because
I hadn't finished that shelving."
"Well!"
Constance murmured. "I can't think how ever he
dared go there all alone!"
"Can't
you?" said Mr. Povey, cynically. "I can. He
simply did it to frighten us."
"Oh,
Cyril!" Constance admonished the child. "Cyril!"
The child
showed no emotion. His face was an enigma. It
might have hidden sullenness or mere callous
indifference, or a perfect unconsciousness of
sin.
"Give him
to me," said Constance.
"I'll look
after him this evening," said Samuel, grimly.
"But you
can't wash him," said Constance, her relief
yielding to apprehension.
"Why not?"
demanded Mr. Povey. And he moved off.
"But Sam—"
"I'll look
after him, I tell you!" Mr. Povey repeated,
threateningly.
"But what
are you going to do?" Constance asked with fear.
"Well,"
said Mr. Povey, "has this sort of thing got to
be dealt with, or hasn't it?" He departed
upstairs.
Constance
overtook him at the door of Cyril's bedroom.
Mr. Povey
did not wait for her to speak. His eyes were
blazing.
"See here!"
he admonished her cruelly. "You get away
downstairs, mother!"
And he
disappeared into the bedroom with his vile and
helpless victim.
A moment
later he popped his head out of the door.
Constance was disobeying him. He stepped into
the passage and shut the door so that Cyril
should not hear.
"Now please
do as I tell you," he hissed at his wife. "Don't
let's have a scene, please."
She
descended, slowly, weeping. And Mr. Povey
retired again to the place of execution.
Amy nearly
fell on the top of Constance with a final tray
of things from the drawing-room. And Constance
had to tell the girl that Cyril was found.
Somehow she could not resist the instinct to
tell her also that the master had the affair in
hand. Amy then wept.
After about
an hour Mr. Povey at last reappeared. Constance
was trying to count silver teaspoons in the
parlour.
"He's in
bed now," said Mr. Povey, with a magnificent
attempt to be nonchalant. "You mustn't go near
him."
"But have
you washed him?" Constance whimpered.
"I've
washed him," replied the astonishing Mr. Povey.
"What have
you done to him?"
"I've
punished him, of course," said Mr. Povey, like a
god who is above human weaknesses. "What did you
expect me to do? Someone had to do it."
Constance
wiped her eyes with the edge of the white apron
which she was wearing over her new silk dress.
She surrendered; she accepted the situation; she
made the best of it. And all the evening was
spent in dismally and horribly pretending that
their hearts were beating as one. Mr. Povey's
elaborate, cheery kindliness was extremely
painful.
They went
to bed, and in their bedroom Constance, as she
stood close to Samuel, suddenly dropped the
pretence, and with eyes and voice of anguish
said:
"You must
let me look at him."
They faced
each other. For a brief instant Cyril did not
exist for Constance. Samuel alone obsessed her,
and yet Samuel seemed a strange, unknown man. It
was in Constance's life one of those crises when
the human soul seems to be on the very brink of
mysterious and disconcerting cognitions, and
then, the wave recedes as inexplicably as it
surged up.
"Why, of
course!" said Mr. Povey, turning away lightly,
as though to imply that she was making tragedies
out of nothing.
She gave an
involuntary gesture of almost childish relief.
Cyril slept
calmly. It was a triumph for Mr. Povey.
Constance
could not sleep. As she lay darkly awake by her
husband, her secret being seemed to be a-quiver
with emotion. Not exactly sorrow; not exactly
joy; an emotion more elemental than these! A
sensation of the intensity of her life in that
hour; troubling, anxious, yet not sad! She said
that Samuel was quite right, quite right. And
then she said that the poor little thing wasn't
yet five years old, and that it was monstrous.
The two had to be reconciled. And they never
could be reconciled. Always she would be between
them, to reconcile them, and to be crushed by
their impact. Always she would have to bear the
burden of both of them. There could be no ease
for her, no surcease from a tremendous
preoccupation and responsibility. She could not
change Samuel; besides, he was right! And though
Cyril was not yet five, she felt that she could
not change Cyril either. He was just as
unchangeable as a growing plant. The thought of
her mother and Sophia did not present itself to
her; she felt, however, somewhat as Mrs. Baines
had felt on historic occasions; but, being more
softly kind, younger, and less chafed by
destiny, she was conscious of no bitterness,
conscious rather of a solemn blessedness.
CHAPTER IV
CRIME
I
"Now,
Master Cyril," Amy protested, "will you leave
that fire alone? It's not you that can mend my
fires."
A boy of
nine, great and heavy for his years, with a full
face and very short hair, bent over the smoking
grate. It was about five minutes to eight on a
chilly morning after Easter. Amy, hastily clad
in blue, with a rough brown apron, was setting
the breakfast table. The boy turned his head,
still bending.
"Shut up,
Ame," he replied, smiling. Life being short, he
usually called her Ame when they were alone
together. "Or I'll catch you one in the eye with
the poker."
"You ought
to be ashamed of yourself," said Amy. "And you
know your mother told you to wash your feet this
morning, and you haven't done. Fine clothes is
all very well, but—"
"Who says I
haven't washed my feet?" asked Cyril, guiltily.
Amy's
mention of fine clothes referred to the fact
that he was that morning wearing his Sunday suit
for the first time on a week- day.
"I say you
haven't," said Amy.
She was
more than three times his age still, but they
had been treating each other as intellectual
equals for years.
"And how do
you know?" asked Cyril, tired of the fire.
"I know,"
said Amy.
"Well, you
just don't, then!" said Cyril. "And what about
YOUR feet? I should be sorry to see your feet,
Ame."
Amy was
excusably annoyed. She tossed her head. "My feet
are as clean as yours any day," she said. "And I
shall tell your mother."
But he
would not leave her feet alone, and there ensued
one of those endless monotonous altercations on
a single theme which occur so often between
intellectual equals when one is a young son of
the house and the other an established servant
who adores him. Refined minds would have found
the talk disgusting, but the sentiment of
disgust seemed to be unknown to either of the
wranglers. At last, when Amy by superior tactics
had cornered him, Cyril said suddenly:
"Oh, go to
hell!"
Amy banged
down the spoon for the bacon gravy. "Now I shall
tell your mother. Mark my words, this time I
SHALL tell your mother."
Cyril felt
that in truth he had gone rather far. He was
perfectly sure that Amy would not tell his
mother. And yet, supposing that by some freak of
her nature she did! The consequences would be
unutterable; the consequences would more than
extinguish his private glory in the use of such
a dashing word. So he laughed, a rather silly,
giggling laugh, to reassure himself.
"You
daren't," he said.
"Daren't
I?" she said grimly. "You'll see. I don't
know where you learn! It fair beats me. But it
isn't Amy Bates as is going to be sworn at. As
soon as ever your mother comes into this room!"
The door at
the foot of the stairs creaked and Constance
came into the room. She was wearing a dress of
majenta merino, and a gold chain descended from
her neck over her rich bosom. She had scarcely
aged in five years. It would have been
surprising if she had altered much, for the
years had passed over her head at an incredible
rate. To her it appeared only a few months since
Cyril's first and last party.
"Are you
all ready, my pet? Let me look at you."
Constance greeted the boy with her usual bright,
soft energy.
Cyril
glanced at Amy, who averted her head, putting
spoons into three saucers.
"Yes,
mother," he replied in a new voice.
"Did you do
what I told you?"
"Yes,
mother," he said simply.
"That's
right."
Amy made a
faint noise with her lips, and departed.
He was
saved once more. He said to himself that never
again would he permit his soul to be disturbed
by any threat of old Ame's.
Constance's
hand descended into her pocket and drew out a
hard paper packet, which she clapped on to her
son's head.
"Oh,
mother!" He pretended that she had hurt him, and
then he opened the packet. It contained
Congleton butterscotch, reputed a harmless
sweetmeat.
"Good!" he
cried, "good! Oh! Thanks, mother."
"Now don't
begin eating them at once."
"Just one,
mother."
"No! And
how often have I told you to keep your feet off
that fender. See how it's bent. And it's nobody
but you."
"Sorry."
"It's no
use being sorry if you persist in doing it."
"Oh,
mother, I had such a funny dream!"
They
chatted until Amy came up the stairs with tea
and bacon. The fire had developed from black to
clear red.
"Run and
tell father that breakfast is ready."
After a
little delay a spectacled man of fifty, short
and stoutish, with grey hair and a small beard
half grey and half black, entered from the shop.
Samuel had certainly very much aged, especially
in his gestures, which, however, were still
quick. He sat down at once—his wife and son were
already seated—and served the bacon with the
rapid assurance of one who needs not to inquire
about tastes and appetites. Not a word was said,
except a brief grace by Samuel. But there was no
restraint. Samuel had a mild, benignant air.
Constance's eyes were a fountain of
cheerfulness. The boy sat between them and ate
steadily.
Mysterious
creature, this child, mysteriously growing and
growing in the house! To his mother he was a
delicious joy at all times save when he
disobeyed his father. But now for quite a
considerable period there had been no serious
collision. The boy seemed to be acquiring virtue
as well as sense. And really he was charming. So
big, truly enormous (every one remarked on it),
and yet graceful, lithe, with a smile that could
ravish. And he was distinguished in his bearing.
Without depreciating Samuel in her faithful
heart, Constance saw plainly the singular
differences between Samuel and the boy. Save
that he was dark, and that his father's
'dangerous look' came into those childish eyes
occasionally, Cyril had now scarcely any obvious
resemblance to his father. He was a Baines. This
naturally deepened Constance's family pride.
Yes, he was mysterious to Constance, though
probably not more so than any other boy to any
other parent. He was equally mysterious to
Samuel, but otherwise Mr. Povey had learned to
regard him in the light of a parcel which he was
always attempting to wrap up in a piece of paper
imperceptibly too small. When he successfully
covered the parcel at one corner it burst out at
another, and this went on for ever, and he could
never get the string on. Nevertheless, Mr. Povey
had unabated confidence in his skill as a
parcel-wrapper. The boy was strangely subtle at
times, but then at times he was astoundingly
ingenuous, and then his dodges would not deceive
the dullest. Mr. Povey knew himself more than a
match for his son. He was proud of him because
he regarded him as not an ordinary boy; he took
it as a matter of course that his boy should not
be an ordinary boy. He never, or very rarely,
praised Cyril. Cyril thought of his father as a
man who, in response to any request, always
began by answering with a thoughtful, serious
'No, I'm afraid not.'
"So you
haven't lost your appetite!" his mother
commented.
Cyril
grinned. "Did you expect me to, mother?"
"Let me
see," said Samuel, as if vaguely recalling an
unimportant fact. "It's to-day you begin to go
to school, isn't it?"
"I wish
father wouldn't be such a chump!" Cyril
reflected. And, considering that this
commencement of school (real school, not a
girls' school, as once) had been the chief topic
in the house for days, weeks; considering that
it now occupied and filled all hearts, Cyril's
reflection was excusable.
"Now,
there's one thing you must always remember, my
boy," said Mr. Povey. "Promptness. Never be late
either in going to school or in coming home. And
in order that you may have no excuse"—Mr. Povey
pressed on the word 'excuse' as though
condemning Cyril in advance—"here's something
for you!" He said the last words quickly, with a
sort of modest shame.
It was a
silver watch and chain.
Cyril was
staggered. So also was Constance, for Mr. Povey
could keep his own counsel. At long intervals he
would prove, thus, that he was a mighty soul,
capable of sublime deeds. The watch was the
unique flowering of Mr. Povey's profound but
harsh affection. It lay on the table like a
miracle. This day was a great day, a supremely
exciting day in Cyril's history, and not less so
in the history of his parents.
The watch
killed its owner's appetite dead.
Routine was
ignored that morning. Father did not go back
into the shop. At length the moment came when
father put on his hat and overcoat to take
Cyril, and Cyril's watch and satchel, to the
Endowed School, which had quarters in the
Wedgwood Institution close by. A solemn
departure, and Cyril could not pretend by his
demeanour that it was not! Constance desired to
kiss him, but refrained. He would not have liked
it. She watched them from the window. Cyril was
nearly as tall as his father; that is to say,
not nearly as tall, but creeping up his father's
shoulder. She felt that the eyes of the town
must be on the pair. She was very happy, and
nervous.
At
dinner-time a triumph seemed probable, and at
tea-time, when Cyril came home under a
mortar-board hat and with a satchel full of new
books and a head full of new ideas, the triumph
was actually and definitely achieved. He had
been put into the third form, and he announced
that he should soon be at the top of it. He was
enchanted with the life of school; he liked the
other boys, and it appeared that the other boys
liked him. The fact was that, with a new silver
watch and a packet of sweets, he had begun his
new career in the most advantageous
circumstances. Moreover, he possessed qualities
which ensure success at school. He was big, and
easy, with a captivating smile and a marked
aptitude to learn those things which boys insist
on teaching to their new comrades. He had
muscle, a brave demeanour, and no conceit.
During tea
the parlour began, to accustom itself to a new
vocabulary, containing such words as 'fellows,'
'kept in,'m' lines,' 'rot,' 'recess,' 'jolly.'
To some of these words the parents, especially
Mr. Povey, had an instinct to object, but they
could not object, somehow they did not seem to
get an opportunity to object; they were carried
away on the torrent, and after all, their
excitement and pleasure in the exceeding
romantic novelty of existence were just as
intense and nearly as ingenuous as their son's.
He
demonstrated that unless he was allowed to stay
up later than aforetime he would not be able to
do his home-work, and hence would not keep that
place in the school to which his talents
entitled him. Mr. Povey suggested, but only with
half a heart, that he should get up earlier in
the morning. The proposal fell flat. Everybody
knew and admitted that nothing save the
scorpions of absolute necessity, or a tremendous
occasion such as that particular morning's,
would drive Cyril from his bed until the smell
of bacon rose to him from the kitchen. The
parlour table was consecrated to his lessons. It
became generally known that 'Cyril was doing his
lessons.' His father scanned the new text-books
while Cyril condescendingly explained to him
that all others were superseded and worthless.
His father contrived to maintain an air of
preserving his mental equilibrium, but not his
mother; she gave it up, she who till that day
had under his father's direction taught him
nearly all that he knew, and Cyril passed above
her into regions of knowledge where she made no
pretence of being able to follow him.
When the
lessons were done, and Cyril had wiped his
fingers on bits of blotting-paper, and his
father had expressed qualified approval and had
gone into the shop, Cyril said to his mother,
with that delicious hesitation which overtook
him sometimes:
"Mother."
"Well, my
pet."
"I want you
to do something for me."
"Well, what
is it?"
"No, you
must promise."
"I'll do it
if I can."
"But you
CAN. It isn't doing. It's NOT doing."
"Come,
Cyril, out with it."
"I don't
want you to come in and look at me after I'm
asleep any more."
"But, you
silly boy, what difference can it make to you if
you're asleep?"
"I don't
want you to. It's like as if I was a baby.
You'll have to stop doing it some day, and so
you may as well stop now."
It was thus
that he meant to turn his back on his youth.
She smiled.
She was incomprehensibly happy. She continued to
smile.
"Now you'll
promise, won't you, mother?"
She rapped
him on the head with her thimble, lovingly. He
took the gesture for consent.
"You are a
baby," she murmured.
"Now I
shall trust you," he said, ignoring this. "Say
'honour bright.'"
"Honour
bright."
With what a
long caress her eyes followed him, as he went up
to bed on his great sturdy legs! She was
thankful that school had not contaminated her
adorable innocent. If she could have been Ame
for twenty-four hours, she perhaps would not
have hesitated to put butter into his mouth lest
it should melt.
Mr. Povey
and Constance talked late and low that night.
They could neither of them sleep; they had
little desire to sleep. Constance's face said to
her husband: "I've always stuck up for that boy,
in spite of your severities, and you see how
right I was!" And Mr. Povey's face said: "You
see now the brilliant success of my system. You
see how my educational theories have justified
themselves. Never been to a school before,
except that wretched little dame's school, and
he goes practically straight to the top of the
third form—at nine years of age!" They discussed
his future. There could be no sign of lunacy in
discussing his future up to a certain point, but
each felt that to discuss the ultimate career of
a child nine years old would not be the act of a
sensible parent; only foolish parents would be
so fond. Yet each was dying to discuss his
ultimate career. Constance yielded first to the
temptation, as became her. Mr. Povey scoffed,
and then, to humour Constance, yielded also. The
matter was soon fairly on the carpet. Constance
was relieved to find that Mr. Povey had no
thought whatever of putting Cyril in the shop.
No; Mr. Povey did not desire to chop wood with a
razor. Their son must and would ascend. Doctor!
Solicitor! Barrister! Not barrister—barrister
was fantastic. When they had argued for about
half an hour Mr. Povey intimated suddenly that
the conversation was unworthy of their practical
commonsense, and went to sleep.
II
Nobody
really thought that this almost ideal condition
of things would persist: an enterprise commenced
in such glory must surely traverse periods of
difficulty and even of temporary disaster. But
no! Cyril seemed to be made specially for
school. Before Mr. Povey and Constance had quite
accustomed themselves to being the parents of 'a
great lad,' before Cyril had broken the glass of
his miraculous watch more than once, the summer
term had come to a end and there arrived the
excitations of the prize-giving, as it was
called; for at that epoch the smaller schools
had not found the effrontery to dub the
breaking-up ceremony a 'speech-day.' This
prize-giving furnished a particular joy to Mr.
and Mrs. Povey. Although the prizes were
notoriously few in number—partly to add to their
significance, and partly to diminish their cost
(the foundation was poor)—Cyril won a prize, a
box of geometrical instruments of precision;
also he reached the top of his form, and was
marked for promotion to the formidable Fourth.
Samuel and Constance were bidden to the large
hall of the Wedgwood Institution of a summer
afternoon, and they saw the whole Board of
Governors raised on a rostrum, and in the
middle, in front of what he referred to, in his
aristocratic London accent, as 'a beggarly array
of rewards,' the aged and celebrated Sir Thomas
Wilbraham Wilbraham, ex-M.P., last respectable
member of his ancient line. And Sir Thomas gave
the box of instruments to Cyril, and shook hands
with him. And everybody was very well dressed.
Samuel, who had never attended anything but a
National School, recalled the simple rigours of
his own boyhood, and swelled. For certainly, of
all the parents present, he was among the
richest. When, in the informal promiscuities
which followed the prize distribution, Cyril
joined his father and mother, sheepishly, they
duly did their best to make light of his
achievements, and failed. The walls of the hall
were covered with specimens of the pupils'
skill, and the headmaster was observed to direct
the attention of the mighty to a map done by
Cyril. Of course it was a map of Ireland,
Ireland being the map chosen by every
map-drawing schoolboy who is free to choose. For
a third-form boy it was considered a
masterpiece. In the shading of mountains Cyril
was already a prodigy. Never, it was said, had
the Macgillycuddy Reeks been indicated by a
member of that school with a more amazing subtle
refinement than by the young Povey. From a
proper pride in themselves, from a proper fear
lest they should be secretly accused of
ostentation by other parents, Samuel and
Constance did not go near that map. For the
rest, they had lived with it for weeks, and
Samuel (who, after all, was determined not to be
dirt under his son's feet) had scratched a blot
from it with a completeness that defied
inquisitive examination.
The fame of
this map, added to the box of compasses and
Cyril's own desire, pointed to an artistic
career. Cyril had always drawn and daubed, and
the drawing-master of the Endowed School, who
was also headmaster of the Art School, had
suggested that the youth should attend the Art
School one night a week. Samuel, however, would
not listen to the idea; Cyril was too young. It
is true that Cyril was too young, but Samuel's
real objection was to Cyril's going out alone in
the evening. On that he was adamant.
The
Governors had recently made the discovery that a
sports department was necessary to a good
school, and had rented a field for cricket,
football, and rounders up at Bleakridge, an
innovation which demonstrated that the town was
moving with the rapid times. In June this field
was open after school hours till eight p.m. as
well as on Saturdays. The Squire learnt that
Cyril had a talent for cricket, and Cyril wished
to practise in the evenings, and was quite ready
to bind himself with Bible oaths to rise at no
matter what hour in the morning for the purpose
of home lessons. He scarcely expected his father
to say 'Yes' as his father never did say 'Yes,'
but he was obliged to ask. Samuel nonplussed him
by replying that on fine evenings, when he could
spare time from the shop, he would go up to
Bleakridge with his son. Cyril did not like this
in the least. Still, it might be tried. One
evening they went, actually, in the new
steam-car which had superseded the old
horse-cars, and which travelled all the way to
Longshaw, a place that Cyril had only heard of.
Samuel talked of the games played in the Five
Towns in his day, of the Titanic sport of
prison-bars, when the team of one 'bank' went
forth to the challenge of another 'bank,'
preceded by a drum-and-fife band, and when, in
the heat of the chase, a man might jump into the
canal to escape his pursuer; Samuel had never
played at cricket.
Samuel,
with a very young grandson of Fan (deceased),
sat in dignity on the grass and watched his
cricketer for an hour and a half (while
Constance kept an eye on the shop and
superintended its closing). Samuel then
conducted Cyril home again. Two days later the
father of his own accord offered to repeat the
experience. Cyril refused. Disagreeable
insinuations that he was a baby in arms had been
made at school in the meantime.
Nevertheless, in other directions Cyril
sometimes surprisingly conquered. For instance,
he came home one day with the information that a
dog that was not a bull-terrier was not worth
calling a dog. Fan's grandson had been carried
off in earliest prime by a chicken-bone that had
pierced his vitals, and Cyril did indeed
persuade his father to buy a bull-terrier. The
animal was a superlative of forbidding ugliness,
but father and son vied with each other in stern
critical praise of his surpassing beauty, and
Constance, from good nature, joined in the
pretence. He was called Lion, and the shop,
after one or two untoward episodes, was
absolutely closed to him.
But the
most striking of Cyril's successes had to do
with the question of the annual holiday. He
spoke of the sea soon after becoming a
schoolboy. It appeared that his complete
ignorance of the sea prejudicially affected him
at school. Further, he had always loved the sea;
he had drawn hundreds of three-masted ships with
studding-sails set, and knew the difference
between a brig and a brigantine. When he first
said: "I say, mother, why can't we go to
Llandudno instead of Buxton this year?" his
mother thought he was out of his senses. For the
idea of going to any place other than Buxton was
inconceivable! Had they not always been to
Buxton? What would their landlady say? How could
they ever look her in the face again? Besides …
well …! They went to Llandudno, rather scared,
and hardly knowing how the change had come
about. But they went. And it was the force of
Cyril's will, Cyril the theoretic cypher, that
took them.
III
The removal
of the Endowed School to more commodious
premises in the shape of Shawport Hall, an
ancient mansion with fifty rooms and five acres
of land round about it, was not a change that
quite pleased Samuel or Constance. They admitted
the hygienic advantages, but Shawport Hall was
three-quarters of a mile distant from St. Luke's
Square—in the hollow that separates Bursley from
its suburb of Hillport; whereas the Wedgwood
Institution was scarcely a minute away. It was
as if Cyril, when he set off to Shawport Hall of
a morning, passed out of their sphere of
influence. He was leagues off, doing they knew
not what. Further, his dinner-hour was cut short
by the extra time needed for the journey to and
fro, and he arrived late for tea; it may be said
that he often arrived very late for tea; the
whole machinery of the meal was disturbed. These
matters seemed to Samuel and Constance to be of
tremendous import, seemed to threaten the very
foundations of existence. Then they grew
accustomed to the new order, and wondered
sometimes, when they passed the Wedgwood
Institution and the insalubrious Cock Yard—once
sole playground of the boys—that the school
could ever have 'managed' in the narrow quarters
once allotted to it.
Cyril,
though constantly successful at school, a rising
man, an infallible bringer-home of excellent
reports, and a regular taker of prizes, became
gradually less satisfactory in the house. He was
'kept in' occasionally, and although his father
pretended to hold that to be kept in was to slur
the honour of a spotless family, Cyril continued
to be kept in; a hardened sinner, lost to shame.
But this was not the worst. The worst
undoubtedly was that Cyril was 'getting rough.'
No definite accusation could be laid against
him; the offence was general, vague,
everlasting; it was in all he did and said, in
every gesture and movement. He shouted,
whistled, sang, stamped, stumbled, lunged. He
omitted such empty rites as saying 'Yes' or
'Please,' and wiping his nose. He replied
gruffly and nonchalantly to polite questions, or
he didn't reply until the questions were
repeated, and even then with a 'lost' air that
was not genuine. His shoelaces were a sad sight,
and his finger-nails no sight at all for a
decent woman; his hair was as rough as his
conduct; hardly at the pistol's point could he
be forced to put oil on it. In brief, he was no
longer the nice boy that he used to be. He had
unmistakably deteriorated. Grievous! But what
can you expect when YOUR boy is obliged, month
after month and year after year, to associate
with other boys? After all, he was a GOOD boy,
said Constance, often to herself and now and
then to Samuel. For Constance, his charm was
eternally renewed. His smile, his frequent
ingenuousness, his funny self-conscious gesture
when he wanted to 'get round' her—these
characteristics remained; and his pure heart
remained; she could read that in his eyes.
Samuel was inimical to his tastes for sports and
his triumphs therein. But Constance had pride in
all that. She liked to feel him and to gaze at
him, and to smell that faint, uncleanly odour of
sweat that hung in his clothes.
In this
condition he reached the advanced age of
thirteen. And his parents, who despite their
notion of themselves as wide-awake parents were
a simple pair, never suspected that his heart,
conceived to be still pure, had become a
crawling, horrible mass of corruption.
One day the
head-master called at the shop. Now, to see a
head- master walking about the town during
school-hours is a startling spectacle, and is
apt to give you the same uncanny sensation as
when, alone in a room, you think you see
something move which ought not to move. Mr.
Povey was startled. Mr. Povey had a thumping
within his breast as he rubbed his hands and
drew the head-master to the private corner where
his desk was. "What can I do for you to-day?" he
almost said to the head-master. But he did not
say it. The boot was emphatically not on that
leg. The head- master talked to Mr. Povey, in
tones carefully low, for about a quarter of an
hour, and then he closed the interview. Mr.
Povey escorted him across the shop, and the
head-master said with ordinary loudness: "Of
course it's nothing. But my experience is that
it's just as well to be on the safe side, and I
thought I'd tell you. Forewarned is forearmed. I
have other parents to see." They shook hands at
the door. Then Mr. Povey stepped out on to the
pavement and, in front of the whole Square,
detained an unwilling head-master for quite
another minute.
His face
was deeply flushed as he returned into the shop.
The assistants bent closer over their work. He
did not instantly rush into the parlour and
communicate with Constance. He had dropped into
a way of conducting many operations by his own
unaided brain. His confidence in his skill had
increased with years. Further, at the back of
his mind, there had established itself a vision
of Mr. Povey as the seat of government and of
Constance and Cyril as a sort of permanent
opposition. He would not have admitted that he
saw such a vision, for he was utterly loyal to
his wife; but it was there. This unconfessed
vision was one of several causes which had
contributed to intensify his inherent tendency
towards Machiavellianism and secretiveness. He
said nothing to Constance, nothing to Cyril;
but, happening to encounter Amy in the showroom,
he was inspired to interrogate her sharply. The
result was that they descended to the cellar
together, Amy weeping. Amy was commanded to hold
her tongue. And as she went in mortal fear of
Mr. Povey she did hold her tongue.
Nothing
occurred for several days. And then one
morning—it was Constance's birthday: children
are nearly always horribly unlucky in their
choice of days for sin—Mr. Povey, having
executed mysterious movements in the shop after
Cyril's departure to school, jammed his hat on
his head and ran forth in pursuit of Cyril, whom
he intercepted with two other boys, at the
corner of Oldcastle Street and Acre Passage.
Cyril stood
as if turned into salt. "Come back home!" said
Mr.
Povey, grimly; and for the sake of the other
boys: "Please."
"But I
shall be late for school, father," Cyril weakly
urged.
"Never
mind."
They passed
through the shop together, causing a terrific
concealed emotion, and then they did violence to
Constance by appearing in the parlour. Constance
was engaged in cutting straws and ribbons to
make a straw-frame for a water-colour drawing of
a moss-rose which her pure-hearted son had given
her as a birthday present.
"Why—what—?" she exclaimed. She said no more at
the moment because she was sure, from the faces
of her men, that the time was big with fearful
events.
"Take your
satchel off," Mr. Povey ordered coldly. "And
your mortar-board," he added with a peculiar
intonation, as if glad thus to prove that Cyril
was one of those rude boys who have to be told
to take their hats off in a room.
"Whatever's
amiss?" Constance murmured under her breath, as
Cyril obeyed the command. "Whatever's amiss?"
Mr. Povey
made no immediate answer. He was in charge of
these proceedings, and was very anxious to
conduct them with dignity and with complete
effectiveness. Little fat man over fifty, with a
wizened face, grey-haired and grey-bearded, he
was as nervous as a youth. His heart beat
furiously. And Constance, the portly matron who
would never see forty again, was just as nervous
as a girl. Cyril had gone very white. All three
felt physically sick.
"What money
have you got in your pockets?" Mr. Povey
demanded, as a commencement.
Cyril, who
had had no opportunity to prepare his case,
offered no reply.
"You heard
what I said," Mr. Povey thundered.
"I've got
three-halfpence," Cyril murmured glumly, looking
down at the floor. His lower lip seemed to hang
precariously away from his gums.
"Where did
you get that from?"
"It's part
of what mother gave me," said the boy.
"I did give
him a threepenny bit last week," Constance put
in guiltily. "It was a long time since he had
had any money."
"If you
gave it him, that's enough," said Mr. Povey,
quickly, and to the boy: "That's all you've
got?"
"Yes,
father," said the boy.
"You're
sure?"
"Yes,
father."
Cyril was
playing a hazardous game for the highest stakes,
and under grave disadvantages; and he acted for
the best. He guarded his own interests as well
as he could.
Mr. Povey
found himself obliged to take a serious risk.
"Empty your pockets, then."
Cyril,
perceiving that he had lost that particular
game, emptied his pockets.
"Cyril,"
said Constance, "how often have I told you to
change your handkerchiefs oftener! Just look at
this!"
Astonishing
creature! She was in the seventh hell of sick
apprehension, and yet she said that!
After the
handkerchief emerged the common schoolboy stock
of articles useful and magic, and then, last, a
silver florin!
Mr. Povey
felt relief.
"Oh,
Cyril!" whimpered Constance.
"Give it
your mother," said Mr. Povey.
The boy
stepped forward awkwardly, and Constance,
weeping, took the coin.
"Please
look at it, mother," said Mr. Povey. "And tell
me if there's a cross marked on it."
Constance's
tears blurred the coin. She had to wipe her
eyes.
"Yes," she
whispered faintly. "There's something on it."
"I thought
so," said Mr. Povey. "Where did you steal it
from?" he demanded.
"Out of the
till," answered Cyril.
"Have you
ever stolen anything out of the till before?"
"Yes."
"Yes,
what."
"Yes,
father."
"Take your
hands out of your pockets and stand up straight,
if you can. How often?"
"I—I don't
know, father."
"I blame
myself," said Mr. Povey, frankly. "I blame
myself. The till ought always to be locked. All
tills ought always to be locked. But we felt we
could trust the assistants. If anybody had told
me that I ought not to trust you, if anybody had
told me that my own son would be the thief, I
should have—well, I don't know what I should
have said!"
Mr. Povey
was quite justified in blaming himself. The fact
was that the functioning of that till was a
patriarchal survival, which he ought to have
revolutionized, but which it had never occurred
to him to revolutionize, so accustomed to it was
he. In the time of John Baines, the till, with
its three bowls, two for silver and one for
copper (gold had never been put into it), was
invariably unlocked. The person in charge of the
shop took change from it for the assistants, or
temporarily authorized an assistant to do so.
Gold was kept in a small linen bag in a locked
drawer of the desk. The contents of the till
were never checked by any system of
book-keeping, as there was no system of
book-keeping; when all transactions, whether in
payment or receipt, are in cash —the Baineses
never owed a penny save the quarterly wholesale
accounts, which were discharged instantly to the
travellers—a system of book-keeping is not
indispensable. The till was situate immediately
at the entrance to the shop from the house; it
was in the darkest part of the shop, and the
unfortunate Cyril had to pass it every day on
his way to school. The thing was a perfect
device for the manufacture of young criminals.
"And how
have you been spending this money?" Mr. Povey
inquired.
Cyril's
hands slipped into his pockets again. Then,
noticing the lapse, he dragged them out.
"Sweets,"
said he.
"Anything
else?"
"Sweets and
things."
"Oh!" said
Mr. Povey. "Well, now you can go down into the
cinder- cellar and bring up here all the things
there are in that little box in the corner. Off
you go!"
And off
went Cyril. He had to swagger through the
kitchen.
"What did I
tell you, Master Cyril?" Amy unwisely asked of
him.
"You've copped it finely this time."
'Copped'
was a word which she had learned from Cyril.
"Go on, you
old bitch!" Cyril growled.
As he
returned from the cellar, Amy said angrily:
"I told you
I should tell your father the next time you
called me that, and I shall. You mark my words."
"Cant!
cant!" he retorted. "Do you think I don't know
who's been canting? Cant! cant!"
Upstairs in
the parlour Samuel was explaining the matter to
his wife. There had been a perfect epidemic of
smoking in the school. The head-master had
discovered it and, he hoped, stamped it out.
What had disturbed the head-master far more than
the smoking was the fact that a few boys had
been found to possess somewhat costly pipes,
cigar-holders, or cigarette-holders. The
head-master, wily, had not confiscated these
articles; he had merely informed the parents
concerned. In his opinion the articles came from
one single source, a generous thief; he left the
parents to ascertain which of them had brought a
thief into the world.
Further
information Mr. Povey had culled from Amy, and
there could remain no doubt that Cyril had been
providing his chums with the utensils of
smoking, the till supplying the means. He had
told Amy that the things which he secreted in
the cellar had been presented to him by
blood-brothers. But Mr. Povey did not believe
that. Anyhow, he had marked every silver coin in
the till for three nights, and had watched the
till in the mornings from behind the
merino-pile; and the florin on the parlour-table
spoke of his success as a detective.
Constance
felt guilty on behalf of Cyril. As Mr. Povey
outlined his case she could not free herself
from an entirely irrational sensation of sin; at
any rate of special responsibility. Cyril seemed
to be her boy and not Samuel's boy at all. She
avoided her husband's glance. This was very odd.
Then Cyril
returned, and his parents composed their faces
and he deposited, next to the florin, a sham
meerschaum pipe in a case, a tobacco-pouch, a
cigar of which one end had been charred but the
other not cut, and a half-empty packet of
cigarettes without a label.
Nothing
could be hid from Mr. Povey. The details were
distressing.
"So Cyril
is a liar and a thief, to say nothing of this
smoking!"
Mr. Povey concluded.
He spoke as
if Cyril had invented strange and monstrous
sins. But deep down in his heart a little voice
was telling him, as regards the smoking, that HE
had set the example. Mr. Baines had never
smoked. Mr. Critchlow never smoked. Only men
like Daniel smoked.
Thus far
Mr. Povey had conducted the proceedings to his
own satisfaction. He had proved the crime. He
had made Cyril confess. The whole affair lay
revealed. Well—what next? Cyril ought to have
dissolved in repentance; something dramatic
ought to have occurred. But Cyril simply stood
with hanging, sulky head, and gave no sign of
proper feeling.
Mr. Povey
considered that, until something did happen, he
must improve the occasion.
"Here we
have trade getting worse every day," said he (it
was true), "and you are robbing your parents to
make a beast of yourself, and corrupting your
companions! I wonder your mother never smelt
you!"
"I never
dreamt of such a thing!" said Constance,
grievously.
Besides, a
young man clever enough to rob a till is usually
clever enough to find out that the secret of
safety in smoking is to use cachous and not to
keep the stuff in your pockets a minute longer
than you can help.
"There's no
knowing how much money you have stolen," said
Mr.
Povey. "A thief!"
If Cyril
had stolen cakes, jam, string, cigars, Mr. Povey
would never have said 'thief' as he did say it.
But money! Money was different. And a till was
not a cupboard or a larder. A till was a till.
Cyril had struck at the very basis of society.
"And on
your mother's birthday!" Mr. Povey said further.
"There's
one thing I can do!" he said. "I can burn all
this. Built on lies! How dared you?"
And he
pitched into the fire—not the apparatus of
crime, but the water-colour drawing of a
moss-rose and the straws and the blue ribbon for
bows at the corners.
"How dared
you?" he repeated.
"You never
gave me any money," Cyril muttered.
He thought
the marking of coins a mean trick, and the
dragging-in of bad trade and his mother's
birthday roused a familiar devil that usually
slept quietly in his breast.
"What's
that you say?" Mr. Povey almost shouted.
"You never
gave me any money," the devil repeated in a
louder tone than Cyril had employed.
(It was
true. But Cyril 'had only to ask' and he would
have received all that was good for him.)
Mr. Povey
sprang up. Mr. Povey also had a devil. The two
devils gazed at each other for an instant; and
then, noticing that Cyril's head was above Mr.
Povey's, the elder devil controlled itself. Mr.
Povey had suddenly had as much drama as he
wanted.
"Get away
to bed!" said he with dignity.
Cyril went,
defiantly.
"He's to
have nothing but bread and water, mother," Mr.
Povey finished. He was, on the whole, pleased
with himself.
Later in
the day Constance reported, tearfully, that she
had been up to Cyril and that Cyril had wept.
Which was to Cyril's credit. But all felt that
life could never be the same again. During the
remainder of existence this unspeakable horror
would lift its obscene form between them.
Constance had never been so unhappy.
Occasionally, when by herself, she would rebel
for a brief moment, as one rebels in secret
against a mummery which one is obliged to treat
seriously. "After all," she would whisper,
"suppose he HAS taken a few shillings out of the
till! What then? What does it matter?" But these
moods of moral insurrection against society and
Mr. Povey were very transitory. They were come
and gone in a flash.
CHAPTER V
ANOTHER
CRIME
I
One
night—it was late in the afternoon of the same
year, about six months after the tragedy of the
florin—Samuel Povey was wakened up by a hand on
his shoulder and a voice that whispered:
"Father!"
The thief
and the liar was standing in his night-shirt by
the bed.
Samuel's sleepy eyes could just descry him in
the thick gloom.
"What—what?" questioned the father, gradually
coming to consciousness. "What are you doing
there?"
"I didn't
want to wake mother up," the boy whispered.
"There's someone been throwing dirt or something
at our windows, and has been for a long time."
"Eh, what?"
Samuel
stared at the dim form of the thief and liar.
The boy was tall, not in the least like a little
boy; and yet, then, he seemed to his father as
quite a little boy, a little 'thing' in a night-
shirt, with childish gestures and childish
inflections, and a childish, delicious, quaint
anxiety not to disturb his mother, who had
lately been deprived of sleep owing to an
illness of Amy's which had demanded nursing. His
father had not so perceived him for years. In
that instant the conviction that Cyril was
permanently unfit for human society finally
expired in the father's mind. Time had already
weakened it very considerably. The decision
that, be Cyril what he might, the summer holiday
must be taken as usual, had dealt it a fearful
blow. And yet, though Samuel and Constance had
grown so accustomed to the companionship of a
criminal that they frequently lost memory of his
guilt for long periods, nevertheless the
convention of his leprosy had more or less
persisted with Samuel until that moment: when it
vanished with strange suddenness, to Samuel's
conscious relief.
There was a
rain of pellets on the window.
"Hear
that?" demanded Cyril, whispering dramatically.
"And it's been like that on my window too."
Samuel
arose. "Go back to your room!" he ordered in the
same dramatic whisper; but not as father to
son—rather as conspirator to conspirator.
Constance
slept. They could hear her regular breathing.
Barefooted,
the elderly gowned figure followed the younger,
and one after the other they creaked down the
two steps which separated Cyril's room from his
parents'.
"Shut the
door quietly!" said Samuel.
Cyril
obeyed.
And then,
having lighted Cyril's gas, Samuel drew the
blind, unfastened the catch of the window, and
began to open it with many precautions of
silence. All the sashes in that house were
difficult to manage. Cyril stood close to his
father, shivering without knowing that he
shivered, astonished only that his father had
not told him to get back into bed at once. It
was, beyond doubt, the proudest hour of Cyril's
career. In addition to the mysterious
circumstances of the night, there was in the
situation that thrill which always communicates
itself to a father and son when they are afoot
together upon an enterprise unsuspected by the
woman from whom their lives have no secrets.
Samuel put
his head out of the window.
A man was
standing there.
"That you,
Samuel?" The voice came low.
"Yes,"
replied Samuel, cautiously. "It's not Cousin
Daniel, is it?"
"I want
ye," said Daniel Povey, curtly.
Samuel
paused. "I'll be down in a minute," he said.
Cyril at
length received the command to get back into bed
at once.
"Whatever's
up, father?" he asked joyously.
"I don't
know. I must put some things on and go and see."
He shut
down the window on all the breezes that were
pouring into the room.
"Now quick,
before I turn the gas out!" he admonished, his
hand on the gas-tap.
"You'll
tell me in the morning, won't you, father?"
"Yes," said
Mr. Povey, conquering his habitual impulse to
say
'No.'
He crept
back to the large bedroom to grope for clothes.
When,
having descended to the parlour and lighted the
gas there, he opened the side-door, expecting to
let Cousin Daniel in, there was no sign of
Cousin Daniel. Presently he saw a figure
standing at the corner of the Square. He
whistled—Samuel had a singular faculty of
whistling, the envy of his son—and Daniel
beckoned to him. He nearly extinguished the gas
and then ran out, hatless. He was wearing most
of his clothes, except his linen collar and
necktie, and the collar of his coat was turned
up.
Daniel
advanced before him, without waiting, into the
confectioner's shop opposite. Being part of the
most modern building in the Square, Daniel's
shop was provided with the new roll-down iron
shutter, by means of which you closed your
establishment with a motion similar to the
winding of a large clock, instead of putting up
twenty separate shutters one by one as in the
sixteenth century. The little portal in the vast
sheet of armour was ajar, and Daniel had passed
into the gloom beyond. At the same moment a
policeman came along on his beat, cutting off
Mr. Povey from Daniel.
"Good-night, officer! Brrr!" said Mr. Povey,
gathering his dignity about him and holding
himself as though it was part of his normal
habit to take exercise bareheaded and collarless
in St. Luke's Square on cold November nights. He
behaved so because, if Daniel had desired the
services of a policeman, Daniel would of course
have spoken to this one.
"Goo'
night, sir," said the policeman, after
recognizing him.
"What time
is it?" asked Samuel, bold.
"A
quarter-past one, sir."
The
policeman, leaving Samuel at the little open
door, went forward across the lamplit Square,
and Samuel entered his cousin's shop.
Daniel
Povey was standing behind the door, and as
Samuel came in he shut the door with a startling
sudden movement. Save for the twinkle of gas,
the shop was in darkness. It had the empty
appearance which a well-managed confectioner's
and baker's always has at night. The large brass
scales near the flour-bins glinted; and the
glass cake-stands, with scarce a tart among
them, also caught the faint flare of the gas.
"What's the
matter, Daniel? Anything wrong?" Samuel asked,
feeling boyish as he usually did in the presence
of Daniel.
The
well-favoured white-haired man seized him with
one hand by the shoulder in a grip that
convicted Samuel of frailty.
"Look here,
Sam'l," said he in his low, pleasant voice,
somewhat altered by excitement. "You know as my
wife drinks?"
He stared
defiantly at Samuel.
"N—no,"
said Samuel. "That is—no one's ever SAID—-"
This was
true. He did not know that Mrs. Daniel Povey, at
the age of fifty, had definitely taken to drink.
There had been rumours that she enjoyed a glass
with too much gusto; but 'drinks' meant more
than that.
"She
drinks," Daniel Povey continued. "And has done
this last two year!"
"I'm very
sorry to hear it," said Samuel, tremendously
shocked by this brutal rending of the cloak of
decency.
Always,
everybody had feigned to Daniel, and Daniel had
feigned to everybody, that his wife was as other
wives. And now the man himself had torn to
pieces in a moment the veil of thirty years'
weaving.
"And if
that was the worst!" Daniel murmured
reflectively, loosening his grip.
Samuel was
excessively disturbed. His cousin was hinting at
matters which he himself, at any rate, had never
hinted at even to Constance, so abhorrent were
they; matters unutterable, which hung like
clouds in the social atmosphere of the town, and
of which at rare intervals one conveyed one's
cognizance, not by words, but by something
scarce perceptible in a glance, an accent. Not
often is a town such as Bursley starred with
such a woman as Mrs. Daniel Povey.
"But what's
wrong?" Samuel asked, trying to be firm.
And, "What
is wrong?" he asked himself. "What does all this
mean, at after one o'clock in the morning?"
"Look here,
Sam'l," Daniel recommenced, seizing his shoulder
again. "I went to Liverpool corn market to-day,
and missed the last train, so I came by mail
from Crewe. And what do I find? I find Dick
sitting on the stairs in the dark pretty high
naked."
"Sitting on
the stairs? Dick?"
"Ay! This
is what I come home to!"
"But—"
"Hold on!
He's been in bed a couple of days with a
feverish cold, caught through lying in damp
sheets as his mother had forgot to air. She
brings him no supper to-night. He calls out. No
answer. Then he gets up to go down-stairs and
see what's happened, and he slips on th' stairs
and breaks his knee, or puts it out or summat.
Sat there hours, seemingly! Couldn't walk
neither up nor down."
"And was
your—wife—was Mrs.-?"
"Dead drunk
in the parlour, Sam'l."
"But the
servant?"
"Servant!"
Daniel Povey laughed. "We can't keep our
servants. They won't stay. YOU know that."
He did.
Mrs. Daniel Povey's domestic methods and
idiosyncrasies could at any rate be freely
discussed, and they were.
"And what
have you done?"
"Done? Why,
I picked him up in my arms and carried him
upstairs again. And a fine job I had too! Here!
Come here!"
Daniel
strode impulsively across the shop—the
counterflap was up —and opened a door at the
back. Samuel followed. Never before had he
penetrated so far into his cousin's secrets. On
the left, within the doorway, were the stairs,
dark; on the right a shut door; and in front an
open door giving on to a yard. At the extremity
of the yard he discerned a building, vaguely
lit, and naked figures strangely moving in it.
"What's
that? Who's there?" he asked sharply.
"That's the
bakehouse," Daniel replied, as if surprised at
such a question. "It's one of their long
nights."
Never,
during the brief remainder of his life, did
Samuel eat a mouthful of common bread without
recalling that midnight apparition. He had lived
for half a century, and thoughtlessly eaten
bread as though loaves grew ready-made on trees.
"Listen!"
Daniel commanded him.
He cocked
his ear, and caught a feeble, complaining wail
from an upper floor.
"That's
Dick! That is!" said Daniel Povey.
It sounded
more like the distress of a child than of an
adventurous young man of twenty-four or so.
"But is he
in pain? Haven't you fetched the doctor?"
"Not yet,"
answered Daniel, with a vacant stare.
Samuel
gazed at him closely for a second. And Daniel
seemed to him very old and helpless and
pathetic, a man unequal to the situation in
which he found himself; and yet, despite the
dignified snow of his age, wistfully boyish.
Samuel thought swiftly: "This has been too much
for him. He's almost out of his mind. That's the
explanation. Some one's got to take charge, and
I must." And all the courageous resolution of
his character braced itself to the crisis. Being
without a collar, being in slippers, and his
suspenders imperfectly fastened anyhow,—these
things seemed to be a part of the crisis.
"I'll just
run upstairs and have a look at him," said
Samuel, in a matter-of-fact tone.
Daniel did
not reply.
There was a
glimmer at the top of the stairs. Samuel
mounted, found the gas-jet, and turned it on
full. A dingy, dirty, untidy passage was
revealed, the very antechamber of discomfort.
Guided by the moans, Samuel entered a bedroom,
which was in a shameful condition of neglect,
and lighted only by a nearly expired candle. Was
it possible that a house-mistress could so lose
her self- respect? Samuel thought of his own
abode, meticulously and impeccably 'kept,' and a
hard bitterness against Mrs. Daniel surged up in
his soul.
"Is that
you, doctor?" said a voice from the bed; the
moans ceased.
Samuel
raised the candle.
Dick lay
there, his face, on which was a beard of several
days' growth, distorted by anguish, sweating;
his tousled brown hair was limp with sweat.
"Where the
hell's the doctor?" the young man demanded
brusquely. Evidently he had no curiosity about
Samuel's presence; the one thing that struck him
was that Samuel was not the doctor.
"He's
coming, he's coming,' said Samuel, soothingly.
"Well, if
he isn't here soon I shall be damn well dead,"
said
Dick, in feeble resentful anger. "I can tell you
that."
Samuel
deposited the candle and ran downstairs. "I say,
Daniel," he said, roused and hot, "this is
really ridiculous. Why on earth didn't you fetch
the doctor while you were waiting for me?
Where's the missis?"
Daniel
Povey was slowly emptying grains of Indian corn
out of his jacket-pocket into one of the big
receptacles behind the counter on the baker's
side of the shop. He had provisioned himself
with Indian corn as ammunition for Samuel's
bedroom window; he was now returning the
surplus.
"Are ye
going for Harrop?" he questioned hesitatingly.
"Why, of
course!" Samuel exclaimed. "Where's the missis?"
"Happen
you'd better go and have a look at her," said
Daniel
Povey. "She's in th' parlour."
He preceded
Samuel to the shut door on the right. When he
opened it the parlour appeared in full
illumination.
"Here! Go
in!" said Daniel.
Samuel went
in, afraid. In a room as dishevelled and filthy
as the bedroom, Mrs. Daniel Povey lay stretched
awkwardly on a worn horse-hair sofa, her head
thrown back, her face discoloured, her eyes
bulging, her mouth wet and yawning: a sight
horribly offensive. Samuel was frightened; he
was struck with fear and with disgust. The
singing gas beat down ruthlessly on that
dreadful figure. A wife and mother! The lady of
a house! The centre of order! The fount of
healing! The balm for worry, and the refuge of
distress! She was vile. Her scanty yellow-grey
hair was dirty, her hollowed neck all grime, her
hands abominable, her black dress in decay. She
was the dishonour of her sex, her situation, and
her years. She was a fouler obscenity than the
inexperienced Samuel had ever conceived. And by
the door stood her husband, neat, spotless,
almost stately, the man who for thirty years had
marshalled all his immense pride to suffer this
woman, the jolly man who had laughed through
thick and thin! Samuel remembered when they were
married. And he remembered when, years after
their marriage, she was still as pretty,
artificial, coquettish, and adamantine in her
caprices as a young harlot with a fool at her
feet. Time and the slow wrath of God had changed
her.
He remained
master of himself and approached her; then
stopped.
"But—" he
stammered.
"Ay, Sam'l,
lad!" said the old man from the door. "I doubt
I've killed her! I doubt I've killed her! I took
and shook her. I got her by the neck. And before
I knew where I was, I'd done it. She'll never
drink brandy again. This is what it's come to!"
He moved
away.
All
Samuel's flesh tingled as a heavy wave of
emotion rolled through his being. It was just as
if some one had dealt him a blow unimaginably
tremendous. His heart shivered, as a ship
shivers at the mountainous crash of the waters.
He was numbed. He wanted to weep, to vomit, to
die, to sink away. But a voice was whispering to
him: "You will have to go through with this. You
are in charge of this." He thought of HIS wife
and child, innocently asleep in the cleanly
pureness of HIS home. And he felt the roughness
of his coat-collar round his neck and the
insecurity of his trousers. He passed out of the
room, shutting the door. And across the yard he
had a momentary glimpse of those nude nocturnal
forms, unconsciously attitudinizing in the
bakehouse. And down the stairs came the protests
of Dick, driven by pain into a monotonous silly
blasphemy.
"I'll fetch
Harrop," he said, melancholily, to his cousin.
The
doctor's house was less than fifty yards off,
and the doctor had a night-bell, which, though
he was a much older man than his father had been
at his age, he still answered promptly. No need
to bombard the doctor's premises with Indian
corn! While Samuel was parleying with the doctor
through a window, the question ran incessantly
through his mind: "What about telling the
police?"
But when,
in advance of old Harrop, he returned to
Daniel's shop, lo! the policeman previously
encountered had returned upon his beat, and
Daniel was talking to him in the little doorway.
No other soul was about. Down King Street, along
Wedgwood Street, up the Square, towards Brougham
Street, nothing but gaslamps burning with their
everlasting patience, and the blind facades of
shops. Only in the second storey of the Bank
Building at the top of the Square a light showed
mysteriously through a blind. Somebody ill
there!
The
policeman was in a high state of nervous
excitement. That had happened to him which had
never happened to him before. Of the sixty
policemen in Bursley, just he had been chosen by
fate to fit the socket of destiny. He was
startled.
"What's
this, what's this, Mr. Povey?" he turned hastily
to
Samuel. "What's this as Mr. Councillor Povey is
a-telling me?"
"You come
in, sergeant," said Daniel.
"If I come
in," said the policeman to Samuel, "you mun' go
along
Wedgwood Street, Mr. Povey, and bring my mate.
He should be on
Duck Bank, by rights."
It was
astonishing, when once the stone had begun to
roll, how quickly it ran. In half an hour Samuel
had actually parted from Daniel at the
police-office behind the Shambles, and was
hurrying to rouse his wife so that she could
look after Dick Povey until he might be taken
off to Pirehill Infirmary, as old Harrop had
instantly, on seeing him, decreed.
"Ah!" he
reflected in the turmoil of his soul: "God is
not mocked!" That was his basic idea: God is not
mocked! Daniel was a good fellow, honourable,
brilliant; a figure in the world. But what of
his licentious tongue? What of his frequenting
of bars? (How had he come to miss that train
from Liverpool? How?) For many years he, Samuel,
had seen in Daniel a living refutation of the
authenticity of the old Hebrew menaces. But he
had been wrong, after all! God is not mocked!
And Samuel was aware of a revulsion in himself
towards that strict codified godliness from
which, in thought, he had perhaps been slipping
away.
And with it
all he felt, too, a certain officious
self-importance, as he woke his wife and essayed
to break the news to her in a manner tactfully
calm. He had assisted at the most overwhelming
event ever known in the history of the town.
II
"Your
muffler—I'll get it," said Constance. "Cyril,
run upstairs and get father's muffler. You know
the drawer."
Cyril ran.
It behoved everybody, that morning, to be prompt
and efficient.
"I don't
need any muffler, thank you," said Samuel,
coughing and smothering the cough.
"Oh! But,
Sam—" Constance protested.
"Now please
don't worry me!" said Samuel with frigid
finality.
"I've got quite enough—!" He did not finish.
Constance
sighed as her husband stepped, nervous and self-
important, out of the side-door into the street.
It was early, not yet eight o'clock, and the
shop still unopened.
"Your
father couldn't wait," Constance said to Cyril
when he had thundered down the stairs in his
heavy schoolboy boots. "Give it to me." She went
to restore the muffler to its place.
The whole
house was upset, and Amy still an invalid!
Existence was disturbed; there vaguely seemed to
be a thousand novel things to be done, and yet
she could think of nothing whatever that she
needed to do at that moment; so she occupied
herself with the muffler. Before she reappeared
Cyril had gone to school, he who was usually a
laggard. The truth was that he could no longer
contain within himself a recital of the night,
and in particular of the fact that he had been
the first to hear the summons of the murderer on
the window-pane. This imperious news had to be
imparted to somebody, as a preliminary to the
thrilling of the whole school; and Cyril had
issued forth in search of an appreciative and
worthy confidant. He was scarcely five minutes
after his father.
In St.
Luke's Square was a crowd of quite two hundred
persons, standing moveless in the November mud.
The body of Mrs. Daniel Povey had already been
taken to the Tiger Hotel, and young Dick Povey
was on his way in a covered wagonette to
Pirehill Infirmary on the other side of Knype.
The shop of the crime was closed, and the blinds
drawn at the upper windows of the house. There
was absolutely nothing to be seen, not even a
policeman. Nevertheless the crowd stared with an
extraordinary obstinate attentiveness at the
fatal building in Boulton Terrace. Hypnotized by
this face of bricks and mortar, it had
apparently forgotten all earthly ties, and,
regardless of breakfast and a livelihood, was
determined to stare at it till the house fell
down or otherwise rendered up its secret. Most
of its component individuals wore neither
overcoats nor collars, but were kept warm by a
scarf round the neck and by dint of forcing
their fingers into the furthest inch of their
pockets. Then they would slowly lift one leg
after the other. Starers of infirm purpose would
occasionally detach themselves from the throng
and sidle away, ashamed of their fickleness. But
reinforcements were continually arriving. And to
these new-comers all that had been said in
gossip had to be repeated and repeated: the same
questions, the same answers, the same
exclamations, the same proverbial philosophy,
the same prophecies recurred in all parts of the
Square with an uncanny iterance. Well-dressed
men spoke to mere professional loiterers; for
this unparalleled and glorious sensation, whose
uniqueness grew every instant more impressive,
brought out the essential brotherhood of
mankind. All had a peculiar feeling that the day
was neither Sunday nor week- day, but some
eighth day of the week. Yet in the St. Luke's
Covered Market close by, the stall-keepers were
preparing their stalls just as though it were
Saturday, just as though a Town Councillor had
not murdered his wife—at last! It was stated,
and restated infinitely, that the Povey baking
had been taken over by Brindley, the second-best
baker and confectioner, who had a stall in the
market. And it was asserted, as a philosophical
truth, and reasserted infinitely, that there
would have been no sense in wasting good food.
Samuel's
emergence stirred the multitude. But Samuel
passed up the Square with a rapt expression; he
might have been under an illusion, caused by the
extreme gravity of his preoccupations, that he
was crossing a deserted Square. He hurried past
the Bank and down the Turnhill Road, to the
private residence of 'Young Lawton,' son of the
deceased 'Lawyer Lawton.' Young Lawton followed
his father's profession; he was, as his father
had been, the most successful solicitor in the
town (though reputed by his learned rivals to be
a fool), but the custom of calling men by their
occupations had died out with horse-cars. Samuel
caught young Lawton at his breakfast, and
presently drove with him, in the Lawton buggy,
to the police-station, where their arrival
electrified a crowd as large as that in St.
Luke's Square. Later, they drove together to
Hanbridge, informally to brief a barrister; and
Samuel, not permitted to be present at the first
part of the interview between the solicitor and
the barrister, was humbled before the pomposity
of legal etiquette.
It seemed
to Samuel a game. The whole rigmarole of police
and police-cells and formalities seemed
insincere. His cousin's case was not like any
other case, and, though formalities might be
necessary, it was rather absurd to pretend that
it was like any other case. In what manner it
differed from other cases Samuel did not
analytically inquire. He thought young Lawton
was self- important, and Daniel too humble, in
the colloquy of these two, and he endeavoured to
indicate, by the dignity of his own demeanour,
that in his opinion the proper relative tones
had not been set. He could not understand
Daniel's attitude, for he lacked imagination to
realize what Daniel had been through. After all,
Daniel was not a murderer; his wife's death was
due to accident, was simply a mishap.
But in the
crowded and stinking court-room of the Town
Hall, Samuel began to feel qualms. It occurred
that the Stipendiary Magistrate was sitting that
morning at Bursley. He sat alone, as not one of
the Borough Justices cared to occupy the Bench
while a Town Councillor was in the dock. The
Stipendiary, recently appointed, was a young
man, from the southern part of the county; and a
Town Councillor of Bursley was no more to him
than a petty tradesman to a man of fashion. He
was youthfully enthusiastic for the majesty and
the impartiality of English justice, and behaved
as though the entire responsibility for the
safety of that vast fabric rested on his
shoulders. He and the barrister from Hanbridge
had had a historic quarrel at Cambridge, and
their behaviour to each other was a lesson to
the vulgar in the art of chill and consummate
politeness. Young Lawton, having been to Oxford,
secretly scorned the pair of them, but, as he
had engaged counsel, he of course was precluded
from adding to the eloquence, which chagrined
him. These three were the aristocracy of the
court-room; they knew it; Samuel Povey knew it;
everybody knew it, and felt it. The barrister
brought an unexceptionable zeal to the
performance of his duties; be referred in
suitable terms to Daniel's character and high
position in the town, but nothing could hide the
fact that for him too his client was a petty
tradesman accused of simple murder. Naturally
the Stipendiary was bound to show that before
the law all men are equal—the Town Councillor
and the common tippler; he succeeded. The
policeman gave his evidence, and the Inspector
swore to what Daniel Povey had said when
charged. The hearing proceeded so smoothly and
quickly that it seemed naught but an empty rite,
with Daniel as a lay figure in it. The
Stipendiary achieved marvellously the illusion
that to him a murder by a Town Councillor in St.
Luke's Square was quite an everyday matter. Bail
was inconceivable, and the barrister, being
unable to suggest any reason why the Stipendiary
should grant a remand—indeed, there was no
reason— Daniel Povey was committed to the
Stafford Assizes for trial. The Stipendiary
instantly turned to the consideration of an
alleged offence against the Factory Acts by a
large local firm of potters. The young
magistrate had mistaken his vocation. With his
steely calm, with his imperturbable detachment
from weak humanity, he ought to have been a
General of the Order of Jesuits.
Daniel was
removed—he did not go: he was removed, by two
bare- headed constables. Samuel wanted to have
speech with him, and could not. And later,
Samuel stood in the porch of the Town Hall, and
Daniel appeared out of a corridor, still in the
keeping of two policemen, helmeted now. And down
below at the bottom of the broad flight of
steps, up which passed dancers on the nights of
subscription balls, was a dense crowd, held at
bay by other policemen; and beyond the crowd a
black van. And Daniel—to his cousin a sort of
Christ between thieves—was hurried past the
privileged loafers in the corridor, and down the
broad steps. A murmuring wave agitated the
crowd. Unkempt idlers and ne'er-do- wells in
corduroy leaped up like tigers in the air, and
the policemen fought them back furiously. And
Daniel and his guardians shot through the little
living lane. Quick! Quick! For the captive is
more sacred even than a messiah. The law has him
in charge! And like a feat of prestidigitation
Daniel disappeared into the blackness of the
van. A door slammed loudly, triumphantly, and a
whip cracked. The crowd had been balked. It was
as though the crowd had yelled for Daniel's
blood and bones, and the faithful constables had
saved him from their lust.
Yes, Samuel
had qualms. He had a sickness in the stomach.
The aged
Superintendent of Police walked by, with the
aged Rector. The Rector was Daniel's friend.
Never before had the Rector spoken to the
Nonconformist Samuel, but now he spoke to him;
he squeezed his hand.
"Ah, Mr.
Povey!" he ejaculated grievously.
"I—I'm
afraid it's serious!" Samuel stammered. He hated
to admit that it was serious, but the words came
out of his mouth.
He looked
at the Superintendent of Police, expecting the
Superintendent to assure him that it was not
serious; but the Superintendent only raised his
small white-bearded chin, saying nothing. The
Rector shook his head, and shook a senile tear
out of his eye.
After
another chat with young Lawton, Samuel, on
behalf of Daniel, dropped his pose of the
righteous man to whom a mere mishap has
occurred, and who is determined, with the lofty
pride of innocence, to indulge all the whims of
the law, to be more royalist than the king. He
perceived that the law must be fought with its
own weapons, that no advantage must be
surrendered, and every possible advantage
seized. He was truly astonished at himself that
such a pose had ever been adopted. His eyes were
opened; he saw things as they were.
He returned
home through a Square that was more interested
than ever in the facade of his cousin's house.
People were beginning to come from Hanbridge,
Knype, Longshaw, Turnhill, and villages such as
Moorthorne, to gaze at that facade. And the
fourth edition of the Signal, containing a full
report of what the Stipendiary and the barrister
had said to each other, was being cried.
In his shop
he found customers, as absorbed in the
trivialities of purchase as though nothing
whatever had happened. He was shocked; he
resented their callousness.
"I'm too
busy now," he said curtly to one who accosted
him."
"Sam!" his
wife called him in a low voice. She was standing
behind the till.
"What is
it?" He was ready to crush, and especially to
crush indiscreet babble in the shop. He thought
she was going to vent her womanly curiosity at
once.
"Mr.
Huntbach is waiting for you in the parlour,"
said Constance.
"Mr.
Huntbach?"
"Yes, from
Longshaw." She whispered, "It's Mrs. Povey's
cousin. He's come to see about the funeral and
so on, the—the inquest, I suppose."
Samuel
paused. "Oh, has he!" said he defiantly. "Well,
I'll see him. If he WANTS to see me, I'll see
him."
That
evening Constance learned all that was in his
mind of bitterness against the memory of the
dead woman whose failings had brought Daniel
Povey to Stafford gaol and Dick to the Pirehill
Infirmary. Again and again, in the ensuing days,
he referred to the state of foul discomfort
which he had discovered in Daniel's house. He
nursed a feud against all her relatives, and
when, after the inquest, at which he gave
evidence full of resentment, she was buried, he
vented an angry sigh of relief, and said: "Well,
SHE'S out of the way!" Thenceforward he had a
mission, religious in its solemn intensity, to
defend and save Daniel. He took the enterprise
upon himself, spending the whole of himself upon
it, to the neglect of his business and the scorn
of his health. He lived solely for Daniel's
trial, pouring out money in preparation for it.
He thought and spoke of nothing else. The affair
was his one preoccupation. And as the weeks
passed, he became more and more sure of success,
more and more sure that he would return with
Daniel to Bursley in triumph after the assize.
He was convinced of the impossibility that
'anything should happen' to Daniel; the
circumstances were too clear, too overwhelmingly
in Daniel's favour.
When
Brindley, the second-best baker and
confectioner, made an offer for Daniel's
business as a going concern, he was indignant at
first. Then Constance, and the lawyer, and
Daniel (whom he saw on every permitted occasion)
between them persuaded him that if some
arrangement was not made, and made quickly, the
business would lose all its value, and he
consented, on Daniel's behalf, to a temporary
agreement under which Brindley should reopen the
shop and manage it on certain terms until Daniel
regained his freedom towards the end of January.
He would not listen to Daniel's plaintive
insistence that he would never care to be seen
in Bursley again. He pooh-poohed it. He
protested furiously that the whole town was
seething with sympathy for Daniel; and this was
true. He became Daniel's defending angel,
rescuing Daniel from Daniel's own weakness and
apathy. He became, indeed, Daniel.
One morning
the shop-shutter was wound up, and Brindley,
inflated with the importance of controlling two
establishments, strutted in and out under the
sign of Daniel Povey. And traffic in bread and
cakes and flour was resumed. Apparently the sea
of time had risen and covered Daniel and all
that was his; for his wife was under earth, and
Dick lingered at Pirehill, unable to stand, and
Daniel was locked away. Apparently, in the
regular flow of the life of the Square, Daniel
was forgotten. But not in Samuel Povey's heart
was he forgotten! There, before an altar erected
to the martyr, the sacred flame of a new faith
burned with fierce consistency. Samuel, in his
greying middle-age, had inherited the eternal
youth of the apostle.
III
On the dark
winter morning when Samuel set off to the grand
assize, Constance did not ask his views as to
what protection he would adopt against the
weather. She silently ranged special
underclothing, and by the warmth of the fire,
which for days she had kept ablaze in the
bedroom, Samuel silently donned the special
underclothing. Over that, with particular
fastidious care, he put his best suit. Not a
word was spoken. Constance and he were not
estranged, but the relations between them were
in a state of feverish excitation. Samuel had
had a cold on his flat chest for weeks, and
nothing that Constance could invent would move
it. A few days in bed or even in one room at a
uniform temperature would have surely worked the
cure. Samuel, however, would not stay in one
room: he would not stay in the house, nor yet in
Bursley. He would take his lacerating cough on
chilly trains to Stafford. He had no ears for
reason; he simply could not listen; he was in a
dream. After Christmas a crisis came. Constance
grew desperate. It was a battle between her will
and his that occurred one night when Constance,
marshalling all her forces, suddenly insisted
that he must go out no more until he was cured.
In the fight Constance was scarcely
recognizable. She deliberately gave way to
hysteria; she was no longer soft and gentle; she
flung bitterness at him like vitriol; she
shrieked like a common shrew. It seems almost
incredible that Constance should have gone so
far; but she did. She accused him, amid sobs, of
putting his cousin before his wife and son, of
not caring whether or not she was left a widow
as the result of this obstinacy. And she ended
by crying passionately that she might as well
talk to a post. She might just as well have
talked to a post. Samuel answered quietly and
coldly. He told her that it was useless for her
to put herself about, as he should act as he
thought fit. It was a most extraordinary scene,
and quite unique in their annals. Constance was
beaten. She accepted the defeat, gradually
controlling her sobs and changing her tone to
the tone of the vanquished. She kissed him in
bed, kissing the rod. And he gravely kissed her.
Henceforward she knew, in practice, what the
inevitable, when you have to live with it, may
contain of anguish wretched and humiliating. Her
husband was risking his life, so she was
absolutely convinced, and she could do nothing;
she had come to the bed-rock of Samuel's
character. She felt that, for the time being,
she had a madman in the house, who could not be
treated according to ordinary principles. The
continual strain aged her. Her one source of
relief was to talk with Cyril. She talked to him
without reserve, and the words 'your father,'
'your father,' were everlastingly on her
complaining tongue. Yes, she was utterly
changed. Often she would weep when alone.
Nevertheless she frequently forgot that she had
been beaten. She had no notion of honourable
warfare. She was always beginning again, always
firing under a flag of truce; and thus she
constituted a very inconvenient opponent. Samuel
was obliged, while hardening on the main point,
to compromise on lesser questions. She too could
be formidable, and when her lips took a certain
pose, and her eyes glowed, he would have put on
forty mufflers had she commanded. Thus it was
she who arranged all the details of the supreme
journey to Stafford. Samuel was to drive to
Knype, so as to avoid the rigours of the Loop
Line train from Bursley and the waiting on cold
platforms. At Knype he was to take the express,
and to travel first-class.
After he
was dressed on that gas-lit morning, he learnt
bit by bit the extent of her elaborate
preparations. The breakfast was a special
breakfast, and he had to eat it all. Then the
cab came, and he saw Amy put hot bricks into it.
Constance herself put goloshes over his boots,
not because it was damp, but because indiarubber
keeps the feet warm. Constance herself bandaged
his neck, and unbuttoned his waistcoat and stuck
an extra flannel under his dickey. Constance
herself warmed his woollen gloves, and enveloped
him in his largest overcoat.
Samuel then
saw Cyril getting ready to go out. "Where are
you off?" he demanded.
"He's going
with you as far as Knype," said Constance
grimly.
"He'll see you into the train and then come back
here in the cab."
She had
sprung this indignity upon him. She glared.
Cyril glanced with timid bravado from one to the
other. Samuel had to yield.
Thus in the
winter darkness—for it was not yet dawn—Samuel
set forth to the trial, escorted by his son. The
reverberation of his appalling cough from the
cab was the last thing that Constance heard.
During most
of the day Constance sat in 'Miss Insull's
corner' in the shop. Twenty years ago this very
corner had been hers. But now, instead of large
millinery-boxes enwrapped in brown paper, it was
shut off from the rest of the counter by a rich
screen of mahogany and ground-glass, and within
the enclosed space all the apparatus necessary
to the activity of Miss Insull had been provided
for. However, it remained the coldest part of
the whole shop, as Miss Insull's fingers
testified. Constance established herself there
more from a desire to do something, to interfere
in something, than from a necessity of
supervising the shop, though she had said to
Samuel that she would keep an eye on the shop.
Miss Insull, whose throne was usurped, had to
sit by the stove with less important creatures;
she did not like it, and her underlings suffered
accordingly.
It was a
long day. Towards tea-time, just before Cyril
was due from school, Mr. Critchlow came
surprisingly in. That is to say, his arrival was
less of a surprise to Miss Insull and the rest
of the staff than to Constance. For he had
lately formed an irregular habit of popping in
at tea-time, to chat with Miss Insull. Mr.
Critchlow was still defying time. He kept his
long, thin figure perfectly erect. His features
had not altered. His hair and heard could not
have been whiter than they had been for years
past. He wore his long white apron, and over
that a thick reefer jacket. In his long, knotty
fingers he carried a copy of the Signal.
Evidently
he had not expected to find the corner occupied
by
Constance. She was sewing.
"So it's
you!" he said, in his unpleasant, grating voice,
not even glancing at Miss Insull. He had gained
the reputation of being the rudest old man in
Bursley. But his general demeanour expressed
indifference rather than rudeness. It was a
manner that said: "You've got to take me as I
am. I may be an egotist, hard, mean, and
convinced; but those who don't like it can lump
it. I'm indifferent."
He put one
elbow on the top of the screen, showing the
Signal.
"Mr.
Critchlow!" said Constance, primly; she had
acquired Samuel's dislike of him.
"It's
begun!" he observed with mysterious glee.
"Has it?"
Constance said eagerly. "Is it in the paper
already?"
She had
been far more disturbed about her husband's
health than about the trial of Daniel Povey for
murder, but her interest in the trial was of
course tremendous. And this news, that it had
actually begun, thrilled her.
"Ay!" said
Mr. Critchlow. "Didn't ye hear the Signal boy
hollering just now all over the Square?"
"No," said
Constance. For her, newspapers did not exist.
She never had the idea of opening one, never
felt any curiosity which she could not satisfy,
if she could satisfy it at all, without the
powerful aid of the press. And even on this day
it had not occurred to her that the Signal might
be worth opening.
"Ay!"
repeated Mr. Critchlow. "Seemingly it began at
two o'clock— or thereabouts." He gave a moment
of his attention to a noisy gas- jet, which he
carefully lowered.
"What does
it say?"
"Nothing
yet!" said Mr. Critchlow; and they read the few
brief sentences, under their big heading, which
described the formal commencement of the trial
of Daniel Povey for the murder of his wife.
"There was some as said," he remarked, pushing
up his spectacles, "that grand jury would alter
the charge, or summat!" He laughed, grimly
tolerant of the extreme absurdity. "Ah!" he
added contemplatively, turning his head to see
if the assistants were listening. They were. It
would have been too much, on such a day, to
expect a strict adherence to the etiquette of
the shop.
Constance
had been hearing a good deal lately of grand
juries, but she had understood nothing, nor had
she sought to understand.
"I'm very
glad it's come on so soon," she said. "In a
sense, that is! I was afraid Sam might be kept
at Stafford for days. Do you think it will last
long?"
"Not it!"
said Mr. Critchlow, positively. "There's naught
in it to spin out."
Then a
silence, punctuated by the sound of stitching.
Constance
would really have preferred not to converse with
the old man; but the desire for reassurance, for
the calming of her own fears, forced her to
speak, though she knew well that Mr. Critchlow
was precisely the last man in the town to give
moral assistance if he thought it was wanted.
"I do hope
everything will be all right!" she murmured.
"Everything'll be all right!" he said gaily.
"Everything'll be all right. Only it'll be all
wrong for Dan."
"Whatever
do you mean, Mr. Critchlow?" she protested.
Nothing,
she reflected, could rouse pity in that heart,
not even a tragedy like Daniel's. She bit her
lip for having spoken.
"Well," he
said in loud tones, frankly addressing the girls
round the stove as much as Constance. "I've met
with some rare good arguments this new year, no
mistake! There's been some as say that Dan never
meant to do it. That's as may be. But if it's a
good reason for not hanging, there's an end to
capital punishment in this country. 'Never
meant'! There's a lot of 'em as 'never meant'!
Then I'm told as she was a gallivanting woman
and no housekeeper, and as often drunk as sober.
I'd no call to be told that. If strangling is a
right punishment for a wife as spends her time
in drinking brandy instead of sweeping floors
and airing sheets, then Dan's safe. But I don't
seem to see Judge Lindley telling the jury as it
is. I've been a juryman under Judge Lindley
myself—and more than once—and I don't seem to
see him, like!" He paused with his mouth open.
"As for all them nobs," he continued, "including
th' rector, as have gone to Stafford to kiss the
book and swear that Dan's reputation is second
to none—if they could ha' sworn as Dan wasn't in
th' house at all that night, if they could ha'
sworn he was in Jericho, there'd ha' been some
sense in their going. But as it is, they'd ha'
done better to stop at home and mind their
business. Bless us! Sam wanted ME to go!"
He laughed
again, in the faces of the horrified and angry
women.
"I'm
surprised at you, Mr. Critchlow! I really am!"
Constance exclaimed.
And the
assistants inarticulately supported her with
vague sounds. Miss Insull got up and poked the
stove. Every soul in the establishment was
loyally convinced that Daniel Povey would be
acquitted, and to breathe a doubt on the
brightness of this certainty was a hideous
crime. The conviction was not within the domain
of reason; it was an act of faith; and arguments
merely fretted, without in the slightest degree
disturbing it.
"Ye may
be!" Mr. Critchlow gaily concurred. He was very
content.
Just as he
shuffled round to leave the shop, Cyril entered.
"Good
afternoon, Mr. Critchlow," said Cyril,
sheepishly polite.
Mr.
Critchlow gazed hard at the boy, then nodded his
head several times rapidly, as though to say:
"Here's another fool in the making! So the
generations follow one another!" He made no
answer to the salutation, and departed.
Cyril ran
round to his mother's corner, pitching his bag
on to the showroom stairs as he passed them.
Taking off his hat, he kissed her, and she
unbuttoned his overcoat with her cold hands.
"What's old
Methuselah after?" he demanded.
"Hush!"
Constance softly corrected him. "He came in to
tell me the trial had started."
"Oh, I knew
that! A boy bought a paper and I saw it. I say,
mother, will father be in the paper?" And then
in a different tone: "I say, mother, what is
there for tea?"
When his
stomach had learnt exactly what there was for
tea, the boy began to show an immense and
talkative curiosity in the trial. He would not
set himself to his home-lessons. "It's no use,
mother," he said, "I can't." They returned to
the shop together, and Cyril would go every
moment to the door to listen for the cry of a
newsboy. Presently he hit upon the idea that
perhaps newsboys might be crying the special
edition of the Signal in the market- place, in
front of the Town Hall, to the neglect of St.
Luke's Square. And nothing would satisfy him but
he must go forth and see. He went, without his
overcoat, promising to run. The shop waited with
a strange anxiety. Cyril had created, by his
restless movements to and fro, an atmosphere of
strained expectancy. It seemed now as if the
whole town stood with beating heart, fearful of
tidings and yet burning to get them. Constance
pictured Stafford, which she had never seen, and
a court of justice, which she had never seen,
and her husband and Daniel in it. And she
waited.
Cyril ran
in. "No!" he announced breathlessly. "Nothing
yet."
"Don't take
cold, now you're hot," Constance advised.
But he
would keep near the door. Soon he ran off again.
And perhaps
fifteen seconds after he had gone, the strident
cry of a Signal boy was heard in the distance,
faint and indistinct at first, then clearer and
louder.
"There's a
paper!" said the apprentice.
"Sh!" said
Constance, listening.
"Sh!"
echoed Miss Insull.
"Yes, it
is!" said Constance. "Miss Insull, just step out
and get a paper. Here's a halfpenny."
The
halfpenny passed quickly from one thimbled hand
to another.
Miss Insull scurried.
She came in
triumphantly with the sheet, which Constance
tremblingly took. Constance could not find the
report at first. Miss Insull pointed to it, and
read—
"'Summing
up!' Lower down, lower down! 'After an absence
of thirty-five minutes the jury found the
prisoner guilty of murder, with a recommendation
to mercy. The judge assumed the black cap and
pronounced sentence of death, saying that he
would forward the recommendation to the proper
quarter.'"
Cyril
returned. "Not yet!" he was saying—when he saw
the paper lying on the counter. His crest fell.
Long after
the shop was shut, Constance and Cyril waited in
the parlour for the arrival of the master of the
house. Constance was in the blackest despair.
She saw nothing but death around her. She
thought: misfortunes never come singly. Why did
not Samuel come? All was ready for him,
everything that her imagination could suggest,
in the way of food, remedies, and the means of
warmth. Amy was not allowed to go to bed, lest
she might be needed. Constance did not even hint
that Cyril should go to bed. The dark, dreadful
minutes ticked themselves off on the mantelpiece
until only five minutes separated Constance from
the moment when she would not know what to do
next. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. If
at half-past Samuel did not appear, then he
could not come that night, unless the last train
from Stafford was inconceivably late.
The sound
of a carriage! It ceased at the door. Mother and
son sprang up.
Yes, it was
Samuel! She beheld him once more. And the sight
of his condition, moral and physical, terrified
her. His great strapping son and Amy helped him
upstairs. "Will he ever come down those stairs
again?" This thought lanced Constance's heart.
The pain was come and gone in a moment, but it
had surprised her tranquil commonsense, which
was naturally opposed to, and gently scornful
of, hysterical fears. As she puffed, with her
stoutness, up the stairs, that bland
cheerfulness of hers cost her an immense effort
of will. She was profoundly troubled; great
disasters seemed to be slowly approaching her
from all quarters.
Should she
send for the doctor? No. To do so would only be
a concession to the panic instinct. She knew
exactly what was the matter with Samuel: a
severe cough persistently neglected, no more. As
she had expressed herself many times to
inquirers, "He's never been what you may call
ill." Nevertheless, as she laid him in bed and
possetted him, how frail and fragile he looked!
And he was so exhausted that he would not even
talk about the trial.
"If he's
not better to-morrow I shall send for the
doctor!" she said to herself. As for his getting
up, she swore she would keep him in bed by force
if necessary.
IV
The next
morning she was glad and proud that she had not
yielded to a scare. For he was most strangely
and obviously better. He had slept heavily, and
she had slept a little. True that Daniel was
condemned to death! Leaving Daniel to his fate,
she was conscious of joy springing in her heart.
How absurd to have asked herself: "Will he ever
come down those stairs again?"!
A message
reached her from the forgotten shop during the
morning, that Mr. Lawton had called to see Mr.
Povey. Already Samuel had wanted to arise, but
she had forbidden it in the tone of a woman who
is dangerous, and Samuel had been very
reasonable. He now said that Mr. Lawton must be
asked up. She glanced round the bedroom. It was
'done'; it was faultlessly correct as a sick
chamber. She agreed to the introduction into it
of the man from another sphere, and after a
preliminary minute she left the two to talk
together. This visit of young Lawton's was a
dramatic proof of Samuel's importance, and of
the importance of the matter in hand. The august
occasion demanded etiquette, and etiquette said
that a wife should depart from her husband when
he had to transact affairs beyond the grasp of a
wife.
The idea of
a petition to the Home Secretary took shape at
this interview, and before the day was out it
had spread over the town and over the Five
Towns, and it was in the Signal. The Signal
spoke of Daniel Povey as 'the condemned man.'
And the phrase startled the whole district into
an indignant agitation for his reprieve. The
district woke up to the fact that a Town
Councillor, a figure in the world, an honest
tradesman of unspotted character, was cooped
solitary in a little cell at Stafford, waiting
to be hanged by the neck till he was dead. The
district determined that this must not and
should not be. Why! Dan Povey had actually once
been Chairman of the Bursley Society for the
Prosecution of Felons, that association for
annual eating and drinking, whose members
humorously called each other 'felons'!
Impossible, monstrous, that an ex-chairman of
the 'Felons' should be a sentenced criminal!
However,
there was nothing to fear. No Home Secretary
would dare to run counter to the jury's
recommendation and the expressed wish of the
whole district. Besides, the Home Secretary's
nephew was M.P. for the Knype division. Of
course a verdict of guilty had been inevitable.
Everybody recognized that now. Even Samuel and
all the hottest partisans of Daniel Povey
recognized it. They talked as if they had always
foreseen it, directly contradicting all that
they had said on only the previous day. Without
any sense of any inconsistency or of shame, they
took up an absolutely new position. The
structure of blind faith had once again crumbled
at the assault of realities, and unhealthy,
un-English truths, the statement of which would
have meant ostracism twenty-four hours earlier,
became suddenly the platitudes of the Square and
the market-place.
Despatch
was necessary in the affair of the petition, for
the condemned man had but three Sundays. But
there was delay at the beginning, because
neither young Lawton nor any of his colleagues
was acquainted with the proper formula of a
petition to the Home Secretary for the reprieve
of a criminal condemned to death. No such
petition had been made in the district within
living memory. And at first, young Lawton could
not get sight or copy of any such petition
anywhere, in the Five Towns or out of them. Of
course there must exist a proper formula, and of
course that formula and no other could be
employed. Nobody was bold enough to suggest that
young Lawton should commence the petition, "To
the Most Noble the Marquis of Welwyn, K.C.B.,
May it please your Lordship," and end it, "And
your petitioners will ever pray!" and insert
between those phrases a simple appeal for the
reprieve, with a statement of reasons. No! the
formula consecrated by tradition must be found.
And, after Daniel had arrived a day and a half
nearer death, it was found. A lawyer at Alnwick
had the draft of a petition which had secured
for a murderer in Northumberland twenty years'
penal servitude instead of sudden death, and on
request he lent it to young Lawton. The prime
movers in the petition felt that Daniel Povey
was now as good as saved. Hundreds of forms were
printed to receive signatures, and these forms,
together with copies of the petition, were laid
on the counters of all the principal shops, not
merely in Bursley, but in the other towns. They
were also to be found at the offices of the
Signal, in railway waiting-rooms, and in the
various reading-rooms; and on the second of
Daniel's three Sundays they were exposed in the
porches of churches and chapels. Chapel-keepers
and vergers would come to Samuel and ask with
the heavy inertia of their stupidity: "About
pens and ink, sir?" These officials had the air
of audaciously disturbing the sacrosanct routine
of centuries in order to confer a favour.
Samuel
continued to improve. His cough shook him less,
and his appetite increased. Constance allowed
him to establish himself in the drawing-room,
which was next to the bedroom, and of which the
grate was particularly efficient. Here, in an
old winter overcoat, he directed the vast affair
of the petition, which grew daily to vaster
proportions. Samuel dreamed of twenty thousand
signatures. Each sheet held twenty signatures,
and several times a day he counted the sheets;
the supply of forms actually failed once, and
Constance herself had to hurry to the printers
to order more. Samuel was put into a passion by
this carelessness of the printers. He offered
Cyril sixpence for every sheet of signatures
which the boy would obtain. At first Cyril was
too shy to canvass, but his father made him
blush, and in a few hours Cyril had developed
into an eager canvasser. One whole day he stayed
away from school to canvas. Altogether he earned
over fifteen shillings, quite honestly except
that he got a companion to forge a couple of
signatures with addresses lacking at the end of
a last sheet, generously rewarding him with
sixpence, the value of the entire sheet.
When Samuel
had received a thousand sheets with twenty
thousand signatures, he set his heart on
twenty-five thousand signatures. And he also
announced his firm intention of accompanying
young Lawton to London with the petition. The
petition had, in fact, become one of the most
remarkable petitions of modern times. So the
Signal said. The Signal gave a daily account of
its progress, and its progress was astonishing.
In certain streets every householder had signed
it. The first sheets had been reserved for the
signatures of members of Parliament, ministers
of religion, civic dignitaries, justices of the
peace, etc. These sheets were nobly filled. The
aged Rector of Bursley signed first of all;
after him the Mayor of Bursley, as was right;
then sundry M.P.'s.
Samuel
emerged from the drawing-room. He went into the
parlour, and, later, into the shop; and no evil
consequence followed. His cough was nearly, but
not quite, cured. The weather was
extraordinarily mild for the season. He repeated
that he should go with the petition to London;
and he went; Constance could not validly oppose
the journey. She, too, was a little intoxicated
by the petition. It weighed considerably over a
hundredweight. The crowning signature, that of
the M.P. for Knype, was duly obtained in London,
and Samuel's one disappointment was that his
hope of twenty-five thousand signatures had
fallen short of realization— by only a few
score. The few score could have been got had not
time urgently pressed. He returned from London a
man of mark, full of confidence; but his cough
was worse again.
His
confidence in the power of public opinion and
the inherent virtue of justice might have proved
to be well placed, had not the Home Secretary
happened to be one of your humane officials. The
Marquis of Welwyn was celebrated through every
stratum of the governing classes for his humane
instincts, which were continually fighting
against his sense of duty. Unfortunately his
sense of duty, which he had inherited from
several centuries of ancestors, made havoc among
his humane instincts on nearly every occasion of
conflict. It was reported that he suffered
horribly in consequence. Others also suffered,
for he was never known to advise a remission of
a sentence of flogging. Certain capital
sentences he had commuted, but he did not
commute Daniel Povey's. He could not permit
himself to be influenced by a wave of popular
sentiment, and assuredly not by his own nephew's
signature. He gave to the case the patient,
remorseless examination which he gave to every
case. He spent a sleepless night in trying to
discover a reason for yielding to his humane
instincts, but without success. As Judge Lindley
remarked in his confidential report, the sole
arguments in favour of Daniel were provocation
and his previous high character; and these were
no sort of an argument. The provocation was
utterly inadequate, and the previous high
character was quite too ludicrously beside the
point. So once more the Marquis's humane
instincts were routed and he suffered horribly.
On the
Sunday morning after the day on which the Signal
had printed the menu of Daniel Povey's supreme
breakfast, and the exact length of the 'drop'
which the executioner had administered to him,
Constance and Cyril stood together at the window
of the large bedroom. The boy was in his best
clothes; but Constance's garments gave no sign
of the Sabbath. She wore a large apron over an
old dress that was rather tight for her. She was
pale and looked ill.
"Oh,
mother!" Cyril exclaimed suddenly. "Listen! I'm
sure I can hear the band."
She checked
him with a soundless movement of her lips; and
they both glanced anxiously at the silent bed,
Cyril with a gesture of apology for having
forgotten that he must make no noise.
The strains
of the band came from down King Street, in the
direction of St. Luke's Church. The music
appeared to linger a long time in the distance,
and then it approached, growing louder, and the
Bursley Town Silver Prize Band passed under the
window at the solemn pace of Handel's "Dead
March." The effect of that requiem, heavy with
its own inherent beauty and with the vast weight
of harrowing tradition, was to wring the tears
from Constance's eyes; they fell on her aproned
bosom, and she sank into a chair. And though,
the cheeks of the trumpeters were puffed out,
and though the drummer had to protrude his
stomach and arch his spine backwards lest he
should tumble over his drum, there was majesty
in the passage of the band. The boom of the
drum, desolating the interruptions of the
melody, made sick the heart, but with a lofty
grief; and the dirge seemed to be weaving a
purple pall that covered every meanness.
The
bandsmen were not all in black, but they all
wore crape on their sleeves and their
instruments were knotted with crape. They
carried in their hats a black-edged card. Cyril
held one of these cards in his hands. It ran
thus:
SACRED TO
THE MEMORY OF DANIEL POVEY A TOWN COUNCILLOR OF
THIS TOWN JUDICIALLY MURDERED AT 8 O'CLOCK IN
THE MORNING 8TH FEBRUARY 1888 "HE WAS MORE
SINNED AGAINST THAN SINNING."
In the wake
of the band came the aged Rector, bare-headed,
and wearing a surplice over his overcoat; his
thin white hair was disarranged by the breeze
that played in the chilly sunshine; his hands
were folded on a gilt-edged book. A curate,
churchwardens, and sidesmen followed. And after
these, tramping through the dark mud in a
procession that had apparently no end, wound the
unofficial male multitude, nearly all in
mourning, and all, save the more aristocratic,
carrying the memorial card in their hats.
Loafers, women, and children had collected on
the drying pavements, and a window just opposite
Constance was ornamented with the entire family
of the landlord of the Sun Vaults. In the great
bar of the Vaults a barman was craning over the
pitchpine screen that secured privacy to
drinkers. The procession continued without
break, eternally rising over the verge of King
Street 'bank,' and eternally vanishing round the
corner into St. Luke's Square; at intervals it
was punctuated by a clergyman, a Nonconformist
minister, a town crier, a group of foremen, or a
few Rifle Volunteers. The watching crowd grew as
the procession lengthened. Then another band was
heard, also playing the march from Saul. The
first band had now reached the top of the
Square, and was scarcely audible from King
Street. The reiterated glitter in the sun of
memorial cards in hats gave the fanciful
illusion of an impossible whitish snake that was
straggling across the town. Three-quarters of an
hour elapsed before the tail of the snake came
into view, and a rabble of unkempt boys closed
in upon it, filling the street,
"I shall go
to the drawing-room window, mother," said Cyril.
She nodded.
He crept out of the bedroom.
St. Luke's
Square was a sea of hats and memorial cards.
Most of the occupiers of the Square had hung out
flags at half-mast, and a flag at half-mast was
flying over the Town Hall in the distance.
Sightseers were at every window. The two bands
had united at the top of the Square; and behind
them, on a North Staffordshire Railway lorry,
stood the white-clad Rector and several black
figures. The Rector was speaking; but only those
close to the lorry could hear his feeble treble
voice.
Such was
the massive protest of Bursley against what
Bursley regarded as a callous injustice. The
execution of Daniel Povey had most genuinely
excited the indignation of the town. That
execution was not only an injustice; it was an
insult, a humiliating snub. And the worst was
that the rest of the country had really
discovered no sympathetic interest in the
affair. Certain London papers, indeed, in
commenting casually on the execution, had
slurred the morals and manners of the Five
Towns, professing to regard the district as
notoriously beyond the realm of the Ten
Commandments. This had helped to render furious
the townsmen. This, as much as anything, had
encouraged the spontaneous outburst of feeling
which had culminated in a St. Luke's Square full
of people with memorial cards in their hats. The
demonstration had scarcely been organized; it
had somehow organized itself, employing the
places of worship and a few clubs as centres of
gathering. And it proved an immense success.
There were seven or eight thousand people in the
Square, and the pity was that England as a whole
could not have had a glimpse of the spectacle.
Since the execution of the elephant, nothing had
so profoundly agitated Bursley. Constance, who
left the bedroom momentarily for the
drawing-room, reflected that the death and
burial of Cyril's honoured grandfather, though a
resounding event, had not caused one-tenth of
the stir which she beheld. But then John Baines
had killed nobody.
The Rector
spoke too long; every one felt that. But at
length he finished. The bands performed the
Doxology, and the immense multitudes began to
disperse by the eight streets that radiate from
the Square. At the same time one o'clock struck,
and the public-houses opened with their
customary admirable promptitude. Respectable
persons, of course, ignored the public-houses
and hastened homewards to a delayed dinner. But
in a town of over thirty thousand souls there
are sufficient dregs to fill all the
public-houses on an occasion of ceremonial
excitement. Constance saw the bar of the Vaults
crammed with individuals whose sense of decent
fitness was imperfect. The barman and the
landlord and the principal members of the
landlord's family were hard put to it to quench
that funereal thirst. Constance, as she ate a
little meal in the bedroom, could not but
witness the orgy. A bandsman with his silver
instrument was prominent at the counter. At five
minutes to three the Vaults spewed forth a
squirt of roysterers who walked on the pavement
as on a tight-rope; among them was the bandsman,
his silver instrument only half enveloped in its
bag of green serge. He established an
equilibrium in the gutter. It would not have
mattered so seriously if he had not been a
bandsman. The barman and the landlord pushed the
ultimate sot by force into the street and bolted
the door (till six o'clock) just as a policeman
strolled along, the first policeman of the day.
It became known that similar scenes were
enacting at the thresholds of other inns. And
the judicious were sad.
VI
When the
altercation between the policeman and the
musician in the gutter was at its height, Samuel
Povey became restless; but since he had scarcely
stirred through the performances of the bands,
it was probably not the cries of the drunkard
that had aroused him.
He had
shown very little interest in the preliminaries
of the great demonstration. The flame of his
passion for the case of Daniel Povey seemed to
have shot up on the day before the execution,
and then to have expired. On that day he went to
Stafford in order, by permit of the prison
governor, to see his cousin for the last time.
His condition then was undoubtedly not far
removed from monomania. 'Unhinged' was the
conventional expression which frequently rose in
Constance's mind as a description of the mind of
her husband; but she fought it down; she would
not have it; it was too crude—with its
associations. She would only admit that the case
had 'got on' his mind. A startling proof of this
was that he actually suggested taking Cyril with
him to see the condemned man. He wished Cyril to
see Daniel; he said gravely that he thought
Cyril ought to see him. The proposal was
monstrous, inexplicable—or explicable only by
the assumption that his mind, while not
unhinged, had temporarily lost its balance.
Constance opposed an absolute negative, and
Samuel being in every way enfeebled, she
overcame. As for Cyril, he was divided between
fear and curiosity. On the whole, perhaps Cyril
regretted that he would not be able to say at
school that he had had speech with the most
celebrated killer of the age on the day before
his execution.
Samuel
returned hysterical from Stafford. His account
of the scene, which he gave in a very loud
voice, was a most absurd and yet pathetic
recital, obviously distorted by memory. When he
came to the point of the entrance of Dick Povey,
who was still at the hospital, and who had been
specially driven to Stafford and carried into
the prison, he wept without restraint. His
hysteria was painful in a very high degree.
He went to
bed—of his own accord, for his cough had
improved again. And on the following day, the
day of the execution, he remained in bed till
the afternoon. In the evening the Rector sent
for him to the Rectory to discuss the proposed
demonstration. On the next day, Saturday, he
said he should not get up. Icy showers were
sweeping the town, and his cough was worse after
the evening visit to the Rector. Constance had
no apprehensions about him. The most dangerous
part of the winter was over, and there was
nothing now to force him into indiscretions. She
said to herself calmly that he should stay in
bed as long as he liked, that he could not have
too much repose after the cruel fatigues,
physical and spiritual, which he had suffered.
His cough was short, but not as troublesome as
in the past; his face flushed, dusky, and
settled in gloom; and he was slightly feverish,
with quick pulse and quick breathing—the
symptoms of a renewed cold. He passed a wakeful
night, broken by brief dreams in which he
talked. At dawn he had some hot food, asked what
day it was, frowned, and seemed to doze off at
once. At eleven o'clock he had refused food. And
he had intermittently dozed during the progress
of the demonstration and its orgiastic sequel.
Constance
had food ready for his waking, and she
approached the bed and leaned over him. The
fever had increased somewhat, the breathing was
more rapid, and his lips were covered with tiny
purple pimples. He feebly shook his head, with a
disgusted air, at her mention of food. It was
this obstinate refusal of food which first
alarmed her. A little uncomfortable suspicion
shot up in her: Surely there's nothing the
MATTER with him?
Something—impossible to say what—caused her to
bend still lower, and put her ear to his chest.
She heard within that mysterious box a rapid
succession of thin, dry, crackling sounds:
sounds such as she would have produced by
rubbing her hair between her fingers close to
her ear. The crepitation ceased, then
recommenced, and she perceived that it coincided
with the intake of his breath. He coughed; the
sounds were intensified; a spasm of pain ran
over his face; and he put his damp hand to his
side.
"Pain in my
side!" he whispered with difficulty.
Constance
stepped into the drawing-room, where Cyril was
sketching by the fire.
"Cyril,"
she said, "go across and ask Dr. Harrop to come
round at once. And if he isn't in, then his new
partner."
"Is it for
father?"
"Yes."
"What's the
matter?"
"Now do as
I say, please," said Constance, sharply, adding:
"I don't know what's the matter. Perhaps
nothing. But I'm not satisfied."
The
venerable Harrop pronounced the word
'pneumonia.' It was acute double pneumonia that
Samuel had got. During the three worst months of
the year, he had escaped the fatal perils which
await a man with a flat chest and a chronic
cough, who ignores his condition and defies the
weather. But a journey of five hundred yards to
the Rectory had been one journey too many. The
Rectory was so close to the shop that he had not
troubled to wrap himself up as for an excursion
to Stafford. He survived the crisis of the
disease and then died of toxsemia, caused by a
heart that would not do its duty by the blood. A
casual death, scarce noticed in the reaction
after the great febrile demonstration! Besides,
Samuel Povey never could impose himself on the
burgesses. He lacked individuality. He was
little. I have often laughed at Samuel Povey.
But I liked and respected him. He was a very
honest man. I have always been glad to think
that, at the end of his life, destiny took hold
of him and displayed, to the observant, the vein
of greatness which runs through every soul
without exception. He embraced a cause, lost it,
and died of it.
CHAPTER VI
THE WIDOW
I
Constance,
alone in the parlour, stood expectant by the set
tea- table. She was not wearing weeds; her
mother and she, on the death of her father, had
talked of the various disadvantages of weeds;
her mother had worn them unwillingly, and only
because a public opinion not sufficiently
advanced had intimidated her. Constance had
said: "If ever I'm a widow I won't wear them,"
positively, in the tone of youth; and Mrs.
Baines had replied: "I hope you won't, my dear."
That was over twenty years ago, but Constance
perfectly remembered. And now, she was a widow!
How strange and how impressive was life! And she
had kept her word; not positively, not without
hesitations; for though times were changed,
Bursley was still Bursley; but she had kept it.
This was
the first Monday after Samuel's funeral.
Existence in the house had been resumed on the
plane which would henceforth be the normal
plane. Constance had put on for tea a dress of
black silk with a jet brooch of her mother's.
Her hands, just meticulously washed, had that
feeling of being dirty which comes from
roughening of the epidermis caused by a day
spent in fingering stuffs. She had been 'going
through' Samuel's things, and her own, and
ranging all anew. It was astonishing how little
the man had collected, of 'things,' in the
course of over half a century. All his clothes
were contained in two long drawers and a short
one. He had the least possible quantity of
haberdashery and linen, for he invariably took
from the shop such articles as he required, when
he required them, and he would never preserve
what was done with. He possessed no jewellery
save a set of gold studs, a scarf-ring, and a
wedding-ring; the wedding-ring was buried with
him. Once, when Constance had offered him her
father's gold watch and chain, he had politely
refused it, saying that he preferred his own—a
silver watch (with a black cord) which kept
excellent time; he had said later that she might
save the gold watch and chain for Cyril when he
was twenty-one. Beyond these trifles and a
half-empty box of cigars and a pair of
spectacles, he left nothing personal to himself.
Some men leave behind them a litter which takes
months to sift and distribute. But Samuel had
not the mania for owning. Constance put his
clothes in a box to be given away gradually (all
except an overcoat and handkerchiefs which might
do for Cyril); she locked up the watch and its
black cord, the spectacles and the scarf-ring;
she gave the gold studs to Cyril; she climbed on
a chair and hid the cigar-box on the top of her
wardrobe; and scarce a trace of Samuel remained!
By his own
wish the funeral had been as simple and private
as possible. One or two distant relations, whom
Constance scarcely knew and who would probably
not visit her again until she too was dead,
came—and went. And lo! the affair was over. The
simple celerity of the funeral would have
satisfied even Samuel, whose tremendous
self-esteem hid itself so effectually behind
such externals that nobody had ever fully
perceived it. Not even Constance quite knew
Samuel's secret opinion of Samuel. Constance was
aware that he had a ridiculous side, that his
greatest lack had been a lack of spectacular
dignity. Even in the coffin, where nevertheless
most people are finally effective, he had not
been imposing—with his finicky little grey beard
persistently sticking up.
The vision
of him in his coffin—there in the churchyard,
just at the end of King Street!—with the lid
screwed down on that unimportant beard, recurred
frequently in the mind of the widow, as
something untrue and misleading. She had to say
to herself: "Yes, he is really there! And that
is why I have this particular feeling in my
heart." She saw him as an object pathetic and
wistful, not majestic. And yet she genuinely
thought that there could not exist another
husband quite so honest, quite so just, quite so
reliable, quite so good, as Samuel had been.
What a conscience he had! How he would try, and
try, to be fair with her! Twenty years she could
remember, of ceaseless, constant endeavour on
his part to behave rightly to her! She could
recall many an occasion when he had obviously
checked himself, striving against his tendency
to cold abruptness and to sullenness, in order
to give her the respect due to a wife. What
loyalty was his! How she could depend on him!
How much better he was than herself (she thought
with modesty)!
His death
was an amputation for her. But she faced it with
calmness. She was not bowed with sorrow. She did
not nurse the idea that her life was at an end;
on the contrary, she obstinately put it away
from her, dwelling on Cyril. She did not indulge
in the enervating voluptuousness of grief. She
had begun in the first hours of bereavement by
picturing herself as one marked out for the
blows of fate. She had lost her father and her
mother, and now her husband. Her career seemed
to be punctuated by interments. But after a
while her gentle commonsense came to insist that
most human beings lose their parents, and that
every marriage must end in either a widower or a
widow, and that all careers are punctuated by
interments. Had she not had nearly twenty-one
years of happy married life? (Twenty-one
years—rolled up! The sudden thought of their
naive ignorance of life, hers and his, when they
were first married, brought tears into her eyes.
How wise and experienced she was now!) And had
she not Cyril? Compared to many women, she was
indeed very fortunate.
The one
visitation which had been specially hers was the
disappearance of Sophia. And yet even that was
not worse than the death outright of Sophia, was
perhaps not so bad. For Sophia might return out
of the darkness. The blow of Sophia's flight had
seemed unique when it was fresh, and long
afterwards; had seemed to separate the Baines
family from all other families in a particular
shame. But at the age of forty-three Constance
had learnt that such events are not uncommon in
families, and strange sequels to them not
unknown. Thinking often of Sophia, she hoped
wildly and frequently.
She looked
at the clock; she had a little spasm of
nervousness lest Cyril might fail to keep his
word on that first day of their new regular life
together. And at the instant he burst into the
room, invading it like an armed force, having
previously laid waste the shop in his passage.
"I'm not
late, mother! I'm not late!" he cried proudly.
She smiled
warmly, happy in him, drawing out of him balm
and solace. He did not know that in that stout
familiar body before him was a sensitive,
trembling soul that clutched at him ecstatically
as the one reality in the universe. He did not
know that that evening meal, partaken of without
hurry after school had released him to her, was
to be the ceremonial sign of their intimate
unity and their interdependence, a tender and
delicious proof that they were 'all in all to
each other': he saw only his tea, for which he
was hungry—just as hungry as though his father
were not scarcely yet cold in the grave.
But he saw
obscurely that the occasion demanded something
not quite ordinary, and so exerted himself to be
boyishly charming to his mother. She said to
herself 'how good he was.' He felt at ease and
confident in the future, because he detected
beneath her customary judicial, impartial mask a
clear desire to spoil him.
After tea,
she regretfully left him, at his home-lessons,
in order to go into the shop. The shop was the
great unsolved question. What was she to do with
the shop? Was she to continue the business or to
sell it? With the fortunes of her father and her
aunt, and the economies of twenty years, she had
more than sufficient means. She was indeed rich,
according to the standards of the Square; nay,
wealthy! Therefore she was under no material
compulsion to keep the shop. Moreover, to keep
it would mean personal superintendence and the
burden of responsibility, from which her calm
lethargy shrank. On the other hand, to dispose
of the business would mean the breaking of ties
and leaving the premises: and from this also she
shrank. Young Lawton, without being asked, had
advised her to sell. But she did not want to
sell. She wanted the impossible: that matters
should proceed in the future as in the past,
that Samuel's death should change nothing save
in her heart.
In the
meantime Miss Insull was priceless. Constance
thoroughly understood one side of the shop; but
Miss Insull understood both, and the finance of
it also. Miss Insull could have directed the
establishment with credit, if not with
brilliance. She was indeed directing it at that
moment. Constance, however, felt jealous of Miss
Insull; she was conscious of a slight antipathy
towards the faithful one. She did not care to be
in the hands of Miss Insull.
There were
one or two customers at the millinery counter.
They greeted her with a deplorable copiousness
of tact. Most tactfully they avoided any
reference to Constance's loss; but by their
tone, their glances, at Constance and at each
other, and their heroically restrained sighs,
they spread desolation as though they had been
spreading ashes instead of butter on bread. The
assistants, too, had a special demeanour for the
poor lone widow which was excessively trying to
her. She wished to be natural, and she would
have succeeded, had they not all of them
apparently conspired together to make her task
impossible.
She moved
away to the other side of the shop, to Samuel's
desk, at which he used to stand, staring
absently out of the little window into King
Street while murmurously casting figures. She
lighted the gas-jet there, arranged the light
exactly to suit her, and then lifted the large
flap of the desk and drew forth some account
books.
"Miss
Insull!" she called, in a low, clear voice, with
a touch of haughtiness and a touch of command in
it. The pose, a comical contradiction of
Constance's benevolent character, was
deliberately adopted; it illustrated the effects
of jealousy on even the softest disposition.
Miss Insull
responded. She had no alternative but to
respond. And she gave no sign of resenting her
employer's attitude. But then Miss Insull seldom
did give any sign of being human.
The
customers departed, one after another,
obsequiously sped by the assistants, who
thereupon lowered the gases somewhat, according
to secular rule; and in the dim eclipse, as they
restored boxes to shelves, they could hear the
tranquil, regular, half-whispered conversation
of the two women at the desk, discussing
accounts; and then the chink of gold.
Suddenly
there was an irruption. One of the assistants
sprang instinctively to the gas; but on
perceiving that the disturber of peace was only
a slatternly girl, hatless and imperfectly
clean, she decided to leave the gas as it was,
and put on a condescending, suspicious
demeanour.
"If you
please, can I speak to the missis?" said the
girl, breathlessly.
She seemed
to be about eighteen years of age, fat and
plain. Her blue frock was torn, and over it she
wore a rough brown apron, caught up at one
corner to the waist. Her bare forearms were of
brick-red colour.
"What is
it?" demanded the assistant.
Miss Insull
looked over her shoulder across the shop. "It
must be Maggie's—Mrs. Hollins's daughter!" said
Miss Insull under her breath.
"What can
she want?" said Constance, leaving the desk
instantly; and to the girl, who stood sturdily
holding her own against the group of assistants:
"You are Mrs. Hollins's daughter, aren't you?"
"Yes, mum."
"What's
your name?"
"Maggie,
mum. And, if you please, mother's sent me to ask
if you'll kindly give her a funeral card."
"A funeral
card?"
"Yes. Of
Mr. Povey. She's been expecting of one, and she
thought as how perhaps you'd forgotten it,
especially as she wasn't asked to the funeral."
The girl
stopped.
Constance
perceived that by mere negligence she had
seriously wounded the feelings of Maggie,
senior. The truth was, she had never thought of
Maggie. She ought to have remembered that
funeral cards were almost the sole ornamentation
of Maggie's abominable cottage.
"Certainly," she replied after a pause. "Miss
Insull, there are a few cards left in the desk,
aren't there? Please put me one in an envelope
for Mrs. Hollins."
She gave
the heavily bordered envelope to the ruddy
wench, who enfolded it in her apron, and with
hurried, shy thanks ran off.
"Tell your
mother I send her a card with pleasure,"
Constance called after the girl.
The
strangeness of the hazards of life made her
thoughtful. She, to whom Maggie had always
seemed an old woman, was a widow, but Maggie's
husband survived as a lusty invalid. And she
guessed that Maggie, vilely struggling in
squalor and poverty, was somehow happy in her
frowsy, careless way.
She went
back to the accounts, dreaming.
II
When the
shop had been closed, under her own critical and
precise superintendence, she extinguished the
last gas in it and returned to the parlour,
wondering where she might discover some entirely
reliable man or boy to deal with the shutters
night and morning. Samuel had ordinarily dealt
with the shutters himself, and on extraordinary
occasions and during holidays Miss Insull and
one of her subordinates had struggled with their
unwieldiness. But the extraordinary occasion had
now become ordinary, and Miss Insull could not
be expected to continue indefinitely in the
functions of a male. Constance had a mind to
engage an errand-boy, a luxury against which
Samuel had always set his face. She did not
dream of asking the herculean Cyril to open and
shut shop.
He had
apparently finished his home-lessons. The books
were pushed aside, and he was sketching in
lead-pencil on a drawing-block. To the right of
the fireplace, over the sofa, there hung an
engraving after Landseer, showing a lonely stag
paddling into a lake. The stag at eve had drunk
or was about to drink his fill, and Cyril was
copying him. He had already indicated a flight
of birds in the middle distance; vague birds on
the wing being easier than detailed stags, he
had begun with the birds.
Constance
put a hand on his shoulder. "Finished your
lessons?" she murmured caressingly.
Before
speaking, Cyril gazed up at the picture with a
frowning, busy expression, and then replied in
an absent-minded voice:
"Yes." And
after a pause: "Except my arithmetic. I shall do
that in the morning before breakfast."
"Oh,
Cyril!" she protested.
It had been
a positive ordinance, for a long time past, that
there should be no sketching until lessons were
done. In his father's lifetime Cyril had never
dared to break it.
He bent
over his block, feigning an intense absorption.
Constance's hand slipped from his shoulder. She
wanted to command him formally to resume his
lessons. But she could not. She feared an
argument; she mistrusted herself. And, moreover,
it was so soon after his father's death!
"You know
you won't have time to-morrow morning!" she said
weakly.
"Oh,
mother!" he retorted superiorly. "Don't worry."
And then, in a cajoling tone: "I've wanted to do
that stag for ages."
She sighed
and sat down in her rocking-chair. He went on
sketching, rubbing out, and making queer
expostulatory noises against his pencil, or
against the difficulties needlessly invented by
Sir Edwin Landseer. Once he rose and changed the
position of the gas-bracket, staring fiercely at
the engraving as though it had committed a sin.
Amy came to
lay the supper. He did not acknowledge that she
existed.
"Now,
Master Cyril, after you with that table, if you
please!" She announced herself brusquely, with
the privilege of an old servant and a woman who
would never see thirty again.
"What a
nuisance you are, Amy!" he gruffly answered.
"Look here, mother, can't Amy lay the cloth on
that half of the table? I'm right in the middle
of my drawing. There's plenty of room there for
two."
He seemed
not to be aware that, in the phrase 'plenty of
room for two,' he had made a callous reference
to their loss. The fact was, there WAS plenty of
room for two.
Constance
said quickly: "Very well, Amy. For this once."
Amy
grunted, but obeyed.
Constance
had to summon him twice from art to nourishment.
He ate with rapidity, frequently regarding the
picture with half-shut, searching eyes. When he
had finished, he refilled his glass with water,
and put it next to his sketching-block.
"You surely
aren't thinking of beginning to paint at this
time of night!" Constance exclaimed, astonished.
"Oh YES,
mother!" he fretfully appealed. "It's not late."
Another
positive ordinance of his father's had been that
there should be nothing after supper except bed.
Nine o'clock was the latest permissible moment
for going to bed. It was now less than a quarter
to.
"It only
wants twelve minutes to nine," Constance pointed
out.
"Well, what
if it does?"
"Now,
Cyril," she said, "I do hope you are going to be
a good boy, and not cause your mother anxiety."
But she
said it too kindly.
He said
sullenly: "I do think you might let me finish
it. I've begun it. It won't take me long."
She made
the mistake of leaving the main point. "How can
you possibly choose your colours properly by
gas-light?" she said.
"I'm going
to do it in sepia," he replied in triumph.
"It mustn't
occur again," she said.
He thanked
God for a good supper, and sprang to the
harmonium, where his paint-box was. Amy cleared
away. Constance did crochet- work. There was
silence. The clock struck nine, and it also
struck half-past nine. She warned him
repeatedly. At ten minutes to ten she said
persuasively:
"Now,
Cyril, when the clock strikes ten I shall really
put the gas out."
The clock
struck ten.
"Half a mo,
half a mo!" he cried. "I've done! I've done!"
Her hand
was arrested.
Another
four minutes elapsed, and then he jumped up.
"There you are!" he said proudly, showing her
the block. And all his gestures were full of
grace and cajolery.
"Yes, it's
very good," Constance said, rather
indifferently.
"I don't
believe you care for it!" he accused her, but
with a bright smile.
"I care for
your health," she said. "Just look at that
clock!"
He sat down
in the other rocking-chair, deliberately.
"Now,
Cyril!"
"Well,
mother, I suppose you'll let me take my boots
off!" He said it with teasing good-humour.
When he
kissed her good night, she wanted to cling to
him, so affectionate was his kiss; but she could
not throw off the habits of restraint which she
had been originally taught and had all her life
practised. She keenly regretted the inability.
In her
bedroom, alone, she listened to his movements as
he undressed. The door between the two rooms was
unlatched. She had to control a desire to open
it ever so little and peep at him. He would not
have liked that. He could have enriched her
heart beyond all hope, and at no cost to
himself; but he did not know his power. As she
could not cling to him with her hands, she clung
to him with that heart of hers, while moving
sedately up and down the room, alone. And her
eyes saw him through the solid wood of the door.
At last she got heavily into bed. She thought
with placid anxiety, in the dark: "I shall have
to be firm with Cyril." And she thought also,
simultaneously: "He really must be a good boy.
He MUST." And clung to him passionately, without
shame! Lying alone there in the dark, she could
be as unrestrained and girlish as her heart
chose. When she loosed her hold she instantly
saw the boy's father arranged in his coffin, or
flitting about the room. Then she would hug that
vision too, for the pleasure of the pain it gave
her.
III
She was
reassured as to Cyril during the next few days.
He did not attempt to repeat his ingenious
naughtiness of the Monday evening, and he came
directly home for tea; moreover he had, as a
kind of miracle performed to dazzle her,
actually arisen early on the Tuesday morning and
done his arithmetic. To express her satisfaction
she had manufactured a specially elaborate
straw- frame for the sketch after Sir Edwin
Landseer, and had hung it in her bedroom: an
honour which Cyril appreciated. She was as happy
as a woman suffering from a recent amputation
can be; and compared with the long nightmare
created by Samuel's monomania and illness, her
existence seemed to be now a beneficent calm.
Cyril, she
thought, had realized the importance in her eyes
of tea, of that evening hour and that
companionship which were for her the flowering
of the day. And she had such confidence in his
goodness that she would pour the boiling water
on the Horniman tea-leaves even before he
arrived: certainty could not be more sure. And
then, on the Friday of the first week, he was
late! He bounded in, after dark, and the state
of his clothes indicated too clearly that he had
been playing football in the mud that was a
grassy field in summer.
"Have you
been kept in, my boy?" she asked, for the sake
of form.
"No,
mother," he said casually. "We were just kicking
the ball about a bit. Am I late?"
"Better go
and tidy yourself," she said, not replying to
his question. "You can't sit down in that state.
And I'll have some fresh tea made. This is
spoilt."
"Oh, very
well!"
Her sacred
tea—the institution which she wanted to hallow
by long habit, and which was to count before
everything with both of them —had been
carelessly sacrificed to the kicking of a
football in mud! And his father buried not ten
days! She was wounded: a deep, clean, dangerous
wound that would not bleed. She tried to be glad
that he had not lied; he might easily have lied,
saying that he had been detained for a fault and
could not help being late. No! He was not given
to lying; he would lie, like any human being,
when a great occasion demanded such prudence,
but he was not a liar; he might fairly be called
a truthful boy. She tried to be glad, and did
not succeed. She would have preferred him to
have lied.
Amy,
grumbling, had to boil more water.
When he
returned to the parlour, superficially cleaned,
Constance expected him to apologize in his
roundabout boyish way; at any rate to woo and
wheedle her, to show by some gesture that he was
conscious of having put an affront on her. But
his attitude was quite otherwise. His attitude
was rather brusque and overbearing and noisy. He
ate a very considerable amount of jam, far too
quickly, and then asked for more, in a tone of a
monarch who calls for his own. And ere tea was
finished he said boldly, apropos of nothing:
"I say,
mother, you'll just have to let me go to the
School of Art after Easter."
And stared
at her with a fixed challenge in his eyes.
He meant,
by the School of Art, the evening classes at the
School of Art. His father had decided absolutely
against the project. His father had said that it
would interfere with his lessons, would keep him
up too late at night, and involve absence from
home in the evening. The last had always been
the real objection. His father had not been able
to believe that Cyril's desire to study art
sprang purely from his love of art; he could not
avoid suspecting that it was a plan to obtain
freedom in the evenings— that freedom which
Samuel had invariably forbidden. In all Cyril's
suggestions Samuel had been ready to detect the
same scheme lurking. He had finally said that
when Cyril left school and took to a vocation,
then he could study art at night if he chose,
but not before.
"You know
what your father said!" Constance replied.
"But,
mother! That's all very well! I'm sure father
would have agreed. If I'm going to take up
drawing I ought to do it at once. That's what
the drawing-master says, and I suppose he ought
to know." He finished on a tone of insolence.
"I can't
allow you to do it yet," said Constance,
quietly. "It's quite out of the question.
Quite!"
He pouted
and then he sulked. It was war between them. At
times he was the image of his Aunt Sophia. He
would not leave the subject alone; but he would
not listen to Constance's reasoning. He openly
accused her of harshness. He asked her how she
could expect him to get on if she thwarted him
in his most earnest desires. He pointed to other
boys whose parents were wiser.
"It's all
very fine of you to put it on father!" he
observed sarcastically.
He gave up
his drawing entirely.
When she
hinted that if he attended the School of Art she
would be condemned to solitary evenings, he
looked at her as though saying: "Well, and if
you are—?" He seemed to have no heart.
After
several weeks of intense unhappiness she said:
"How many evenings do you want to go?"
The war was
over.
He was
charming again. When she was alone she could
cling to him again. And she said to herself: "If
we can be happy together only when I give way to
him, I must give way to him." And there was
ecstasy in her yielding. "After all," she said
to herself, "perhaps it's very important that he
should go to the School of Art." She solaced
herself with such thoughts on three solitary
evenings a week, waiting for him to come home.
CHAPTER VII
BRICKS AND
MORTAR
I
In the
summer of that year the occurrence of a white
rash of posters on hoardings and on certain
houses and shops, was symptomatic of organic
change in the town. The posters were iterations
of a mysterious announcement and summons, which
began with the august words: "By Order of the
Trustees of the late William Clews Mericarp,
Esq." Mericarp had been a considerable owner of
property in Bursley. After a prolonged residence
at Southport, he had died, at the age of
eighty-two, leaving his property behind. For
sixty years he had been a name, not a figure;
and the news of his death, which was assuredly
an event, incited the burgesses to gossip, for
they had come to regard him as one of the
invisible immortals. Constance was shocked,
though she had never seen Mericarp. ("Everybody
dies nowadays!" she thought.) He owned the
Baines-Povey shop, and also Mr. Critchlow's
shop. Constance knew not how often her father
and, later, her husband, had renewed the lease
of those premises that were now hers; but from
her earliest recollections rose a vague memory
of her father talking to her mother about
'Mericarp's rent,' which was and always had been
a hundred a year. Mericarp had earned the
reputation of being 'a good landlord.' Constance
said sadly: "We shall never have another as
good!" When a lawyer's clerk called and asked
her to permit the exhibition of a poster in each
of her shop-windows, she had misgivings for the
future; she was worried; she decided that she
would determine the lease next year, so as to be
on the safe side; but immediately afterwards she
decided that she could decide nothing.
The posters
continued: "To be sold by auction, at the Tiger
Hotel at six-thirty for seven o'clock
precisely." What six-thirty had to do with seven
o'clock precisely no one knew. Then, after
stating the name and credentials of the
auctioneer, the posters at length arrived at the
objects to be sold: "All those freehold
messuages and shops and copyhold tenements
namely." Houses were never sold by auction in
Bursley. At moments of auction burgesses were
reminded that the erections they lived in were
not houses, as they had falsely supposed, but
messuages. Having got as far as 'namely' the
posters ruled a line and began afresh: "Lot I.
All that extensive and commodious shop and
messuage with the offices and appurtenances
thereto belonging situate and being No. 4 St.
Luke's Square in the parish of Bursley in the
County of Stafford and at present in the
occupation of Mrs. Constance Povey widow under a
lease expiring in September 1889." Thus clearly
asserting that all Constance's shop was for
sale, its whole entirety, and not a fraction or
slice of it merely, the posters proceeded: "Lot
2. All that extensive and commodious shop and
messuage with the offices and appurtenances
thereto belonging situate and being No. 3 St.
Luke's Square in the parish of Bursley in the
County of Stafford and at present in the
occupation of Charles Critchlow chemist under an
agreement for a yearly tenancy." The catalogue
ran to fourteen lots. The posters, lest any one
should foolishly imagine that a non-legal
intellect could have achieved such explicit and
comprehensive clarity of statement, were signed
by a powerful firm of solicitors in Hanbridge.
Happily in the Five Towns there were no
metaphysicians; otherwise the firm might have
been expected to explain, in the 'further
particulars and conditions' which the posters
promised, how even a messuage could 'be' the
thing at which it was 'situate.'
Within a
few hours of the outbreak of the rash, Mr.
Critchlow abruptly presented himself before
Constance at the millinery counter; he was
waving a poster.
"Well!" he
exclaimed grimly. "What next, eh?"
"Yes,
indeed!" Constance responded.
"Are ye
thinking o' buying?" he asked. All the
assistants, including Miss Insull, were in
hearing, but he ignored their presence.
"Buying!"
repeated Constance. "Not me! I've got quite
enough house property as it is."
Like all
owners of real property, she usually adopted
towards her possessions an attitude implying
that she would be willing to pay somebody to
take them from her.
"Shall
you?" she added, with Mr. Critchlow's own
brusqueness.
"Me! Buy
property in St. Luke's Square!" Mr. Critchlow
sneered.
And then left the shop as suddenly as he had
entered it.
The sneer
at St. Luke's Square was his characteristic
expression of an opinion which had been slowly
forming for some years. The Square was no longer
what it had been, though individual businesses
might be as good as ever. For nearly twelve
months two shops had been to let in it. And
once, bankruptcy had stained its annals. The
tradesmen had naturally searched for a cause in
every direction save the right one, the obvious
one; and naturally they had found a cause.
According to the tradesmen, the cause was 'this
football.' The Bursley Football Club had
recently swollen into a genuine rival of the
ancient supremacy of the celebrated Knype Club.
It had transformed itself into a limited
company, and rented a ground up the Moorthorne
Road, and built a grand stand. The Bursley F.C.
had 'tied' with the Knype F.C. on the Knype
ground—a prodigious achievement, an achievement
which occupied a column of the Athletic News one
Monday morning! But were the tradesmen civically
proud of this glory? No! They said that 'this
football' drew people out of the town on
Saturday afternoons, to the complete abolition
of shopping. They said also that people thought
of nothing but 'this football;' and, nearly in
the same breath, that only roughs and
good-for-nothings could possibly be interested
in such a barbarous game. And they spoke of
gate-money, gambling, and professionalism, and
the end of all true sport in England. In brief,
something new had come to the front and was
submitting to the ordeal of the curse.
The sale of
the Mericarp estate had a particular interest
for respectable stake-in-the-town persons. It
would indicate to what extent, if at all, 'this
football' was ruining Bursley. Constance
mentioned to Cyril that she fancied she might
like to go to the sale, and as it was dated for
one of Cyril's off-nights Cyril said that he
fancied he might like to go too. So they went
together; Samuel used to attend property sales,
but he had never taken his wife to one.
Constance and Cyril arrived at the Tiger shortly
after seven o'clock, and were directed to a room
furnished and arranged as for a small public
meeting of philanthropists. A few gentlemen were
already present, but not the instigating
trustees, solicitors, and auctioneers. It
appeared that 'six-thirty for seven o'clock
precisely' meant seven-fifteen. Constance took a
Windsor chair in the corner nearest the door,
and motioned Cyril to the next chair; they dared
not speak; they moved on tiptoe; Cyril
inadvertently dragged his chair along the floor,
and produced a scrunching sound; he blushed, as
though he had desecrated a church, and his
mother made a gesture of horror. The remainder
of the company glanced at the corner, apparently
pained by this negligence. Some of them greeted
Constance, but self- consciously, with a sort of
shamed air; it might have been that they had all
nefariously gathered together there for the
committing of a crime. Fortunately Constance's
widowhood had already lost its touching novelty,
so that the greetings, if self- conscious, were
at any rate given without unendurable
commiseration and did not cause awkwardness.
When the
official world arrived, fussy, bustling, bearing
documents and a hammer, the general feeling of
guilty shame was intensified. Useless for the
auctioneer to try to dissipate the gloom by
means of bright gestures and quick, cheerful
remarks to his supporters! Cyril had an idea
that the meeting would open with a hymn, until
the apparition of a tapster with wine showed him
his error. The auctioneer very particularly
enjoined the tapster to see to it that no one
lacked for his thirst, and the tapster became
self-consciously energetic. He began by choosing
Constance for service. In refusing wine, she
blushed; then the fellow offered a glass to
Cyril, who went scarlet, and mumbled 'No' with a
lump in his throat; when the tapster's back was
turned, he smiled sheepishly at his mother. The
majority of the company accepted and sipped. The
auctioneer sipped and loudly smacked, and said:
"Ah!"
Mr.
Critchlow came in.
And the
auctioneer said again: "Ah! I'm always glad when
the tenants come. That's always a good sign."
He glanced
round for approval of this sentiment. But
everybody seemed too stiff to move. Even the
auctioneer was self-conscious.
"Waiter!
Offer wine to Mr. Critchlow!" he exclaimed
bullyingly, as if saying: "Man! what on earth
are you thinking of, to neglect Mr. Critchlow?"
"Yes, sir;
yes, sir," said the waiter, who was dispensing
wine as fast as a waiter can.
The auction
commenced.
Seizing the
hammer, the auctioneer gave a short biography of
William Clews Mericarp, and, this pious duty
accomplished, called upon a solicitor to read
the conditions of sale. The solicitor complied
and made a distressing exhibition of
self-consciousness. The conditions of sale were
very lengthy, and apparently composed in a
foreign tongue; and the audience listened to
this elocution with a stoical pretence of
breathless interest.
Then the
auctioneer put up all that extensive and
commodious messuage and shop situate and being
No. 4, St. Luke's Square. Constance and Cyril
moved their limbs surreptitiously, as though
being at last found out. The auctioneer referred
to John Baines and to Samuel Povey, with a sense
of personal loss, and then expressed his
pleasure in the presence of 'the ladies;' he
meant Constance, who once more had to blush.
"Now,
gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "what do you
say for these famous premises? I think I do not
exaggerate when I use the word 'famous.'"
Some one
said a thousand pounds, in the terrorized voice
of a delinquent.
"A thousand
pounds," repeated the auctioneer, paused,
sipped, and smacked.
"Guineas,"
said another voice self-accused of iniquity.
"A thousand
and fifty," said the auctioneer.
Then there
was a long interval, an interval that tightened
the nerves of the assembly.
"Now,
ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer adjured.
The first
voice said sulkily: "Eleven hundred."
And thus
the bids rose to fifteen hundred, lifted bit by
bit, as it were, by the magnetic force of the
auctioneer's personality. The man was now
standing up, in domination. He bent down to the
solicitor's head; they whispered together.
"Gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "I am happy to
inform you that the sale is now open." His tone
translated better than words his calm
professional beatitude. Suddenly in a voice of
wrath he hissed at the waiter: "Waiter, why
don't you serve these gentlemen?"
"Yes, sir;
yes, sir."
The
auctioneer sat down and sipped at leisure,
chatting with his clerk and the solicitor and
the solicitor's clerk.
When he
rose it was as a conqueror. "Gentlemen, fifteen
hundred is bid. Now, Mr. Critchlow."
Mr.
Critchlow shook his head. The auctioneer threw a
courteous glance at Constance, who avoided it.
After many
adjurations, he reluctantly raised his hammer,
pretended to let it fall, and saved it several
times.
And then
Mr. Critchlow said: "And fifty."
"Fifteen
hundred and fifty is bid," the auctioneer
informed the company, electrifying the waiter
once more. And when he had sipped he said, with
feigned sadness: "Come, gentlemen, you surely
don't mean to let this magnificent lot go for
fifteen hundred and fifty pounds?"
But they
did mean that.
The hammer
fell, and the auctioneer's clerk and the
solicitor's clerk took Mr. Critchlow aside and
wrote with him.
Nobody was
surprised when Mr. Critchlow bought Lot No. 2,
his own shop.
Constance
whispered then to Cyril that she wished to
leave. They left, with unnatural precautions,
but instantly regained their natural demeanour
in the dark street.
"Well, I
never! Well, I never!" she murmured outside,
astonished and disturbed.
She hated
the prospect of Mr. Critchlow as a landlord. And
yet she could not persuade herself to leave the
place, in spite of decisions.
The sale
demonstrated that football had not entirely
undermined the commercial basis of society in
Bursley; only two Lots had to be withdrawn.
II
On Thursday
afternoon of the same week the youth whom
Constance had ended by hiring for the
manipulation of shutters and other jobs
unsuitable for fragile women, was closing the
shop. The clock had struck two. All the shutters
were up except the last one, in the midst of the
doorway. Miss Insull and her mistress were
walking about the darkened interior, putting
dust-sheets well over the edges of exposed
goods; the other assistants had just left. The
bull-terrier had wandered into the shop as he
almost invariably did at closing time—for he
slept there, an efficient guard—and had lain
down by the dying stove; though not venerable,
he was stiffening into age.
"You can
shut," said Miss Insull to the youth.
But as the
final shutter was ascending to its position, Mr.
Critchlow appeared on the pavement.
"Hold on,
young fellow!" Mr. Critchlow commanded, and
stepped slowly, lifting up his long apron, over
the horizontal shutter on which the
perpendicular shutters rested in the doorway.
"Shall you
be long, Mr. Critchlow?" the youth asked, posing
the shutter. "Or am I to shut?"
"Shut,
lad," said Mr. Critchlow, briefly. "I'll go out
by th' side door."
"Here's Mr.
Critchlow!" Miss Insull called out to Constance,
in a peculiar tone. And a flush, scarcely
perceptible, crept very slowly over her dark
features. In the twilight of the shop, lit only
by a few starry holes in the shutters, and by
the small side- window, not the keenest eye
could have detected that flush.
"Mr.
Critchlow!" Constance murmured the exclamation.
She resented his future ownership of her shop.
She thought he was come to play the landlord,
and she determined to let him see that her mood
was independent and free, that she would as lief
give up the business as keep it. In particular
she meant to accuse him of having deliberately
deceived her as to his intentions on his
previous visit.
"Well,
missis!" the aged man greeted her. "We've made
it up between us. Happen some folk'll think
we've taken our time, but I don't know as that's
their affair."
His little
blinking eyes had a red border. The skin of his
pale small face was wrinkled in millions of
minute creases. His arms and legs were
marvellously thin and sharply angular. The
corners of his heliotrope lips were turned down,
as usual, in a mysterious comment on the world;
and his smile, as he fronted Constance with his
excessive height, crowned the mystery.
Constance
stared, at a loss. It surely could not after all
be true, the substance of the rumours that had
floated like vapours in the Square for eight
years and more!
"What …?"
she began.
"Me, and
her!" He jerked his head in the direction of
Miss Insull.
The dog had
leisurely strolled forward to inspect the edges
of the fiance's trousers. Miss Insull summoned
the animal with a noise of fingers, and then
bent down and caressed it. A strange gesture
proving the validity of Charles Critchlow's
discovery that in Maria Insull a human being was
buried!
Miss Insull
was, as near as any one could guess, forty years
of age. For twenty-five years she had served in
the shop, passing about twelve hours a day in
the shop; attending regularly at least three
religious services at the Wesleyan Chapel or
School on Sundays, and sleeping with her mother,
whom she kept. She had never earned more than
thirty shillings a week, and yet her situation
was considered to be exceptionally good. In the
eternal fusty dusk of the shop she had gradually
lost such sexual characteristics and charms as
she had once possessed. She was as thin and flat
as Charles Critchlow himself. It was as though
her bosom had suffered from a prolonged drought
at a susceptible period of development, and had
never recovered. The one proof that blood ran in
her veins was the pimply quality of her ruined
complexion, and the pimples of that brickish
expanse proved that the blood was thin and bad.
Her hands and feet were large and ungainly; the
skin of the fingers was roughened by coarse
contacts to the texture of emery-paper. On six
days a week she wore black; on the seventh a
kind of discreet half-mourning. She was honest,
capable, and industrious; and beyond the
confines of her occupation she had no curiosity,
no intelligence, no ideas. Superstitions and
prejudices, deep and violent, served her for
ideas; but she could incomparably sell silks and
bonnets, braces and oilcloth; in widths,
lengths, and prices she never erred; she never
annoyed a customer, nor foolishly promised what
could not be performed, nor was late nor
negligent, nor disrespectful. No one knew
anything about her, because there was nothing to
know. Subtract the shop-assistant from her, and
naught remained. Benighted and spiritually dead,
she existed by habit.
But for
Charles Critchlow she happened to be an
illusion. He had cast eyes on her and had seen
youth, innocence, virginity. During eight years
the moth Charles had flitted round the lamp of
her brilliance, and was now singed past escape.
He might treat her with what casualness he
chose; he might ignore her in public; he might
talk brutally about women; he might leave her to
wonder dully what he meant, for months at a
stretch: but there emerged indisputable from the
sum of his conduct the fact that he wanted her.
He desired her; she charmed him; she was
something ornamental and luxurious for which he
was ready to pay—and to commit follies. He had
been a widower since before she was born; to him
she was a slip of a girl. All is relative in
this world. As for her, she was too indifferent
to refuse him. Why refuse him? Oysters do not
refuse.
"I'm sure I
congratulate you both," Constance breathed,
realizing the import of Mr. Critchlow's laconic
words. "I'm sure I hope you'll be happy."
"That'll be
all right," said Mr. Critchlow.
"Thank you,
Mrs. Povey," said Maria Insull.
Nobody
seemed to know what to say next. "It's rather
sudden," was on Constance's tongue, but did not
achieve utterance, being patently absurd.
"Ah!"
exclaimed Mr. Critchlow, as though himself
contemplating anew the situation.
Miss Insull
gave the dog a final pat.
"So that's
settled," said Mr. Critchlow. "Now, missis, ye
want to give up this shop, don't ye?"
"I'm not so
sure about that," Constance answered uneasily.
"Don't tell
me!" he protested. "Of course ye want to give up
the shop."
"I've lived
here all my life," said Constance.
"Ye've not
lived in th' shop all ye're life. I said th'
shop.
Listen here!" he continued. "I've got a proposal
to make to you.
You can keep on the house, and I'll take the
shop off ye're hands.
Now?" He looked at her inquiringly.
Constance
was taken aback by the brusqueness of the
suggestion, which, moreover, she did not
understand.
"But how—"
she faltered.
"Come
here," said Mr. Critchlow, impatiently, and he
moved towards the house-door of the shop, behind
the till.
"Come
where? What do you want?" Constance demanded in
a maze.
"Here!"
said Mr. Critchlow, with increasing impatience.
"Follow me, will ye?"
Constance
obeyed. Miss Insull sidled after Constance, and
the dog after Miss Insull. Mr. Critchlow went
through the doorway and down the corridor, past
the cutting-out room to his right. The corridor
then turned at a right-angle to the left and
ended at the parlour door, the kitchen steps
being to the left.
Mr.
Critchlow stopped short of the kitchen steps,
and extended his arms, touching the walls on
either side.
"Here!" he
said, tapping the walls with his bony knuckles.
"Here! Suppose I brick ye this up, and th' same
upstairs between th' showroom and th' bedroom
passage, ye've got your house to yourself. Ye
say ye've lived here all your life. Well, what's
to prevent ye finishing up here? The fact is,"
he added, "it would only be making into two
houses again what was two houses to start with,
afore your time, missis."
"And what
about the shop?" cried Constance.
"Ye can
sell us th' stock at a valuation."
Constance
suddenly comprehended the scheme. Mr. Critchlow
would remain the chemist, while Mrs. Critchlow
became the head of the chief drapery business in
the town. Doubtless they would knock a hole
through the separating wall on the other side,
to balance the bricking-up on this side. They
must have thought it all out in detail.
Constance revolted.
"Yes!" she
said, a little disdainfully. "And my goodwill?
Shall you take that at a valuation too?"
Mr.
Critchlow glanced at the creature for whom he
was ready to scatter thousands of pounds. She
might have been a Phryne and he the infatuated
fool. He glanced at her as if to say: "We
expected this, and this is where we agreed it
was to stop."
"Ay!" he
said to Constance. "Show me your goodwill. Lap
it up in a bit of paper and hand it over, and
I'll take it at a valuation. But not afore,
missis! Not afore! I'm making ye a very good
offer. Twenty pound a year, I'll let ye th'
house for. And take th' stock at a valuation.
Think it over, my lass."
Having said
what he had to say, Charles Critchlow departed,
according to his custom. He unceremoniously let
himself out by the side door, and passed with
wavy apron round the corner of King Street into
the Square and so to his own shop, which ignored
the Thursday half-holiday. Miss Insull left soon
afterwards.
III
Constance's
pride urged her to refuse the offer. But in
truth her sole objection to it was that she had
not thought of the scheme herself. For the
scheme really reconciled her wish to remain
where she was with her wish to be free of the
shop.
"I shall
make him put me in a new window in the
parlour—one that will open!" she said positively
to Cyril, who accepted Mr. Critchlow's idea with
fatalistic indifference.
After
stipulating for the new window, she closed with
the offer. Then there was the stock-taking,
which endured for weeks. And then a carpenter
came and measured for the window. And a builder
and a mason came and inspected doorways, and
Constance felt that the end was upon her. She
took up the carpet in the parlour and protected
the furniture by dustsheets. She and Cyril lived
between bare boards and dustsheets for twenty
days, and neither carpenter nor mason
reappeared. Then one surprising day the old
window was removed by the carpenter's two
journeymen, and late in the afternoon the
carpenter brought the new window, and the three
men worked till ten o'clock at night, fixing it.
Cyril wore his cap and went to bed in his cap,
and Constance wore a Paisley shawl. A painter
had bound himself beyond all possibility of
failure to paint the window on the morrow. He
was to begin at six a.m.; and Amy's alarm-clock
was altered so that she might be up and dressed
to admit him. He came a week later, administered
one coat, and vanished for another ten days.
Then two masons suddenly came with heavy tools,
and were shocked to find that all was not
prepared for them. (After three carpetless weeks
Constance had relaid her floors.) They tore off
wall-paper, sent cascades of plaster down the
kitchen steps, withdrew alternate courses of
bricks from the walls, and, sated with
destruction, hastened away. After four days new
red bricks began to arrive, carried by a quite
guiltless hodman who had not visited the house
before. The hodman met the full storm of
Constance's wrath. It was not a vicious wrath,
rather a good-humoured wrath; but it impressed
the hodman. "My house hasn't been fit to live in
for a month," she said in fine. "If these walls
aren't built to-morrow, upstairs AND down—to-
morrow, mind!—don't let any of you dare to show
your noses here again, for I won't have you. Now
you've brought your bricks. Off with you, and
tell your master what I say!"
It was
effective. The next day subdued and plausible
workmen of all sorts awoke the house with
knocking at six-thirty precisely, and the two
doorways were slowly bricked up. The curious
thing was that, when the barrier was already a
foot high on the ground-floor Constance
remembered small possessions of her own which
she had omitted to remove from the cutting-out
room. Picking up her skirts, she stepped over
into the region that was no more hers, and
stepped back with the goods. She had a bandanna
round her head to keep the thick dust out of her
hair. She was very busy, very preoccupied with
nothings. She had no time for sentimentalities.
Yet when the men arrived at the topmost course
and were at last hidden behind their own
erection, and she could see only rough bricks
and mortar, she was disconcertingly overtaken by
a misty blindness and could not even see bricks
and mortar. Cyril found her, with her absurd
bandanna, weeping in a sheet-covered rocking-
chair in the sacked parlour. He whistled
uneasily, remarked: "I say, mother, what about
tea?" and then, hearing the heavy voices of
workmen above, ran with relief upstairs. Tea had
been set in the drawing-room, he was glad to
learn that from Amy, who informed him also that
she should 'never get used to them there new
walls,' not as long as she lived.
He went to
the School of Art that night. Constance, alone,
could find nothing to do. She had willed that
the walls should be built, and they had been
built; but days must elapse before they could be
plastered, and after the plaster still more days
before the papering. Not for another month,
perhaps, would her house be free of workmen and
ripe for her own labours. She could only sit in
the dust-drifts and contemplate the havoc of
change, and keep her eyes as dry as she could.
The legal transactions were all but complete;
little bills announcing the transfer of the
business lay on the counters in the shop at the
disposal of customers. In two days Charles
Critchlow would pay the price of a desire
realized. The sign was painted out and new
letters sketched thereon in chalk. In future she
would be compelled, if she wished to enter the
shop, to enter it as a customer and from the
front. Yes, she saw that, though the house
remained hers, the root of her life had been
wrenched up.
And the
mess! It seemed inconceivable that the material
mess could ever be straightened away!
Yet, ere
the fields of the county were first covered with
snow that season, only one sign survived of the
devastating revolution, and that was a loose
sheet of wall-paper that had been too soon
pasted on to new plaster and would not stick.
Maria Insull was Maria Critchlow. Constance had
been out into the Square and seen the altered
sign, and seen Mrs. Critchlow's taste in window-
curtains, and seen—most impressive sight of
all—that the grimy window of the abandoned room
at the top of the abandoned staircase next to
the bedroom of her girlhood, had been cleaned
and a table put in front of it. She knew that
the chamber, which she herself had never
entered, was to be employed as a storeroom, but
the visible proof of its conversion so strangely
affected her that she had not felt able to go
boldly into the shop, as she had meant to do,
and make a few purchases in the way of
friendliness. "I'm a silly woman!" she muttered.
Later, she did venture, timidly abrupt, into the
shop, and was received with fitting state by
Mrs. Critchlow (as desiccated as ever), who
insisted on allowing her the special trade
discount. And she carried her little friendly
purchases round to her own door in King Street.
Trivial, trivial event! Constance, not knowing
whether to laugh or cry, did both. She accused
herself of developing a hysterical faculty in
tears, and strove sagely against it.
CHAPTER
VIII
THE
PROUDEST MOTHER
I
In the year
1893 there was a new and strange man living at
No. 4, St. Luke's Square. Many people remarked
on the phenomenon. Very few of his like had ever
been seen in Bursley before. One of the striking
things about him was the complex way in which he
secured himself by means of glittering chains. A
chain stretched across his waistcoat, passing
through a special button-hole, without a button,
in the middle. To this cable were firmly linked
a watch at one end and a pencil-case at the
other; the chain also served as a protection
against a thief who might attempt to snatch the
fancy waistcoat entire. Then there were longer
chains, beneath the waistcoat, partly designed,
no doubt, to deflect bullets, but serving mainly
to enable the owner to haul up penknives,
cigarette-cases, match-boxes, and key-rings from
the profundities of hip-pockets. An essential
portion of the man's braces, visible sometimes
when he played at tennis, consisted of chain,
and the upper and nether halves of his
cuff-links were connected by chains.
Occasionally he was to be seen chained to a dog.
A
reversion, conceivably, to a mediaeval type!
Yes, but also the exemplar of the excessively
modern! Externally he was a consequence of the
fact that, years previously, the leading tailor
in Bursley had permitted his son to be
apprenticed in London. The father died; the son
had the wit to return and make a fortune while
creating a new type in the town, a type of which
multiple chains were but one feature, and that
the least expensive if the most salient. For
instance, up to the historic year in which the
young tailor created the type, any cap was a cap
in Bursley, and any collar was a collar. But
thenceforward no cap was a cap, and no collar
was a collar, which did not exactly conform in
shape and material to certain sacred caps and
collars guarded by the young tailor in his back
shop. None knew why these sacred caps and
collars were sacred, but they were; their
sacredness endured for about six months, and
then suddenly—again none knew why—they fell from
their estate and became lower than offal for
dogs, and were supplanted on the altar. The type
brought into existence by the young tailor was
to be recognized by its caps and collars, and in
a similar manner by every other article of
attire, except its boots. Unfortunately the
tailor did not sell boots, and so imposed on his
creatures no mystical creed as to boots. This
was a pity, for the boot-makers of the town
happened not to be inflamed by the type-creating
passion as the tailor was, and thus the new type
finished abruptly at the edges of the tailor's
trousers.
The man at
No. 4, St. Luke's Square had comparatively small
and narrow feet, which gave him an advantage;
and as he was endowed with a certain vague
general physical distinction he managed, despite
the eternal untidiness of his hair, to be
eminent among the type. Assuredly the frequent
sight of him in her house flattered the pride of
Constance's eye, which rested on him almost
always with pleasure. He had come into the house
with startling abruptness soon after Cyril left
school and was indentured to the head-designer
at "Peel's," that classic earthenware
manufactory. The presence of a man in her abode
disconcerted Constance at the beginning; but she
soon grew accustomed to it, perceiving that a
man would behave as a man, and must be expected
to do so. This man, in truth, did what he liked
in all things. Cyril having always been regarded
by both his parents as enormous, one would have
anticipated a giant in the new man; but,
queerly, he was slim, and little above the
average height. Neither in enormity nor in many
other particulars did he resemble the Cyril whom
he had supplanted. His gestures were lighter and
quicker; he had nothing of Cyril's ungainliness;
he had not Cyril's limitless taste for sweets,
nor Cyril's terrific hatred of gloves, barbers,
and soap. He was much more dreamy than Cyril,
and much busier. In fact, Constance only saw him
at meal-times. He was at Peel's in the day and
at the School of Art every night. He would dream
during a meal, even; and, without actually
saying so, he gave the impression that he was
the busiest man in Bursley, wrapped in
occupations and preoccupations as in a blanket—a
blanket which Constance had difficulty in
penetrating.
Constance
wanted to please him; she lived for nothing but
to please him; he was, however, exceedingly
difficult to please, not in the least because he
was hypercritical and exacting, but because he
was indifferent. Constance, in order to satisfy
her desire of pleasing, had to make fifty
efforts, in the hope that he might chance to
notice one. He was a good man, amazingly
industrious—when once Constance had got him out
of bed in the morning; with no vices; kind, save
when Constance mistakenly tried to thwart him;
charming, with a curious strain of humour that
Constance only half understood. Constance was
unquestionably vain about him, and she could
honestly find in him little to blame. But
whereas he was the whole of her universe, she
was merely a dim figure in the background of
his. Every now and then, with his gentle,
elegant raillery, he would apparently rediscover
her, as though saying: "Ah! You're still there,
are you?" Constance could not meet him on the
plane where his interests lay, and he never knew
the passionate intensity of her absorption in
that minor part of his life which moved on her
plane. He never worried about her solitude, or
guessed that in throwing her a smile and a word
at supper he was paying her meagrely for three
hours of lone rocking in a rocking-chair.
The worst
of it was that she was quite incurable. No
experience would suffice to cure her trick of
continually expecting him to notice things which
he never did notice. One day he said, in the
midst of a silence: "By the way, didn't father
leave any boxes of cigars?" She had the steps up
into her bedroom and reached down from the dusty
top of the wardrobe the box which she had put
there after Samuel's funeral. In handing him the
box she was doing a great deed. His age was
nineteen and she was ratifying his precocious
habit of smoking by this solemn gift. He
entirely ignored the box for several days. She
said timidly: "Have you tried those cigars?"
"Not yet," he replied. "I'll try 'em one of
these days." Ten days later, on a Sunday when he
chanced not to have gone out with his
aristocratic friend Matthew Peel- Swynnerton, he
did at length open the box and take out a cigar.
"Now," he observed roguishly, cutting the cigar,
"we shall see, Mrs. Plover!" He often called her
Mrs. Plover, for fun. Though she liked him to be
sufficiently interested in her to tease her, she
did not like being called Mrs. Plover, and she
never failed to say: "I'm not Mrs. Plover." He
smoked the cigar slowly, in the rocking-chair,
throwing his head back and sending clouds to the
ceiling. And afterwards he remarked: "The old
man's cigars weren't so bad." "Indeed!" she
answered tartly, as if maternally resenting this
easy patronage. But in secret she was delighted.
There was something in her son's favourable
verdict on her husband's cigars that thrilled
her.
And she
looked at him. Impossible to see in him any
resemblance to his father! Oh! He was a far more
brilliant, more advanced, more complicated, more
seductive being than his homely father! She
wondered where he had come from. And yet …! If
his father had lived, what would have occurred
between them? Would the boy have been openly
smoking cigars in the house at nineteen?
She
laboriously interested herself, so far as he
would allow, in his artistic studies and
productions. A back attic on the second floor
was now transformed into a studio—a naked
apartment which smelt of oil and of damp clay.
Often there were traces of clay on the stairs.
For working in clay he demanded of his mother a
smock, and she made a smock, on the model of a
genuine smock which she obtained from a
country-woman who sold eggs and butter in the
Covered Market. Into the shoulders of the smock
she put a week's fancy-stitching, taking the
pattern from an old book of embroidery. One day
when he had seen her stitching morn, noon, and
afternoon, at the smock, he said, as she rocked
idly after supper: "I suppose you haven't
forgotten all about the smock I asked you for,
have you, mater?" She knew that he was teasing
her; but, while perfectly realizing how foolish
she was, she nearly always acted as though his
teasing was serious; she picked up the smock
again from the sofa. When the smock was finished
he examined it intently; then exclaimed with an
air of surprise: "By Jove! That's beautiful!
Where did you get this pattern?" He continued to
stare at it, smiling in pleasure. He turned over
the tattered leaves of the embroidery-book with
the same naive, charmed astonishment, and
carried the book away to the studio. "I must
show that to Swynnerton," he said. As for her,
the epithet 'beautiful' seemed a strange epithet
to apply to a mere piece of honest stitchery
done in a pattern, and a stitch with which she
had been familiar all her life. The fact was she
understood his 'art' less and less. The sole
wall decoration of his studio was a Japanese
print, which struck her as being entirely
preposterous, considered as a picture. She much
preferred his own early drawings of moss-roses
and picturesque castles—things that he now
mercilessly contemned. Later, he discovered her
cutting out another smock. "What's that for?" he
inquired. "Well," she said, "you can't manage
with one smock. What shall you do when that one
has to go to the wash?" "Wash!" he repeated
vaguely. "There's no need for it to go to the
wash." "Cyril," she replied, "don't try my
patience! I was thinking of making you
half-a-dozen." He whistled. "With all that
stitching?" he questioned, amazed at the
undertaking. "Why not?" she said. In her young
days, no seamstress ever made fewer than
half-a-dozen of anything, and it was usually a
dozen; it was sometimes half-a-dozen dozen.
"Well," he murmured, "you have got a nerve! I'll
say that." Similar things happened whenever he
showed that he was pleased. If he said of a
dish, in the local tongue: "I could do a bit of
that!" or if he simply smacked his lips over it,
she would surfeit him with that dish.
II
On a hot
day in August, just before they were to leave
Bursley for a month in the Isle of Man, Cyril
came home, pale and perspiring, and dropped on
to the sofa. He wore a grey alpaca suit, and,
except his hair, which in addition to being very
untidy was damp with sweat, he was a masterpiece
of slim elegance, despite the heat. He blew out
great sighs, and rested his head on the
antimacassared arm of the sofa.
"Well,
mater," he said, in a voice of factitious calm,
"I've got it." He was looking up at the ceiling.
"Got what?"
"The
National Scholarship. Swynnerton says it's a
sheer fluke. But
I've got it. Great glory for the Bursley School
of Art!"
"National
Scholarship?" she said. "What's that? What is
it?"
"Now,
mother!" he admonished her, not without
testiness. "Don't go and say I've never breathed
a word about it!"
He lit a
cigarette, to cover his self-consciousness, for
he perceived that she was moved far beyond the
ordinary.
Never, in
fact, not even by the death of her husband, had
she received such a frightful blow as that which
the dreamy Cyril had just dealt her.
It was not
a complete surprise, but it was nearly a
complete surprise. A few months previously he
certainly had mentioned, in his incidental way,
the subject of a National Scholarship. Apropos
of a drinking-cup which he had designed, he had
said that the director of the School of Art had
suggested that it was good enough to compete for
the National, and that as he was otherwise
qualified for the competition he might as well
send the cup to South Kensington. He had added
that Peel-Swynnerton had laughed at the notion
as absurd. On that occasion she had comprehended
that a National Scholarship involved residence
in London. She ought to have begun to live in
fear, for Cyril had a most disturbing habit of
making a mere momentary reference to matters
which he deemed very important and which
occupied a large share of his attention. He was
secretive by nature, and the rigidity of his
father's rule had developed this trait in his
character. But really he had spoken of the
competition with such an extreme casualness that
with little effort she had dismissed it from her
anxieties as involving a contingency so remote
as to be negligible. She had, genuinely, almost
forgotten it. Only at rare intervals had it
wakened in her a dull transitory pain—like the
herald of a fatal malady. And, as a woman in the
opening stage of disease, she had hastily
reassured herself: "How silly of me! This can't
possibly be anything serious!"
And now she
was condemned. She knew it. She knew there could
be no appeal. She knew that she might as
usefully have besought mercy from a tiger as
from her good, industrious, dreamy son.
"It means a
pound a week," said Cyril, his
self-consciousness intensified by her silence
and by the dreadful look on her face. "And of
course free tuition."
"For how
long?" she managed to say.
"Well,"
said he, "that depends. Nominally for a year.
But if you behave yourself it's always continued
for three years." If he stayed for three years
he would never come back: that was a certainty.
How she
rebelled, furious and despairing, against the
fortuitous cruelty of things! She was sure that
he had not, till then, thought seriously of
going to London. But the fact that the
Government would admit him free to its
classrooms and give him a pound a week besides,
somehow forced him to go to London. It was not
the lack of means that would have prevented him
from going. Why, then, should the presence of
means induce him to go? There was no logical
reason. The whole affair was disastrously
absurd. The art-master at the Wedgwood
Institution had chanced, merely chanced, to
suggest that the drinking-cup should be sent to
South Kensington. And the result of this caprice
was that she was sentenced to solitude for life!
It was too monstrously, too incredibly wicked!
With what
futile and bitter execration she murmured in her
heart the word 'If.' If Cyril's childish
predilections had not been encouraged! If he had
only been content to follow his father's trade!
If she had flatly refused to sign his indenture
at Peel's and pay the premium! If he had not
turned from, colour to clay! If the art-master
had not had that fatal 'idea'! If the judges for
the competition had decided otherwise! If only
she had brought Cyril up in habits of obedience,
sacrificing temporary peace to permanent
security!
For after
all he could not abandon her without her
consent. He was not of age. And he would want a
lot more money, which he could obtain from none
but her. She could refuse. …
No! She
could not refuse. He was the master, the tyrant.
For the sake of daily pleasantness she had
weakly yielded to him at the start! She had
behaved badly to herself and to him. He was
spoiled. She had spoiled him. And he was about
to repay her with lifelong misery, and nothing
would deflect him from his course. The usual
conduct of the spoilt child! Had she not
witnessed it, and moralized upon it, in other
families?
"You don't
seem very chirpy over it, mater!" he said.
She went
out of the room. His joy in the prospect of
departure from the Five Towns, from her, though
he masked it, was more manifest than she could
bear.
The Signal,
the next day, made a special item of the news.
It appeared that no National Scholarship had
been won in the Five Towns for eleven years. The
citizens were exhorted to remember that Mr.
Povey had gained his success in open competition
with the cleverest young students of the entire
kingdom—and in a branch of art which he had but
recently taken up; and further, that the
Government offered only eight scholarships each
year. The name of Cyril Povey passed from lip to
lip. And nobody who met Constance, in street or
shop, could refrain from informing her that she
ought to be a proud mother, to have such a son,
but that truly they were not surprised … and how
proud his poor father would have been! A few
sympathetically hinted that maternal pride was
one of those luxuries that may cost too dear.
III
The holiday
in the Isle of Man was of course ruined for her.
She could scarcely walk because of the weight of
a lump of lead that she carried in her bosom. On
the brightest days the lump of lead was always
there. Besides, she was so obese. In ordinary
circumstances they might have stayed beyond the
month. An indentured pupil is not strapped to
the wheel like a common apprentice. Moreover,
the indentures were to be cancelled. But
Constance did not care to stay. She had to
prepare for his departure to London. She had to
lay the faggots for her own martyrdom.
In this
business of preparation she showed as much
silliness, she betrayed as perfect a lack of
perspective, as the most superior son could
desire for a topic of affectionate irony. Her
preoccupation with petty things of no importance
whatever was worthy of the finest traditions of
fond motherhood. However, Cyril's careless
satire had no effect on her, save that once she
got angry, thereby startling him; he quite
correctly and sagely laid this unprecedented
outburst to the account of her wrought nerves,
and forgave it. Happily for the smoothness of
Cyril's translation to London, young
Peel-Swynnerton was acquainted with the capital,
had a brother in Chelsea, knew of reputable
lodgings, was, indeed, an encyclopaedia of the
town, and would himself spend a portion of the
autumn there. Otherwise, the preliminaries which
his mother would have insisted on by means of
tears and hysteria might have proved fatiguing
to Cyril.
The day
came when on that day week Cyril would be gone.
Constance steadily fabricated cheerfulness
against the prospect. She said:
"Suppose I
come with you?"
He smiled
in toleration of this joke as being a passable
quality of joke. And then she smiled in the same
sense, hastening to agree with him that as a
joke it was not a bad joke.
In the last
week he was very loyal to his tailor. Many a
young man would have commanded new clothes
after, not before, his arrival in London. But
Cyril had faith in his creator.
On the day
of departure the household, the very house
itself, was in a state of excitation. He was to
leave early. He would not listen to the project
of her accompanying him as far as Knype, where
the Loop Line joined the main. She might go to
Bursley Station and no further. When she
rebelled he disclosed the merest hint of his
sullen-churlish side, and she at once yielded.
During breakfast she did not cry, but the aspect
of her face made him protest.
"Now, look
here, mater! Just try to remember that I shall
be back for Christmas. It's barely three
months." And he lit a cigarette.
She made no
reply.
Amy lugged
a Gladstone bag down the crooked stairs. A trunk
was already close to the door; it had wrinkled
the carpet and deranged the mat.
"You didn't
forget to put the hair-brush in, did you, Amy?"
he asked.
"N—no, Mr.
Cyril," she blubbered.
"Amy!"
Constance sharply corrected her, as Cyril ran
upstairs, "I wonder you can't control yourself
better than that."
Amy weakly
apologized. Although treated almost as one of
the family, she ought not to have forgotten that
she was a servant. What right had she to weep
over Cyril's luggage? This question was put to
her in Constance's tone.
The cab
came. Cyril tumbled downstairs with exaggerated
carelessness, and with exaggerated carelessness
he joked at the cabman.
"Now,
mother!" he cried, when the luggage was stowed.
"Do you want me to miss this train?" But he knew
that the margin of time was ample. It was his
fun!
"Nay, I
can't be hurried!" she said, fixing her bonnet.
"Amy, as soon as we are gone you can clear this
table."
She climbed
heavily into the cab.
"That's it!
Smash the springs!" Cyril teased her.
The horse
got a stinging cut to recall him to the
seriousness of life. It was a fine, bracing
autumn morning, and the driver felt the need of
communicating his abundant energy to some one or
something. They drove off, Amy staring after
them from the door. Matters had been so
marvellously well arranged that they arrived at
the station twenty minutes before the train was
due.
"Never
mind!" Cyril mockingly comforted his mother.
"You'd rather be twenty minutes too soon than
one minute too late, wouldn't you?"
His high
spirits had to come out somehow.
Gradually
the minutes passed, and the empty slate-tinted
platform became dotted with people to whom that
train was nothing but a Loop Line train, people
who took that train every week-day of their
lives and knew all its eccentricities.
And they
heard the train whistle as it started from
Turnhill. And Cyril had a final word with the
porter who was in charge of the luggage. He made
a handsome figure, and he had twenty pounds in
his pocket. When he returned to Constance she
was sniffing, and through her veil he could see
that her eyes were circled with red. But through
her veil she could see nothing. The train rolled
in, rattling to a standstill. Constance lifted
her veil and kissed him; and kissed her life
out. He smelt the odour of her crape. He was,
for an instant, close to her, close; and he
seemed to have an overwhelmingly intimate
glimpse into her secrets; he seemed to be choked
in the sudden strong emotion of that crape. He
felt queer.
"Here you
are, sir! Second smoker!" called the porter.
The daily
frequenters of the train boarded it with their
customary disgust.
"I'll write
as soon as ever I get there!" said Cyril, of his
own accord. It was the best he could muster.
With what
grace he raised his hat!
A
sliding-away; clouds of steam; and she shared
the dead platform with milk-cans, two porters,
and Smith's noisy boy!
She walked
home, very slowly and painfully. The lump of
lead was heavier than ever before. And the
townspeople saw the proudest mother in Bursley
walking home.
"After
all," she argued with her soul angrily,
petulantly, "could you expect the boy to do
anything else? He is a serious student, he has
had a brilliant success, and is he to be tied to
your apron-strings? The idea is preposterous. It
isn't as if he was an idler, or a bad son. No
mother could have a better son. A nice thing,
that he should stay all his life in Bursley
simply because you don't like being left alone!"
Unfortunately one might as well argue with a
mule as with one's soul. Her soul only kept on
saying monotonously: "I'm a lonely old woman
now. I've nothing to live for any more, and I'm
no use to anybody. Once I was young and proud.
And this is what my life has come to! This is
the end!"
When she
reached home, Amy had not touched the breakfast
things; the carpet was still wrinkled, and the
mat still out of place. And, through the
desolating atmosphere of reaction after a
terrific crisis, she marched directly upstairs,
entered his plundered room, and beheld the
disorder of the bed in which he had slept.
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