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diff --git a/4734-h/4734-h.htm b/4734-h/4734-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ece4569 --- /dev/null +++ b/4734-h/4734-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11868 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Grim Smile of the Five Towns, +by Arnold Bennett +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.transnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.intro {font-size: medium ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Grim Smile of the Five Towns, by Arnold Bennett + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Grim Smile of the Five Towns + +Author: Arnold Bennett + +Posting Date: September 11, 2009 [EBook #4734] +Release Date: December, 2003 +First Posted: March 10, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRIM SMILE OF THE FIVE TOWNS *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE GRIM SMILE OF THE FIVE TOWNS +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ARNOLD BENNETT +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + To my old and constant friend<BR> + JOSEPH DAWSON<BR> + a student profoundly versed<BR> + in the human nature of<BR> + the Five Towns<BR> +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + <A HREF="#lion">The Lion's Share</A><BR> + <A HREF="#baby">Baby's Bath</A><BR> + <A HREF="#brothers">The Silent Brothers</A><BR> + <A HREF="#hat">The Nineteenth Hat</A><BR> + <A HREF="#vera">Vera's First Christmas Adventure</A><BR> + <A HREF="#murder">The Murder of the Mandarin</A><BR> + <A HREF="#second">Vera's Second Christmas Adventure</A><BR> + <A HREF="#burglary">The Burglary</A><BR> + <A HREF="#news">News of the Engagement</A><BR> + <A HREF="#year">Beginning the New Year</A><BR> + <A HREF="#generation">From One Generation to Another</A><BR> + <A HREF="#simon">The Death of Simon Fuge</A><BR> + <A HREF="#bottle">In a New Bottle</A><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="lion"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE LION'S SHARE +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +In the Five Towns the following history is related by those who know it +as something side-splittingly funny—as one of the best jokes that ever +occurred in a district devoted to jokes. And I, too, have hitherto +regarded it as such. But upon my soul, now that I come to write it +down, it strikes me as being, after all, a pretty grim tragedy. +However, you shall judge, and laugh or cry as you please. +</P> + +<P> +It began in the little house of Mrs Carpole, up at Bleakridge, on the +hill between Bursley and Hanbridge. Mrs Carpole was the second Mrs +Carpole, and her husband was dead. She had a stepson, Horace, and a son +of her own, Sidney. Horace is the hero, or the villain, of the history. +On the day when the unfortunate affair began he was nineteen years old, +and a model youth. Not only was he getting on in business, not only did +he give half his evenings to the study of the chemistry of pottery and +the other half to various secretaryships in connection with the +Wesleyan Methodist Chapel and Sunday-school, not only did he save +money, not only was he a comfort to his stepmother and a sort of uncle +to Sidney, not only was he an early riser, a total abstainer, a +non-smoker, and a good listener; but, in addition to the practice of +these manifold and rare virtues, he found time, even at that tender +age, to pay his tailor's bill promptly and to fold his trousers in the +same crease every night—so that he always looked neat and dignified. +Strange to say, he made no friends. Perhaps he was just a thought too +perfect for a district like the Five Towns; a sin or so might have +endeared him to the entire neighbourhood. Perhaps his loneliness was +due to his imperfect sense of humour, or perhaps to the dull, unsmiling +heaviness of his somewhat flat features. +</P> + +<P> +Sidney was quite a different story. Sidney, to use his mother's phrase, +was a little jockey. His years were then eight. Fair-haired and +blue-eyed, as most little jockeys are, he had a smile and a scowl that +were equally effective in tyrannizing over both his mother and Horace, +and he was beloved by everybody. Women turned to look at him in the +street. Unhappily, his health was not good. He was afflicted by a +slight deafness, which, however, the doctor said he would grow out of; +the doctor predicted for him a lusty manhood. In the meantime, he +caught every disease that happened to be about, and nearly died of each +one. His latest acquisition had been scarlet fever. Now one afternoon, +after he had 'peeled' and his room had been disinfected, and he was +beginning to walk again, Horace came home and decided that Sidney +should be brought downstairs for tea as a treat, to celebrate his +convalescence, and that he, Horace, would carry him downstairs. Mrs +Carpole was delighted with the idea, and Sidney also, except that +Sidney did not want to be carried downstairs—he wanted to walk down. +</P> + +<P> +'I think it will be better for him to walk, Horace dear,' said Mrs +Carpole, in her thin, plaintive voice. 'He can, quite well. And you +know how clumsy you are. Supposing you were to fall!' +</P> + +<P> +Horace, nevertheless, in pursuance of his programme of being uncle to +Sidney, was determined to carry Sidney. And carry Sidney he did, +despite warnings and kickings. At least he carried him as far as the +turn in the steep stairs, at which point he fell, just as his +stepmother had feared, and Sidney with him. The half-brothers arrived +on the ground floor in company, but Horace, with his eleven stone two, +was on top, and the poor suffering little convalescent lay moveless and +insensible. +</P> + +<P> +It took the doctor forty minutes to bring him to, and all the time the +odour of grilled herrings, which formed part of the uneaten tea, made +itself felt through the house like a Satanic comment on the spectacle +of human life. The scene was dreadful at first. The agony then passed. +There were no bruises on the boy, not a mark, and in a couple of hours +he seemed to be perfectly himself. Horace breathed again, and thanked +Heaven it was no worse. His gratitude to Heaven was, however, slightly +premature, for in the black middle of the night poor Sidney was seized +with excruciating pains in the head, and the doctor lost four hours' +sleep. These pains returned at intervals of a few days, and naturally +the child's convalescence was retarded. Then Horace said that Airs +Carpole should take Sidney to Buxton for a fortnight, and he paid all +the expenses of the trip out of his savings. He was desolated, utterly +stricken; he said he should never forgive himself. Sidney improved, +slowly. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +After several months, during which Horace had given up all his limited +spare time to the superintendence of the child's first steps in +knowledge, Sidney was judged to be sufficiently strong to go to school, +and it was arranged that he should attend the Endowed School at the +Wedgwood Institution. Horace accompanied him thither on the opening day +of the term—it was an inclement morning in January—and left the young +delicate sprig, apparently joyous and content, to the care of his +masters and the mercy of his companions. But Sidney came home for +dinner weeping—weeping in spite of his new mortar-board cap, his new +satchel, his new box of compasses, and his new books. His mother kept +him at home in the afternoon, and by the evening another of those +terrible attacks had supervened. The doctor and Horace and Mrs Carpole +once more lost much precious sleep. The mysterious malady continued. +School was out of the question. +</P> + +<P> +And when Sidney took the air, in charge of his mother, everybody +stopped to sympathize with him and to stroke his curls and call him a +poor dear, and also to commiserate Mrs Carpole. As for Horace, Bursley +tried to feel sorry for Horace, but it only succeeded in showing Horace +that it was hiding a sentiment of indignation against him. Each +friendly face as it passed Horace in the street said, without words, +'There goes the youth who probably ruined his young stepbrother's life. +And through sheer obstinacy too! He dropped the little darling in spite +of warnings and protests, and then fell on the top of him. Of course, +he didn't do it on purpose, but—' +</P> + +<P> +The doctor mentioned Greatorex of Manchester, the celebrated brain +specialist. And Horace took Sidney to Manchester. They had to wait an +hour and a quarter to see Greatorex, his well-known consulting-rooms in +John Dalton Street being crowded with imperfect brains; but their turn +came at last, and they found themselves in Greatorex's presence. +Greatorex was a fat man, with the voice of a thin man, who seemed to +spend the whole of his career in the care of his fingernails. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, my little fellow,' said Greatorex, 'don't cry.' (For Sidney was +already crying.) And then to Horace, in a curt tone: 'What is it?' +</P> + +<P> +And Horace was obliged to humiliate himself and relate the accident in +detail, together with all that had subsequently happened. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, yes, yes, yes!' Greatorex would punctuate the recital, and when +tired of 'yes' he would say 'Hum, hum, hum, hum!' +</P> + +<P> +When he had said 'hum' seventy-two times he suddenly remarked that his +fee was three guineas, and told Horace to strengthen Sidney all he +could, not to work him too hard, and to bring him back in a year's time. +</P> + +<P> +Horace paid the money, Greatorex emitted a final 'hum', and then the +stepbrothers were whisked out by an expeditious footman. The experience +cost Horace over four pounds and the loss of a day's time. And the +worst was that Sidney had a violent attack that very night. +</P> + +<P> +School being impossible for him, Sidney had intermittent instruction +from professors of both sexes at home. But he learnt practically +nothing except the banjo. Horace had to buy him a banjo: it cost the +best part of a ten-pound note; still, Horace could do no less. Sidney's +stature grew rapidly; his general health certainly improved, yet not +completely; he always had a fragile, interesting air. Moreover, his +deafness did not disappear: there were occasions when it was extremely +pronounced. And he was never quite safe from these attacks in the head. +He spent a month or six weeks each year in the expensive bracing +atmosphere of some seaside resort, and altogether he was decidedly a +heavy drain on Horace's resources. People were aware of this, and they +said that Horace ought to be happy that he was in a position to spend +money freely on his poor brother. Had not the doctor predicted, before +the catastrophe due to Horace's culpable negligence, that Sidney would +grow into a strong man, and that his deafness would leave him? The +truth was, one never knew the end of those accidents in infancy! +Further, was not Sidney's sad condition slowly killing his mother? It +was whispered about that, since the disaster, Sidney had not been QUITE +sound mentally. Was not the mere suspicion of this enough to kill any +mother? +</P> + +<P> +And, as a fact, Mrs Carpole did die. She died of quinsy, doubtless +aggravated by Sidney's sad condition. +</P> + +<P> +Not long afterwards Horace came into a small fortune from his maternal +grandfather. But poor Sidney did not come into any fortune, and people +somehow illogically inferred that Horace had not behaved quite nicely +in coming into a fortune while his suffering invalid brother, whom he +had so deeply harmed, came into nothing. Even Horace had compunctions +due to the visitations of a similar idea. And with part of the fortune +he bought a house with a large garden up at Toft End, the highest hill +of the hilly Five Towns, so that Sidney might have the benefit of the +air. He also engaged a housekeeper and servants. With the remainder of +the fortune he obtained a partnership in the firm of earthenware +manufacturers for whom he had been acting as highly-paid manager. +</P> + +<P> +Sidney reached the age of eighteen, and was most effective to look +upon, his bright hair being still curly, and his eyes a wondrous blue, +and his form elegant; and the question of Sidney's future arose. His +health was steadily on the up grade. The deafness had quite +disappeared. He had inclinations towards art, and had already amused +himself by painting some beautiful vases. So it was settled that he +should enter Horace's works on the art side, with a view to becoming, +ultimately, art director. Horace gave him three pounds a week, in order +that he might feel perfectly independent, and, to the same end, Sidney +paid Horace seven-and-sixpence a week for board and lodging. But the +change of life upset the youth's health again. After only two visits to +the works he had a grave recurrence of the head-attacks, and he was +solemnly exhorted not to apply himself too closely to business. He +therefore took several half-holidays a week, and sometimes a whole one. +And even when he put in one of his full days he would arrive at the +works three hours after Horace, and restore the balance by leaving an +hour earlier. The entire town watched over him as a mother watches over +a son. The notion that he was not QUITE right in the pate gradually +died away, and everybody was thankful for that, though it was feared an +untimely grave might be his portion. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +She was a nice girl: the nicest girl that Horace had ever met with, +because her charming niceness included a faculty of being really +serious about serious things—and yet she could be deliciously gay. In +short, she was a revelation to Horace. And her name was Ella, and she +had come one year to spend some weeks with Mrs Penkethman, the widowed +headmistress of the Wesleyan Day School, who was her cousin. Mrs +Penkethman and Ella had been holidaying together in France; their +arrival in Bursley naturally coincided with the reopening of the school +in August for the autumn term. +</P> + +<P> +Now at this period Horace was rather lonely in his large house and +garden; for Sidney, in pursuit of health, had gone off on a six weeks' +cruise round Holland, Finland, Norway, and Sweden, in one of those +Atlantic liners which, translated like Enoch without dying, become in +their old age 'steam-yachts', with fine names apt to lead to confusion +with the private yacht of the Tsar of Russia. Horace had offered him +the trip, and Horace was also paying his weekly salary as usual. +</P> + +<P> +So Horace, who had always been friendly with Mrs Penkethman, grew now +more than ever friendly with Mrs Penkethman. And Mrs Penkethman and +Ella were inseparable. The few aristocrats left in Bursley in September +remarked that Horace knew what he was about, as it was notorious that +Ella had the most solid expectations. But as a matter of fact Horace +did not know what he was about, and he never once thought of Ella's +expectations. He was simply, as they say in Bursley, knocked silly by +Ella. He honestly imagined her to be the wonderfullest woman on the +earth's surface, with her dark eyes and her expressive sympathetic +gestures, and her alterations of seriousness and gaiety. It astounded +him that a girl of twenty-one could have thought so deeply upon life as +she had. The inexplicable thing was that she looked up to HIM. She +evidently admired HIM. He wanted to tell her that she was quite wrong +about him, much too kind in her estimate of him—that really he was a +very ordinary man indeed. But another instinct prevented him from thus +undeceiving her. +</P> + +<P> +And one Saturday afternoon, the season being late September, Horace +actually got those two women up to tea in his house and garden. He had +not dared to dream of such bliss. He had hesitated long before asking +them to come, and in asking them he had blushed and stammered: the +invitation had seemed to him to savour of audacity. But, bless you! +they had accepted with apparent ecstasy. They gave him to think that +they had genuinely wanted to come. And they came extra-specially +dressed—visions, lilies of the field. And as the day was quite warm, +tea was served in the garden, and everybody admired the view; and there +was no restraint, no awkwardness. In particular Ella talked with an +ease and a distinction that enchanted Horace, and almost made him talk +with ease and distinction too. He said to himself that, seeing he had +only known her a month, he was getting on amazingly. He said to himself +that his good luck passed belief. +</P> + +<P> +Then there was a sound of cab-wheels on the other side of the +garden-wall, and presently Horace heard the housekeeper complimenting +Sidney on his good looks, and Sidney asking the housekeeper to lend him +three shillings to pay the cabman. The golden youth had returned +without the slightest warning from his cruise. The tea trio, at the +lower end of the garden, saw him standing in the porch, tanned, curly, +graceful, and young. Horace half rose, and then sat down again. Ella +stared hard. +</P> + +<P> +'That must be your brother,' she said. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, that's Sid,' Horace answered; and then, calling out loudly: 'Come +down here, Sid, and tell them to bring another cup and saucer.' +</P> + +<P> +'Right you are, old man,' Sidney shouted. 'You see I'm back. What! Mrs +Penkethman, is that you?' He came down the central path of the garden +like a Narcissus. +</P> + +<P> +'He DOES look delicate,' said Ella under her breath to Horace. Tears +came to her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Naturally Ella knew all about Sidney. She enjoyed the entire confidence +of Mrs Penkethman, and what Mrs Penkethman didn't know of the private +history of the upper classes in Bursley did not amount to very much. +</P> + +<P> +These were nearly the last words that Ella spoke to Horace that +afternoon. The introduction was made, and Sidney slipped into the party +as comfortably as he slipped into everything, like a candle slipping +into a socket. But nevertheless Ella talked no more. She just stared at +Sidney, and listened to him. Horace was proud that Sidney had made such +an impression on her; he was glad that she showed no aversion to +Sidney, because, in the event of Horace's marriage, where would Sidney +live, if not with Horace and Horace's wife? Still, he could have wished +that Ella would continue to display her conversational powers. +</P> + +<P> +Presently, Sidney lighted a cigarette. He was of those young men whose +delicate mouths seem to have been fashioned for the nice conduct of a +cigarette. And he had a way of blowing out the smoke that secretly +ravished every feminine beholder. Horace still held to his boyhood's +principles; but he envied Sidney a little. +</P> + +<P> +At the conclusion of the festivity these two women naturally could not +be permitted to walk home alone. And, naturally, also, the four could +not walk abreast on the narrow pavements. Horace went first with Mrs +Penkethman. He was mad with anxiety to appropriate Ella, but he dared +not. It would not have been quite correct; it would have been, as they +say in Bursley, too thick. Besides, there was the question of age. +Horace was over thirty, and Mrs Penkethman was also—over thirty; +whereas Sidney was twenty-one, and so was Ella. Hence Sidney walked +behind with Ella, and the procession started in silence. Horace did not +look round too often—that would not have been quite proper—but +whenever he did look round the other couple had lagged farther and +farther behind, and Ella seemed perfectly to have recovered her speech. +At length he looked round, and lo! they had not turned the last corner; +and they arrived at Mrs Penkethman's cottage at Hillport a quarter of +an hour after their elders. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H4> + +<P> +The wedding cost Horace a large sum of money. You see, he could not do +less than behave handsomely by the bride, owing to his notorious +admiration for her; and of course the bridegroom needed setting up. +Horace practically furnished their home for them out of his own pocket; +it was not to be expected that Sidney should have resources. Further, +Sidney as a single man, paying seven-and-six a week for board and +lodging, could no doubt struggle along upon three pounds weekly. But +Sidney as a husband, with the nicest girl in the world to take care of, +and house-rent to pay, could not possibly perform the same feat. +Although he did no more work at the manufactory—Horace could not have +been so unbrotherly as to demand it—Horace paid him eight pounds a +week instead of three. +</P> + +<P> +And the affair cost Horace a good deal besides money. But what could +Horace do? He decidedly would not have wished to wreck the happiness of +two young and beautiful lives, even had he possessed the power to do +so. And he did not possess the power. Those two did not consult Horace +before falling in love. They merely fell in love, and there was an end +of it—and an end of Horace too! Horace had to suffer. He did suffer. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps it was for his highest welfare that other matters came to +monopolize his mind. One sorrow drives out another. If you sit on a pin +you are apt to forget that you have the toothache. The earthenware +manufactory was not going well. Plenty of business was being done, but +not at the right prices. Crushed between the upper and nether +millstones of the McKinley Tariff and German competition, Horace, in +company with other manufacturers, was breathing out his life's blood in +the shape of capital. The truth was that he had never had enough +capital. He had heavily mortgaged the house at Toft End in order to +purchase his partners' shares in the business and have the whole +undertaking to himself, and he profoundly regretted it. He needed every +penny that he could collect; the strictest economy was necessary if he +meant to survive the struggle. And here he was paying eight pounds a +week to a personage purely ornamental, after having squandered hundreds +in rendering that personage comfortable! The situation was dreadful. +</P> + +<P> +You may ask, Why did he not explain the situation to Sidney? Well, +partly because he was too kind, and partly because he was too proud, +and partly because Sidney would not have understood. Horace fought on, +keeping up a position in the town and hoping that miracles would occur. +</P> + +<P> +Then Ella's expectations were realized. Sidney and she had some twenty +thousand pounds to play with. And they played the most agreeable games. +But not in Bursley. No. They left Horace in Bursley and went to +Llandudno for a spell. Horace envied them, but he saw them off at the +station as an elder brother should, and tipped the porters. +</P> + +<P> +Certainly he was relieved of the formality of paying eight pounds a +week to his brother. But this did not help him much. The sad fact was +that 'things' (by which is meant fate, circumstances, credit, and so +on) had gone too far. It was no longer a question of eight pounds a +week; it was a question of final ruin. +</P> + +<P> +Surely he might have borrowed money from Sidney? Sidney had no money; +the money was Ella's, and Horace could not have brought himself to +borrow money from a woman—from Ella, from a heavenly creature who +always had a soothing sympathetic word for him. That would have been to +take advantage of Ella. No, if you suggest such a thing, you do not +know Horace. +</P> + +<P> +I stated in the beginning that he had no faults. He was therefore +absolutely honest. And he called his creditors together while he could +yet pay them twenty shillings in the pound. It was a noble act, rare +enough in the Five Towns and in other parts of England. But he received +no praise for it. He had only done what every man in his position ought +to do. If Horace had failed for ten times the sum that his debts +actually did amount to, and then paid two shillings in the pound +instead of twenty, he would have made a stir in the world and been +looked up to as no ordinary man of business. +</P> + +<P> +Having settled his affairs in this humdrum, idiotic manner, Horace took +a third-class return to Llandudno. Sidney and Ella were staying at the +hydro with the strange Welsh name, and he found Sidney lolling on the +sunshiny beach in front of the hydro discoursing on the banjo to +himself. When asked where his wife was, Sidney replied that she was +lying down, and was obliged to rest as much as possible. +</P> + +<P> +Horace, ashamed to trouble this domestic idyl, related his misfortunes +as airily as he could. +</P> + +<P> +And Sidney said he was awfully sorry, and had no notion how matters +stood, and could he do anything for Horace? If so, Horace might— +</P> + +<P> +'No,' said Horace. 'I'm all right. I've very fortunately got an +excellent place as manager in a big new manufactory in Germany.' (This +is how we deal with German competition in the Five Towns.) +</P> + +<P> +'Germany?' cried Sidney. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' said Horace; 'and I start the day after tomorrow.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' said Sidney, 'at any rate you'll stay the night.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thanks,' said Horace, 'you're very kind. I will.' +</P> + +<P> +So they went into the hydro together, Sidney caressing his wonderful +new pearl-inlaid banjo; and Horace talked in low tones to Ella as she +lay on the sofa. He convinced Ella that his departure to Germany was +the one thing he had desired all his life, because it was not good that +Ella should be startled, shocked, or grieved. +</P> + +<P> +They dined well. +</P> + +<P> +But in the night Sidney had a recurrence of his old illness—a bad +attack; and Horace sat up through the dark hours, fetched the doctor, +and bought things at the chemist's. Towards morning Sidney was better. +And Horace, standing near the bed, gazed at his stepbrother and tried +in his stupid way to read the secrets beneath that curly hair. But he +had no success. He caught himself calculating how much Sidney had cost +him, at periods of his career when he could ill spare money; and, +having caught himself, he was angry with himself for such baseness. At +eight o'clock he ventured to knock at Ella's door and explain to her +that Sidney had not been quite well. She had passed a peaceful night, +for he had, of course, refrained from disturbing her. +</P> + +<P> +He was not quite sure whether Sidney had meant him to stay at the hydro +as his guest, so he demanded a bill, paid it, said good-bye, and left +for Bonn-on-the-Rhine. He was very exhausted and sleepy. Happily the +third-class carriages on the London & North-Western are pretty +comfortable. Between Chester and Crewe he had quite a doze, and dreamed +that he had married Ella after all, and that her twenty thousand pounds +had put the earthenware business on a footing of magnificent and +splendid security. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +V +</H4> + +<P> +A few months later Horace's house and garden at Toft End were put up to +auction by arrangement with his mortgagee and his trade-creditors. And +Sidney was struck with the idea of buying the place. The impression was +that it would go cheap. Sidney said it would be a pity to let the abode +pass out of the family. Ella said that the idea of buying it was a +charming one, because in the garden it was that she had first met her +Sidney. So the place was duly bought, and Sidney and Ella went to live +there. +</P> + +<P> +Several years elapsed. +</P> + +<P> +Then one day little Horace was informed that his uncle Horace, whom he +had never seen, was coming to the house on a visit, and that he must be +a good boy, and polite to his uncle, and all the usual sort of thing. +</P> + +<P> +And in effect Horace the elder did arrive in the afternoon. He found no +one to meet him at the station, or at the garden gate of the pleasaunce +that had once been his, or even at the front door. A pert parlour-maid +told him that her master and mistress were upstairs in the nursery, and +that he was requested to go up. And he went up, and to be sure Sidney +met him at the top of the stairs, banjo in hand, cigarette in mouth, +smiling, easy and elegant as usual—not a trace of physical weakness in +his face or form. And Horace was jocularly ushered into the nursery and +introduced to his nephew. Ella had changed. She was no longer slim, and +no longer gay and serious by turns. She narrowly missed being stout, +and she was continuously gay, like Sidney. The child was also gay. +Everybody was glad to see Horace, but nobody seemed deeply interested +in Horace's affairs. As a fact he had done rather well in Germany, and +had now come back to England in order to assume a working partnership +in a small potting concern at Hanbridge. He was virtually beginning +life afresh. But what concerned Sidney and Ella was themselves and +their offspring. They talked incessantly about the infinitesimal +details of their daily existence, and the alterations which they had +made, or meant to make, in the house and garden. And occasionally +Sidney thrummed a tune on the banjo to amuse the infant. Horace had +expected them to be curious about Germany and his life in Germany. But +not a bit! He might have come in from the next street and left them +only yesterday, for all the curiosity they exhibited. +</P> + +<P> +'Shall we go down to the drawing-room and have tea, eh?' said Ella. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, let's go and kill the fatted calf,' said Sidney. +</P> + +<P> +And strangely enough, inexplicably enough, Horace did feel like a +prodigal. +</P> + +<P> +Sidney went off with his precious banjo, and Ella picked up sundry +belongings without which she never travelled about the house. +</P> + +<P> +'You carry me down-stairs, unky?' the little nephew suggested, with an +appealing glance at his new uncle. 'No,' said Horace, 'I'm dashed if I +do!' +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="baby"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BABY'S BATH +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +Mrs Blackshaw had a baby. It would be an exaggeration to say that the +baby interested the entire town, Bursley being an ancient, blase sort +of borough of some thirty thousand inhabitants. Babies, in fact, +arrived in Bursley at the rate of more than a thousand every year. +Nevertheless, a few weeks after the advent of Mrs Blackshaw's baby, +when the medical officer of health reported to the Town Council that +the births for the month amounted to ninety-five, and that the +birth-rate of Bursley compared favourably with the birth-rates of the +sister towns, Hanbridge, Knype, Longshaw, and Turnhill—when the +medical officer read these memorable words at the monthly meeting of +the Council, and the Staffordshire Signal reported them, and Mrs +Blackshaw perused them, a blush of pride spread over Mrs Blackshaw's +face, and she picked up the baby's left foot and gave it a little peck +of a kiss. She could not help feeling that the real solid foundation of +that formidable and magnificent output of babies was her baby. She +could not help feeling that she had done something for the town—had +caught the public eye. +</P> + +<P> +As for the baby, except that it was decidedly superior to the average +infant in external appearance and pleasantness of disposition, it was, +in all essential characteristics, a typical baby—that is to say, it +was purely sensuous and it lived the life of the senses. It was utterly +selfish. It never thought of anyone but itself. It honestly imagined +itself to be the centre of the created universe. It was convinced that +the rest of the universe had been brought into existence solely for the +convenience and pleasure of it—the baby. When it wanted anything it +made no secret of the fact, and it was always utterly unscrupulous in +trying to get what it wanted. If it could have obtained the moon it +would have upset all the astronomers of Europe and made Whitaker's +Almanack unsalable without a pang. It had no god but its stomach. It +never bothered its head about higher things. It was a bully and a +coward, and it treated women as beings of a lower order than men. In a +word, it was that ideal creature, sung of the poets, from which we +gradually sink and fall away as we grow older. +</P> + +<P> +At the age of six months it had quite a lot of hair, and a charming +rosy expanse at the back of its neck, caused through lying on its back +in contemplation of its own importance. It didn't know the date of the +Battle of Hastings, but it knew with the certainty of absolute +knowledge that it was master of the house, and that the activity of the +house revolved round it. +</P> + +<P> +Now, the baby loved its bath. In any case its bath would have been an +affair of immense and intricate pomp; but the fact that it loved its +bath raised the interest and significance of the bath to the nth power. +The bath took place at five o'clock in the evening, and it is not too +much to say that the idea of the bath was immanent in the very +atmosphere of the house. When you have an appointment with the dentist +at five o'clock in the afternoon the idea of the appointment is +immanent in your mind from the first moment of your awakening. Conceive +that an appointment with the dentist implies heavenly joy instead of +infernal pain, and you will have a notion of the daily state of Mrs +Blackshaw and Emmie (the nurse) with regard to the baby's bath. +</P> + +<P> +Even at ten in the morning Emmie would be keeping an eye on the kitchen +fire, lest the cook might let it out. And shortly after noon Mrs +Blackshaw would be keeping an eye on the thermometer in the bedroom +where the bath occurred. From four o'clock onwards the clocks in the +house were spied on and overlooked like suspected persons; but they +were used to that, because the baby had his sterilized milk every two +hours. I have at length allowed you to penetrate the secret of his sex. +</P> + +<P> +And so at five o'clock precisely the august and exciting ceremony began +in the best bedroom. A bright fire was burning (the month being +December), and the carefully-shaded electric lights were also burning. +A large bath-towel was spread in a convenient place on the floor, and +on the towel were two chairs facing each other, and a table. On one +chair was the bath, and on the other was Mrs Blackshaw with her sleeves +rolled up, and on Mrs Blackshaw was another towel, and on that towel +was Roger (the baby). On the table were zinc ointment, vaseline, +scentless eau de Cologne, Castile soap, and a powder-puff. +</P> + +<P> +Emmie having pretty nearly filled the bath with a combination of hot +and cold waters, dropped the floating thermometer into it, and then +added more waters until the thermometer indicated the precise +temperature proper for a baby's bath. But you are not to imagine that +Mrs Blackshaw trusted a mere thermometer. No. She put her arm in the +water up to the elbow. She reckoned the sensitive skin near the elbow +was worth forty thermometers. +</P> + +<P> +Emmie was chiefly an audience. Mrs Blackshaw had engaged her as a +nurse, but she could have taught a nigger-boy to do all that she +allowed the nurse to do. During the bath Mrs Blackshaw and Emmie hated +and scorned each other, despite their joy. Emmie was twice Mrs +Blackshaw's age, besides being twice her weight, and she knew twice as +much about babies as Mrs Blackshaw did. However, Mrs Blackshaw had the +terrific advantage of being the mother of that particular infant, and +she could always end an argument when she chose, and in her own favour. +It was unjust, and Emmie felt it to be unjust; but this is not a world +of justice. +</P> + +<P> +Roger, though not at all precocious, was perfectly aware of the +carefully-concealed hostility between his mother and his nurse, and +often, with his usual unscrupulousness, he used it for his own ends. He +was sitting upon his mother's knees toying with the edge of the bath, +already tasting its delights in advance. Mrs Blackshaw undressed the +upper half of him, and then she laid him on the flat of his back and +undressed the lower half of him, but keeping some wisp of a garment +round his equatorial regions. And then she washed his face with a +sponge and the Castile soap, very gently, but not half gently enough +for Emmie, nor half gently enough for Roger, for Roger looked upon this +part of the business as insulting and superfluous. He breathed hard and +kicked his feet nearly off. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, it's dreadful having our face washed, isn't it?' said Mrs +Blackshaw, with her sleeves up, and her hair by this time down. 'We +don't like it, do we? Yes, yes.' +</P> + +<P> +Emmie grunted, without a sound, and yet Mrs Blackshaw heard her, and +finished that face quickly and turned to the hands. +</P> + +<P> +'Potato-gardens every day,' she said. 'Evzy day-day. Enough of that, +Colonel!' (For, after all, she had plenty of spirit.) 'Fat little +creases! Fat little creases! There! He likes that! There! Feet! Feet! +Feet and legs! Then our back. And then WHUP we shall go into the bath! +That's it. Kick! Kick your mother!' +</P> + +<P> +And she turned him over. +</P> + +<P> +'Incredible bungler!' said the eyes of the nurse. 'Can't she turn him +over neater than that?' +</P> + +<P> +'Harridan!' said the eyes of Mrs Blackshaw. 'I wouldn't let you bath +him for twenty thousand pounds!' +</P> + +<P> +Roger continued to breathe hard, as if his mother were a horse and he +were rubbing her down. +</P> + +<P> +'Now! Zoop! Whup!' cried his mother, and having deprived him of his +final rag, she picked him up and sat him in the bath, and he was +divinely happy, and so were the women. He appeared a gross little +animal in the bath, all the tints of his flesh shimmering under the +electric light. His chest was superb, but the rolled and creased +bigness of his inordinate stomach was simply appalling, not to mention +his great thighs and calves. The truth was, he had grown so that if he +had been only a little bit bigger, he would have burst the bath. He +resembled an old man who had been steadily eating too much for about +forty years. +</P> + +<P> +His two womenfolk now candidly and openly worshipped him, forgetting +sectarian differences. +</P> + +<P> +And he splashed. Oh! he splashed. You see, he had learnt how to splash, +and he had certainly got an inkling that to splash was wicked and +messy. So he splashed—in his mother's face, in Emmie's face, in the +fire. He pretty well splashed the fire out. Ten minutes before, the +bedroom had been tidy, a thing of beauty. It was now naught but a wild +welter of towels, socks, binders—peninsulas of clothes nearly +surrounded by water. +</P> + +<P> +Finally his mother seized him again, and, rearing his little legs up +out of the water, immersed the whole of his inflated torso beneath the +surface. +</P> + +<P> +'Hallo!' she exclaimed. 'Did the water run over his mouf? Did it?' +</P> + +<P> +'Angels and ministers of grace defend us! How clumsy she is!' commented +the eyes of Emmie. +</P> + +<P> +'There! I fink that's about long enough for this kind of wevver,' said +the mother. +</P> + +<P> +'I should think it was! There's almost a crust of ice on the water +now!' the nurse refrained from saying. +</P> + +<P> +And Roger, full of regrets, was wrenched out of the bath. He had ceased +breathing hard while in the water, but he began again immediately he +emerged. +</P> + +<P> +'We don't like our face wiped, do we?' said his mother on his behalf. +'We want to go back into that bath. We like it. It's more fun than +anything that happens all day long! Eh? That old dandruff's coming up +in fine style. It's a-peeling off like anything.' +</P> + +<P> +And all the while she wiped him, patted eau de Cologne into him with +the flat of her hand, and rubbed zinc ointment into him, and massaged +him, and powdered him, and turned him over and over and over, till he +was thoroughly well basted and cooked. And he kept on breathing hard. +</P> + +<P> +Then he sneezed, amid general horror! +</P> + +<P> +'I told you so!' the nurse didn't say, and she rushed to the bed where +all the idol's beautiful, clean, aired things were lying safe from +splashings, and handed a flannel shirt, about two inches in length, to +Mrs Blackshaw. And Mrs Blackshaw rolled the left sleeve of it into a +wad and stuck it over his arm, and his poor little vaccination marks +were hidden from view till next morning. Roger protested. +</P> + +<P> +'We don't like clothes, do we?' said his mother. 'We want to tumble +back into our tub. We aren't much for clothes anyway. We'se a little +Hottentot, aren't we?' +</P> + +<P> +And she gradually covered him with one garment or another until there +was nothing left of him but his head and his hands and feet. And she +sat him up on her knees, so as to fasten his things behind. And then it +might have been observed that he was no longer breathing hard, but +giving vent to a sound between a laugh and a cry, while sucking his +thumb and gazing round the room. +</P> + +<P> +'That's our little affected cry that we start for our milk, isn't it?' +his mother explained to him. +</P> + +<P> +And he agreed that it was. +</P> + +<P> +And before Emmie could fly across the room for the bottle, all ready +and waiting, his mouth, in the shape of a perfect rectangle, had +monopolized five-sixths of his face, and he was scarlet and bellowing +with impatience. +</P> + +<P> +He took the bottle like a tiger his prey, and seized his mother's hand +that held the bottle, and he furiously pumped the milk into that +insatiable gulf of a stomach. But he found time to gaze about the room +too. A tear stood in each roving eye, caused by the effort of feeding. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, that's it,' said his mother. 'Now look round and see what's +happening. Curiosity! Well, if you WILL bob your head, I can't help it.' +</P> + +<P> +'Of course you can!' the nurse didn't say. +</P> + +<P> +Then he put his finger into his mouth side by side with the bottle, and +gagged himself, and choked, and gave a terrible—excuse the +word—hiccough. After which he seemed to lose interest in the milk, and +the pumping operations slackened and then ceased. +</P> + +<P> +'Goosey!' whispered his mother, 'getting seepy? Is the sandman throwing +sand in your eyes? Old Sandman at it? Sh—' ... He had gone. +</P> + +<P> +Emmie took him. The women spoke in whispers. And Mrs Blackshaw, after a +day spent in being a mother, reconstituted herself a wife, and began to +beautify herself for her husband. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +Yes, there was a Mr Blackshaw, and with Mr Blackshaw the tragedy of the +bath commences. Mr Blackshaw was a very important young man. Indeed, it +is within the mark to say that, next to his son, he was the most +important young man in Bursley. For Mr Blackshaw was the manager of the +newly opened Municipal Electricity Works. And the Municipal Electricity +had created more excitement and interest than anything since the 1887 +Jubilee, when an ox was roasted whole in the market-place and turned +bad in the process. Had Bursley been a Swiss village, or a French +country town, or a hamlet in Arizona, it would have had its electricity +fifteen years ago, but being only a progressive English Borough, with +an annual value of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, it struggled on +with gas till well into the twentieth century. Its great neighbour +Hanbridge had become acquainted with electricity in the nineteenth +century. +</P> + +<P> +All the principal streets and squares, and every decent shop that +Hanbridge competition had left standing, and many private houses, now +lighted themselves by electricity, and the result was splendid and +glaring and coldly yellow. Mr. Blackshaw developed into the hero of the +hour. People looked at him in the street as though he had been the +discoverer and original maker of electricity. And if the manager of the +gasworks had not already committed murder, it was because the manager +of the gasworks had a right sense of what was due to his position as +vicar's churchwarden at St Peter's Church. +</P> + +<P> +But greatness has its penalties. And the chief penalty of Mr +Blackshaw's greatness was that he could not see Roger have his nightly +bath. It was impossible for Mr Blackshaw to quit his arduous and +responsible post before seven o'clock in the evening. Later on, when +things were going more smoothly, he might be able to get away; but +then, later on, his son's bath would not be so amusing and agreeable as +it then, by all reports, was. The baby was, of course, bathed on +Saturday nights, but Sunday afternoon and evening Mr Blackshaw was +obliged to spend with his invalid mother at Longshaw. It was on the +sole condition of his weekly presence thus in her house that she had +consented not to live with the married pair. And so Mr Blackshaw could +not witness Roger's bath. He adored Roger. He understood Roger. He +weighed, nursed, and fed Roger. He was 'up' in all the newest theories +of infant rearing. In short, Roger was his passion, and he knew +everything of Roger except Roger's bath. And when his wife met him at +the front door of a night at seven-thirty and launched instantly into a +description of the wonders, delights, and excitations of Roger's latest +bath, Mr Blackshaw was ready to tear his hair with disappointment and +frustration. +</P> + +<P> +'I suppose you couldn't put it off for a couple of hours one night, +May?' he suggested at supper on the evening of the particular bath +described above. +</P> + +<P> +'Sidney!' protested Mrs Blackshaw, pained. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Blackshaw felt that he had gone too far, and there was a silence. +</P> + +<P> +'Well!' said Mr Blackshaw at length, 'I have just made up my mind. I'm +going to see that Kid's bath, and, what's more, I'm going to see it +tomorrow. I don't care what happens.' +</P> + +<P> +'But how shall you manage to get away, darling?' +</P> + +<P> +'You will telephone me about a quarter of an hour before you're ready +to begin, and I'll pretend it's something very urgent, and scoot off.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, that will be lovely, darling!' said Mrs Blackshaw. 'I WOULD like +you to see him in the bath, just once! He looks so—' +</P> + +<P> +And so on. +</P> + +<P> +The next day, Mr Blackshaw, that fearsome autocrat of the Municipal +Electricity Works, was saying to himself all day that at five o'clock +he was going to assist at the spectacle of his wonderful son's bath. +The prospect inspired him. So much so that every hand on the place was +doing its utmost in fear and trembling, and the whole affair was +running with the precision and smoothness of a watch. +</P> + +<P> +From four o'clock onwards, Mr Blackshaw, in the solemn, illuminated +privacy of the managerial office, safe behind glass partitions, could +no more contain his excitement. He hovered in front of the telephone, +waiting for it to ring. Then, at a quarter to five, just when he felt +he couldn't stand it any longer, and was about to ring up his wife +instead of waiting for her to ring him up, he saw a burly shadow behind +the glass door, and gave a desolate sigh. That shadow could only be +thrown by one person, and that person was his Worship the Mayor of +Bursley. His Worship entered the private office with mayoral assurance, +pulling in his wake a stout old lady whom he introduced as his aunt +from Wolverhampton. And he calmly proposed that Mr Blackshaw should +show the mayoral aunt over the new Electricity Works! +</P> + +<P> +Mr Blackshaw was sick of showing people over the Works. Moreover, he +naturally despised the Mayor. All permanent officials of municipalities +thoroughly despise their mayors (up their sleeves). A mayor is here +today and gone tomorrow, whereas a permanent official is permanent. A +mayor knows nothing about anything except his chain and the rules of +debate, and he is, further, a tedious and meddlesome person—in the +opinion of permanent officials. +</P> + +<P> +So Mr Blackshaw's fury at the inept appearance of the Mayor and the +mayoral aunt at this critical juncture may be imagined. The worst of it +was, he didn't know how to refuse the Mayor. +</P> + +<P> +Then the telephone-bell rang. +</P> + +<P> +'Excuse me,' said Mr Blackshaw, with admirably simulated politeness, +going to the instrument. 'Are you there? Who is it?' +</P> + +<P> +'It's me, darling,' came the thin voice of his wife far away at +Bleakridge. 'The water's just getting hot. We're nearly ready. Can you +come now?' +</P> + +<P> +'By Jove! Wait a moment!' exclaimed Mr Blackshaw, and then turning to +his visitors, 'Did you hear that?' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' said the Mayor. +</P> + +<P> +'All those three new dynamos that they've got at the Hanbridge +Electricity Works have just broken down. I knew they would. I told them +they would!' +</P> + +<P> +'Dear, dear!' said the Mayor of Bursley, secretly delighted by this +disaster to a disdainful rival. 'Why! They'll have the town in +darkness. What are they going to do?' +</P> + +<P> +'They want me to go over at once. But, of course, I can't. At least, I +must give myself the pleasure of showing you and this lady over our +Works, first.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nothing of the kind, Mr Blackshaw!' said the Mayor. 'Go at once. Go at +once. If Bursley can be of any assistance to Hanbridge in such a +crisis, I shall be only too pleased. We will come tomorrow, won't we, +auntie?' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Blackshaw addressed the telephone. +</P> + +<P> +'The Mayor is here, with a lady, and I was just about to show them over +the Works, but his Worship insists that I come at once.' +</P> + +<P> +'Certainly,' the Mayor put in pompously. +</P> + +<P> +'Wonders will never cease,' came the thin voice of Mrs Blackshaw +through the telephone. 'It's very nice of the old thing! What's his +lady friend like?' +</P> + +<P> +'Not like anything. Unique!' replied Mr Blackshaw. +</P> + +<P> +'Young?' came the voice. +</P> + +<P> +'Dates from the thirties,' said Mr Blackshaw. 'I'm coming.' And rang +off. +</P> + +<P> +'I didn't know there was any electric machinery as old as that,' said +the mayoral aunt. +</P> + +<P> +'We'll just look about us a bit,' the Mayor remarked. 'Don't lose a +moment, Mr Blackshaw.' +</P> + +<P> +And Mr Blackshaw hurried off, wondering vaguely how he should explain +the lie when it was found out, but not caring much. After all, he could +easily ascribe the episode to the trick of some practical joker. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +He arrived at his commodious and electrically lit residence in the very +nick of time, and full to overflowing with innocent paternal glee. Was +he not about to see Roger's tub? Roger was just ready to be carried +upstairs as Mr Blackshaw's latchkey turned in the door. +</P> + +<P> +'Wait a sec!' cried Mr Blackshaw to his wife, who had the child in her +arms, 'I'll carry him up.' +</P> + +<P> +And he threw away his hat, stick, and overcoat and grabbed ecstatically +at the infant. And he had got perhaps halfway up the stairs, when lo! +the electric light went out. Every electric light in the house went out. +</P> + +<P> +'Great Scott!' breathed Mr Blackshaw, aghast. +</P> + +<P> +He pulled aside the blind of the window at the turn of the stairs, and +peered forth. The street was as black as your hat, or nearly so. +</P> + +<P> +'Great Scott!' he repeated. 'May, get candles.' +</P> + +<P> +Something had evidently gone wrong at the Works. Just his luck! He had +quitted the Works for a quarter of an hour, and the current had failed! +</P> + +<P> +Of course, the entire house was instantly in an uproar, turned upside +down, startled out of its life. But a few candles soon calmed its +transports. And at length Mr Blackshaw gained the bedroom in safety, +with the offspring of his desires comfortable in a shawl. +</P> + +<P> +'Give him to me,' said May shortly. 'I suppose you'll have to go back +to the Works at once?' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Blackshaw paused, and then nerved himself; but while he was pausing, +May, glancing at the two feeble candles, remarked: 'It's very tiresome. +I'm sure I shan't be able to see properly.' +</P> + +<P> +'No!' almost shouted Mr Blackshaw. 'I'll watch this kid have his bath +or I'll die for it! I don't care if all the Five Towns are in darkness. +I don't care if the Mayor's aunt has got caught in a dynamo and is +suffering horrible tortures. I've come to see this bath business, and +dashed if I don't see it!' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, don't stand between the bath and the fire, dearest,' said May +coldly. +</P> + +<P> +Meanwhile, Emmie, having pretty nearly filled the bath with a +combination of hot and cold waters, dropped the floating thermometer +into it, and then added more waters until the thermometer indicated the +precise temperature proper for a baby's bath. But you are not to +imagine that Mrs Blackshaw trusted a thermometer— +</P> + +<P> +She did not, however, thrust her bared arm into the water this time. +No! Roger, who never cried before his bath, was crying, was indubitably +crying. And he cried louder and louder. +</P> + +<P> +'Stand where he can't see you, dearest. He isn't used to you at +bath-time,' said Mrs Blackshaw still coldly. 'Are you, my pet? There! +There!' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Blackshaw effaced himself, feeling a fool. But Roger continued to +cry. He cried himself purple. He cried till the veins stood out on his +forehead and his mouth was like a map of Australia. He cried himself +into a monster of ugliness. Neither mother nor nurse could do anything +with him at all. +</P> + +<P> +'I think you've upset him, dearest,' said Mrs Blackshaw even more +coldly. 'Hadn't you better go?' +</P> + +<P> +'Well—' protested the father. +</P> + +<P> +'I think you had better go,' said Mrs Blackshaw, adding no term of +endearment, and visibly controlling herself with difficulty. +</P> + +<P> +And Mr Blackshaw went. He had to go. He went out into the unelectric +night. He headed for the Works, not because he cared twopence, at that +moment, about the accident at the Works, whatever it was; but simply +because the Works was the only place to go to. And even outside in the +dark street he could hear the rousing accents of his progeny. +</P> + +<P> +People were talking to each other as they groped about in the road, and +either making jokes at the expense of the new Electricity Department, +or frankly cursing it with true Five Towns directness of speech. And as +Mr Blackshaw went down the hill into the town his heart was as black as +the street itself with rage and disappointment. He had made his child +cry! +</P> + +<P> +Someone stopped him. +</P> + +<P> +'Eh, Mester Blackshaw!' said a voice, and under the voice a hand struck +a match to light a pipe. 'What's th' maning o' this eclipse as you'm +treating us to?' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Blackshaw looked right through the inquirer—a way he had when his +brain was working hard. And he suddenly smiled by the light of the +match. +</P> + +<P> +'That child wasn't crying because I was there,' said Mr Blackshaw with +solemn relief. 'Not at all! He was crying because he didn't understand +the candles. He isn't used to candles, and they frightened him.' +</P> + +<P> +And he began to hurry towards the Works. +</P> + +<P> +At the same instant the electric light returned to Bursley. The current +was resumed. +</P> + +<P> +'That's better,' said Mr Blackshaw, sighing. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="brothers"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE SILENT BROTHERS +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +John and Robert Hessian, brothers, bachelors, and dressed in mourning, +sat together after supper in the parlour of their house at the bottom +of Oldcastle Street, Bursley. Maggie, the middle-aged servant, was +clearing the table. +</P> + +<P> +'Leave the cloth and the coffee,' said John, the elder, 'Mr Liversage +is coming in.' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, Mr John,' said Maggie. +</P> + +<P> +'Slate, Maggie,' Robert ordered laconically, with a gesture towards the +mantelpiece behind him. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, Mr Robert,' said Maggie. +</P> + +<P> +She gave him a slate with slate-pencil attached, which hung on a nail +near the mantlepiece. +</P> + +<P> +Robert took the slate and wrote on it: 'What is Liversage coming about?' +</P> + +<P> +And he pushed the slate across the table to John. +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon John wrote on the slate: 'Don't know. He telephoned me he +wanted to see us tonight.' +</P> + +<P> +And he pushed back the slate to Robert. +</P> + +<P> +This singular procedure was not in the least attributable to deafness +on the part of the brothers; they were in the prime of life, aged +forty-two and thirty-nine respectively, and in complete possession of +all their faculties. It was due simply to the fact that they had +quarrelled, and would not speak to each other. The history of their +quarrel would be incredible were it not full of that ridiculous +pathetic quality known as human nature, and did not similar things +happen frequently in the manufacturing Midlands, where the general +temperament is a fearful and strange compound of pride, obstinacy, +unconquerableness, romance, and stupidity. Yes, stupidity. +</P> + +<P> +No single word had passed between the brothers in that house for ten +years. On the morning after the historical quarrel Robert had not +replied when John spoke to him. 'Well,' said John's secret heart—and +John's secret heart ought to have known better, as it was older than +its brother heart—'I'll teach him a lesson. I won't speak until he +does.' And Robert's secret heart had somehow divined this idiotic +resolution, and had said: 'We shall see.' Maggie had been the first to +notice the stubborn silence. Then their friends noticed it, especially +Mr Liversage, the solicitor, their most intimate friend. But you are +not to suppose that anybody protested very strongly. For John and +Robert were not the kind of men with whom liberties may be taken; and, +moreover, Bursley was slightly amused—at the beginning. It assumed the +attitude of a disinterested spectator at a fight. It wondered who would +win. Of course, it called both the brothers fools, yet in a tone +somewhat sympathetic, because such a thing as had occurred to the +Hessians might well occur to any man gifted with the true Bursley +spirit. There is this to be said for a Bursley man: Having made his +bed, he will lie on it, and he will not complain. +</P> + +<P> +The Hessians suffered severely by their self-imposed dumbness, but they +suffered like Stoics. Maggie also suffered, and Maggie would not stand +it. Maggie it was who had invented the slate. Indeed, they had heard +some plain truths from that stout, bustling woman. They had not +yielded, but they had accepted the slate in order to minimize the +inconvenience to Maggie, and afterwards they deigned to make use of it +for their own purposes. As for friends—friends accustomed themselves +to the status quo. There came a time when the spectacle of two men +chattering to everybody else in a company, and not saying a word to +each other, no longer appealed to Bursley's sense of humour. The silent +scenes at which Maggie assisted every day did not, either, appeal to +Maggie's sense of humour, because she had none. So the famous feud grew +into a sort of elemental fact of Nature. It was tolerated as the +weather is tolerated. The brothers acquired pride in it; even Bursley +regarded it as an interesting municipal curiosity. The sole +imperfection in a lovely and otherwise perfect quarrel was that John +and Robert, being both employed at Roycroft's Majolica Manufactory, the +one as works manager and the other as commercial traveller, were +obliged to speak to each other occasionally in the way of business. +Artistically, this was a pity, though they did speak very sternly and +distantly. The partial truce necessitated by Roycroft's was confined +strictly to Roycroft's. And when Robert was not on his journeys, these +two tall, strong, dark, bearded men might often be seen of a night +walking separately and doggedly down Oldcastle Street from the works, +within five yards of each other. +</P> + +<P> +And no one suggested the lunatic asylum. Such is the force of pride, of +rank stupidity, and of habit. +</P> + +<P> +The slate-scratching was scarcely over that evening when Mr Powell +Liversage appeared. He was a golden-haired man, with a jolly face, +lighter and shorter in structure than the two brothers. His friendship +with them dated from school-days, and it had survived even the entrance +of Liversage into a learned profession. Liversage, who, being a +bachelor like the Hessians, had many unoccupied evenings, came to see +the brothers regularly every Saturday night, and one or other of them +dropped in upon him most Wednesdays; but this particular night was a +Thursday. +</P> + +<P> +'How do?' John greeted him succinctly between two puffs of a pipe. +</P> + +<P> +'How do?' replied Liversage. +</P> + +<P> +'How do, Pow?' Robert greeted him in turn, also between two puffs of a +pipe. +</P> + +<P> +And 'How do, little 'un?' replied Liversage. +</P> + +<P> +A chair was indicated to him, and he sat down, and Robert poured out +some coffee into a third cup which Maggie had brought. John pushed away +the extra special of the Staffordshire Signal, which he had been +reading. +</P> + +<P> +'What's up these days?' John demanded. +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' said Liversage, and both brothers noticed that he was rather +ill at ease, instead of being humorous and lightly caustic as usual, +'the will's turned up.' +</P> + +<P> +'The devil it has!' John exclaimed. 'When?' +</P> + +<P> +'This afternoon.' +</P> + +<P> +And then, as there was a pause, Liversage added: 'Yes, my sons, the +will's turned up.' +</P> + +<P> +'But where, you cuckoo, sitting there like that?' asked Robert. 'Where?' +</P> + +<P> +'It was in that registered letter addressed to your sister that the +Post Office people wouldn't hand over until we'd taken out letters of +administration.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, I'm dashed!' muttered John. 'Who'd have thought of that? You've +got the will, then?' +</P> + +<P> +Liversage nodded. +</P> + +<P> +The Hessians had an elder sister, Mrs Bott, widow of a colour merchant, +and Mrs Bott had died suddenly three months ago, the night after a +journey to Manchester. (Even at the funeral the brothers had +scandalized the town by not speaking to each other.) Mrs Bott had +wealth, wit, and wisdom, together with certain peculiarities, of which +one was an excessive secrecy. It was known that she had made a will, +because she had more than once notified the fact, in a tone suggestive +of highly important issues, but the will had refused to be found. So Mr +Liversage had been instructed to take out letters of administration of +the estate, which, in the continued absence of the will, would be +divided equally between the brothers. And twelve or thirteen thousand +pounds may be compared to a financial beef-steak that cuts up very +handsomely for two persons. The carving-knife was about to descend on +its succulence, when, lo! the will! +</P> + +<P> +'How came the will to be in the post?' asked Robert. +</P> + +<P> +'The handwriting on the envelope was your sister's,' said Liversage. +'And the package was posted in Manchester. Very probably she had taken +the will to Manchester to show it to a lawyer or something of that +sort, and then she was afraid of losing it on the journey back, and so +she sent it to herself by registered post. But before it arrived, of +course, she was dead.' +</P> + +<P> +'That wasn't a bad scheme of poor Mary Ann's!' John commented. +</P> + +<P> +'It was just like her!' said Robert, speaking pointedly to Liversage. +'But what an odd thing!' +</P> + +<P> +Now, both these men were, no doubt excusably, agonized by curiosity to +learn the contents of the will. But would either of them be the first +to express that curiosity? Never in this world! Not for the fortune +itself! To do so would scarcely have been Bursleyish. It would +certainly not have been Hessianlike. So Liversage was obliged at length +to say— +</P> + +<P> +'I reckon I'd better read you the will, eh?' +</P> + +<P> +The brothers nodded. +</P> + +<P> +'Mind you,' said Liversage, 'it's not my will. I've had nothing to do +with it; so kindly keep your hair on. As a matter of fact, she must +have drawn it up herself. It's not drawn properly at all, but it's +witnessed all right, and it'll hold water, just as well as if the +blooming Lord Chancellor had fixed it up for her in person.' +</P> + +<P> +He produced the document and read, awkwardly and self-consciously— +</P> + +<P> +'"This is my will. You are both of you extremely foolish, John and +Robert, and I've often told you so. Nobody has ever understood, and +nobody ever will understand, why you quarrelled like that over Annie +Emery. You are punishing yourselves, but you are punishing her as well, +and it isn't fair her waiting all these years. So I give all my estate, +no matter what it is, to whichever of you marries Annie. And I hope +this will teach you a lesson. You need it more than you need my money. +But you must be married within a year of my death. And if the one that +marries cares to give five thousand pounds or so to the other, of +course there's nothing to prevent him. This is just a hint. And if you +don't either of you marry Annie within a year, then I just leave +everything I have to Miss Annie Emery (spinster), stationer and +fancy-goods dealer, Duck Bank, Bursley. She deserves something for her +disappointment, and she shall have it. Mr Liversage, solicitor, must +kindly be my executor. And I commit my soul to God, hoping for a +blessed resurrection. 20th January, 1896. Signed Mary Ann Bott, widow." +As I told you, the witnessing is in order,' Liversage finished. +</P> + +<P> +'Give it here,' said John shortly, and scanned the sheet of paper. +</P> + +<P> +And Robert actually walked round the table and looked over his +brother's shoulder—ample proof that he was terrifically moved. +</P> + +<P> +'And do you mean to tell me that a will like that is good in law?' +exclaimed John. +</P> + +<P> +'Of course it's good in law!' Liversage replied. 'Legal phraseology is +a useful thing, and it often saves trouble in the end; but it ain't +indispensable, you know.' +</P> + +<P> +'Humph!' was Robert's comment as he resumed his seat and relighted his +pipe. +</P> + +<P> +All three men were nervous. Each was afraid to speak, afraid even to +meet the eyes of the other two. An unmajestic silence followed. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, I'll be off, I think,' Liversage remarked at length with +difficulty. +</P> + +<P> +He rose. +</P> + +<P> +'I say,' Robert stopped him. 'Better not say anything about this to +Miss—to Annie, eh?' +</P> + +<P> +'I will say nothing,' agreed Liversage (infamously and unprofessionally +concealing the fact that he had already said something). +</P> + +<P> +And he departed. +</P> + +<P> +The brothers sat in flustered meditation over the past and the future. +</P> + +<P> +Ten years before, Annie Emery had been an orphan of twenty-three, +bravely starting in business for herself amid the plaudits of the +admiring town; and John had fallen in love with her courage and her +sense and her feminine charm. But alas, as Ovid points out, how +difficult it is for a woman to please only one man! Robert also had +fallen in love with Annie. Each brother had accused the other of +underhand and unbrotherly practices in the pursuit of Annie. Each was +profoundly hurt by the accusations, and each, in the immense fatuity of +his pride, had privately sworn to prove his innocence by having nothing +more to do with Annie. Such is life! Such is man! Such is the terrible +egoism of man! And thus it was that, for the sake of wounded pride, +John and Robert not only did not speak to one another for ten years, +but they spoilt at least one of their lives; and they behaved ignobly +to Annie, who would certainly have married either one or the other of +them. +</P> + +<P> +At two o'clock in the morning John pulled a coin out of his pocket and +made the gesture of tossing. +</P> + +<P> +'Who shall go first!' he explained. +</P> + +<P> +Robert had a queer sensation in his spine as his elder brother spoke to +him for the first time in ten years. He wanted to reply vocally. He had +a most imperious desire to reply vocally. But he could not. Something +stronger even than the desire prevented his tongue from moving. +</P> + +<P> +John tossed the coin—it was a sovereign—and covered it with his hands. +</P> + +<P> +'Tail!' Robert murmured, somewhat hoarsely. +</P> + +<P> +But it was head. +</P> + +<P> +Then they went to bed. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +The side door of Miss Emery's shop was in Brick Passage, and not in the +main street, so that a man, even a man of commanding stature and +formidable appearance, might by insinuating himself into Brick Street, +off King Street, and then taking the passage from the quieter end, +arrive at it without attracting too much attention. This course was +adopted by John Hessian. From the moment when he quitted his own house +that Friday evening in June he had been subject to the delusion that +the collective eye of Bursley was upon him. As a matter of fact, the +collective eye of Bursley is much too large and important to occupy +itself exclusively with a single individual. Bursley is not a village, +and let no one think it. Nevertheless, John was subject to the delusion. +</P> + +<P> +The shop was shut, as he knew it would be. But the curtained window of +the parlour, between the side-door and the small shuttered side-window +of the shop, gave a strange suggestion of interesting virgin spotless +domesticity within. John cast a fearful eye on the main thoroughfare. +Nobody seemed to be passing. The chapel-keeper of the Wesleyan Chapel +on the opposite side of Trafalgar Road was refreshing the massive +Corinthian portico of that fane, and paying no regard whatever to the +temple of Eros which Miss Emery's shop had suddenly become. +</P> + +<P> +So John knocked. +</P> + +<P> +'I am a fool!' his thought ran as he knocked. +</P> + +<P> +Because he did not know what he was about. He had won the toss, and +with it the right to approach Annie Emery before his brother. But what +then? Well, he did desire to marry her, quite as much for herself as +for his sister's fortune. But what then? How was he going to explain +the tepidity, the desertion, the long sin against love of ten years? In +short, how was he going to explain the inexplicable? He could decidedly +do nothing that evening except make a blundering ass of himself. And +how soon would Robert have the right to come along and say HIS say? +That point had not been settled. Points so extremely delicate cannot be +settled on a slate, and he had not dared to broach it viva voce to his +younger brother. He had been too afraid of a rebuff. +</P> + +<P> +He then hoped that Annie's servant would tell him that Annie was out. +</P> + +<P> +Annie, however, took him at a disadvantage by opening the door herself. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, MR HESSIAN!' she exclaimed, her face bursting into a swift and +welcoming smile. +</P> + +<P> +'I was just passing,' the donkey in him blundered forth. 'And I +thought—' +</P> + +<P> +However, in fifteen seconds he was on the domestic side of the +sitting-room window, and seated in the antimacassared armchair between +the fire-place and the piano, and Annie had taken his hat and told him +that her servant was out for the evening. +</P> + +<P> +'But I'm disturbing your supper, Miss Emery,' he said. Flurried though +he was, he could not fail to notice the white embroidered cloth spread +diagonally on the table, and the cold meat and the pastry and the +glittering cutlery and crystal thereon. +</P> + +<P> +'Not at all,' she replied. 'You haven't had supper yet, I expect?' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' he said, not thinking. +</P> + +<P> +'It will be nice of you to help me to eat mine,' said she. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! But really—' +</P> + +<P> +But she got plates and things out of the cupboard below the +bookcase—and there he was! She would take no refusal. It was wondrous. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm awfully glad I came now,' his thought ran; I'm managing it rather +well.' +</P> + +<P> +And— +</P> + +<P> +'Poor Bob!' +</P> + +<P> +His sole discomfort was that he could not invent a sufficiently +ingenious explanation of his call. You can't tell a woman you've called +to make love to her, and when your previous call happens to have been +ten years ago, some kind of an explanation does seem to be demanded. +Ultimately, as Annie was so very pleased to see him, so friendly, so +feminine, so equal to the occasion, he decided to let his presence in +her abode that night stand as one of those central facts in existence +that need no explanation. And they went on talking and eating till the +dusk deepened and Annie lit the gas and drew the blind. +</P> + +<P> +He watched her on the sly as she moved about the room. He decided that +she did not appear a day older. There was the same plump, erect figure, +the same neatness, the same fair skin and fair hair, the same little +nose, the same twinkle in the eye—only perhaps the twinkle in the eye +was a trifle less cruel than it used to be. She was not a day older. +(In this he was of course utterly mistaken; she was ten years older, +she was thirty-three, with ten years of successful commercial +experience behind her; she would never be twenty-three again. Still she +was a most desirable woman, and a woman infinitely beyond his deserts.) +Her air of general capability impressed him. And with that there was +mingled a strange softness, a marvellous hint of a concealed wish to +surrender.... Well, she made him feel big and masculine—in brief, a +man. +</P> + +<P> +He regretted the lost ten years. His present way of life seemed +intolerable to him. The new heaven opened its gate and gave glimpses of +paradise. After all, he felt himself well qualified for that paradise. +He felt that he had all along been a woman's man, without knowing it. +</P> + +<P> +'By Jove!' his thought ran. 'At this rate I might propose to her in a +week or two.' +</P> + +<P> +And again— +</P> + +<P> +'Poor old Bobbie!' +</P> + +<P> +A quarter of an hour later, in some miraculous manner, they were more +intimate than they had ever been, much more intimate. He revised his +estimate of the time that must elapse before he might propose to her. +In another five minutes he was fighting hard against a mad impulse to +propose to her on the spot. And then the fight was over, and he had +lost. He proposed to her under the rose-coloured shade of the Welsbach +light. +</P> + +<P> +She drew away, as though shot. +</P> + +<P> +And with the rapidity of lightning, in the silence which followed, he +went back to his original criticism of himself, that he was a fool. +Naturally she would request him to leave. She would accuse him of +effrontery. +</P> + +<P> +Her lips trembled. He prepared to rise. +</P> + +<P> +'It's so sudden!' she said. +</P> + +<P> +Bliss! Glory! Celestial joy! Her words were at least equivalent to an +absolution of his effrontery! She would accept! She would accept! He +jumped up and approached her. But she jumped up too and retreated. He +was not to win his prize so easily. +</P> + +<P> +'Please sit down,' she murmured. 'I must think it over,' she said, +apparently mastering herself. 'Shall you be at chapel next Sunday +morning?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' he answered. +</P> + +<P> +'If I am there, and if I am wearing white roses in my hat, it will +mean—' She dropped her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes?' he queried. +</P> + +<P> +And she nodded. +</P> + +<P> +'And supposing you aren't there?' +</P> + +<P> +'Then the Sunday after,' she said. +</P> + +<P> +He thanked her in his Hessian style. +</P> + +<P> +'I prefer that way of telling you,' she smiled demurely. 'It will avoid +the necessity for another—so much—you understand?...' +</P> + +<P> +'Quite so, quite so!' he agreed. 'I quite understand.' +</P> + +<P> +'And if I DO see those roses,' he went on, 'I shall take upon myself to +drop in for tea, may I?' +</P> + +<P> +She paused. +</P> + +<P> +'In any case, you mustn't speak to me coming out of chapel, PLEASE.' +</P> + +<P> +As he walked home down Oldcastle Street he said to himself that the age +of miracles was not past; also that, after all, he was not so old as +the tale of his years would mathematically indicate. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +Her absence from chapel on the next Sunday disagreed with him. However, +Robert was away nearly all the week, and he had the house to himself to +dream in. It frequently happened to him to pass by Miss Emery's shop, +but he caught no glimpse of her, and though he really was in serious +need of writing-paper and envelopes, he dared not enter. Robert +returned on the Friday. +</P> + +<P> +On the morning of the second Sunday, John got up early, in order to +cope with a new necktie that he had purchased in Hanbridge. +Nevertheless he found Robert afoot before him, and Robert, by some +unlucky chance, was wearing not merely a new necktie, but a new suit of +clothes. They breakfasted in their usual august silence, and John +gathered from a remark of Robert's to Maggie when she brought in the +boots that Robert meant to go to chapel. Now, Robert, being a +commercial traveller and therefore a bit of a caution, did not attend +chapel with any remarkable assiduity. And John, in the privacy of his +own mind, blamed him for having been so clumsy as to choose that +particular morning for breaking the habits of a lifetime. Still, the +presence of Robert in the pew could not prejudicially affect John, and +so there was no genuine cause for gloominess. +</P> + +<P> +After a time it became apparent that each was waiting for the other to +go. John began to get annoyed. At last he made the plunge and went. +Turning his head halfway up Oldcastle Street, opposite the mansion +which is called 'Miss Peel's', he perceived Robert fifty yards behind. +It was a glorious June day. +</P> + +<P> +He blushed as he entered chapel. If he was nervous, it may be accorded +to him as excuse that the happiness of his life depended on what he +should see within the next few minutes. However, he felt pretty sure, +though it was exciting all the same. +</P> + +<P> +To reach the Hessian pew he was obliged to pass Miss Emery's. And it +was empty! Robert arrived. +</P> + +<P> +The organist finished the voluntary. The leading tenor of the choir put +up the number of the first hymn. The minister ascended the staircase of +the great mahogany pulpit, and prayed silently, and arranged his papers +in the leaves of the hymn-book, and glanced about to see who was there +and who was presumably still in bed, and coughed; and then Miss Annie +Emery sailed in with that air of false calm which is worn by the +experienced traveller who catches a train by the fifth of a second. The +service commenced. +</P> + +<P> +John looked. +</P> + +<P> +She was wearing white roses. There could be no mistake as to that. +There were about a hundred and fifty-five white roses in the garden of +her hat. +</P> + +<P> +What a thrill ran through John's heart! He had won Annie, and he had +won the fortune. Yes, he would give Robert the odd five thousand +pounds. His state of mind might even lead him to make it guineas. He +heard not a word of the sermon, and throughout the service he rose up +and sat down several instants after the rest of the congregation, +because he was so absent-minded. +</P> + +<P> +After service he waited for everybody else to leave, in order not to +break his promise to the divine Annie. So did Robert. This ill-timed +rudeness on Robert's part somewhat retarded the growth of a young +desire in John's heart to make friends with poor Bob. Then he got up +and left, and Robert followed. +</P> + +<P> +They dined in silence, John deciding that he would begin his overtures +of friendship after he had seen Annie, and could tell Robert that he +was formally engaged. The brothers ate little. They both improved their +minds during their repast—John with the Christian Commonwealth, and +Robert with the Saturday cricket edition of the Signal (I regret it). +</P> + +<P> +Then, after pipes, they both went out for a walk, naturally not in the +same direction. The magnificence of the weather filled them both with +the joy of life. As for John, he went out for a walk simply because he +could not contain himself within the house. He could not wait immovable +till four-thirty, the hour at which he meant to call on Annie for tea +and the betrothal kiss. Therefore he ascended to Hillport and wandered +as far as Oldcastle, all in a silk hat and a frock-coat. +</P> + +<P> +It was precisely half-past four as he turned, unassumingly, from Brick +Street into Brick Passage, and so approached the side door of Annie +Emery's. And his astonishment and anger were immense when he saw +Robert, likewise in silk hat and frock-coat, penetrating into Brick +Passage from the other end. +</P> + +<P> +They met, and their inflamed spirits collided. +</P> + +<P> +'What's the meaning of this?' John demanded, furious; and, +simultaneously, Robert demanded: 'What in Hades are YOU doing here?' +</P> + +<P> +Only Sunday and the fine clothes and the proximity to Annie prevented +actual warfare. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm calling on Annie,' said John. +</P> + +<P> +'So am I,' said Robert. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, you're too late,' said John. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, I'm too late, am I?' said Robert, with a disdainful laugh. Thanks!' +</P> + +<P> +'I tell you you're too late,' said John. 'You may as well know at once +that I've proposed to Annie and she's accepted me.' +</P> + +<P> +'I like that! I like that!' said Robert. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't shout!' said John. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm not shouting,' said Robert. 'But you may as well know that you're +mistaken, my boy. It's me that's proposed to Annie and been accepted. +You must be off your chump.' +</P> + +<P> +'When did you propose to her?' said John. +</P> + +<P> +'On Friday, if you must know,' said Robert. +</P> + +<P> +'And she accepted you at once?' said John. +</P> + +<P> +'No. She said that if she was wearing white roses in her hat this +morning at chapel, that would mean she accepted,' said Robert. +</P> + +<P> +'Liar!' said John. +</P> + +<P> +'I suppose you'll admit she WAS wearing white roses in her hat?' said +Robert, controlling himself. +</P> + +<P> +'Liar!' said John, and continued breathless: 'That was what she said to +ME. She must have told you that white roses meant a refusal.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh no, she didn't!' said Robert, quailing secretly, but keeping up a +formidable show of courage. 'You're an old fool!' he added vindictively. +</P> + +<P> +They were both breathing hard, and staring hard at each other. +</P> + +<P> +'Come away,' said John. 'Come away! We can't talk here. She may look +out of the window.' +</P> + +<P> +So they went away. They walked very quickly home, and, once in the +parlour, they began to have it out. And, before they had done, the +reading of cricket news on Sunday was as nothing compared to the +desecrating iniquity which they committed. The scene was not such as +can be decently recounted. But about six o'clock Maggie entered, and, +at considerable personal risk, brought them back to a sense of what was +due to their name, the town, and the day. She then stated that she +would not remain in such a house, and she departed. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H4> + +<P> +'But whatever made you do it, dearest?' +</P> + +<P> +These words were addressed to Annie Emery on the glorious summer +evening which closed that glorious summer day, and they were addressed +to her by no other person than Powell Liversage. The pair were in the +garden of the house in Trafalgar Road occupied by Mr Liversage and his +mother, and they looked westwards over the distant ridge of Hillport, +where the moon was setting. +</P> + +<P> +'Whatever made me do it!' repeated Annie, and the twinkle in her eye +had that charming cruelty which John had missed. 'Did they not deserve +it? Of course, I can talk to you now with perfect freedom, can't I? +Well, what do you THINK of it? Here for ten years neither one nor the +other does more than recognize me in the street, and then all of a +sudden they come down on me like that—simply because there's a +question of money. I couldn't have believed men could be so stupid—no, +I really couldn't! They're friends of yours, Powell, I know, +but—however, that's no matter. But it was too ridiculously easy to +lead them on! They'd swallow any flattery. I just did it to see what +they'd do, and I think I arranged it pretty well. I quite expected they +would call about the same time, and then shouldn't I have given them my +mind! Unfortunately they met outside, and got very hot—I saw them from +the bedroom window—and went away.' +</P> + +<P> +'You mustn't forget, my dear girl,' said Liversage, 'that it was you +they quarrelled about. I don't want to defend 'em for a minute, but it +wasn't altogether the money that sent them to you; it was more that the +money gave them an excuse for coming!' +</P> + +<P> +'It was a very bad excuse, then!' said Annie. +</P> + +<P> +'Agreed!' Liversage murmured. +</P> + +<P> +The moon was extremely lovely and romantic against the distant spire of +Hillport Church, and its effect on the couple was just what might have +been anticipated. +</P> + +<P> +'Perhaps I'm sorry,' Annie admitted at length, with a charming grimace. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! I don't think there's anything to be SORRY about,' said Liversage. +'But of course they'll think I've had a hand in it. You see, I've never +breathed a word to them about—about my feelings towards you.' +</P> + +<P> +'No?' +</P> + +<P> +'No. It would have been rather a delicate subject, you see, with them. +And I'm sure they'll be staggered when they know that we got engaged +last night. They'll certainly say I've—er—been after you for the—No, +they won't. They're decent chaps, really; very decent.' +</P> + +<P> +'Anyhow, you may be sure, dear,' said Annie stiffly, 'that <I>I</I> shan't +rob them of their vile money! Nothing would induce me to touch it!' +</P> + +<P> +'Of course not, dearest!' said Liversage—or, rather the finer part of +him said it; the baser part somewhat regretted that vile twelve +thousand or so. (I must be truthful.) +</P> + +<P> +He took her hand again. +</P> + +<P> +At the same moment old Mrs Liversage came hastening down the garden, +and Liversage dropped the hand. +</P> + +<P> +'Powell,' she said. 'Here's John Hessian, and he wants to see you!' +</P> + +<P> +'The dickens!' exclaimed Liversage, glancing at Annie. +</P> + +<P> +'I must go,' said Annie. 'I shall go by the fields. Good night, dear +Mrs Liversage.' +</P> + +<P> +'Wait ten seconds,' Liversage pleaded, 'and I'll be with you.' And he +ran off. +</P> + +<P> +John, haggard and undone, was awaiting him in the drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +'Pow,' said he, 'I've had a fearful row with Bob, and I can't possibly +sleep in our house tonight. Don't talk to me. But let me have one of +the beds in your spare room, will you? There's a good chap.' +</P> + +<P> +'Why, of course, Johnnie,' said Liversage. 'Of course.' +</P> + +<P> +'And I'll go right to bed now,' said John. +</P> + +<P> +An hour later, after Powell Liversage had seen his affianced to her +abode and returned home, and after his mother had gone to bed, there +was a knock at the front door, and Liversage opened to Robert Hessian. +</P> + +<P> +'Look here, Pow,' said Robert, whose condition was deplorable, 'I want +to sleep here tonight. Do you mind? Fact is, I've had a devil of a +shindy with Jack, and Maggie's run off, and, anyhow, I couldn't +possibly stop in the same house with Jack tonight.' +</P> + +<P> +'But what—?' +</P> + +<P> +'See here,' said Robert. 'I can't talk. Just let me have a bed in your +spare room. I'm sure you mother won't mind.' +</P> + +<P> +'Why, certainly,' said Liversage. +</P> + +<P> +He lit a candle, escorted Robert upstairs, opened the door of the spare +room, gave the candle to Robert, pushed him in, said 'Good night,' and +shut the door. +</P> + +<P> +What a night! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="hat"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE NINETEENTH HAT +</H3> + +<P> +A dramatic moment was about to arrive in the joint career of Stephen +Cheswardine and Vera his wife. The motor-car stood by the side of the +pavement of the Strand, Torquay, that resort of southern wealth and +fashion. The chauffeur, Felix, had gone into the automobile shop to +procure petrol. Mr Cheswardine looking longer than ever in his long +coat, was pacing the busy footpath. Mrs Cheswardine, her beauty +obscured behind a flowing brown veil, was lolling in the tonneau, very +pleased to be in the tonneau, very pleased to be observed by all +Torquay in the tonneau, very satisfied with her husband, and with the +Napier car, and especially with Felix, now buying petrol. Suddenly Mrs +Cheswardine perceived that next door but one to the automobile shop was +a milliner's. She sat up and gazed. According to a card in the window +an 'after-season sale' was in progress that June day at the milliner's. +There were two rows of hats in the window, each hat plainly ticketed. +Mrs Cheswardine descended from the car, crossed the pavement, and gave +to the window the whole of her attention. +</P> + +<P> +She sniffed at most of the hats. But one of them, of green straw, with +a large curving green wing on either side of the crown, and a few odd +bits of fluffiness here and there, pleased her. It was Parisian. She +had been to Paris—once. An 'after-season' sale at a little shop in +Torquay would not, perhaps, seem the most likely place in the world to +obtain a chic hat; it is, moreover, a notorious fact that really chic +hats cannot be got for less than three pounds, and this hat was marked +ten shillings. Nevertheless, hats are most mysterious things. Their +quality of being chic is more often the fruit of chance than of design, +particularly in England. You never know when nor where you may light on +a good hat. Vera considered that she had lighted on one. +</P> + +<P> +'They're probably duck's feathers dyed,' she said to herself. 'But it's +a darling of a hat and it will suit me to a T.' +</P> + +<P> +As for the price, when once you have taken the ticket off a hat the +secret of its price is gone forever. Many a hat less smart than this +hat has been marked in Bond Street at ten guineas instead of ten +shillings. Hats are like oil-paintings—they are worth what people will +give for them. +</P> + +<P> +So Vera approached her husband, and said, with an enchanting, innocent +smile— +</P> + +<P> +'Lend me half-a-sovereign, will you, doggie?' +</P> + +<P> +She called him doggie in those days because he was a sort of dog-man, a +sort of St Bernard, shaggy and big, with faithful eyes; and he enjoyed +being called doggie. +</P> + +<P> +But on this occasion he was not to be bewitched by the enchanting +innocence of the smile nor by the endearing epithet. He refused to +relax his features. +</P> + +<P> +'You aren't going to buy another hat, are you?' he asked sternly, +challengingly. +</P> + +<P> +The smile disappeared from her face, and she pulled her slim young self +together. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' she replied harshly. +</P> + +<P> +The battle was definitely engaged. You may inquire why a man +financially capable of hiring a 20-24 h.p. Napier car, with a French +chauffeur named Felix, for a week or more, should grudge his wife ten +shillings for a hat. Well, you are to comprehend that it was not a +question of ten shillings, it was a question of principle. Vera already +had eighteen hats, and it had been clearly understood between them that +no more money should be spent on attire for quite a long time. Vera was +entirely in the wrong. She knew it, and he knew it. But she wanted just +that hat. +</P> + +<P> +And they were on their honeymoon, you know: which enormously +intensified the poignancy of the drama. They had been married only six +days; in three days more they were to return to the Five Towns, where +Stephen was solidly established as an earthenware manufacturer. You who +have been through them are aware what ticklish things honeymoons are, +and how much depends on the tactfulness of the more tactful of the two +parties. Stephen, thirteen years older than Vera, was the more tactful +of the two parties. He had married a beautiful and elegant woman, with +vast unexploited capacities for love in her heart. But he had married a +capricious woman, and he knew it. So far he had yielded to her +caprices, as well became him; but in the depths of his masculine mind +he had his own private notion as to the identity of the person who +should ultimately be master in their house, and he had decided only the +previous night that when the next moment for being firm arrived, firm +he would be. +</P> + +<P> +And now the moment was upon him. It was their eyes that fought, +silently, bitterly. There is a great deal of bitterness in true love. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen perceived the affair broadly, in all its aspects. He was older +and much more experienced than Vera, and therefore he was responsible +for the domestic peace, and for her happiness, and for his own, and for +appearances, and for various other things. He perceived the moral +degradation which would be involved in an open quarrel during the +honeymoon. He perceived the difficulties of a battle in the street, in +such a select and prim street as the Strand, Torquay, where the very +backbone of England's respectability goes shopping. He perceived Vera's +vast ignorance of life. He perceived her charm, and her naughtiness, +and all her defects. And he perceived, further, that, this being the +first conflict of their married existence, it was of the highest +importance that he should emerge from it the victor. To allow Vera to +triumph would gravely menace their future tranquillity and multiply the +difficulties which her adorable capriciousness would surely cause. He +could not afford to let her win. It was his duty, not merely to himself +but to her, to conquer. But, on the other hand, he had never fully +tested her powers of sheer obstinacy, her willingness to sacrifice +everything for the satisfaction of a whim; and he feared these powers. +He had a dim suspicion that Vera was one of that innumerable class of +charming persons who are perfectly delicious and perfectly sweet so +long as they have precisely their own way—and no longer. +</P> + +<P> +Vera perceived only two things. She perceived the hat—although her +back was turned towards it—and she perceived the +half-sovereign—although it was hidden in Stephen's pocket. +</P> + +<P> +'But, my dear,' Stephen protested, 'you know—' +</P> + +<P> +'Will you lend me half-a-sovereign?' Vera repeated, in a glacial tone. +The madness of a desired hat had seized her. She was a changed Vera. +She was not a loving woman, not a duteous young wife, nor a reasoning +creature. She was an embodied instinct for hats. +</P> + +<P> +'It was most distinctly agreed,' Stephen murmured, restraining his +anger. +</P> + +<P> +Just then Felix came out of the shop, followed by a procession of three +men bearing cans of petrol. If Stephen was Napoleon and Vera +Wellington, Felix was the Blucher of this deplorable altercation. +Impossible to have a row—yes, a row—with your wife in the presence of +your chauffeur, with his French ideas of chivalry. +</P> + +<P> +'Will you lend me half-a-sovereign?' Vera reiterated, in the same +glacial tone, not caring twopence for the presence of Felix. +</P> + +<P> +And Stephen, by means of an interminable silver chain, drew his +sovereign-case from the profundity of his hip-pocket; it was like +drawing a bucket out of a well. And he gave Vera half-a-sovereign; and +THAT was like knotting the rope for his own execution. +</P> + +<P> +And while Felix and his three men poured gallons and gallons of petrol +into a hole under the cushions of the tonneau, Stephen swallowed his +wrath on the pavement, and Vera remained hidden in the shop. And the +men were paid and went off, and Felix took his seat ready to start. And +then Vera came out of the hat place, and the new green hat was on her +head, and the old one in a bag in her pretty hands. +</P> + +<P> +'What do you think of my new hat, Felix?' she smiled to the favoured +chauffeur; 'I hope it pleases you.' +</P> + +<P> +Felix said that it did. +</P> + +<P> +In these days, chauffeurs are a great race and a privileged. They have +usurped the position formerly held by military officers. Women fawn on +them, take fancies to them, and spoil them. They can do no wrong in the +eyes of the sex. Vera had taken a fancy to Felix. Perhaps it was +because he had been in a cavalry regiment; perhaps it was merely the +curve of his moustache. Who knows? And Felix treated her as only a +Frenchman can treat a pretty woman, with a sort of daring humility, +with worship—in short, with true Gallic appreciation. Vera much +enjoyed Gallic appreciation. It ravished her to think that she was the +light of poor Felix's existence, an unattainable star for him. Of +course, Stephen didn't mind. That is to say, he didn't really mind. +</P> + +<P> +The car rushed off in the direction of Exeter, homewards. +</P> + +<P> +That day, by means of Felix's expert illegal driving, they got as far +as Bath; and there were no breakdowns. The domestic atmosphere in the +tonneau was slightly disturbed at the beginning of the run, but it soon +improved. Indeed, after lunch Stephen grew positively bright and gay. +At tea, which they took just outside Bristol, he actually went so far +as to praise the hat. He said that it was a very becoming hat, and also +that it was well worth the money. In a word, he signified to Vera that +their first battle had been fought and that Vera had won, and that he +meant to make the best of it and accept the situation. +</P> + +<P> +Vera was naturally charmed, and when she was charmed she was charming. +She said to herself that she had always known that she could manage a +man. The recipe for managing a man was firmness coupled with charm. But +there must be no half measures, no hesitations. She had conquered. She +saw her future life stretching out before her like a beautiful vista. +And Stephen was to be her slave, and she would have nothing to do but +to give rein to her caprices, and charm Stephen when he happened to +deserve it. +</P> + +<P> +But the next morning the hat had vanished out of the bedroom of the +exclusive hotel at Bath. Vera could not believe that it had vanished; +but it had. It was not in the hat-box, nor on the couch, nor under the +couch, nor perched on a knob of the bedstead, nor in any of the spots +where it ought to have been. When she realized that as a fact it had +vanished she was cross, and on inquiring from Stephen what trick he had +played with her hat, she succeeded in conveying to Stephen that she was +cross. Stephen was still in bed, comatose. The tone of his reply +startled her. +</P> + +<P> +'Look here, child,' he said, or rather snapped—he had never been +snappish before—'since you took the confounded thing off last evening +I haven't seen it and I haven't touched it, and I don't know where it +is.' +</P> + +<P> +'But you must—' +</P> + +<P> +'I gave in to you about the hat,' Stephen continued to snap, 'though I +knew I was a fool to do so, and I consider I behaved pretty pleasantly +over it too. But I don't want any more scenes. If you've lost it, +that's not my fault.' +</P> + +<P> +Such speeches took Vera very much aback. And she, too, in her turn, now +saw the dangers of a quarrel, and in this second altercation it was +Stephen who won. He said he would not even mention the disappearance of +the hat to the hotel manager. He was sure it must be in one of Vera's +trunks. And in the end Vera performed that day's trip in another hat. +</P> + +<P> +They reached the Five Towns much earlier than they had +anticipated—before lunch on the ninth day, whereas the new servants in +their new house at Bursley were only expecting them for dinner. So +Stephen had the agreeable idea of stopping the car in front of the new +Hotel Metropole at Hanbridge and lunching there. Precisely opposite +this new and luxurious caravanserai (as they love to call it in the +Five Towns) is the imposing garage and agency where Stephen had hired +the Napier car. Felix said he would lunch hurriedly in order to +transact certain business at the garage before taking them on to +Bursley. After lunch, however, Vera caught him transacting business +with a chambermaid in a corridor. Shocking though the revelation is, it +needs to be said that Felix was kissing the chambermaid. The blow to +Mrs Cheswardine was severe. She had imagined that Felix spent all his +time in gazing up to her as an unattainable star. +</P> + +<P> +She spoke to Stephen about it, in the accents of disillusion. 'What?' +cried Stephen. 'Don't you know? They're engaged to be married. Her name +is Mary Callear. She used to be parlourmaid at Uncle John's at +Oldcastle. But hotels pay higher wages.' +</P> + +<P> +Felix engaged to a parlourmaid! Felix, who had always seemed to Vera a +gentleman in disguise! Yes, it was indeed a blow! +</P> + +<P> +But balm awaited Vera at her new home in Bursley. A parcel, obviously +containing a cardboard box, had arrived for Stephen. He opened it, and +the lost hat was inside it. Stephen read a note, and explained that the +hotel people at Bath had found it and forwarded it. He began to praise +the hat anew. He made Vera put it on instantly, and seemed delighted. +So much so that Vera went out to the porch to say good-bye to Felix in +a most forgiving frame of mind. She forgave Felix for being engaged to +the chambermaid. +</P> + +<P> +And there was the chambermaid walking up the drive, quite calmly! +Felix, also quite calmly, asked Vera to excuse him, and told the +chambermaid to get into the car and sit beside him. He then informed +Vera that he had to go with the car immediately to Oldcastle, and was +taking Miss Callear with him for the run, this being Miss Callear's +weekly afternoon off. Miss Callear had come to Bursley in the electric +tram. +</P> + +<P> +Vera shook with swift anger; not at Felix's information, but the patent +fact that Mary Callear was wearing a hat which was the exact replica of +the hat on Vera's own head. And Mary Callear was seated like a duchess +in the car, while Vera stood on the gravel. And two of Vera's new +servants were there to see that Vera was wearing a hat precisely +equivalent to the hat of a chambermaid! +</P> + +<P> +She went abruptly into the house and sought for Stephen—as with a +sword. But Stephen was not discoverable. She ran to her elegant new +bedroom and shut herself in. She understood the plot. She had plenty of +wit. Stephen had concerted it with Felix. In spite of Stephen's +allegations of innocence, the hat had been sent somewhere—probably to +Brunt's at Hanbridge—to be copied at express speed, and Stephen had +presented the copy to Felix, in order that Felix might present it to +Mary Callear the chambermaid, and the meeting in the front garden had +been deliberately arranged by that odious male, Stephen. Truly, she had +not believed Stephen capable of such duplicity and cruelty. +</P> + +<P> +She removed the hat, gazed at it, and then tore it to pieces and +scattered the pieces on the carpet. +</P> + +<P> +An hour later Stephen crept into the bedroom and beheld the fragments, +and smiled. +</P> + +<P> +'Stephen,' she exclaimed, 'you're a horrid, cruel brute.' 'I know I +am,' said Stephen. 'You ought to have found that out long since.' +</P> + +<P> +'I won't love you any more. It's all over,' she sobbed. But he just +kissed her. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="vera"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VERA'S FIRST CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +Five days before Christmas, Cheswardine came home to his wife from a +week's sojourn in London on business. Vera, in her quality of the +best-dressed woman in Bursley, met him on the doorstep (or thereabouts) +of their charming but childless home, attired in a teagown that would +have ravished a far less impressionable male than her husband; while +he, in his quality of a prosaic and flourishing earthenware +manufacturer, pretended to take the teagown as a matter of course, and +gave her the sober, solid kiss of a man who has been married six years +and is getting used to it. +</P> + +<P> +Still, the teagown had pleased him, and by certain secret symptoms Vera +knew that it had pleased him. She hoped much from that teagown. She +hoped that he had come home in a more pacific temper than he had shown +when he left her, and that she would carry her point after all. +</P> + +<P> +Now, naturally, when a husband in easy circumstances, the possessor of +a pretty and pampered wife, spends a week in London and returns five +days before Christmas, certain things are rightly and properly to be +expected from him. It would need an astounding courage, an amazing lack +of a sense of the amenity of conjugal existence in such a husband to +enable him to disappoint such reasonable expectations. And Cheswardine, +though capable of pulling the curb very tight on the caprices of his +wife, was a highly decent fellow. He had no intention to disappoint; he +knew his duty. +</P> + +<P> +So that during afternoon tea with the teagown in a cosy corner of the +great Chippendale drawing-room he began to unfasten a small wooden case +which he had brought into the house in his own hand, opened it with +considerable precaution, making a fine mess of packing-stuff on the +carpet, and gradually drew to light a pair of vases of Venetian glass. +He put them on the mantlepiece. +</P> + +<P> +'There!' he said, proudly, and with a virtuous air. +</P> + +<P> +They were obviously costly antique vases, exquisite in form, exquisite +in the graduated tints of their pale blue and rose. +</P> + +<P> +'Seventeenth century!' he said. +</P> + +<P> +'They're very nice,' Vera agreed, with a show of enthusiasm. 'What are +they for?' +</P> + +<P> +'Your Christmas present,' Cheswardine explained, and added 'my dear!' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Stephen!' she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +A kiss on these occasions is only just, and Cheswardine had one. +</P> + +<P> +'Duveens told me they were quite unique,' he said, modestly; 'and I +believe 'em.' +</P> + +<P> +You might imagine that a pair of Venetian vases of the seventeenth +century, stated by Duveens to be unique, would have satisfied a woman +who had a generous dress allowance and lacked absolutely nothing that +was essential. But Vera was not satisfied. She was, on the contrary, +profoundly disappointed. For the presence of those vases proved that +she had not carried her point. They deprived her of hope. The +unpleasantness before Cheswardine went to London had been more or less +a propos of a Christmas present. Vera had seen in Bostock's vast +emporium in the neighbouring town of Hanbridge, a music-stool in the +style known as art nouveau, which had enslaved her fancy. She had taken +her husband to see it, and it had not enslaved her husband's fancy in +the slightest degree. It was made in light woods, and the woods were +curved and twisted as though they had recently spent seven years in a +purgatory for sinful trees. Here and there in the design onyx-stones +had been set in the wood. The seat itself was beautifully soft. What +captured Vera was chiefly the fact that it did not open at the top, as +most elaborate music-stools do, but at either side. You pressed a +button (onyx) and the panel fell down displaying your music in little +compartments ready to hand; and the eastern moiety of the music-stool +was for piano pieces, and the western moiety for songs. In short, it +was the last word of music-stools; nothing could possibly be newer. +</P> + +<P> +But Cheswardine did not like it, and did not conceal his opinion. He +argued that it would not 'go' with the Chippendale furniture, and Vera +said that all beautiful things 'went' together, and Cheswardine +admitted that they did, rather dryly. You see, they took the matter +seriously because the house was their hobby; they were always changing +its interior, which was more than they could have done for a child, +even if they had had one; and Cheswardine's finer and soberer taste was +always fighting against Vera's predilection for the novel and the +bizarre. Apart from clothes, Vera had not much more than the taste of a +mouse. +</P> + +<P> +They did not quarrel in Bostock's. Indeed, they did not quarrel +anywhere; but after Vera had suggested that he might at any rate humour +her by giving her the music-stool for a Christmas present (she seemed +to think this would somehow help it to 'go' with the Chippendale), and +Cheswardine had politely but firmly declined, there had been a certain +coolness and quite six tears. Vera had caused it to be understood that +even if Cheswardine was NOT interested in music, even if he did hate +music and did call the Broadwood ebony grand ugly, that was no reason +why she should be deprived of a pretty and original music-stool that +would keep her music tidy and that would be HERS. As for it not going +with the Chippendale, that was simply an excuse ... etc. +</P> + +<P> +Hence it is not surprising that the Venetian vases of the seventeenth +century left Vera cold, and that the domestic prospects for Christmas +were a little cold. +</P> + +<P> +However, Vera, with wifely and submissive tact made the best of things; +and that evening she began to decorate the hall, dining-room, and +drawing-room with holly and mistletoe. Before the pair retired to rest, +the true Christmas feeling, slightly tinged with a tender melancholy, +permeated the house, and the servants were growing excited in advance. +The servants weren't going to have a dinner-party, with crackers and +port and a table-centre unmatched in the Five Towns; the servants +weren't going to invite their friends to an evening's jollity. The +servants were merely going to work somewhat harder and have somewhat +less sleep; but such is the magical effect of holly and mistletoe +twined round picture-cords and hung under chandeliers that the +excitement of the servants was entirely pleasurable. +</P> + +<P> +And as Vera shut the bedroom door, she said, with a delightful, +forgiving smile—- +</P> + +<P> +'I saw a lovely cigar-cabinet at Bostock's yesterday.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh!' said Cheswardine, touched. He had no cigar-cabinet, and he wanted +one, and Vera knew that he wanted one. +</P> + +<P> +And Vera slept in the sweet consciousness of her thoughtful wifeliness. +</P> + +<P> +The next morning, at breakfast, Cheswardine demanded— +</P> + +<P> +'Getting pretty hard up, aren't you, Maria?' +</P> + +<P> +He called her Maria when he wished to be arch. +</P> + +<P> +Well,' she said, 'as a matter of fact, I am. What with the—' +</P> + +<P> +And he gave her a five-pound note. +</P> + +<P> +It happened so every year. He provided her with the money to buy him a +Christmas present. But it is, I hope, unnecessary to say that the +connection between her present to him and the money he furnished was +never crudely mentioned. +</P> + +<P> +She made an opportunity, before he left for the works, to praise the +Venetian vases, and she insisted that he should wrap up well, because +he was showing signs of one of his bad colds. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +In the early afternoon she went to Bostock's emporium, at Hanbridge, to +buy the cigar-cabinet and a few domestic trifles. Bostock's is a good +shop. I do not say that it has the classic and serene dignity of +Brunt's, over the way, where one orders one's dining-room suites and +one's frocks for the January dances. But it is a good shop, and one of +the chief glories of the Paris of the Five Towns. It has frontages in +three streets, and it might be called the shop of the hundred windows. +You can buy pretty nearly anything at Bostock's, from an art nouveau +music-stool up to the highest cheese—for there is a provision +department. (You can't get cheese at Brunt's.) +</P> + +<P> +Vera made her uninteresting purchases first, in the basement, and then +she went up-stairs to the special Christmas department, which certainly +was wonderful: a blaze and splendour of electric light; a glitter of +gilded iridescent toys and knick-knacks; a smiling, excited, pushing +multitude of faces, young and old; and the cashiers in their cages +gathering in money as fast as they could lay their tired hands on it! A +joyous, brilliant scene, calculated to bring soft tears of satisfaction +to the board of directors that presided over Bostock's. It was a record +Christmas for Bostock's. The electric cars were thundering over the +frozen streets of all the Five Towns to bring customers to Bostock's. +Children dreamt of Bostock's. Fathers went to scoff and remained to +pay. Brunt's was not exactly alarmed, for nothing could alarm Brunt's; +but there was just a sort of suspicion of something in the air at +Brunt's that did not make for odious self-conceit. People seemed to +become intoxicated when they went into Bostock's, to close their heads +in a frenzy of buying. +</P> + +<P> +And there the art nouveau music-stool stood in the corner, where Vera +had originally seen it! She approached it, not thinking of the terrible +danger. The compartments for music lay invitingly open. +</P> + +<P> +'Four pounds, nine and six, Mrs Cheswardine,' said a shop-walker, who +knew her. +</P> + +<P> +She stopped to finger it. +</P> + +<P> +Well, of course everybody is acquainted with that peculiar ecstasy that +undoubtedly does overtake you in good shops, sometimes, especially at +Christmas. I prefer to call it ecstasy rather than intoxication, but I +have heard it called even drunkenness. It is a magnificent and +overwhelming experience, like a good wine. A blind instinct seizes your +reason and throws her out of the window of your soul, and then assumes +entire control of the volitional machinery. You listen to no arguments, +you care for no consequences. You want a thing; you must have it; you +do have it. +</P> + +<P> +Vera was caught unawares by this magnificent and overwhelming +experience, just as she stooped to finger the music-stool. A fig for +the cigar-cabinet! A fig for her husband's objections! After all she +was a grown-up woman (twenty-nine or thirty), and entitled to a certain +freedom. She was not and would not be a slave. It would look perfect in +the drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +'I'll take it,' she said. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, Mrs Cheswardine. A unique thing, quite unique. Penkethman!' +</P> + +<P> +And Vera followed Penkethman to a cash desk and received half-a-guinea +out of a five-pound note. +</P> + +<P> +'I want it carefully packed,' said Vera. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, ma'am. It will be delivered in the morning.' +</P> + +<P> +She was just beginning to realize that she had been under the sinister +influence of the ecstasy, and that she had not bought the +cigar-cabinet, and that she had practically no more money, and that +Stephen's rule against credit was the strictest of all his rules, when +she caught sight of Mr Charles Woodruff buying toys, doubtless for his +nephews and nieces. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Woodruff was the bachelor friend of the family. He had loved Vera +before Stephen loved her, and he was still attached to her. Stephen and +he were chums of the most advanced kind. Why! Stephen and Vera thought +nothing of bickering in front of Mr Woodruff, who rated them both and +sided with neither. +</P> + +<P> +'Hello!' said Woodruff, flushing, and moving his long, clumsy limbs +when she touched him on the shoulder. 'I'm just buying a few toys.' +</P> + +<P> +She helped him to buy toys, and then he asked her to go and have tea +with him at the newly-opened Sub Rosa Tea Rooms, in Machin Street. She +agreed, and, in passing the music-stool, gave a small parcel which she +was carrying to Penkethman, and told him he might as well put it in the +music-stool. She was glad to have tea with Charlie Woodruff. It would +distract her, prevent her from thinking. The ecstasy had almost died +out, and she had a violent desire not to think. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +A terrible blow fell upon her the next morning. Stephen had one of his +bad colds, one of his worst. The mere cold she could have supported +with fortitude, but he was forced to remain indoors, and his presence +in the house she could not support with fortitude. The music-stool +would be sure to arrive before lunch, and he would be there to see it +arrive. The ecstasy had fully expired now, and she had more leisure to +think than she wanted. She could not imagine what mad instinct had +compelled her to buy the music-stool. (Once out of the shop these +instincts always are difficult to imagine.) She knew that Stephen would +be angry. He might perhaps go to the length of returning the +music-stool whence it came. For, though she was a pretty and pampered +woman, Stephen had a way, in the last resort, of being master of his +own house. And she could not even placate him with the gift of a +cigar-cabinet. She could not buy a five-guinea cigar-cabinet with ten +and six. She had no other money in the world. She never had money, yet +money was always running through her fingers. Stephen treated her +generously, gave her an ample allowance, but he would under no +circumstances permit credit, nor would he pay her allowance in advance. +She had nothing to expect till the New Year. +</P> + +<P> +She attended to his cold, and telephoned to the works for a clerk to +come up, and she refrained from telling Stephen that he must have been +very careless while in London, to catch a cold like that. Her +self-denial in this respect surprised Stephen, but he put it down to +the beneficent influence of Christmas and the Venetian vases. +</P> + +<P> +Bostock's pair-horse van arrived before the garden gate earlier than +her worse fears had anticipated, and Bostock's men were evidently in a +tremendous hurry that morning. In quite an abnormally small number of +seconds the wooden case containing the fragile music-stool was lying in +the inner hall, waiting to be unpacked. Having signed the delivery-book +Vera stood staring at the accusatory package. Stephen was lounging over +the dining-room fire, perhaps dozing. She would have the thing swiftly +transported up-stairs and hidden in an attic for a time. +</P> + +<P> +But just then Stephen popped out of the dining-room. Stephen's +masculine curiosity had been aroused by the advent of Bostock's van. He +had observed the incoming of the package from the window, and he had +ventured to the hall to inspect it. The event had roused him +wonderfully from the heavy torpor which a cold induces. He wore a +dressing-gown, the pockets of which bulged with handkerchiefs. +</P> + +<P> +'You oughtn't to be out here, Stephen,' said his wife. +</P> + +<P> +'Nonsense!' he said. 'Why, upon my soul, this steam heat is warmer than +the dining-room fire.' Vera, silenced by the voice of truth, could not +reply. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen bent his great height to inspect the package. It was an +appetizing Christmas package; straw escaped from between its ribs, and +it had an air of being filled with something at once large and delicate. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh!' observed Stephen, humorously. 'Ah! So this is it, is it? Ah! Oh! +Very good!' +</P> + +<P> +And he walked round it. +</P> + +<P> +How on earth had he learnt that she had bought it? She had not +mentioned the purchase to Mr Woodruff. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, Stephen,' she said timidly. 'That's it, and I hope—' +</P> + +<P> +'It ought to hold a tidy few cigars, that ought,' remarked Stephen +complacently. +</P> + +<P> +He took it for the cigar-cabinet! +</P> + +<P> +She paused, struck. She had to make up her mind in an instant. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh yes,' she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +'A thousand?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, a thousand,' she said. +</P> + +<P> +'I thought so,' murmured Stephen. 'I mustn't kiss you, because I've got +a cold,' said he. 'But, all the same I'm awfully obliged, Vera. Suppose +we have it opened now, eh? Then we could decide where it is to go, and +I could put my cigars in it.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh no,' she protested. 'Oh no, Stephen! That's not fair! It mustn't be +opened before Christmas morning.' +</P> + +<P> +'But I gave you my vases yesterday.' +</P> + +<P> +'That's different,' she said. 'Christmas is Christmas.' 'Oh, very +well,' he yielded. 'That's all right, my dear.' +</P> + +<P> +Then he began to sniff. +</P> + +<P> +'There's a deuced odd smell from it,' he said. +</P> + +<P> +'Perhaps it's the wood!' she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +'I hope it isn't,' he said. 'I expect it's the straw. A deuced odd +smell. We'll have the thing put in the side hall, next to the clock. It +will be out of the way there. And I can come and gaze at it when I feel +depressed. Eh, Maria?' He was undoubtedly charmed at the prospect of +owning so large and precious a cigar-cabinet. +</P> + +<P> +Considering that the parcel which she had given to Penkethman to put in +the music-stool comprised a half-a-pound of Bostock's very ripest +Gorgonzola cheese, bought at the cook's special request, the smell +which proceeded from the mysterious inwards of the packing-case did not +surprise Vera at all. But it disconcerted her none the less. And she +wondered how she could get the cheese out. +</P> + +<P> +For thirty hours the smell from the unopened packing-case waxed in +vigour and strength. Stephen's cold grew worse and prevented him from +appreciating its full beauty, but he savoured enough of it to induce +him to compare it facetiously to the effluvium of a dead rat, and he +said several times that Bostock's really ought to use better straw. He +was frequently to be seen in the hall, gloating over his cigar-cabinet. +Once he urged Vera to have it opened and so get rid of the straw, but +she refused, and found the nerve to tell him that he was exaggerating +the odour. +</P> + +<P> +She was at a loss what to do. She could not get up in the middle of the +night and unpack the package and hide its guilty secret. Indeed, to +unpack the package would bring about her ruin instantly; for, the +package unpacked, Stephen would naturally expect to see the +cigar-cabinet. And so the hours crept on to Christmas and Vera's +undoing. She gave herself a headache. +</P> + +<P> +It was just thirty hours after the arrival of the package when Mr +Woodruff dropped in for tea. Stephen was asleep in the dining-room, +which apartment he particularly affected during his colds. Woodruff was +shown into the drawing-room, where Vera was having her headache. Vera +brightened. In fact, she suddenly grew very bright. And she gave +Woodruff tea, and took some herself, and Woodruff passed an enjoyable +twenty minutes. +</P> + +<P> +The two Venetian vases were on the mantelpiece. Vera rose into +ecstasies about them, and called upon Charlie Woodruff to rise too. He +got up from his chair to examine the vases, which Vera had placed close +together side by side at the corner of the mantelpiece nearest to him. +Vera and Woodruff also stood close together side by side. And just as +Woodruff was about to handle the vases, Vera knocked his arm; his arm +collided with one vase; that vase collided with the next, and both fell +to earth—to the hard, unfeeling, unyielding tiles of the hearth. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H4> + +<P> +They were smashed to atoms. +</P> + +<P> +Vera screamed. She screamed twice, and ran out of the room. +</P> + +<P> +'Stephen, Stephen!' she cried hysterically. 'Charlie has broken my +vases, both of them. It IS too bad of him. He's really too clumsy!' +</P> + +<P> +There was a terrific pother. Stephen wakened violently, and in a moment +all three were staring ineffectually at the thousand crystal fragments +on the hearth. +</P> + +<P> +'But—' began Charlie Woodruff. +</P> + +<P> +And that was all he did say. +</P> + +<P> +He and Vera and Stephen had been friends since infancy, so she had the +right not to conceal her feelings before him; Stephen had the same +right. They both exercised it. +</P> + +<P> +'But—' began Charlie again. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, never mind,' Stephen stopped him curtly. 'Accidents can't be +helped.' +</P> + +<P> +'I shall get another pair,' said Woodruff. +</P> + +<P> +'No, you won't,' replied Stephen. 'You can't. There isn't another pair +in the world. See?' +</P> + +<P> +The two men simultaneously perceived that Vera was weeping. She was +very pretty in tears, but that did not prevent the masculine world from +feeling awkward and self-conscious. Charlie had notions about going out +and burying himself. +</P> + +<P> +'Come, Vera, come,' her husband enjoined, blowing his nose with +unnecessary energy, bad as his cold was. +</P> + +<P> +'I—I liked those vases more than anything you've—you've ever given +me,' Vera blubbered, charmingly, patting her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen glanced at Woodruff, as who should say: 'Well, my boy, you +uncorked those tears, I'll leave you to deal with 'em. You see, I'm an +invalid in a dressing-gown. I leave you.' +</P> + +<P> +And went. +</P> + +<P> +'No-but-look-here-I-say,' Charlie Woodruff expostulated to Vera when he +was alone with her—he often started an expostulation with that +singular phrase. 'I'm awfully sorry. I don't know how it happened. You +must let me give you something else.' +</P> + +<P> +Vera shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +'No,' she said. 'I wanted Stephen awfully to give me that music-stool +that I told you about a fortnight ago. But he gave me the vases +instead, and I liked them ever so much better.' +</P> + +<P> +'I shall give you the music-stool. If you wanted it a fortnight ago, +you want it now. It won't make up for the vases, of course, but—' +</P> + +<P> +'No, no,' said Vera, positively. +</P> + +<P> +'Why not?' +</P> + +<P> +'I do not wish you to give me anything. It wouldn't be quite nice,' +Vera insisted. +</P> + +<P> +'But I give you something every Christmas.' +</P> + +<P> +'Do you?' asked Vera, innocently. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, and you and Stephen give me something.' +</P> + +<P> +'Besides, Stephen doesn't quite like the music-stool.' +</P> + +<P> +'What's that got to do with it? You like it. I'm giving it to you, not +to him. I shall go over to Bostock's tomorrow morning and get it.' +</P> + +<P> +'I forbid you to.' +</P> + +<P> +'I shall.' +</P> + +<P> +Woodruff departed. +</P> + +<P> +Within five minutes the Cheswardine coachman was driving off in the +dogcart to Hanbridge, with the packing-case in the back of the cart, +and a note. He brought back the cigar-cabinet. Stephen had not stirred +from the dining-room, afraid to encounter a tearful wife. Presently his +wife came into the dining-room bearing the vast load of the +cigar-cabinet in her delicate arms. +</P> + +<P> +'I thought it might amuse you to fill it with your cigars—just to pass +the time,' she said. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen's thought was: 'Well, women take the cake.' It was a thought +that occurs frequently to the husbands of Veras. +</P> + +<P> +There was ripe Gorgonzola at dinner. Stephen met it as one meets a +person whom one fancies one has met somewhere but cannot remember where. +</P> + +<P> +The next afternoon the music-stool came, for the second time, into the +house. Charlie brought it in HIS dogcart. It was unpacked +ostentatiously by the radiant Vera. What could Stephen say in +depreciation of this gift from their oldest and best friend? As a fact +he could and did say a great deal. But he said it when he happened to +be all alone in the drawing-room, and had observed the appalling way in +which the music-stool did not 'go' with the Chippendale. +</P> + +<P> +'Look at the d—thing!' he exclaimed to himself. 'Look at it!' +</P> + +<P> +However, the Christmas dinner-party was a brilliant success, and after +it Vera sat on the art nouveau music-stool and twittered songs, and +what with her being so attractive and birdlike, and what with the +Christmas feeling in the air... well, Stephen resigned himself to the +music-stool. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="murder"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE MURDER OF THE MANDARIN +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +'What's that you're saying about murder?' asked Mrs Cheswardine as she +came into the large drawing-room, carrying the supper-tray. +</P> + +<P> +'Put it down here,' said her husband, referring to the supper-tray, and +pointing to a little table which stood two legs off and two legs on the +hearth-rug. +</P> + +<P> +'That apron suits you immensely,' murmured Woodruff, the friend of the +family, as he stretched his long limbs into the fender towards the +fire, farther even than the long limbs of Cheswardine. Each man +occupied an easy-chair on either side of the hearth; each was very +tall, and each was forty. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Cheswardine, with a whisk infinitely graceful, set the tray on the +table, took a seat behind it on a chair that looked like a toddling +grand-nephew of the arm-chairs, and nervously smoothed out the apron. +</P> + +<P> +As a matter of fact, the apron did suit her immensely. It is +astounding, delicious, adorable, the effect of a natty little domestic +apron suddenly put on over an elaborate and costly frock, especially +when you can hear the rustle of a silk petticoat beneath, and more +especially when the apron is smoothed out by jewelled fingers. Every +man knows this. Every woman knows it. Mrs Cheswardine knew it. In such +matters Mrs Cheswardine knew exactly what she was about. She delighted, +when her husband brought Woodruff in late of a night, as he frequently +did after a turn at the club, to prepare with her own hands—the +servants being in bed—a little snack of supper for them. Tomato +sandwiches, for instance, miraculously thin, together with champagne or +Bass. The men preferred Bass, naturally, but if Mrs Cheswardine had a +fancy for a sip of champagne out of her husband's tumbler, Bass was not +forthcoming. +</P> + +<P> +Tonight it was champagne. +</P> + +<P> +Woodruff opened it, as he always did, and involuntarily poured out a +libation on the hearth, as he almost always did. Good-natured, +ungainly, long-suffering men seldom achieve the art of opening +champagne. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Cheswardine tapped her pink-slippered foot impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +'You're all nerves tonight,' Woodruff laughed, 'and you've made me +nervous,' And at length he got some of the champagne into a tumbler. +</P> + +<P> +'No, I'm not,' Mrs Cheswardine contradicted him. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, you are, Vera,' Woodruff insisted calmly. +</P> + +<P> +She smiled. The use of that elegant Christian name, with its faint +suggestion of Russian archduchesses, had a strange effect on her, +particularly from the lips of Woodruff. She was proud of it, and of her +surname too—one of the oldest surnames in the Five Towns. The +syllables of 'Vera' invariably soothed her, like a charm. Woodruff, and +Cheswardine also, had called her Vera during the whole of her life; and +she was thirty. They had all three lived in different houses at the top +end of Trafalgar Road, Bursley. Woodruff fell in love with her first, +when she was eighteen, but with no practical result. He was a +brown-haired man, personable despite his ungainliness, but he failed to +perceive that to worship from afar off is not the best way to capture a +young woman with large eyes and an emotional disposition. Cheswardine, +who had a black beard, simply came along and married the little thing. +She fluttered down on to his shoulders like a pigeon. She adored him, +feared him, cooed to him, worried him, and knew that there were depths +of his mind which she would never plumb. Woodruff, after being best +man, went on loving, meekly and yet philosophically, and found his +chief joy in just these suppers. The arrangement suited Vera; and as +for the husband and the hopeless admirer, they had always been fast +friends. +</P> + +<P> +'I asked you what you were saying about murder,' said Vera sharply, +'but it seems—' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! did you?' Woodruff apologized. 'I was saying that murder isn't +such an impossible thing as it appears. Anyone might commit a murder.' +</P> + +<P> +'Then you want to defend, Harrisford? Do you hear what he says, +Stephen?' +</P> + +<P> +The notorious and terrible Harrisford murders were agitating the Five +Towns that November. People read, talked, and dreamt murder; for +several weeks they took murder to all their meals. +</P> + +<P> +'He doesn't want to defend Harrisford at all,' said Cheswardine, with a +superior masculine air, 'and of course anyone might commit a murder. I +might.' +</P> + +<P> +'Stephen! How horrid you are!' 'You might, even!' said Woodruff, gazing +at Vera. +</P> + +<P> +'Charlie! Why, the blood alone—' +</P> + +<P> +'There isn't always blood,' said the oracular husband. +</P> + +<P> +'Listen here,' proceeded Woodruff, who read variously and enjoyed +philosophical speculation. 'Supposing that by just taking thought, by +just wishing it, an Englishman could kill a mandarin in China and make +himself rich for life, without anybody knowing anything about it! How +many mandarins do you suppose there would be left in China at the end +of a week!' +</P> + +<P> +'At the end of twenty-four hours, rather,' said Cheswardine grimly. +</P> + +<P> +'Not one,' said Woodruff. +</P> + +<P> +'But that's absurd,' Vera objected, disturbed. When these two men began +their philosophical discussions they always succeeded in disturbing +her. She hated to see life in a queer light. She hated to think. +</P> + +<P> +'It isn't absurd,' Woodruff replied. 'It simply shows that what +prevents wholesale murder is not the wickedness of it, but the fear of +being found out, and the general mess, and seeing the corpse, and so +on.' +</P> + +<P> +Vera shuddered. +</P> + +<P> +'And I'm not sure,' Woodruff proceeded, 'that murder is so very much +more wicked than lots of other things.' +</P> + +<P> +'Usury, for instance,' Cheswardine put in. +</P> + +<P> +'Or bigamy,' said Woodruff. +</P> + +<P> +'But an Englishman COULDN'T kill a mandarin in China by just wishing +it,' said Vera, looking up. +</P> + +<P> +'How do we know?' said Woodruff, in his patient voice. 'How do we know? +You remember what I was telling you about thought-transference last +week. It was in Borderland.' +</P> + +<P> +Vera felt as if there was no more solid ground to stand on, and it +angered her to be plunging about in a bog. +</P> + +<P> +'I think it's simply silly,' she remarked. 'No, thanks.' +</P> + +<P> +She said 'No, thanks' to her husband, when he tendered his glass. +</P> + +<P> +He moved the glass still closer to her lips. +</P> + +<P> +'I said "No, thanks,"' she repeated dryly. +</P> + +<P> +'Just a mouthful,' he urged. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm not thirsty.' +</P> + +<P> +'Then you'd better go to bed,' said he. +</P> + +<P> +He had a habit of sending her to bed abruptly. She did not dislike it. +But she had various ways of going. Tonight it was the way of an +archduchess. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +Woodruff, in stating that Vera was all nerves that evening, was quite +right. She was. And neither her husband nor Woodruff knew the reason. +</P> + +<P> +The reason had to do most intimately with frocks. +</P> + +<P> +Vera had been married ten years. But no one would have guessed it, to +watch her girlish figure and her birdlike ways. You see, she was the +only child in the house. She often bitterly regretted the absence of +offspring to the name and honour of Cheswardine. She envied other wives +their babies. She doted on babies. She said continually that in her +deliberate opinion the proper mission of women was babies. She was the +sort of woman that regards a cathedral as a place built especially to +sit in and dream soft domestic dreams; the sort of woman that adores +music simply because it makes her dream. And Vera's brown studies, +which were frequent, consisted chiefly of babies. But as babies amused +themselves by coming down the chimneys of all the other houses in +Bursley, and avoiding her house, she sought comfort in frocks. She made +the best of herself. And it was a good best. Her figure was as near +perfect as a woman's can be, and then there were those fine emotional +eyes, and that flutteringness of the pigeon, and an ever-changing charm +of gesture. Vera had become the best-dressed woman in Bursley. And that +is saying something. Her husband was wealthy, with an increasing +income, though, of course, as an earthenware manufacturer, and the son +and grandson of an earthenware manufacturer, he joined heartily in the +general Five Towns lamentation that there was no longer any money to be +made out of 'pots'. He liked to have a well-dressed woman about the +house, and he allowed her an incredible allowance, the amount of which +was breathed with awe among Vera's friends; a hundred a year, in fact. +He paid it to her quarterly, by cheque. Such was his method. +</P> + +<P> +Now a ball was to be given by the members of the Ladies' Hockey Club +(or such of them as had not been maimed for life in the pursuit of this +noble pastime) on the very night after the conversation about murder. +Vera belonged to the Hockey Club (in a purely ornamental sense), and +she had procured a frock for the ball which was calculated to crown her +reputation as a mirror of elegance. The skirt had—but no (see the +columns of the Staffordshire Signal for the 9th November, 1901). The +mischief was that the gown lacked, for its final perfection, one +particular thing, and that particular thing was separated from Vera by +the glass front of Brunt's celebrated shop at Hanbridge. Vera could +have managed without it. The gown would still have been brilliant +without it. But Vera had seen it, and she WANTED it. +</P> + +<P> +Its cost was a guinea. Well, you will say, what is a guinea to a dainty +creature with a hundred a year? Let her go and buy the article. The +point is that she couldn't, because she had only six and sevenpence +left in the wide world. (And six weeks to Christmas!) She had +squandered—oh, soul above money!—twenty-five pounds, and more than +twenty-five pounds, since the 29th of September. Well, you will say, +credit, in other words, tick? No, no, no! The giant Stephen absolutely +and utterly forbade her to procure anything whatever on credit. She was +afraid of him. She knew just how far she could go with Stephen. He was +great and terrible. Well, you will say, why couldn't she blandish and +cajole Stephen for a sovereign or so? Impossible! She had a hundred a +year on the clear understanding that it was never exceeded nor +anticipated. Well, you will discreetly hint, there are certain devices +known to housewives.... Hush! Vera had already employed them. Six and +sevenpence was not merely all that remained to her of her dress +allowance; it was all that remained to her of her household allowance +till the next Monday. +</P> + +<P> +Hence her nerves. +</P> + +<P> +There that poor unfortunate woman lay, with her unconscious tyrant of a +husband snoring beside her, desolately wakeful under the night-light in +the large, luxurious bedroom—three servants sleeping overhead, +champagne in the cellar, furs in the wardrobe, valuable lace round her +neck at that very instant, grand piano in the drawing-room, horses in +the stable, stuffed bear in the hall—and her life was made a blank for +want of fourteen and fivepence! And she had nobody to confide in. How +true it is that the human soul is solitary, that content is the only +true riches, and that to be happy we must be good! +</P> + +<P> +It was at that juncture of despair that she thought of mandarins. Or +rather—I may as well be frank—she had been thinking of mandarins all +the time since retiring to rest. There MIGHT be something in Charlie's +mandarin theory.... According to Charlie, so many queer, inexplicable +things happened in the world. Occult—subliminal—astral—thoughtwaves. +These expressions and many more occurred to her as she recollected +Charlie's disconcerting conversations. There MIGHT.... One never knew. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly she thought of her husband's pockets, bulging with silver, +with gold, and with bank-notes. Tantalizing vision! No! She could not +steal. Besides, he might wake up. +</P> + +<P> +And she returned to mandarins. She got herself into a very morbid and +two-o'clock-in-the-morning state of mind. Suppose it was a dodge that +DID work. (Of course, she was extremely superstitious; we all are.) She +began to reflect seriously upon China. She remembered having heard that +Chinese mandarins were very corrupt; that they ground the faces of the +poor, and put innocent victims to the torture; in short, that they were +sinful and horrid persons, scoundrels unfit for mercy. Then she +pondered upon the remotest parts of China, regions where Europeans +never could penetrate. No doubt there was some unimportant mandarin, +somewhere in these regions, to whose district his death would be a +decided blessing, to kill whom would indeed be an act of humanity. +Probably a mandarin without wife or family; a bachelor mandarin whom no +relative would regret; or, in the alternative, a mandarin with many +wives, whose disgusting polygamy merited severe punishment! An old +mandarin already pretty nearly dead; or, in the alternative, a young +one just commencing a career of infamy! +</P> + +<P> +'I'm awfully silly,' she whispered to herself. 'But still, if there +SHOULD be anything in it. And I must, I must, I must have that thing +for my dress!' +</P> + +<P> +She looked again at the dim forms of her husband's clothes, pitched +anyhow on an ottoman. No! She could not stoop to theft! +</P> + +<P> +So she murdered a mandarin; lying in bed there; not any particular +mandarin, a vague mandarin, the mandarin most convenient and suitable +under all the circumstances. She deliberately wished him dead, on the +off-chance of acquiring riches, or, more accurately, because she was +short of fourteen and fivepence in order to look perfectly splendid at +a ball. +</P> + +<P> +In the morning when she woke up—her husband had already departed to +the works—she thought how foolish she had been in the night. She did +not feel sorry for having desired the death of a fellow-creature. Not +at all. She felt sorry because she was convinced, in the cold light of +day, that the charm would not work. Charlie's notions were really too +ridiculous, too preposterous. No! She must reconcile herself to wearing +a ball dress which was less than perfection, and all for the want of +fourteen and fivepence. And she had more nerves than ever! +</P> + +<P> +She had nerves to such an extent that when she went to unlock the +drawer of her own private toilet-table, in which her prudent and fussy +husband forced her to lock up her rings and brooches every night, she +attacked the wrong drawer—an empty unfastened drawer that she never +used. And lo! the empty drawer was not empty. There was a sovereign +lying in it! +</P> + +<P> +This gave her a start, connecting the discovery, as naturally at the +first blush she did, with the mandarin. +</P> + +<P> +Surely it couldn't be, after all. +</P> + +<P> +Then she came to her senses. What absurdity! A coincidence, of course, +nothing else? Besides, a mere sovereign! It wasn't enough. Charlie had +said 'rich for life'. The sovereign must have lain there for months and +months, forgotten. +</P> + +<P> +However, it was none the less a sovereign. She picked it up, thanked +Providence, ordered the dog-cart, and drove straight to Brunt's. The +particular thing that she acquired was an exceedingly thin, slim, and +fetching silver belt—a marvel for the money, and the ideal waist +decoration for her wonderful white muslin gown. She bought it, and left +the shop. +</P> + +<P> +And as she came out of the shop, she saw a street urchin holding out +the poster of the early edition of the Signal. And she read on the +poster, in large letters: 'DEATH OF LI HUNG CHANG.' It is no +exaggeration to say that she nearly fainted. Only by the exercise of +that hard self-control, of which women alone are capable, did she +refrain from tumbling against the blue-clad breast of Adams, the +Cheswardine coachman. +</P> + +<P> +She purchased the Signal with well-feigned calm, opened it and read: +'Stop-press news. Pekin. Li Hung Chang, the celebrated Chinese +statesman, died at two o'clock this morning.—Reuter.' +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +Vera reclined on the sofa that afternoon, and the sofa was drawn round +in front of the drawing-room fire. And she wore her fluffiest and +languidest peignoir. And there was a perfume of eau de Cologne in the +apartment. Vera was having a headache; she was having it in her grand, +her official manner. Stephen had had to lunch alone. He had been told +that in all probability his suffering wife would not be well enough to +go to the ball. Whereupon he had grunted. As a fact, Vera's headache +was extremely real, and she was very upset indeed. +</P> + +<P> +The death of Li Hung Chang was heavy on her soul. Occultism was +justified of itself. The affair lay beyond coincidence. She had always +KNOWN that there was something in occultism, supernaturalism, so-called +superstitions, what not. But she had never expected to prove the faith +that was in her by such a homicidal act on her own part. It was +detestable of Charlie to have mentioned the thing at all. He had no +right to play with fire. And as for her husband, words could give but +the merest rough outline of her resentment against Stephen. A pretty +state of things that a woman with a position such as she had to keep up +should be reduced to six and sevenpence! Stephen, no doubt, expected +her to visit the pawnshop. It would serve him right if she did so—and +he met her coming out under the three brass balls! Did she not dress +solely and wholly to please him? Not in the least to please herself! +Personally she had a mind set on higher things, impossible aspirations. +But he liked fine clothes. And it was her duty to satisfy him. She +strove to satisfy him in all matters. She lived for him. She sacrificed +herself to him completely. And what did she get in return? Nothing! +Nothing! Nothing! All men were selfish. And women were their +victims.... Stephen, with his silly bullying rules against credit and +so forth.... The worst of men was that they had no sense. +</P> + +<P> +She put a new dose of eau de Cologne on her forehead, and leaned on one +elbow. On the mantelpiece lay the tissue parcel containing the slim +silver belt, the price of Li's death. She wanted to stick it in the +fire. And only the fact that it would not burn prevented her savagely +doing so. There was something wrong, too, with the occultism. To +receive a paltry sovereign for murdering the greatest statesman of the +Eastern hemisphere was simply grotesque. Moreover, she had most +distinctly not wanted to deprive China of a distinguished man. She had +expressly stipulated for an inferior and insignificant mandarin, one +that could be spared and that was unknown to Reuter. She supposed she +ought to have looked up China at the Wedgwood Institution and selected +a definite mandarin with a definite place of residence. But could she +be expected to go about a murder deliberately like that? +</P> + +<P> +With regard to the gross inadequacy of the fiscal return for her deed, +perhaps that was her own fault. She had not wished for more. Her brain +had been so occupied by the belt that she had wished only for the belt. +But, perhaps, on the other hand, vast wealth was to come. Perhaps +something might occur that very night. That would be better. Yet would +it be better? However rich she might become, Stephen would coolly take +charge of her riches, and dole them out to her, and make rules for her +concerning them. And besides, Charlie would suspect her guilt. Charlie +understood her, and perused her thoughts far better than Stephen did. +She would never be able to conceal the truth from Charlie. The +conversation, the death of Li within two hours, and then a sudden +fortune accruing to her—Charlie would inevitably put two and two +together and divine her shameful secret. +</P> + +<P> +The outlook was thoroughly black anyway. +</P> + +<P> +She then fell asleep. +</P> + +<P> +When she awoke, some considerable time afterwards, Stephen was calling +to her. It was his voice, indeed, that had aroused her. The room was +dark. +</P> + +<P> +'I say, Vera,' he demanded, in a low, slightly inimical tone, 'have you +taken a sovereign out of the empty drawer in your toilet-table?' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' she said quickly, without thinking. +</P> + +<P> +'Ah!' he observed reflectively, 'I knew I was right.' He paused, and +added, coldly, 'If you aren't better you ought to go to bed.' +</P> + +<P> +Then he left her, shutting the door with a noise that showed a certain +lack of sympathy with her headache. +</P> + +<P> +She sprang up. Her first feeling was one of thankfulness that that +brief interview had occurred in darkness. So Stephen was aware of the +existence of the sovereign! The sovereign was not occult. Possibly he +had put it there. And what did he know he was 'right' about? +</P> + +<P> +She lighted the gas, and gazed at herself in the glass, realizing that +she no longer had a headache, and endeavouring to arrange her ideas. +</P> + +<P> +'What's this?' said another voice at the door. She glanced round +hastily, guiltily. It was Charlie. +</P> + +<P> +'Steve telephoned me you were too ill to go to the dance,' explained +Charlie, 'so I thought I'd come and make inquiries. I quite expected to +find you in bed with a nurse and a doctor or two at least. What is it?' +He smiled. +</P> + +<P> +'Nothing,' she replied. 'Only a headache. It's gone now.' +</P> + +<P> +She stood against the mantelpiece, so that he should not see the white +parcel. +</P> + +<P> +'That's good,' said Charlie. +</P> + +<P> +There was a pause. +</P> + +<P> +'Strange, Li Hung Chang dying last night, just after we had been +talking about killing mandarins,' she said. She could not keep off the +subject. It attracted her like a snake, and she approached it in spite +of the fact that she fervently wished not to approach it. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' said Charlie. 'But Li wasn't a mandarin, you know. And he didn't +die after we had been talking about mandarins. He died before.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! I thought it said in the paper he died at two o'clock this +morning.' +</P> + +<P> +'Two a.m. in Pekin,' Charlie answered. 'You must remember that Pekin +time is many hours earlier than our time. It lies so far eastward.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh!' she said again. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen hurried in, with a worried air. +</P> + +<P> +'Ah! It's you, Charlie!' +</P> + +<P> +'She isn't absolutely dying, I find,' said Charlie, turning to Vera: +'You are going to the dance after all—aren't you?' +</P> + +<P> +'I say, Vera,' Stephen interrupted, 'either you or I must have a scene +with Martha. I've always suspected that confounded housemaid. So I put +a marked sovereign in a drawer this morning, and it was gone at +lunch-time. She'd better hook it instantly. Of course I shan't +prosecute.' +</P> + +<P> +'Martha!' cried Vera. 'Stephen, what on earth are you thinking of? I +wish you would leave the servants to me. If you think you can manage +this house in your spare time from the works, you are welcome to try. +But don't blame me for the consequences.' Glances of triumph flashed in +her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +'But I tell you—' +</P> + +<P> +'Nonsense,' said Vera. 'I took the sovereign. I saw it there and I took +it, and just to punish you, I've spent it. It's not at all nice to lay +traps for servants like that.' +</P> + +<P> +'Then why did you tell me just now you hadn't taken it?' Stephen +demanded crossly. +</P> + +<P> +'I didn't feel well enough to argue with you then,' Vera replied. +</P> + +<P> +'You've recovered precious quick,' retorted Stephen with grimness. +</P> + +<P> +'Of course, if you want to make a scene before strangers,' Vera +whimpered (poor Charlie a stranger!), 'I'll go to bed.' +</P> + +<P> +Stephen knew when he was beaten. +</P> + +<P> +She went to the Hockey dance, though. She and Stephen and Charlie and +his young sister, aged seventeen, all descended together to the Town +Hall in a brougham. The young girl admired Vera's belt excessively, and +looked forward to the moment when she too should be a bewitching and +captivating wife like Vera, in short, a woman of the world, worshipped +by grave, bearded men. And both the men were under the spell of Vera's +incurable charm, capricious, surprising, exasperating, indefinable, +indispensable to their lives. +</P> + +<P> +'Stupid superstitions!' reflected Vera. 'But of course I never believed +it really.' +</P> + +<P> +And she cast down her eyes to gloat over the belt. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="second"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VERA'S SECOND CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +Curious and strange things had a way of happening to Vera—perhaps +because she was an extremely feminine woman. But of all the curious and +strange things that ever did happen to Vera, this was certainly the +strangest and the most curious. It makes a somewhat exasperating +narrative, because the affair ended—or, rather, Vera caused it to +end—on a note of interrogation. The reader may, however, draw +consolation from the fact that, if he is tormented by an unanswerable +query, Vera herself was much more tormented by precisely the same query. +</P> + +<P> +Two days before Christmas, at about three o'clock in the afternoon, +just when it was getting dusk and the distant smokepall of the Five +Towns was merging in the general greyness of the northern sky, Vera was +sitting in the bow-window of the drawing-room of Stephen Cheswardine's +newly-acquired house at Sneyd; Sneyd being the fashionable suburb of +the Five Towns, graced by the near presence of a countess. And as the +slim, thirty-year-old Vera sat there, moody (for reasons which will +soon appear), in her charming teagown, her husband drove up to the door +in the dogcart, and he was not alone. He had with him a man of vigorous +and dashing appearance, fair, far from ugly, and with a masterful face, +keen eyes, and most magnificent furs round about him. At sight of the +visitor Vera's heart did not exactly jump, but it nearly jumped. +</P> + +<P> +Presently, Stephen brought his acquaintance into the drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +"My wife," said Stephen, rubbing his hands. "Vera, this is Mr +Bittenger, of New York. He will give us the pleasure of spending the +night here." +</P> + +<P> +And now Vera's little heart really did jump. +</P> + +<P> +She behaved with the delicious wayward grace which she could always +command when she chose to command it. No one would have guessed that +she had not spoken to Stephen for a week. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm most happy—most happy,' said Mr Bittenger, with a marked accent +and a fine complimentary air. And obviously he was most happy. Vera had +impressed him. There was nothing surprising in that. She was in the +fullness of her powers in that direction. +</P> + +<P> +It is at this point—at the point of the first jumping of Vera's +heart—that the tale begins to be uncanny and disturbing. Thus runs the +explanation. +</P> + +<P> +During the year Stephen had gradually grown more and more preoccupied +with the subject of his own health. The earthenware business was very +good, although, of course, manufacturers were complaining just as +usual. Trade, indeed, flourished to such an extent that Stephen had +pronounced himself to be suffering from nervous strain and overwork. +The symptoms of his malady were chiefly connected with the assimilation +of food; to be brief, it was dyspepsia. And as Stephen had previously +been one of those favoured people who can eat anything at any hour, and +arise in the best of health the next day, Stephen was troubled. At +last—about August, when he was obliged to give up wine—he had +suddenly decided that the grimy air of the Five Towns was bad for him, +and that the household should be removed to Sneyd. And removed to Sneyd +it accordingly was. The new house was larger and more splendid even +than the Cheswardine abode at Bursley. But Vera did not like the +change. Vera preferred the town. Nevertheless, she could not openly +demur, since Stephen's health was supposed to be at stake. +</P> + +<P> +During the autumn she was tremendously bored at Sneyd. She had +practically no audience for her pretty dresses, and her friends would +not flock over from Bursley because of the difficulty of getting home +at night. Then it was that Vera had the beautiful idea of spending +Christmas in Switzerland. Someone had told her about a certain hotel +called The Bear, where, on Christmas Day, never less than a hundred +well-dressed and wealthy English people sat down to an orthodox +Christmas dinner. The notion enchanted her. She decided, definitely, +that she and Stephen should do their Christmassing at The Bear, +wherever the Bear was. And as she was fully aware of the power of her +capricious charm over Stephen, she regarded the excursion as arranged +before she had broached it to him. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen refused. He remarked bitterly that the very thought of a +mince-tart made him ill; and that he hated 'abroad'. +</P> + +<P> +Vera took her defeat badly. +</P> + +<P> +She pouted. She sulked. She announced that, if she was not to be +allowed to do her Christmassing at The Bear, she would not do it +anywhere. She indicated that she meant to perish miserably of ennui in +the besotted dullness of Sneyd, and that no Christmas-party of any kind +should occur in HER house. She ceased to show interest in Stephen's +health. She would not speak. In fact, she went too far. One day, in +reply to her rude silence, Stephen said: 'Very well, child, if that's +your game, I'll play it with you. Except when other people are present, +not a word do I speak to you until you have first spoken to me.' +</P> + +<P> +She knew he would abide by that. He was a monster. She hated him. She +loathed him (so she said to herself). +</P> + +<P> +That night, in the agony of her distress, she had dreamed a dream. She +dreamed that a stranger came to the house. The details were vague, but +the stranger had travelled many miles over water. She could not see him +distinctly, but she knew that he was quite bald. In spite of his +baldness he inspired her with sympathy. He understood her, praised her +costumes, and treated a woman as a woman ought to be treated. Then, +somehow or other, he was making love to her, the monster Stephen being +absent. She was shocked by his making love to her, and she moved a +little farther off him on the sofa (he had sat down by her on a vague +sort of sofa in a vague sort of room); but still she was thrilled, and +she could not feel as wicked as she felt she ought to feel. Then the +dream became hazy; it became hazy at the interesting point of her +answer to the love-making. A later stage was very clear. Something was +afoot between the monster Stephen and the stranger in the dining-room, +and she was locked out of the dining-room. It was Christmas night. She +knocked frantically at the door, and at last forced it open, and +Stephen was lying in the middle of the floor; the table had been pushed +into a corner. 'I killed him quite by accident,' said the stranger +affably. And then he seized her by the hand and ruthlessly dragged her +away, away, away; and they travelled in trains and ships and trains, +and they came to a very noisy, clanging sort of city—and Vera woke up. +It had been a highly realistic dream, and it made a deep impression on +Vera. +</P> + +<P> +Can one wonder that Vera's heart, being a superstitious little heart, +like all our hearts, should leap when the very next day Stephen turned +up with a completely unexpected stranger from New York? Of course, +dreams are nonsense! Of course! Still— +</P> + +<P> +She did not know whether to rejoice or mourn over the fact that Mr +Bittenger was not bald. He was decidedly unbald; he had a glorious +shock of chestnut hair. That hair of his naturally destroyed any +possible connection with the dream. None the less the coincidence was +bizarre. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +That evening, before dinner, Vera, busy in her chamber beautifying her +charms for the ravishment of men from New York, waited with secret +anxiety for the arrival of Stephen in his dressing-room. And whereas +she usually closed the door between the bedroom and the dressing-room, +on this occasion she carefully left it wide open. Stephen came at last. +And she waited, listening to his movements in the dressing-room. Not a +word! She made brusque movements in the bedroom to attract his +attention; she even dropped a brush on the floor. Not a word! After a +few moments, she actually ventured into the dressing-room. Stephen was +wiping his face, and he glanced at her momentarily over the towel, +which hid his nose and mouth. Not a word! And how hard was the +monster's glance! She felt that Stephen was one of your absurd literal +persons. He had said that he would not speak to her until she had first +spoken to him—that was to say in private—public performances did not +count. And he would stick to his text, no matter how deliciously she +behaved. +</P> + +<P> +She left the dressing-room in haste. Very well! Very well! If Stephen +wished for war, he should have it. Her grievance against him grew into +something immense. Before, it had been nothing but a kind of two-roomed +cottage. She now erected it into a town hall, with imposing portals, +and many windows and rich statuary, and suite after suite of enormous +rooms, and marble staircases, and lifts that went up and down. She +wished she had never married him. She wished that Mr Bittenger HAD been +bald. +</P> + +<P> +At dinner everything went with admirable smoothness. Mr Bittenger sat +betwixt them. And utmost politeness reigned. In their quality of +well-bred hosts, they both endeavoured to keep Mr Bittenger at his ease +despite their desolating quarrel; and they entirely succeeded. As the +champagne disappeared (and it was not Stephen that drank it), Mr +Bittenger became more than at his ease. He was buyer for an important +firm of earthenware dealers in New York (Vera had suspected as +much—these hospitalities to American buyers are an essential part of +business in the Five Towns), and he related very drolly the series of +chances or mischances that had left him stranded in England at that +season so unseasonable for buying. Vera reflected upon the series of +chances or mischances, and upon her dream of the man from over the long +miles of water. Of course, dreams are nonsense.... But still— +</P> + +<P> +The conversation passed to the topic of Stephen's health, as +conversations in Stephen's house had a habit of doing. Mr Bittenger +listened with grave interest. +</P> + +<P> +'I know, I know!' said Mr Bittenger. 'I used to be exactly the same. I +guess I understand how you feel—SOME! Don't I?' +</P> + +<P> +'And you are cured?' Stephen demanded, eagerly, as he nibbled at dry +toast. +</P> + +<P> +'You bet I'm cured!' said Mr Bittenger. +</P> + +<P> +'You must tell me about that,' said Stephen, and added, 'some time +tonight.' He did not care to discuss the bewildering internal economy +of the human frame at his dinner-table. There were details...and Mr +Bittenger was in a mood that it was no exaggeration to describe as gay. +</P> + +<P> +Shortly afterwards, there arose a discussion as to their respective +ages. They coquetted for a few moments, as men invariably will, each +diffident about giving away the secret, each asserting that the other +was younger than himself. +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' said Mr Bittenger to Vera, at length, 'what age should you give +me?' +</P> + +<P> +'I—I should give you five years less than Stephen,' Vera replied. +</P> + +<P> +'And may I ask just how old you are?' Mr Bittenger put the question at +close range to Stephen, and hit him full in the face with it. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm forty,' said Stephen. +</P> + +<P> +'So am I!' said Mr Bittenger. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, you don't look it,' said Stephen. +</P> + +<P> +'Sure!' Mr Bittenger admitted, pleased. +</P> + +<P> +'My husband's hair is turning grey,' said Vera, 'while yours—' +</P> + +<P> +'Turning grey!' exclaimed Mr Bittender. 'I wish mine was. I'd give five +thousand dollars today if mine was.' +</P> + +<P> +'But why—?' Vera smiled. +</P> + +<P> +'Look here, my dear lady,' said Mr Bittenger, in a peculiar voice, +putting down his glass. +</P> + +<P> +And with a swift movement he lifted a wig of glorious chestnut hair +from his head—just lifted it for an instant, and dropped it. The man +was utterly and completely bald. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +Vera did nothing foolish. She neither cried, screamed, turned deadly +pale, clenched her fragile hands, bit her lips till the blood came, +smashed a wine-glass, nor fell with a dull thud senseless to the floor. +Nevertheless, she was extremely perturbed by this astounding revelation +of Mr Bittenger's. Of course, dreams are nonsense. But still—The truth +is, one tries to believe that dreams are nonsense, and up to a certain +point one may succeed in believing. But it seemed to Vera that +circumstances had passed that point. She could not but admit, also, +that if the dream went on being fulfilled, within forty-eight hours Mr +Bittenger would have made love to her, and would have killed her +husband. +</P> + +<P> +She was so incensed against Stephen that she really could not decide +whether she wanted the dream to be fulfilled or not. No one would have +imagined that that soft breast could conceal a homicidal thought. Yet +so it was. That pretty and delightful woman, wandering about in the +edifice of her terrific grievance against Stephen, could not say +positively to herself that she would not care to have Stephen killed as +a punishment for his sins. +</P> + +<P> +After dinner, she found an excuse for retiring. She must think the +puzzle out in solitude. Matters were really going too far. She allowed +it to be understood that she was indisposed. Mr Bittenger was full of +sorrow and sympathy. But did Stephen show the slightest concern? +Stephen did not. She went upstairs, and she meditated, stretched on the +sofa at the foot of the bed, a rug over her knees and the fire glinting +on her face. Yes, it was her duty as a Christian, if not as an outraged +wife, to warn Stephen that the shadow of death was creeping up behind +him. He ought at least to be warned. But how could she warn him? +Clearly she could not warn him in the presence of Mr Bittenger, the +prospective murderer. She would, therefore, have to warn him when they +were alone. And that meant that she would have to give way in the great +conjugal sulking match. No, never! It was impossible that she should +give way there! She frowned desperately at the leaping flames, and did +ultimately decide that Stephen's death was preferable to her defeat in +that contest. Of such is human nature. +</P> + +<P> +After all, dreams were nonsense. +</P> + +<P> +Surely Stephen would come upstairs to inquire about her health, her +indisposition? But no! He came not. And, as he continued not to come, +she went downstairs again and proclaimed that she was better. +</P> + +<P> +And then she learned that she had been worrying herself to no purpose +whatever. Mr Bittenger was leaving on the morrow, the morrow being +Christmas Eve. Stephen would drive him to Bursley in the morning. He +would go to the Five Towns Hotel to get his baggage, and catch the +Liverpool express at noon. He had booked a passage on the Saxonia, +which sailed at threethirty o'clock. Thus he would spend his Christmas +at sea; and, spending his Christmas at sea, he could not possibly kill +Stephen in the village of Sneyd on Christmas night. +</P> + +<P> +Relief! And yet a certain vague regret in the superstitious little +heart! The little heart went to bed again. And Stephen and the stranger +stayed up talking very late—doubtless about the famous cure. +</P> + +<P> +The leave-taking the next morning increased the vague regret. Mr +Bittenger was the possessor of an attractive individuality, and Vera +pondered upon its attractiveness far into the afternoon. How nicely Mr +Bittenger had thanked her for her gracious hospitality—with what +meaning he had charged the expression of his deep regret at leaving her! +</P> + +<P> +After all, dreams WERE nonsense. +</P> + +<P> +She was sitting in the bow-window of the drawing-room, precisely as she +had been sitting twenty-four hours previously, when whom should she +see, striding masculinely along the drive towards the house, but Mr +Bittenger? +</P> + +<P> +This time she was much more perturbed even than she had been by the +revelation of Mr Bittenger's baldness. +</P> + +<P> +After all— +</P> + +<P> +She uprose, the blood having rushed to her head, and retreated she knew +not whither, blindly, without a purpose. And found herself in a little +morning-room which was scarcely ever used, at the end of the hall. She +had not shut the door. And Mr Bittenger, having been admitted by a +servant, caught sight of her, and breezily entered her retreat, clad in +his magnificent furs. +</P> + +<P> +And as he doffed the furs, he gaily told her what had happened. Owing +to difficulties with the Cheswardine mare on the frosty, undulating +road between Sneyd and Bursley, and owing to delays with his baggage at +the Five Towns Hotel, he had just missed the Liverpool express, and, +therefore, the steamer also. He had returned to Stephen's manufactory. +Stephen had insisted that he should spend his Christmas with them. And, +in brief, there he was. He had walked from Bursley. Stephen, kept by +business, was coming later, and so was some of the baggage. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Bittenger's face radiated joy. The loss of his twenty-guinea passage +on the Saxonia did not appear to cause him the least regret. +</P> + +<P> +And he sat down by the side of Vera. +</P> + +<P> +And Vera suddenly noticed that they were on a sofa—the sofa of her +dream—and she fancied she recognized the room. +</P> + +<P> +'You know, my dear lady,' said Mr Bittenger, looking her straight in +the eyes, 'I'm just GLAD I missed my steamer. It gives me a chance to +spend a Christmas in England, and in your delightful society—your +delightful society—' He gazed at her, without adding to the sentence. +</P> + +<P> +If this was not love-making on a sofa, what could be? +</P> + +<P> +Mr Bittenger had certainly missed the Liverpool express on purpose. Of +that Vera was convinced. Or, if he had not missed it on purpose, he had +missed it under the dictates of the mysterious power of the dream. +Those people who chose to believe that dreams are nonsense were at +liberty to do so. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H4> + +<P> +So that in spite of Vera's definite proclamation that there should be +no Christmassing in her house that year, Christmassing there +emphatically was. Impossible to deny anything to Mr Bittenger! Mr +Bittenger wanted holly, the gardener supplied it. Mr Bittenger wanted +mistletoe, a bunch of it was brought home by Stephen in the dogcart. Mr +Bittenger could not conceive an English Christmas without turkey, +mince-pies, plum-pudding, and all the usual indigestiveness. Vera, +speaking in a voice which seemed somehow not to be hers, stated that +these necessaries of Christmas life would be produced, and Stephen did +not say that the very thought of a mince-tart made him ill. Even the +English weather, which, it is notorious, has of late shown a sad +disposition to imitate, and even to surpass, in mildness the weather of +the Riviera at Christmas, decided to oblige Mr Bittenger. At nightfall +on Christmas Eve it began to snow gently, but steadily—fine, frozen +snow. And the waits, consisting of boys and girls from the Countess of +Chell's celebrated institute close by, came and sang in the garden in +the falling snow, by the light of a lantern. And Mr Bittenger's heart +was as full as it could hold of English Christmas. +</P> + +<P> +As for Vera's heart, it was full of she knew not what. Mr Bittenger's +attitude towards her grew more and more chivalrous. He contrived to +indicate that he regarded all the years he had spent before making the +acquaintance of Vera as so many years absolutely wasted. And Stephen +did not seem to care. +</P> + +<P> +They retired to rest that evening up a staircase whose banisters the +industrious hands of Mr Bittenger had entwined with holly and paper +festoons, and bade each other a merry Christmas with immense fervour; +but in the conjugal chamber Stephen maintained his policy of implacable +silence. And, naturally, Vera maintained hers. Could it be expected of +her that she should yield? The fault was all Stephen's. He ought to +have taken her to The Bear, Switzerland. Then there would have been no +dream, no Mr Bittenger, and no danger. But as things were, within +twenty-four hours he would be a dead man. +</P> + +<P> +And throughout Christmas Day Vera, beneath the gaiety with which she +met the vivacious sallies of Mr Bittenger, waited in horrible suspense +for the dream to fulfil itself. Stephen alone observed her agitated +condition. Stephen said to himself: 'The quarrel is getting on her +nerves. She'll yield before she's a day older. It will do her good. +Then I'll make it up to her handsomely. But she must yield first.' +</P> + +<P> +He little knew he was standing on the edge of the precipice of death. +</P> + +<P> +The Christmas dinner succeeded admirably; and Stephen, in whom courage +was seldom lacking, ate half a mince-pie. The day was almost over. No +premature decease had so far occurred. And when both the men said that, +if Vera permitted, they would come with her at once to the drawing-room +and smoke there, Vera decided that after all dreams were nonsense. She +entered the drawing-room first, and Mr Bittenger followed her, with +Stephen behind; but just as Stephen was crossing the mat the gardener, +holding a parcel in his hands and looking rather strange there in the +hall, spoke to him. And Stephen stopped and called to Mr Bittenger. And +the drawing-room door was closed upon Vera. +</P> + +<P> +She waited, solitary, for an incredible space of time, and then, having +heard unaccustomed and violent sounds in the distance, she could +contain herself no longer, and she rang the bell. +</P> + +<P> +'Louisa,' she demanded of the parlourmaid, 'where is your master?' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, ma'am,' replied Louisa, giggling—a little licence was surely +permissible to the girl on Christmas night—'Oh, ma'am, there's such a +to-do! Tinsley has just brought some boxing-gloves, and master and Mr +Bittenger have got their coats off in the dining-room. And they've had +the table pushed up by the door, and you never saw such a set-out in +all your life ma'am.' +</P> + +<P> +Vera dismissed Louisa. +</P> + +<P> +There it was—the dream! They were going to box. Mr Bittenger was +doubtless an expert, and she knew that Stephen was not. A chance blow +by Mr Bittenger in some vital part, and Stephen would be lying +stretched in eternal stillness in the middle of the dining-room floor +where the table ought to be! The life of the monster was at stake! The +life of the brute was in her hands! The dream was fulfilling itself to +the point of tragedy! +</P> + +<P> +She jumped up and rushed to the dining-room door. It would not open. +Again, the dream! +</P> + +<P> +'You can't come in,' cried Stephen, laughing. 'Wait a bit.' +</P> + +<P> +She pushed against the door, working the handle. +</P> + +<P> +She was about to insist upon the door being opened, when the idea of +the danger of such a proceeding occurred to her. In the dream, when she +got the door opened, her husband's death had already happened! +</P> + +<P> +Frantically she ran to the kitchen. +</P> + +<P> +'Louisa,' she ordered. 'Go into the garden and tap at the dining-room +window, and tell your master that I must speak to him at once in the +drawing-room.' +</P> + +<P> +And in a pitiable state of excitation, she returned to the drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +After another interminable period of suspense, her ear caught the sound +of the opening of doors, and then Stephen came into the drawing-room. A +singular apparition! He was coatless, as Louisa had said, and the +extremities of his long arms were bulged out with cream-coloured +boxing-gloves. +</P> + +<P> +She sprang at him and kissed him. +</P> + +<P> +'Steve,' she said, 'are we friends?' +</P> + +<P> +'I should think we were!' he replied, returning her kiss heartily. He +had won. +</P> + +<P> +'What are you doing?' she asked him. +</P> + +<P> +'Bittenger and I are just going to have a real round with the gloves. +It's part of his cure for my indigestion, you know. He says there's +nothing like it. I've only just been able to get gloves. Tinsley +brought them up just now. And so we sort of thought we'd like to have a +go at once.' +</P> + +<P> +'Why wouldn't you let me into the dining-room?' +</P> + +<P> +'My child, the table was up against the door. And I fancied, perhaps, +you wouldn't be exactly charmed, so I—' +</P> + +<P> +'Stephen,' she said, in her most persuasive voice, 'will you do +something to please me?' +</P> + +<P> +'What is it?' +</P> + +<P> +'Will you?' +</P> + +<P> +A pause. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, certainly.' +</P> + +<P> +'Don't box tonight.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh—well! What will Bittenger think?' +</P> + +<P> +Another pause. +</P> + +<P> +'Never mind! You don't want me to box, really?' +</P> + +<P> +'I don't want you to box—not tonight.' 'Agreed, my chuck!' And he +kissed her again. He could well afford to be magnanimous. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Bittenger ploughed the seas alone to New York. +</P> + +<P> +But supposing that Vera had not interfered, what would have happened? +That is the unanswerable query which torments the superstitious little +brain of Vera. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="burglary"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE BURGLARY +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +Lady Dain said: 'Jee, if that portrait stays there much longer, you'll +just have to take me off to Pirehill one of these fine mornings.' +</P> + +<P> +Pirehill is the seat of the great local hospital; but it is also the +seat of the great local lunatic asylum; and when the inhabitants of the +Five Towns say merely 'Pirehill', they mean the asylum. +</P> + +<P> +'I do declare I can't fancy my food now-a-days,' said Lady Dain, 'and +it's all that portrait!' She stared plaintively up at the immense +oil-painting which faced her as she sat at the breakfast-table in her +spacious and opulent dining-room. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Jehoshaphat made no remark. +</P> + +<P> +Despite Lady Dain's animadversions upon it, despite the undoubted fact +that it was generally disliked in the Five Towns, the portrait had cost +a thousand pounds (some said guineas), and though not yet two years old +it was probably worth at least fifteen hundred in the picture market. +For it was a Cressage; and not only was it a Cressage—it was one of +the finest Cressages in existence. +</P> + +<P> +It marked the summit of Sir Jehoshaphat's career. Sir Jehoshaphat's +career was, perhaps, the most successful and brilliant in the entire +social history of the Five Towns. This famous man was the principal +partner in Dain Brothers. His brother was dead, but two of Sir Jee's +sons were in the firm. Dain Brothers were the largest manufacturers of +cheap earthenware in the district, catering chiefly for the American +and Colonial buyer. They had an extremely bad reputation for cutting +prices. They were hated by every other firm in the Five Towns, and, to +hear rival manufacturers talk, one would gather the impression that Sir +Jee had acquired a tremendous fortune by systematically selling goods +under cost. They were also hated by between eighteen and nineteen +hundred employees. But such hatred, however virulent, had not marred +the progress of Sir Jee's career. +</P> + +<P> +He had meant to make a name and he had made it. The Five Towns might +laugh at his vulgar snobbishness. The Five Towns might sneer at his +calculated philanthropy. But he was, nevertheless, the best-known man +in the Five Towns, and it was precisely his snobbishness and his +philanthropy which had carried him to the top. Moreover, he had been +the first public man in the Five Towns to gain a knighthood. The Five +Towns could not deny that it was very proud indeed of this knighthood. +The means by which he had won this distinction were neither here nor +there—he had won it. And was he not the father of his native borough? +Had he not been three times mayor of his native borough? Was not the +whole northern half of the county dotted and spangled by his +benefactions, his institutions, his endowments? +</P> + +<P> +And it could not be denied that he sometimes tickled the Five Towns as +the Five Towns likes being tickled. There was, for example, the +notorious Sneyd incident. Sneyd Hall, belonging to the Earl of Chell, +lies a few miles south of the Five Towns, and from it the pretty +Countess of Chell exercises that condescending meddlesomeness which so +frequently exasperates the Five Towns. Sir Jee had got his title by the +aid of the Countess-'Interfering Iris', as she is locally dubbed. +Shortly afterwards he had contrived to quarrel with the Countess; and +the quarrel was conducted by Sir Jee as a quarrel between equals, which +delighted the district. Sir Jee's final word in it had been to buy a +sizable tract of land near Sneyd village, just off the Sneyd estate, +and to erect thereon a mansion quite as imposing as Sneyd Hall, and far +more up to date, and to call the mansion Sneyd Castle. A mighty stroke! +Iris was furious; the Earl speechless with fury. But they could do +nothing. Naturally the Five Towns was tickled. +</P> + +<P> +It was apropos of the house-warming of Sneyd Castle, also of the +completion of his third mayoralty, and of the inauguration of the Dain +Technical Institute, that the movement had been started (primarily by a +few toadies) for tendering to Sir Jee a popular gift worthy to express +the profound esteem in which he was officially held in the Five Towns. +It having been generally felt that the gift should take the form of a +portrait, a local dilettante had suggested Cressage, and when the Five +Towns had inquired into Cressage and discovered that that genius from +the United States was celebrated throughout the civilized world, and +regarded as the equal of Velazquez (whoever Velazquez might be), and +that he had painted half the aristocracy, and that his income was +regal, the suggestion was accepted and Cressage was approached. +</P> + +<P> +Cressage haughtily consented to paint Sir Jee's portrait on his usual +conditions; namely, that the sitter should go to the little village in +Bedfordshire where Cressage had his principal studio, and that the +painting should be exhibited at the Royal Academy before being shown +anywhere else. (Cressage was an R.A., but no one thought of putting +R.A. after his name. He was so big, that instead of the Royal Academy +conferring distinction on him, he conferred distinction on the Royal +Academy.) +</P> + +<P> +Sir Jee went to Bedfordshire and was rapidly painted, and he came back +gloomy. The presentation committee went to Bedfordshire later to +inspect the portrait, and they, too, came back gloomy. +</P> + +<P> +Then the Academy Exhibition opened, and the portrait, showing Sir Jee +in his robe and chain and in a chair, was instantly hailed as possibly +the most glorious masterpiece of modern times. All the critics were of +one accord. The committee and Sir Jee were reassured, but only +partially, and Sir Jee rather less so than the committee. For there was +something in the enthusiastic criticism which gravely disturbed him. An +enlightened generation, thoroughly familiar with the dazzling yearly +succession of Cressage's portraits, need not be told what this +something was. One critic wrote that Cressage displayed even more than +his 'customary astounding insight into character....' Another critic +wrote that Cressage's observation was, as usual, 'calmly and coldly +hostile'. Another referred to the 'typical provincial mayor, +immortalized for the diversion of future ages.' +</P> + +<P> +Inhabitants of the Five Towns went to London to see the work for which +they had subscribed, and they saw a mean, little, old man, with thin +lips and a straggling grey beard, and shifty eyes, and pushful snob +written all over him; ridiculous in his gewgaws of office. When you +looked at the picture close to, it was a meaningless mass of coloured +smudges, but when you stood fifteen feet away from it the portrait was +absolutely lifelike, amazing, miraculous. It was so wondrously lifelike +that some of the inhabitants of the Five Towns burst out laughing. Many +people felt sorry—not for Sir Jee—but for Lady Dain. Lady Dain was +beloved and genuinely respected. She was a simple, homely, sincere +woman, her one weakness being that she had never been able to see +through Sir Jee. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, at the presentation ceremony the portrait had been +ecstatically referred to as a possession precious for ever, and the +recipient and his wife pretended to be overflowing with pure joy in the +ownership of it. +</P> + +<P> +It had been hanging in the dining-room of Sneyd Castle about sixteen +months, when Lady Dain told her husband that it would ultimately drive +her into the lunatic asylum. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't be silly, wife,' said Sir Jee. 'I wouldn't part with that +portrait for ten times what it cost.' +</P> + +<P> +This was, to speak bluntly, a downright lie. Sir Jee secretly hated the +portrait more than anyone hated it. He would have been almost ready to +burn down Sneyd Castle in order to get rid of the thing. But it +happened that on the previous evening, in the conversation with the +magistrates' clerk, his receptive brain had been visited by a less +expensive scheme than burning down the castle. +</P> + +<P> +Lady Dain sighed. +</P> + +<P> +'Are you going to town early?' she inquired. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' he replied. 'I'm on the rota today.' +</P> + +<P> +He was chairman of the borough Bench of magistrates. As he drove into +town he revolved his scheme and thought it wild and dangerous, but +still feasible. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +On the Bench that morning Sir Jee shocked Mr Sherratt, the magistrates' +clerk, and he utterly disgusted Mr Bourne, superintendent of the +borough police. (I do not intend to name the name of the +borough—whether Bursley, Hanbridge, Knype, Longshaw, or Turnhill. The +inhabitants of the Five Towns will know without being told; the rest of +the world has no right to know.) There had recently occurred a somewhat +thrilling series of burglaries in the district, and the burglars (a +gang of them was presumed) had escaped the solicitous attentions of the +police. But on the previous afternoon an underling of Mr Bourne's had +caught a man who was generally believed to be wholly or partly +responsible for the burglaries. The Five Towns breathed with relief and +congratulated Mr Bourne; and Mr Bourne was well pleased with himself. +The Staffordshire Signal headed the item of news, 'Smart Capture of a +Supposed Burglar'. The supposed burglar gave his name as William Smith, +and otherwise behaved in an extremely suspicious manner. +</P> + +<P> +Now, Sir Jee, sitting as chief magistrate in the police-court, actually +dismissed the charge against the man! Overruling his sole colleague on +the Bench that morning, Alderman Easton, he dismissed the charge +against William Smith, holding that the evidence for the prosecution +was insufficient to justify even a remand. No wonder that Mr Bourne was +discouraged, not to say angry. No wonder that that pillar of the law, +Mr Sherratt, was pained and shocked. At the conclusion of the case Sir +Jehoshaphat said that he would be glad to speak with William Smith +afterwards in the magistrates' room, indicating that he sympathized +with William Smith, and wished to exercise upon William Smith his +renowned philanthropy. +</P> + +<P> +And so, at about noon, when the Court majestically rose, Sir Jee +retired to the magistrates' room, where the humble Alderman Easton was +discreet enough not to follow him, and awaited William Smith. And +William Smith came, guided thither by a policeman, to whom, in parting +from him, he made a rude, surreptitious gesture. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Jee, seated in the arm-chair which dominates the other chairs round +the elm table in the magistrates' room, emitted a preliminary cough. +</P> + +<P> +'Smith,' he said sternly, leaning his elbows on the table, 'you were +very fortunate this morning, you know.' +</P> + +<P> +And he gazed at Smith. +</P> + +<P> +Smith stood near the door, cap in hand. He did not resemble a burglar, +who surely ought to be big, muscular, and masterful. He resembled an +undersized clerk who has been out of work for a long time, but who has +nevertheless found the means to eat and drink rather plenteously. He +was clothed in a very shabby navy-blue suit, frayed at the wrists and +ankles, and greasy in front. His linen collar was brown with dirt, his +fingers were dirty, his hair was unkempt and long, and a young and +lusty black beard was sprouting on his chin. His boots were not at all +pleasant. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, governor,' Smith replied, lightly, with a Manchester accent. 'And +what's YOUR game?' +</P> + +<P> +Sir Jee was taken aback. He, the chairman of the borough Bench, and the +leading philanthropist in the country, to be so spoken to! But what +could he do? He himself had legally established Smith's innocence. +Smith was as free as air, and had a perfect right to adopt any tone he +chose to any man he chose. And Sir Jee desired a service from William +Smith. +</P> + +<P> +'I was hoping I might be of use to you,' said Sir Jehoshaphat +diplomatically. +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' said Smith, 'that's all right, that is. But none of your +philanthropic dodges, you know. I don't want to lead a new life, and I +don't want to turn over a new leaf, and I don't want a helpin' hand, +nor none o' those things. And, what's more, I don't want a situation. +I've got all the situation as I need. But I never refuse money, nor +beer neither. Never did, and I'm forty years old next month.' +</P> + +<P> +'I suppose burgling doesn't pay very well, does it?' Sir Jee boldly +ventured. +</P> + +<P> +William Smith laughed coarsely. +</P> + +<P> +'It pays right enough,' said he. 'But I don't put my money on my back, +governor, I put it into a bit of public-house property when I get the +chance.' +</P> + +<P> +'It may pay,' said Sir Jee. 'But it is wrong. It is very anti-social.' +</P> + +<P> +'Is it, indeed?' Smith returned dryly. 'Anti-social, is it? Well, I've +heard it called plenty o' things in my time, but never that. Now, I +should have called it quite sociablelike, sort of making free with +strangers, and so on. However,' he added, 'I come across a cove once as +told me crime was nothing but a disease and ought to be treated as +such. I asked him for a dozen o' port, but he never sent it.' +</P> + +<P> +'Ever been caught before?' Sir Jee inquired. +</P> + +<P> +'Not much!' Smith exclaimed. 'And this'll be a lesson to me, I can tell +you. Now, what are you getting at, governor? Because my time's money, +my time is.' +</P> + +<P> +Sir Jee coughed once more. +</P> + +<P> +'Sit down,' said Sir Jee. +</P> + +<P> +And William Smith sat down opposite to him at the table, and put his +shiny elbows on the table precisely in the manner of Sir Jee's elbows. +</P> + +<P> +'Well?' he cheerfully encouraged Sir Jee. +</P> + +<P> +'How would you like to commit a burglary that was not a crime?' said +Sir Jee, his shifty eyes wandering around the room. 'A perfectly lawful +burglary?' +</P> + +<P> +'What ARE you getting at?' William Smith was genuinely astonished. +</P> + +<P> +'At my residence, Sneyd Castle,' Sir Jee proceeded, 'there's a large +portrait of myself in the dining-room that I want to have stolen. You +understand?' +</P> + +<P> +'Stolen?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes. I want to get rid of it. And I want—er—people to think that it +has been stolen.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, why don't you stop up one night and steal it yourself, and then +burn it?' William Smith suggested. +</P> + +<P> +'That would be deceitful,' said Sir Jee, gravely. 'I could not tell my +friends that the portrait had been stolen if it had not been stolen. +The burglary must be entirely genuine.' +</P> + +<P> +'What's the figure?' said Smith curtly. +</P> + +<P> +'Figure?' +</P> + +<P> +'What are you going to give me for the job?' +</P> + +<P> +'GIVE you for doing the job?' Sir Jee repeated, his secret and +ineradicable meanness aroused. 'GIVE you? Why, I'm giving you the +opportunity to honestly steal a picture that's worth over a thousand +pounds—I dare say it would be worth two thousand pounds in +America—and you want to be paid into the bargain! Do you know, my man, +that people come all the way from Manchester, and even London, to see +that portrait?' He told Smith about the painting. +</P> + +<P> +'Then why are you in such a stew to be rid of it?' queried the burglar. +</P> + +<P> +'That's my affair,' said Sir Jee. 'I don't like it. Lady Dain doesn't +like it. But it's a presentation portrait, and so I can't—you see, Mr +Smith?' +</P> + +<P> +'And how am I going to dispose of it when I've got it?' Smith demanded. +'You can't melt a portrait down as if it was silver. By what you say, +governor, it's known all over the blessed world. Seems to me I might +just as well try to sell the Nelson Column.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, nonsense!' said Sir Jee. 'Nonsense. You'll sell it in America +quite easily. It'll be a fortune to you. Keep it for a year first, and +then send it to New York.' +</P> + +<P> +William Smith shook his head and drummed his fingers on the table; and +then quite suddenly he brightened and said— +</P> + +<P> +'All right, governor. I'll take it on, just to oblige you.' +</P> + +<P> +'When can you do it?' asked Sir Jee, hardly concealing his joy. +'Tonight?' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' said Smith, mysteriously. 'I'm engaged tonight.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, tomorrow night?' +</P> + +<P> +'Nor tomorrow. I'm engaged tomorrow too.' +</P> + +<P> +'You seem to be very much engaged, my man,' Sir Jee observed. +</P> + +<P> +'What do you expect?' Smith retorted. 'Business is business. I could do +it the night after tomorrow.' +</P> + +<P> +'But that's Christmas Eve,' Sir Jee protested. +</P> + +<P> +'What if it is Christmas Eve?' said Smith coldly. 'Would you prefer +Christmas Day? I'm engaged on Boxing Day AND the day after.' +</P> + +<P> +'Not in the Five Towns, I trust?' Sir Jee remarked. +</P> + +<P> +'No,' said Smith shortly. 'The Five Towns is about sucked dry.' +</P> + +<P> +The affair was arranged for Christmas Eve. +</P> + +<P> +'Now,' Sir Jee suggested, 'shall I draw you a plan of the castle, so +that you can—' +</P> + +<P> +William Smith's face expressed terrific scorn. 'Do you suppose,' he +said, 'as I haven't had plans o' your castle ever since it was built? +What do you take me for? I'm not a blooming excursionist, I'm not. I'm +a business man—that's what I am.' +</P> + +<P> +Sir Jee was snubbed, and he agreed submissively to all William Smith's +arrangements for the innocent burglary. He perceived that in William +Smith he had stumbled on a professional of the highest class, and this +good fortune pleased him. +</P> + +<P> +'There's only one thing that riles me,' said Smith, in parting, 'and +that is that you'll go and say that after you'd done everything you +could for me I went and burgled your castle. And you'll talk about the +ingratitude of the lower classes. I know you, governor!' +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +On the afternoon of the 24th of December Sir Jehoshaphat drove home to +Sneyd Castle from the principal of the three Dain manufactories, and +found Lady Dain superintending the work of packing up trunks. He and +she were to quit the castle that afternoon in order to spend Christmas +on the other side of the Five Towns, under the roof of their eldest +son, John, who had a new house, a new wife, and a new baby (male). John +was a domineering person, and, being rather proud of his house and all +that was his, he had obstinately decided to have his own Christmas at +his own hearth. Grandpapa and Grandmamma, drawn by the irresistible +attraction of that novelty, a grandson (though Mrs John HAD declined to +have the little thing named Jehoshaphat), had yielded to John's +solicitations, and the family gathering, for the first time in history, +was not to occur round Sir Jee's mahogany. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Jee, very characteristically, said nothing to Lady Dain +immediately. He allowed her to proceed with the packing of the trunks, +and then tea was served, and as the time was approaching for the +carriage to come round to take them to the station, at last he suddenly +remarked— +</P> + +<P> +'I shan't be able to go with you to John's this afternoon.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Jee!' she exclaimed. 'Really, you are tiresome. Why couldn't you +tell me before?' +</P> + +<P> +'I will come over tomorrow morning—perhaps in time for church,' he +proceeded, ignoring her demand for an explanation. +</P> + +<P> +He always did ignore her demand for an explanation. Indeed, she only +asked for explanations in a mechanical and perfunctory manner—she had +long since ceased to expect them. Sir Jee had been born like +that—devious, mysterious, incalculable. And Lady Dain accepted him as +he was. She was somewhat surprised, therefore, when he went on— +</P> + +<P> +'I have some minutes of committee meetings that I really must go +carefully through and send off tonight, and you know as well as I do +that there'll be no chance of doing that at John's. I've telegraphed to +John.' +</P> + +<P> +He was obviously nervous and self-conscious. +</P> + +<P> +'There's no food in the house,' sighed Lady Dain. 'And the servants are +all going away except Callear, and HE can't cook your dinner tonight. I +think I'd better stay myself and look after you.' +</P> + +<P> +'You'll do no such thing,' said Sir Jee, decisively. 'As for my dinner, +anything will do for that. The servants have been promised their +holiday, to start from this evening, and they must have it. I can +manage.' +</P> + +<P> +Here spoke the philanthropist with his unshakable sense of justice. +</P> + +<P> +So Lady Dain departed, anxious and worried, having previously arranged +something cold for Sir Jee in the dining-room, and instructed Callear +about boiling the water for Sir Jee's tea on Christmas morning. Callear +was the under-coachman and a useful odd man. He it was who would drive +Sir Jee to the station on Christmas morning, and then guard the castle +and the stables thereof during the absence of the family and the other +servants. Callear slept over the stables. +</P> + +<P> +And after Sir Jee had consumed his cold repast in the dining-room the +other servants went, and Sir Jee was alone in the castle, facing the +portrait. +</P> + +<P> +He had managed the affair fairly well, he thought. Indeed, he had a +talent for chicane, and none knew it better than himself. It would have +been dangerous if the servants had been left in the castle. They might +have suffered from insomnia, and heard William Smith, and interfered +with the operations of William Smith. On the other hand, Sir Jee had no +intention whatever of leaving the castle uninhabited to the mercies of +William Smith. He felt that he himself must be on the spot to see that +everything went right and that nothing went wrong. Thus, the +previously-arranged scheme for the servants' holiday fitted perfectly +into his plans, and all that he had had to do was to refuse to leave +the castle till the morrow. It was ideal. +</P> + +<P> +Nevertheless, he was a little afraid of what he had done, and of what +he was going to permit William Smith to do. It was certainly +dangerous—certainly rather a wild scheme. However, the die was cast. +And within twelve hours he would be relieved of the intolerable incubus +of the portrait. +</P> + +<P> +And when he thought of the humiliations which that portrait had caused +him; when he remembered the remarks of his sons concerning it, +especially John's remarks; when he recalled phrases about it in London +newspapers, he squirmed, and told himself that no scheme for getting +rid of it could be too wild and perilous. And, after all, the burglary +dodge was the only dodge, absolutely the only conceivable practical +method of disposing of the portrait—except burning down the castle. +And surely it was preferable to a conflagration, to arson! Moreover, in +case of fire at the castle some blundering fool would be sure to cry; +'The portrait! The portrait must be saved!' And the portrait would be +saved. +</P> + +<P> +He gazed at the repulsive, hateful thing. In the centre of the lower +part of the massive gold frame was the legend: 'Presented to Sir +Jehoshaphat Dain, Knight, as a mark of public esteem and gratitude,' +etc. He wondered if William Smith would steal the frame. It was to be +hoped that he would not steal the frame. In fact, William Smith would +find it very difficult to steal that frame unless he had an accomplice +or so. +</P> + +<P> +'This is the last time I shall see YOU!' said Sir Jee to the portrait. +</P> + +<P> +Then he unfastened the catch of one of the windows in the dining-room +(as per contract with William Smith), turned out the electric light, +and went to bed in the deserted castle. +</P> + +<P> +He went to bed, but not to sleep. It was no part of Sir Jee's programme +to sleep. He intended to listen, and he did listen. +</P> + +<P> +And about two o'clock, precisely the hour which William Smith had +indicated, he fancied he heard muffled and discreet noises. Then he was +sure that he heard them. William Smith had kept his word. Then the +noises ceased for a period, and then they recommenced. Sir Jee +restrained his curiosity as long as he could, and when he could +restrain it no more he rose and silently opened his bedroom window and +put his head out into the nipping night air of Christmas. And by good +fortune he saw the vast oblong of the picture, carefully enveloped in +sheets, being passed by a couple of dark figures through the +dining-room window to the garden outside. William Smith had a +colleague, then, and he was taking the frame as well as the canvas. Sir +Jee watched the men disappear down the avenue, and they did not +reappear. Sir Jee returned to bed. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, he felt himself equal to facing it out with his family and +friends. He felt himself equal to pretending that he had no knowledge +of the burglary. +</P> + +<P> +Having slept a few hours, he got up early and, half-dressed, descended +to the dining-room just to see what sort of a mess William Smith had +made. +</P> + +<P> +The canvas of the portrait lay flat on the hearthrug, with the +following words written on it in chalk: 'This is no use to me.' It was +the massive gold frame that had gone. +</P> + +<P> +Further, as was later discovered, all the silver had gone. Not a spoon +was left in the castle. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="news"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +NEWS OF THE ENGAGEMENT +</H3> + +<P> +My mother never came to meet me at Bursley station when I arrived in +the Five Towns from London; much less did she come as far as Knype +station, which is the great traffic centre of the district, the point +at which one changes from the express into the local train. She had +always other things to do; she was 'preparing' for me. So I had the +little journey from Knype to Bursley, and then the walk up Trafalgar +Road, amid the familiar high chimneys and the smoke and the clayey mud +and the football posts and the Midland accent, all by myself. And there +was leisure to consider anew how I should break to my mother the +tremendous news I had for her. I had been considering that question +ever since getting into the train at Euston, where I had said goodbye +to Agnes; but in the atmosphere of the Five Towns it seemed just +slightly more difficult; though, of course, it wasn't difficult, really. +</P> + +<P> +You see, I wrote to my mother regularly every week, telling her most of +my doings. She knew all my friends by name. I dare say she formed in +her mind notions of what sort of people they were. Thus I had +frequently mentioned Agnes and her family in my letters. But you can't +write even to your mother and say in cold blood: 'I think I am +beginning to fall in love with Agnes,' 'I think Agnes likes me,' 'I am +mad on her,' 'I feel certain she likes me,' 'I shall propose to her on +such a day.' You can't do that. At least I couldn't. Hence it had come +about that on the 20th of December I had proposed to Agnes and been +accepted by Agnes, and my mother had no suspicion that my happiness was +so near. And on the 22nd, by a previous and unalterable arrangement, I +had come to spend Christmas with my mother. +</P> + +<P> +I was the only son of a widow; I was all that my mother had. And lo! I +had gone and engaged myself to a girl she had never seen, and I had +kept her in the dark! She would certainly be extremely surprised, and +she might be a little bit hurt—just at first. Anyhow, the situation +was the least in the world delicate. +</P> + +<P> +I walked up the whitened front steps of my mother's little house, just +opposite where the electric cars stop, but before I could put my hand +on the bell my little plump mother, in her black silk and her gold +brooch and her auburn hair, opened to me, having doubtless watched me +down the road from the bay-window, as usual, and she said, as usual +kissing me— +</P> + +<P> +'Well, Philip! How are you?' +</P> + +<P> +And I said— +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! I'm all right, mother. How are you?' +</P> + +<P> +I perceived instantly that she was more excited than my arrival +ordinarily made her. There were tears in her smiling eyes, and she was +as nervous as a young girl. She did indeed look remarkably young for a +woman of forty-five, with twenty-five years of widowhood and a brief +but too tempestuous married life behind her. +</P> + +<P> +The thought flashed across my mind: 'By some means or other she has got +wind of my engagement. But how?' +</P> + +<P> +But I said nothing. I, too, was naturally rather nervous. Mothers are +kittle cattle. +</P> + +<P> +'I'll tell her at supper,' I decided. +</P> + +<P> +And she hovered round me, like a sea-gull round a steamer, as I went +upstairs. +</P> + +<P> +There was a ring at the door. She flew, instead of letting the servant +go. It was a porter with my bag. +</P> + +<P> +Just as I was coming down-stairs again there was another ring at the +door. And my mother appeared magically out of the kitchen, but I was +beforehand with her, and with a laugh I insisted on opening the front +door myself this time. A young woman stood on the step. +</P> + +<P> +'Please, Mrs Dawson wants to know if Mrs Durance can kindly lend her +half-a-dozen knives and forks?' +</P> + +<P> +'Eh, with pleasure,' said my mother, behind me. 'Just wait a minute, +Lucy. Come inside on the mat.' +</P> + +<P> +I followed my mother into the drawing-room, where she kept her silver +in a cabinet. +</P> + +<P> +'That's Mrs Dawson's new servant,' my mother whispered. 'But she +needn't think I'm going to lend her my best, because I'm not.' +</P> + +<P> +'I shouldn't, if I were you,' I supported her. +</P> + +<P> +And she went out with some second-best in tissue paper, and beamed on +Mrs Dawson's servant with an assumed benevolence. +</P> + +<P> +'There!' she exclaimed. 'And the compliments of the season to your +mistress, Lucy.' +</P> + +<P> +After that my mother disappeared into the kitchen to worry an entirely +capable servant. And I roamed about, feeling happily excited, examining +the drawing-room, in which nothing was changed except the incandescent +light and the picture postcards on the mantelpiece. Then I wandered +into the dining-room, a small room at the back of the house, and here +an immense surprise awaited me. +</P> + +<P> +Supper was set for three! +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' I reflected. 'Here's a nice state of affairs! Supper for three, +and she hasn't breathed a word!' +</P> + +<P> +My mother was so clever in social matters, and especially in the +planning of delicious surprises, that I believed her capable even of +miracles. In some way or other she must have discovered the state of my +desires towards Agnes. She had written, or something. She and Agnes had +been plotting together by letter to startle me, and perhaps +telegraphing. Agnes had fibbed in telling me that she could not +possibly come to Bursley for Christmas; she had delightfully fibbed. +And my mother had got her concealed somewhere in the house, or was +momentarily expecting her. That explained the tears, the nervousness, +the rushes to the door. +</P> + +<P> +I crept out of the dining-room, determined not to let my mother know +that I had secretly viewed the supper-table. And as I was crossing the +lobby to the drawing-room there was a third ring at the door, and a +third time my mother rushed out of the kitchen. +</P> + +<P> +'By Jove!' I thought. 'Suppose it's Agnes. What a scene!' +</P> + +<P> +And trembling with expectation I opened the door. It was Mr Nixon. +</P> + +<P> +Now, Mr Nixon was an old friend of the family's, a man of forty-nine or +fifty, with a reputation for shrewdness and increasing wealth. He owned +a hundred and seventy-five cottages in the town, having bought them +gradually in half-dozens, and in rows; he collected the rents himself, +and attended to the repairs himself, and was celebrated as a good +landlord, and as being almost the only man in Bursley who had made +cottage property pay. He lived alone in Commerce Street, and, though +not talkative, was usually jolly, with one or two good stories tucked +away in the corners of his memory. He was my mother's trustee, and had +morally aided her in the troublous times before my father's early death. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, young man,' cried he. 'So you're back in owd Bosley!' It amused +him to speak the dialect a little occasionally. +</P> + +<P> +And he brought his burly, powerful form into the lobby. +</P> + +<P> +I greeted him as jovially as I could, and then he shook hands with my +mother, neither of them speaking. +</P> + +<P> +'Mr Nixon is come for supper, Philip,' said my mother. +</P> + +<P> +I liked Mr Nixon, but I was not too well pleased by this information, +for I wanted to talk confidentially to my mother. I had a task before +me with my mother, and here Mr Nixon was plunging into the supper. I +could not break it gently to my mother that I was engaged to a strange +young woman in the presence of Mr Nixon. Mr Nixon had been in to supper +several times during previous visits of mine, but never on the first +night. +</P> + +<P> +However, I had to make the best of it. And we sat down and began on the +ham, the sausages, the eggs, the crumpets, the toast, the jams, the +mince-tarts, the Stilton, and the celery. But we none of us ate very +much, despite my little plump mother's protestations. +</P> + +<P> +My suspicion was that perhaps something had gone slightly wrong with my +mother's affairs, and that Mr Nixon was taking the first opportunity to +explain things to me. But such a possibility did not interest me, for I +could easily afford to keep my mother and a wife too. I was still +preoccupied in my engagement—and surely there is nothing astonishing +in that—and I began to compose the words in which, immediately on the +departure of Mr Nixon after supper, I would tackle my mother on the +subject. +</P> + +<P> +When we had reached the Stilton and celery, I intimated that I must +walk down to the post-office, as I had to dispatch a letter. +</P> + +<P> +'Won't it do tomorrow, my pet?' asked my mother. +</P> + +<P> +'It will not,' I said. +</P> + +<P> +Imagine leaving Agnes two days without news of my safe arrival and +without assurances of my love! I had started writing the letter in the +train, near Willesden, and I finished it in the drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +'A lady in the case?' Mr Nixon called out gaily. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' I replied with firmness. +</P> + +<P> +I went forth, bought a picture postcard showing St Luke's Square, +Bursley, most untruthfully picturesque, and posted the card and the +letter to my darling Agnes. I hoped that Mr Nixon would have departed +ere my return; he had made no reference at all during supper to my +mother's affairs. But he had not departed. I found him solitary in the +drawing-room, smoking a very fine cigar. +</P> + +<P> +'Where's the mater?' I demanded. +</P> + +<P> +'She's just gone out of the room,' he said. 'Come and sit down. Have a +weed. I want a bit of a chat with you, Philip.' +</P> + +<P> +I obeyed, taking one of the very fine cigars. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, Uncle Nixon,' I encouraged him, wishing to get the chat over +because my mind was full of Agnes. I sometimes called him uncle for fun. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, my boy,' he began. 'It's no use me beating about the bush. What +do you think of me as a stepfather?' +</P> + +<P> +I was struck, as they say down there, all of a heap. +</P> + +<P> +'What?' I stammered. 'You don't mean to say—you and mother—?' +</P> + +<P> +He nodded. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, I do, lad. Yesterday she promised as she'd marry my unworthy +self. It's been coming along for some time. But I don't expect she's +given you any hint in her letters. In fact, I know she hasn't. It would +have been rather difficult, wouldn't it? She couldn't well have +written, "My dear Philip, an old friend, Mr Nixon, is falling in love +with me and I believe I'm falling in love with him. One of these days +he'll be proposing to me." She couldn't have written like that, could +she?' +</P> + +<P> +I laughed. I could not help it. +</P> + +<P> +'Shake hands,' I said warmly. 'I'm delighted.' +</P> + +<P> +And soon afterwards my mother sidled in, shyly. +</P> + +<P> +'The lad's delighted, Sarah,' said Mr Nixon shortly. +</P> + +<P> +I said nothing about my own engagement that night. I had never thought +of my mother as a woman with a future, I had never realized that she +was desirable, and that a man might desire her, and that her lonely +existence in that house was not all that she had the right to demand +from life. And I was ashamed of my characteristic filial selfish +egoism. So I decided that I would not intrude my joys on hers until the +next morning. We live and learn. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="year"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BEGINNING THE NEW YEAR +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +We are a stolid and a taciturn race, we of the Five Towns. It may be +because we are geographically so self contained; or it may be because +we work in clay and iron; or it may merely be because it is our nature +to be stolid and taciturn. But stolid and taciturn we are; and some of +the instances of our stolidity and our taciturnity are enough to +astound. They do not, of course, astound us natives; we laugh at them, +we think they are an immense joke, and what the outer world may think +does not trouble our deep conceit of ourselves. I have often wondered +what would be the effect, other than an effect of astonishment, on the +outer world, of one of these narratives illustrating our Five Towns +peculiarities of deportment. And I intend for the first time in history +to make such a narrative public property. I have purposely not chosen +an extreme example; just an average example. You will see how it +strikes you. +</P> + +<P> +Toby Hall, once a burgess of Turnhill, the northernmost and smallest of +the Five Towns, was passing, last New Year's Eve, through the district +by train on his way from Crewe to Derby. He lived at Derby, and he was +returning from the funeral of a brother member of the Ancient Order of +Foresters at Crewe. He got out of the train at Knype, the great railway +centre of the Five Towns, to have a glass of beer in the second-class +refreshment-room. It being New Year's Eve, the traffic was heavy and +disorganized, especially in the refreshment-room, and when Toby Hall +emerged on to the platform again the train was already on the move. +Toby was neither young nor active. His years were fifty, and on account +of the funeral he wore broadcloth and a silk hat, and his overcoat was +new and encumbering. Impossible to take a flying leap into the train! +He missed the train. And then he reflectively stroked his short grey +beard (he had no moustache, and his upper lip was very long), and then +he smoothed down his new overcoat over his rotund form. +</P> + +<P> +'Young man,' he asked a porter. 'When's next train Derby way?' +</P> + +<P> +'Ain't none afore tomorrow.' +</P> + +<P> +Toby went and had another glass of beer. +</P> + +<P> +'D—d if I don't go to Turnhill,' he said to himself, slowly and +calmly, as he paid for the second glass of beer. +</P> + +<P> +He crossed the station by the subway and waited for the loop-line train +to Turnhill. He had not set foot in the Five Towns for three-and-twenty +years, having indeed carefully and continuously avoided it, as a man +will avoid the street where his creditor lives. But he discovered no +change in Knype railway-station. And he had a sort of pleasure in the +fact that he knew his way about it, knew where the loop-line trains +started from and other interesting little details. Even the special +form of the loop-line time-table, pasted here and there on the walls of +the station, had not varied since his youth. (We return Radicals to +Parliament, but we are proud of a railway which for fine old English +conservatism brooks no rival.) +</P> + +<P> +Toby gazed around, half challengingly and half nervously—it was +conceivable that he might be recognized, or might recognize. But no! +Not a soul in the vast, swaying, preoccupied, luggage-laden crowds gave +him a glance. As for him, although he fully recognized nobody, yet +nearly every face seemed to be half-familiar. He climbed into a +second-class compartment when the train drew up, and ten other people, +all with third-class tickets, followed his example; three persons were +already seated therein. The compartment was illuminated by one lamp, +and in the Bleakridge Tunnel this lamp expired. Everything reminded him +of his youth. +</P> + +<P> +In twenty minutes he was leaving Turnhill station and entering the +town. It was about nine o'clock, and colder than winters of the period +usually are. The first thing he saw was an electric tram, and the +second thing he saw was another electric tram. In Toby's time there +were no trams at Turnhill, and the then recently-introduced steam-trams +between Bursley and Longshaw, long since superseded, were regarded as +the final marvel of science as applied to traction. And now there were +electric trams at Turnhill! The railway renewed his youth, but this +darting electricity showed him how old he was. The Town Hall, which was +brand-new when he left Turnhill, had the look of a mediaeval hotel de +ville as he examined it in the glamour of the corporation's +incandescent gas. And it was no more the sole impressive pile in the +borough. The High Street and its precincts abounded in impressive +piles. He did not know precisely what they were, but they had the +appearance of being markets, libraries, baths, and similar haunts of +luxury; one was a bank. He thought that Turnhill High Street compared +very well with Derby. He would have preferred it to be less changed. If +the High Street was thus changed, everything would be changed, +including Child Row. The sole phenomenon that recalled his youth +(except the Town Hall) was the peculiar smell of oranges and apples +floating out on the frosty air from holly-decorated greengrocers' shops. +</P> + +<P> +He passed through the Market Square, noting that sinister freak, the +Jubilee Tower, and came to Child Row. The first building on your right +as you enter Child Row from the square is the Primitive Methodist +Chapel. Yes, it was still there; Primitive Methodism had not failed in +Turnhill because Toby Hall had deserted the cause three-and-twenty +years ago! But something serious had happened to the structure. +Gradually Toby realized that its old face had been taken out and a new +one put in, the classic pillars had vanished, and a series of Gothic +arches had been substituted by way of portico; a pretty idea, but not +to Toby's liking. It was another change, another change! He crossed the +street and proceeded downwards in the obscurity, and at length halted +and peered with his little blue eyes at a small house (one of twins) on +the other side from where he stood. That house, at any rate, was +unchanged. It was a two-storeyed house, with a semicircular fanlight +over a warped door of grained panelling. The blind of the window to the +left of the door was irradiated from within, proving habitation. +</P> + +<P> +'I wonder—' ran Toby's thought. And he unhesitatingly crossed the +street again, towards it, feeling first for the depth of the kerbstone +with his umbrella. He had a particular and special interest in that +house (No. 11 it was—and is), for, four-and-twenty years ago he had +married it. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +Four-and-twenty years ago Toby Hall (I need not say that his proper +Christian name was Tobias) had married Miss Priscilla Bratt, then a +calm and self-reliant young woman of twenty-three, and Priscilla had +the house, together with a certain income, under the will of her +father. The marriage was not the result of burning passion on either +side. It was a union of two respectabilities, and it might have +succeeded as well as such unions generally do succeed, if Priscilla had +not too frequently mentioned the fact that the house they lived in was +hers. He knew that the house was hers. The whole world was perfectly +aware of the ownership of the house, and her references to the matter +amounted to a lack of tact. Several times Toby had indicated as much. +But Priscilla took no heed. She had the hide of an alligator herself +(though a personable girl), and she assumed that her husband's hide was +of similar stuff. This assumption was justifiable, except that in just +one spot the skin of Toby was tender. He really did not care to be +reminded that he was living under his wife's roof. The reiteration +settled on his nerves like a malady. And before a year had elapsed +Priscilla had contrived to remind him once too often. And one day he +put some things in a carpet-bag, and a hat on his head, and made for +the door. The house was antique, and the front-parlour gave directly on +to the street. +</P> + +<P> +'Where be going?' Priscilla asked him. +</P> + +<P> +He hesitated a second, and said— +</P> + +<P> +'Merica.' +</P> + +<P> +And he was. In the Five Towns we are apt to end our marriages in that +laconic manner. Toby did not complain too much; he simply and +unaffectedly went. It might be imagined that the situation was a trying +one for Priscilla. Not so! Priscilla had experienced marriage with Toby +and had found it wanting. She was content to be relieved of Toby. She +had her house and her money and her self-esteem, and also tranquillity. +She accepted the solution, and devoted her days to the cleanliness of +the house. +</P> + +<P> +Toby drew all the money he had out of the Bursley and Turnhill +Permanent Fifty Pounds Benefit Building Society (four shares, nearly +paid up) and set sail—in the Adriatic, which was then the leading +greyhound of the Atlantic—for New York. From New York he went to +Trenton (New Jersey), which is the Five Towns of America. A man of his +skill in handling clay on a wheel had no difficulty whatever in +wresting a good livelihood from Trenton. When he had tarried there a +year he caused a letter to be written to his wife informing her that he +was dead. He wished to be quite free; and also (we have our feeling for +justice) he wished his wife to be quite free. It did not occur to him +that he had done anything extraordinary, either in deserting his wife +or in forwarding false news of his death. He had done the simple thing, +the casual thing, the blunt thing, the thing that necessitated the +minimum of talking. He did not intend to return to England. +</P> + +<P> +However, after a few years, he did return to England. The cause of his +return is irrelevant to the history, but I may say that it sprang from +a conflict between the Five Towns temperament and the Trenton Union of +Earthenware Operatives. Such is the power of Unions in the United +States that Toby, if he wished to remain under the Federal Flag, had +either to yield or to starve. He would not yield. He changed his name +and came to England; strolled calmly into the Crown Porcelain Works at +Derby one day, and there recommenced his career as an artificer of +earthenware. He did well. He could easily earn four pounds a week, and +had no desires, save in the direction of fly-fishing—not an expensive +diversion. He knew better than to marry. He existed quietly; and one +year trod on the heels of another, and carried him from thirty to forty +and forty to fifty, and no one found out his identity, though there are +several direct trains daily between Derby and Knype. +</P> + +<P> +And now, owing to the death of a friend and a glass of beer, he was in +Child Row, crossing the street towards the house whose ownership had +caused him to quit it. +</P> + +<P> +He knocked on the door with the handle of his umbrella. There was no +knocker; there never had been a knocker. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +The door opened cautiously, as such doors in the Five Towns do, after a +shooting of bolts and a loosing of chains; it opened to the extent of +about nine inches, and Toby Hall saw the face of a middle-aged woman +eyeing him. +</P> + +<P> +'Is this Mrs Hall's?' he asked sternly. +</P> + +<P> +'No. It ain't Mrs Hall's. It's Mrs Tansley's.' +</P> + +<P> +'I thowt—' +</P> + +<P> +The door opened a little wider. +</P> + +<P> +'That's not you, Tobias?' said the woman unmoved. +</P> + +<P> +'I reckon it is, though,' replied Toby, with a difficult smile. +</P> + +<P> +'Bless us!' exclaimed the woman. The door oscillated slightly under her +hand. 'Bless us!' she repeated. And then suddenly, 'You'd happen better +come in, Tobias.' +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' said Tobias. +</P> + +<P> +And he entered. +</P> + +<P> +'Sit ye down, do,' said his wife. 'I thowt as you were dead. They wrote +and told me so.' +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' said Tobias. 'But I am na'.' +</P> + +<P> +He sat down in an arm-chair near the old-fashioned grate, with its hobs +at either side. He was acquainted with that chair, and it had not +appreciably altered since his departure. The lastingness of furniture +under fair treatment is astonishing. This chair was uncomfortably in +exactly the same spot where it had always been uncomfortable; and the +same anti-macassar was draped over its uncompromising back. Toby put +his hat on the table, and leaned his umbrella against the +chimney-piece. His overcoat he retained. Same table; same +chimney-piece; same clock and ornaments on the chimney-piece! But a +different carpet on the floor, and different curtains before the window. +</P> + +<P> +Priscilla bolted and chained the door, and then she too sat down. Her +gown was black, with a small black silk apron. And she was stout, and +she wore felt slippers and moved with the same gingerly care as Toby +himself did. She looked fully her years. Her thin lips were firmer than +ever. It was indeed Priscilla. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, well!' she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +But her capacity for wonder was nearly exhausted. +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' said Toby, with an air that was meant to be quasi-humorous. He +warmed his hands at the fire, and then rubbed them over the front of +his calves, leaning forward. +</P> + +<P> +'So ye've come back?' said Priscilla. +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' concurred Toby. +</P> + +<P> +There was a pause. +</P> + +<P> +'Cold weather we're having,' he muttered. +</P> + +<P> +'It's seasonable,' Priscilla pointed out. +</P> + +<P> +Her glance rested on a sprig of holly that was tied under the +gas-chandelier, unique relic of Christmas in the apartment. +</P> + +<P> +Another pause. It would be hazardous to guess what their feelings were; +perhaps their feelings were scarcely anything at all. +</P> + +<P> +'And what be the news?' Toby inquired, with what passes in the Five +Towns for geniality. +</P> + +<P> +'News?' she repeated, as if not immediately grasping the significance +of the question. 'I don't know as there's any news, nothing partic'ler, +that is.' +</P> + +<P> +Hung on the wall near the chimney-piece was a photograph of a girl. It +was an excellent likeness to Priscilla, as she was in Toby's +pre-Trenton days. How young and fresh the creature looked; so simple, +so inexperienced! It startled Toby. +</P> + +<P> +'I don't remember that,' he said. +</P> + +<P> +'What?' +</P> + +<P> +'That!' And he jerked his elbow towards the photograph. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! THAT! That's my daughter,' said Priscilla. +</P> + +<P> +'Bless us!' said Toby in turn. +</P> + +<P> +'I married Job Tansley,' Priscilla continued. 'He died four years ago +last Knype Wakes Monday. HER'S married'—indicating the +photograph—'her married young Gibson last September.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, well!' murmured Toby. +</P> + +<P> +Another pause. +</P> + +<P> +There was a shuffling on the pavement outside, and some children began +to sing about shepherds and flocks. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, bother them childer,' said Priscilla. 'I must send 'em off.' +</P> + +<P> +She got up. +</P> + +<P> +'Here! Give 'em a penny,' Toby suggested, holding out a penny. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, and then they'll tell others, and I shan't have a moment's peace +all night!' Priscilla grumbled. +</P> + +<P> +However, she bestowed the penny, cutting the song off abruptly in the +middle. And she bolted and chained the door and sat down again. +</P> + +<P> +Another pause. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, well!' said Priscilla. +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' Toby agreed. 'Good coal that!' +</P> + +<P> +'Fourteen shilling a ton!' +</P> + +<P> +Another pause, and a longer. +</P> + +<P> +'Is Ned Walklate still at th' Rose and Crown?' Toby asked. +</P> + +<P> +'For aught I know he is,' said Priscilla. +</P> + +<P> +'I'll just step round there,' said Toby, picking up his hat and rising. +</P> + +<P> +As he was manoeuvring the door-chain, Priscilla said— +</P> + +<P> +'You're forgetting your umbrella, Tobias.' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' he answered. 'I hanna' forgotten it. I'm coming back.' +</P> + +<P> +Their eyes met, charged with meaning. +</P> + +<P> +'That'll be all right,' she said. 'Well, well!' +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' +</P> + +<P> +And he stepped round to Ned Walklate's. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="generation"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +It is the greatest mistake in the world to imagine that, because the +Five Towns is an industrial district, devoted to the manufacture of +cups and saucers, marbles and door-knobs, therefore there is no luxury +in it. +</P> + +<P> +A writer, not yet deceased, who spent two nights there, and wrote four +hundred pages about it, has committed herself to the assertion that +there are no private carriages in its streets—only perambulators and +tramcars. +</P> + +<P> +That writer's reputation is ruined in the Five Towns. For the Five +Towns, although continually complaining of bad times, is immensely +wealthy, as well as immensely poor—a country of contrasts, indeed—and +private carriages, if they do not abound, exist at any rate in +sufficient numbers. +</P> + +<P> +Nay, more, automobiles of the most expensive French and English makes +fly dashingly along its hilly roads and scatter in profusion the rich +black mud thereof. +</P> + +<P> +On a Saturday afternoon in last spring, such an automobile stood +outside the garden entrance of Bleakridge House, just halfway between +Hanbridge and Bursley. It belonged to young Harold Etches, of Etches, +Limited, the great porcelain manufacturers. +</P> + +<P> +It was a 20 h.p. Panhard, and was worth over a thousand pounds as it +stood there, throbbing, and Harold was proud of it. +</P> + +<P> +He was also proud of his young wife, Maud, who, clad in several hundred +pounds' worth of furs, had taken her seat next to the steering-wheel, +and was waiting for Harold to mount by her side. The united ages of +this handsome and gay couple came to less than forty-five. +</P> + +<P> +And they owned the motor-car, and Bleakridge House with its ten +bedrooms, and another house at Llandudno, and a controlling interest in +Etches, Limited, that brought them in seven or eight thousand a year. +They were a pretty tidy example of what the Five Towns can do when it +tries to be wealthy. +</P> + +<P> +At that moment, when Harold was climbing into the car, a shabby old man +who was walking down the road, followed by a boy carrying a carpet-bag, +stopped suddenly and touched Harold on the shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +'Bless us!' exclaimed the old man. And the boy and the carpet-bag +halted behind him. +</P> + +<P> +'What? Uncle Dan?' said Harold. +</P> + +<P> +'Uncle Dan!' cried Maud, springing up with an enchanting smile. 'Why, +it's ages since—' +</P> + +<P> +'And what d'ye reckon ye'n gotten here?' demanded the old man. +</P> + +<P> +'It's my new car,' Harold explained. +</P> + +<P> +'And ca'st drive it, lad?' asked the old man. +</P> + +<P> +'I should think I could!' said Harold confidently. +</P> + +<P> +'H'm!' commented the old man, and then he shook hands, and thoroughly +scrutinized Maud. +</P> + +<P> +Now, this is the sort of thing that can only be seen and appreciated in +a district like the Five Towns, where families spring into splendour +out of nothing in the course of a couple of generations, and as often +as not sink back again into nothing in the course of two generations +more. +</P> + +<P> +The Etches family is among the best known and the widest spread in the +Five Towns. It originated in three brothers, of whom Daniel was the +youngest. Daniel never married; the other two did. Daniel was not very +fond of money; the other two were, and they founded the glorious firm +of Etches. Harold was the grandson of one brother, and Maud was the +Granddaughter of the other. Consequently, they both stood in the same +relation to Dan, who was their great-uncle—addressed as uncle 'for +short'. +</P> + +<P> +There is a good deal of snobbery in the Five Towns, but it does not +exist between relatives. The relatives in danger of suffering by it +would never stand it. Besides, although Dan's income did not exceed two +hundred a year, he was really richer than his grandnephew, since Dan +lived on half his income, whereas Harold, aided by Maud, lived on all +of his. +</P> + +<P> +Consequently, despite the vast difference in their stations, clothes, +and manners, Daniel and his young relatives met as equals. It would +have been amusing to see anyone—even the Countess of Chell, who +patronized the entire district—attempt to patronize Dan. +</P> + +<P> +In his time he had been the greatest pigeon-fancier in the country. +</P> + +<P> +'So you're paying a visit to Bursley, uncle?' said Maud. +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' Dan replied. 'I'm back i' owd Bosley. Sarah—my housekeeper, +thou know'st—' +</P> + +<P> +'Not dead?' +</P> + +<P> +'No. Her inna' dead; but her sister's dead, and I've give her a week's +play [holiday], and come away. Rat Edge'll see nowt o' me this side +Easter.' +</P> + +<P> +Rat Edge was the name of the village, five miles off, which Dan had +honoured in his declining years. +</P> + +<P> +'And where are you going to now?' asked Harold. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm going to owd Sam Shawn's, by th' owd church, to beg a bed.' +</P> + +<P> +'But you'll stop with us, of course?' said Harold. +</P> + +<P> +'Nay, lad,' said Dan. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh yes, uncle,' Maud insisted. +</P> + +<P> +'Nay, lass,' said Dan. +</P> + +<P> +'Indeed, you will, uncle,' said Maud positively. 'If you don't, I'll +never speak to you again.' +</P> + +<P> +She had a charming fire in her eyes, had Maud. +</P> + +<P> +Daniel, the old bachelor, yielded at once, but in his own style. +</P> + +<P> +'I'll try it for a night, lass,' said he. +</P> + +<P> +Thus it occurred that the carpet-bag was carried into Bleakridge House, +and that after some delay Harold and Maud carried off Uncle Dan with +them in the car. He sat in the luxurious tonneau behind, and Maud had +quitted her husband in order to join him. Possibly she liked the +humorous wrinkles round his grey eyes. Or it may have been the eyes +themselves. And yet Dan was nearer seventy than sixty. +</P> + +<P> +The car passed everything on the road; it seemed to be overtaking +electric trams all the time. +</P> + +<P> +'So ye'n been married a year?' said Uncle Dan, smiling at Maud. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh yes; a year and three days. We're quite used to it.' +</P> + +<P> +'Us'n be in h-ll in a minute, wench!' exclaimed Dan, calmly changing +the topic, as Harold swung the car within an inch of a brewer's dray, +and skidded slightly in the process. No anti-skidding device would +operate in that generous, oozy mud. +</P> + +<P> +And, as a matter of fact, they were in Hanbridge the next +minute—Hanbridge, the centre of the religions, the pleasures, and the +vices of the Five Towns. +</P> + +<P> +'Bless us!' said the old man. 'It's fifteen year and more since I were +here.' +</P> + +<P> +'Harold,' said Maud, 'let's stop at the Piccadilly Cafe and have some +tea.' +</P> + +<P> +'Cafe?' asked Dan. 'What be that?' +</P> + +<P> +'It's a kind of a pub.' Harold threw the explanation over his shoulder +as he brought the car up with swift dexterity in front of the Misses +Callear's newly opened afternoon tea-rooms. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, well, if it's a pub,' said Uncle Dan, 'I dunna' object.' +</P> + +<P> +He frankly admitted, on entering, that he had never before seen a pub +full of little tables and white cloths, and flowers, and young women, +and silver teapots, and cake-stands. And though he did pour his tea +into his saucer, he was sufficiently at home there to address the +younger Miss Callear as 'young woman', and to inform her that her +beverage was lacking in Orange Pekoe. And the Misses Callear, who +conferred a favour on their customers in serving them, didn't like it. +</P> + +<P> +He became reminiscent. +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' he said, 'when I left th' Five Towns fifty-two years sin' to go +weaving i' Derbyshire wi' my mother's brother, tay were ten shilling a +pun'. Us had it when us were sick—which wasna' often. We worked too +hard for be sick. Hafe past five i' th' morning till eight of a night, +and then Saturday afternoon walk ten mile to Glossop with a week's work +on ye' back, and home again wi' th' brass. +</P> + +<P> +'They've lost th' habit of work now-a-days, seemingly,' he went on, as +the car moved off once more, but slowly, because of the vast crowds +emerging from the Knype football ground. 'It's football, Saturday; +bands of a Sunday; football, Monday; ill i' bed and getting round, +Tuesday; do a bit o' work Wednesday; football, Thursday; draw wages +Friday night; and football, Saturday. And wages higher than ever. It's +that as beats me—wages higher than ever— +</P> + +<P> +'Ye canna' smoke with any comfort i' these cars,' he added, when Harold +had got clear of the crowds and was letting out. He regretfully put his +pipe in his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +Harold skirted the whole length of the Five Towns from south to north, +at an average rate of perhaps thirty miles an hour; and quite soon the +party found itself on the outer side of Turnhill, and descending the +terrible Clough Bank, three miles long, and of a steepness resembling +the steepness of the side of a house. +</P> + +<P> +The car had warmed to its business, and Harold took them down that +declivity in a manner which startled even Maud, who long ago had +resigned herself to the fact that she was tied for life to a young man +for whom the word 'danger' had no meaning. +</P> + +<P> +At the bottom they had a swerve skid; but as there was plenty of room +for eccentricities, nothing happened except that the car tried to climb +the hill again. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, if I'd known,' observed Uncle Dan, 'if I'd guessed as you were +reservin' this treat for th' owd uncle, I'd ha' walked.' +</P> + +<P> +The Etches blood in him was pretty cool, but his nerve had had a +shaking. +</P> + +<P> +Then Harold could not restart the car. The engine had stopped of its +own accord, and, though Harold lavished much physical force on the +magic handle in front, nothing would budge. Maud and the old man got +down, the latter with relief. +</P> + +<P> +'Stuck, eh?' said Dan. 'No steam?' +</P> + +<P> +'That's it!' Harold cried, slapping his leg. 'What an ass I am! She +wants petrol, that's all. Maud, pass a couple of cans. They're under +the seat there, behind. No; on the left, child.' +</P> + +<P> +However, there was no petrol on the car. +</P> + +<P> +'That's that cursed Durand' (Durand being the new chauffeur—French, to +match the car). 'I told him not to forget. Last thing I said to the +fool! Maud, I shall chuck that chap!' +</P> + +<P> +'Can't we do anything?' asked Maud stiffly, putting her lips together. +</P> + +<P> +'We can walk back to Turnhill and buy some petrol, some of us!' snapped +Harold. 'That's what we can do!' +</P> + +<P> +'Sithee,' said Uncle Dan. 'There's the Plume o' Feathers half-a-mile +back. Th' landlord's a friend o' mine. I can borrow his mare and trap, +and drive to Turnhill and fetch some o' thy petrol, as thou calls it.' +</P> + +<P> +'It's awfully good of you, uncle.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay, lad, I'm doing it for please mysen. But Maud mun come wi' me. +Give us th' money for th' petrol, as thou calls it.' +</P> + +<P> +'Then I must stay here alone?' Harold complained. +</P> + +<P> +'Seemingly,' the old man agreed. +</P> + +<P> +After a few words on pigeons, and a glass of beer, Dan had no +difficulty whatever in borrowing his friend's white mare and black +trap. He himself helped in the harnessing. Just as he was driving +triumphantly away, with that delicious vision Maud on his left hand and +a stable-boy behind, he reined the mare in. +</P> + +<P> +'Give us a couple o' penny smokes, matey,' he said to the landlord, and +lit one. +</P> + +<P> +The mare could go, and Dan could make her go, and she did go. And the +whole turn-out looked extremely dashing when, ultimately, it dashed +into the glare of the acetylene lamps which the deserted Harold had +lighted on his car. +</P> + +<P> +The red end of a penny smoke in the gloom of twilight looks exactly as +well as the red end of an Havana. Moreover, the mare caracolled +ornamentally in the rays of the acetylene, and the stable-boy had to +skip down quick and hold her head. +</P> + +<P> +'How much didst say this traction-engine had cost thee?' Dan asked, +while Harold was pouring the indispensable fluid into the tank. +</P> + +<P> +'Not far off twelve hundred,' answered Harold lightly. 'Keep that cigar +away from here.' +</P> + +<P> +'Fifteen pun' ud buy this mare,' Dan announced to the road. +</P> + +<P> +'Now, all aboard!' Harold commanded at length. 'How much shall I give +to the boy for the horse and trap, uncle?' +</P> + +<P> +'Nothing,' said Dan. 'I havena' finished wi' that mare yet. Didst think +I was going to trust mysen i' that thing o' yours again? I'll meet thee +at Bleakridge, lad.' +</P> + +<P> +'And I think I'll go with uncle too, Harold,' said Maud. +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon they both got into the trap. +</P> + +<P> +Harold stared at them, astounded. +</P> + +<P> +'But I say—' he protested, beginning to be angry. +</P> + +<P> +Uncle Dan drove away like the wind, and the stable-boy had all he could +do to clamber up behind. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +Now, at dinner-time that night, in the dining-room of the commodious +and well-appointed mansion of the youngest and richest of the Etches, +Uncle Dan stood waiting and waiting for his host and hostess to appear. +He was wearing a Turkish tasselled smoking-cap to cover his baldness, +and he had taken off his jacket and put on his light, loose overcoat +instead of it, since that was a comfortable habit of his. +</P> + +<P> +He sent one of the two parlourmaids upstairs for his carpet slippers +out of the carpet-bag, and he passed part of the time in changing his +boots for his slippers in front of the fire. Then at length, just as a +maid was staggering out under the load of those enormous boots, Harold +appeared, very correct, but alone. +</P> + +<P> +'Awfully sorry to keep you waiting, uncle,' said Harold, 'but Maud +isn't well. She isn't coming down tonight.' +</P> + +<P> +'What's up wi' Maud?' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, goodness knows!' responded Harold gloomily. 'She's not +well—that's all.' +</P> + +<P> +'H'm!' said Dan. 'Well, let's peck a bit.' +</P> + +<P> +So they sat down and began to peck a bit, aided by the two maids. Dan +pecked with prodigious enthusiasm, but Harold was not in good pecking +form. And as the dinner progressed, and Harold sent dish after dish up +to his wife, and his wife returned dish after dish untouched, Harold's +gloom communicated itself to the house in general. +</P> + +<P> +One felt that if one had penetrated to the farthest corner of the +farthest attic, a little parcel of spiritual gloom would have already +arrived there. The sense of disaster was in the abode. The cook was +prophesying like anything in the kitchen. Durand in the garage was +meditating upon such of his master's pithy remarks as he had been able +to understand. +</P> + +<P> +When the dinner was over, and the coffee and liqueurs and cigars had +been served, and the two maids had left the dining-room, Dan turned to +his grandnephew and said— +</P> + +<P> +'There's things as has changed since my time, lad, but human nature +inna' one on em.' +</P> + +<P> +'What do you mean, uncle?' Harold asked awkwardly, self-consciously. +</P> + +<P> +'I mean as thou'rt a dashed foo'!' +</P> + +<P> +'Why?' +</P> + +<P> +'But thou'lt get better o' that,' said Dan. +</P> + +<P> +Harold smiled sheepishly. +</P> + +<P> +'I don't know what you're driving at, uncle,' said he. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, thou dost, lad. Thou'st been and quarrelled wi' Maud. And I say +thou'rt a dashed foo'!' +</P> + +<P> +'As a matter of fact—' Harold stammered. +</P> + +<P> +'And ye've never quarrelled afore. This is th' fust time. And so +thou'st under th' impression that th' world's come to an end. Well, th' +fust quarrel were bound to come sooner or later.' +</P> + +<P> +'It isn't really a quarrel—it's about nothing—' +</P> + +<P> +'I know—I know,' Dan broke in. 'They always are. As for it not being a +quarrel, lad, call it a picnic if thou'st a mind. But heir's sulking +upstairs, and thou'rt sulking down here.' +</P> + +<P> +'She was cross about the petrol,' said Harold, glad to relieve his +mind. 'I hadn't a notion she was cross till I went up into the bedroom. +Not a notion! I explained to her it wasn't my fault. I argued it out +with her very calmly. I did my best to reason with her—' +</P> + +<P> +'Listen here, young 'un,' Dan interrupted him. 'How old art?' +</P> + +<P> +'Twenty-three.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thou may'st live another fifty years. If thou'st a mind to spend 'em +i' peace, thoud'st better give up reasoning wi' women. Give it up right +now! It's worse nor drink, as a habit. Kiss 'em, cuddle 'em, beat 'em. +But dunna' reason wi' 'em.' +</P> + +<P> +'What should you have done in my place?' Harold asked. +</P> + +<P> +'I should ha' told Maud her was quite right.' +</P> + +<P> +'But she wasn't.' +</P> + +<P> +'Then I should ha' winked at mysen i' th' glass,' continued Dan, 'and +kissed her.' +</P> + +<P> +'That's all very well—' +</P> + +<P> +'Naturally,' said Dan, 'her wanted to show off that car i' front o' me. +That was but natural. And her was vexed when it went wrong.' +</P> + +<P> +'But I told her—I explained to her.' +</P> + +<P> +'Her's a handsome little wench,' Dan proceeded. 'And a good heart. But +thou'st got ten times her brains, lad, and thou ought'st to ha' given +in.' +</P> + +<P> +'But I can't always be—' +</P> + +<P> +'It's allus them as gives in as has their own way. I remember her +grandfather—he was th' eldest o' us—he quarrelled wi' his wife afore +they'd been married a week, and she raced him all over th' town wi' a +besom—' +</P> + +<P> +'With a besom, uncle?' exclaimed Harold, shocked at these family +disclosures. +</P> + +<P> +'Wi' a besom,' said Dan. That come o' reasoning wi' a woman. It taught +him a lesson, I can tell thee. And afterwards he always said as nowt +was worth a quarrel—NOWT! And it isna'.' +</P> + +<P> +'I don't think Maud will race me all over the town with a besom,' +Harold remarked reflectively. +</P> + +<P> +'There's worse things nor that,' said Dan. 'Look thee here, get out o' +th' house for a' 'our. Go to th' Conservative Club, and then come back. +Dost understand?' +</P> + +<P> +'But what—' +</P> + +<P> +'Hook it, lad!' said Dan curtly. +</P> + +<P> +And just as Harold was leaving the room, like a school-boy, he called +him in again. +</P> + +<P> +'I havena' told thee, Harold, as I'm subject to attacks. I'm getting up +in years. I go off like. It isna' fits, but I go off. And if it should +happen while I'm here, dunna' be alarmed.' +</P> + +<P> +'What are we to do?' +</P> + +<P> +'Do nothing. I come round in a minute or two. Whatever ye do, dunna' +give me brandy. It might kill me—so th' doctor says. I'm only telling +thee in case.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, I hope you won't have an attack,' said Harold. +</P> + +<P> +'It's a hundred to one I dunna',' said Dan. +</P> + +<P> +And Harold departed. +</P> + +<P> +Soon afterwards Uncle Dan wandered into a kitchen full of servants. +</P> + +<P> +'Show me th' missis's bedroom, one on ye,' he said to the crowd. +</P> + +<P> +And presently he was knocking at Maud's door. +</P> + +<P> +'Maudie!' +</P> + +<P> +'Who is it?' came a voice. +</P> + +<P> +'It's thy owd uncle. Can'st spare a minute?' +</P> + +<P> +Maud appeared at the door, smiling, and arrayed in a peignoir. +</P> + +<P> +'HE'S gone out,' said Dan, implying scorn of the person who had gone +out. 'Wilt come down-stairs?' +</P> + +<P> +'Where's he gone to?' Maud demanded. +</P> + +<P> +She didn't even pretend she was ill. +</P> + +<P> +'Th' Club,' said Dan. +</P> + +<P> +And in about a hundred seconds or so he had her in the drawing-room, +and she was actually pouring out gin for him. She looked ravishing in +that peignoir, especially as she was munching an apple, and balancing +herself on the arm of a chair. +</P> + +<P> +'So he's been quarrelling with ye, Maud?' Dan began. +</P> + +<P> +'No; not quarrelling, uncle.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, call it what ye'n a mind,' said Dan. 'Call it a prayer-meeting. +I didn't notice as ye came down for supper—dinner, as ye call it.' +</P> + +<P> +'It was like this, uncle,' she said. 'Poor Harry was very angry with +himself about that petrol. Of course, he wanted the car to go well +while you were in it; and he came up-stairs and grumbled at me for +leaving him all alone and driving home with you.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, did he?' exclaimed Dan. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes. I explained to him that of course I couldn't leave you all alone. +Then he got hot. I kept quite calm. I reasoned it out with him as +quietly as I could—' +</P> + +<P> +'Maudie, Maudie,' protested the old man, 'thou'rt th' prettiest wench +i' this town, though I AM thy great-uncle, and thou'st got plenty o' +brains—a sight more than that husband o' thine.' +</P> + +<P> +'Do you think so, uncle?' +</P> + +<P> +'Aye, but thou hasna' made use o' 'em tonight. Thou'rt a foolish wench, +wench. At thy time o' life, and after a year o' th' married state, thou +ought'st to know better than reason wi' a man in a temper.' +</P> + +<P> +'But, really, uncle, it was so absurd of Harold, wasn't it?' +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' said Dan. 'But why didst-na' give in and kiss him, and smack his +face for him?' +</P> + +<P> +'There was nothing to give in about, uncle.' +</P> + +<P> +'There never is,' said Dan. 'There never is. That's the point. Still, +thou'rt nigh crying, wench.' +</P> + +<P> +'I'm not, uncle,' she contradicted, the tears falling on to the apple. +</P> + +<P> +'And Harold's using bad language all up Trafalgar Road, I lay,' Dan +added. +</P> + +<P> +'It was all Harold's fault,' said Maud. +</P> + +<P> +'Why, in course it were Harold's fault. But nowt's worth a quarrel, my +dear—NOWT. I remember Harold's grandfeyther—he were th' second of us, +your grandfeyther were the eldest, and I were the youngest—I remember +Harold's grandfeyther chasing his wife all over th' town wi' a besom a +week after they were married.' +</P> + +<P> +'With a besom!' murmured Maud, pained and forgetting to cry. 'Harold's +grandfather, not mine?' +</P> + +<P> +'Wi' a besom,' Dan repeated, nodding. 'They never quarrelled +again—ne'er again. Th' old woman allus said after that as quarrels +were for fools. And her was right.' +</P> + +<P> +'I don't see Harold chasing me across Bursley with a besom,' said Maud +primly. 'But what you say is quite right, you dear old uncle. Men are +queer—I mean husbands. You can't argue with them. You'd much better +give in—' +</P> + +<P> +'And have your own way after all.' +</P> + +<P> +'And perhaps Harold was—' +</P> + +<P> +Harold's step could be heard in the hall. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, dear!' cried Maud. 'What shall I do?' +</P> + +<P> +'I'm not feeling very well,' whispered Uncle Dan weakly. 'I have these +'ere attacks sometimes. There's only one thing as'll do me any +good—brandy.' +</P> + +<P> +And his head fell over one side of the chair, and he looked precisely +like a corpse. +</P> + +<P> +'Maud, what are you doing?' almost shouted Harold, when he came into +the room. +</P> + +<P> +She was putting a liqueur-glass to Uncle Dan's lips. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Harold,' she cried, 'uncle's had an attack of some sort. I'm +giving him some brandy.' +</P> + +<P> +'But you mustn't give him brandy,' said Harold authoritatively to her. +</P> + +<P> +'But I MUST give him brandy,' said Maud. 'He told me that brandy was +the only thing to save him.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nonsense, child!' Harold persisted. 'Uncle told ME all about these +attacks. They're perfectly harmless so long as he doesn't have brandy. +The doctors have warned him that brandy will be fatal.' +</P> + +<P> +'Harold, you are absolutely mistaken. Don't you understand that uncle +has only this minute told me that he MUST have brandy?' +</P> + +<P> +And she again approached the glass to the pale lips of the old man. His +tasselled Turkish smoking-cap had fallen to the floor, and the +hemisphere of his bald head glittered under the gas. +</P> + +<P> +'Maud, I forbid you!' And Harold put a hand on the glass. 'It's a +matter of life and death. You must have misunderstood uncle.' +</P> + +<P> +'It was you who misunderstood uncle,' said Maud. 'Of course, if you +mean to prevent me by brute force—' +</P> + +<P> +They both paused and glanced at Daniel, and then at each other. +</P> + +<P> +'Perhaps you are right, dearest,' said Harold, in a new tone. +</P> + +<P> +'No, dearest,' said Maud, also in a new tone. 'I expect you are right. +I must have misunderstood.' +</P> + +<P> +'No, no, Maud. Give him the brandy by all means. I've no doubt you're +right.' +</P> + +<P> +'But if you think I'd better not give it him—' +</P> + +<P> +'But I would prefer you to give it him, dearest. It isn't likely you +would be mistaken in a thing like that.' +</P> + +<P> +'I would prefer to be guided by you, dearest,' said Maud. +</P> + +<P> +So they went on for several minutes, each giving way to the other in +the most angelic manner. +</P> + +<P> +'AND MEANTIME I'M SUPPOSED TO BE DYING, AM I?' roared Uncle Dan, +suddenly sitting up. 'You'd let th' old uncle peg out while you +practise his precepts! A nice pair you make! I thought for see which on +ye' ud' give way to th' other, but I didna' anticipate as both on ye +'ud be ready to sacrifice my life for th' sake o' domestic peace.' +</P> + +<P> +'But, uncle,' they both said later, amid the universal and yet rather +shamefaced peace rejoicings, 'you said nothing was worth a quarrel.' +</P> + +<P> +'And I was right,' answered Dan; 'I was right. Th' Divorce Court is +full o' fools as have begun married life by trying to convince the +other fool, instead o' humouring him—or her. Kiss us, Maud.' +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="simon"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE DEATH OF SIMON FUGE +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +It was in the train that I learnt of his death. Although a very greedy +eater of literature, I can only enjoy reading when I have little time +for reading. Give me three hours of absolute leisure, with nothing to +do but read, and I instantly become almost incapable of the act. So it +is always on railway journeys, and so it was that evening. I was in the +middle of Wordsworth's Excursion; I positively gloated over it, +wondering why I should have allowed a mere rumour that it was dull to +prevent me from consuming it earlier in my life. But do you suppose I +could continue with Wordsworth in the train? I could not. I stared out +of the windows; I calculated the speed of the train by my watch; I +thought of my future and my past; I drew forth my hopes, examined them, +polished them, and put them back again; I forgave myself for my sins; +and I dreamed of the exciting conquest of a beautiful and brilliant +woman that I should one day achieve. In short, I did everything that +men habitually do under such circumstances. The Gazette was lying +folded on the seat beside me: one of the two London evening papers that +a man of taste may peruse without humiliating himself. How appetizing a +morsel, this sheet new and smooth from the press, this sheet written by +an ironic, understanding, small band of men for just a few thousand +persons like me, ruthlessly scornful of the big circulations and the +idols of the people! If the Gazette and its sole rival ceased to +appear, I do believe that my existence and many similar existences +would wear a different colour. Could one dine alone in Jermyn Street or +Panton Street without this fine piquant evening commentary on the gross +newspapers of the morning? (Now you perceive what sort of a man I am, +and you guess, rightly, that my age is between thirty and forty.) But +the train had stopped at Rugby and started again, and more than half of +my journey was accomplished, ere at length I picked up the Gazette, and +opened it with the false calm of a drunkard who has sworn that he will +not wet his lips before a certain hour. For, well knowing from +experience that I should suffer acute ennui in the train, I had, when +buying the Gazette at Euston, taken oath that I would not even glance +at it till after Rugby; it is always the final hour of these railway +journeys that is the nethermost hell. +</P> + +<P> +The second thing that I saw in the Gazette (the first was of course the +'Entremets' column of wit, humour, and parody, very uneven in its +excellence) was the death of Simon Fuge. There was nearly a column +about it, signed with initials, and the subheading of the article ran, +'Sudden death of a great painter'. That was characteristic of the +Gazette. That Simon Fuge was indeed a great painter is now admitted by +most dilettantes, though denied by a few. But to the great public he +was not one of the few great names. To the great public he was just a +medium name. Ten to one that in speaking of him to a plain person you +would feel compelled to add: 'The painter, you know,' and the plain +person would respond: 'Oh yes,' falsely pretending that he was +perfectly familiar with the name. Simon Fuge had many friends on the +press, and it was solely owing to the loyalty of these friends in the +matter of obituary notices that the great public heard more of Simon +Fuge in the week after his death than it had heard of him during the +thirty-five years of his life. It may be asked: Why, if he had so many +and such loyal friends on the press, these friends did not take +measures to establish his reputation before he died? The answer is that +editors will not allow journalists to praise a living artist much in +excess of the esteem in which the public holds him; they are timid. But +when a misunderstood artist is dead the editors will put no limit on +laudation. I am not on the press, but it happens that I know the world. +</P> + +<P> +Of all the obituary notices of Simon Fuge, the Gazette's was the first. +Somehow the Gazette had obtained exclusive news of the little event, +and some one high up on the Gazette's staff had a very exalted notion +indeed of Fuge, and must have known him personally. Fuge received his +deserts as a painter in that column of print. He was compared to +Sorolla y Bastida for vitality; the morbidezza of his flesh-tints was +stated to be unrivalled even by—I forget the name, painting is not my +speciality. The writer blandly inquired why examples of Fuge's work +were to be seen in the Luxembourg, at Vienna, at Florence, at Dresden; +and not, for instance, at the Tate Gallery, or in the Chantrey +collection. The writer also inquired, with equal blandness, why a +painter who had been on the hanging committee of the Societe Nationale +des Beaux Arts at Paris should not have been found worthy to be even an +A.R.A. in London. In brief, old England 'caught it', as occurred +somewhere or other most nights in the columns of the Gazette. Fuge also +received his deserts as a man. And the Gazette did not conceal that he +had not been a man after the heart of the British public. He had been +too romantically and intensely alive for that. The writer gave a little +penportrait of him. It was very good, recalling his tricks of manner, +his unforgettable eyes, and his amazing skill in talking about himself +and really interesting everybody in himself. There was a special +reference to one of Fuge's most dramatic recitals—a narration of a +night spent in a boat on Ham Lake with two beautiful girls, sisters, +natives of the Five Towns, where Fuge was born. Said the obituarist: +'Those two wonderful creatures who played so large a part in Simon +Fuge's life.' +</P> + +<P> +This death was a shock to me. It took away my ennui for the rest of the +journey. I too had known Simon Fuge. That is to say, I had met him +once, at a soiree, and on that single occasion, as luck had it, he had +favoured the company with the very narration to which the Gazette +contributor referred. I remembered well the burning brilliance of his +blue-black eyes, his touching assurance that all of us were necessarily +interested in his adventures, and the extremely graphic and convincing +way in which he reconstituted for us the nocturnal scene on Ham +Lake—the two sisters, the boat, the rustle of trees, the lights on +shore, and his own difficulty in managing the oars, one of which he +lost for half-an-hour and found again. It was by such details as that +about the oar that, with a tint of humour, he added realism to the +romantic quality of his tales. He seemed to have no reticences +concerning himself. Decidedly he allowed things to be understood...! +Yes, his was a romantic figure, the figure of one to whom every day, +and every hour of the day, was coloured by the violence of his passion +for existence. His pictures had often an unearthly beauty, but for him +they were nothing but faithful renderings of what he saw. +</P> + +<P> +My mind dwelt on those two beautiful sisters. Those two beautiful +sisters appealed to me more than anything else in the Gazette's +obituary. Surely—Simon Fuge had obviously been a man whose emotional +susceptibility and virile impulsiveness must have opened the door for +him to multifarious amours—but surely he had not made himself +indispensable to both sisters simultaneously. Surely even he had not so +far forgotten that Ham Lake was in the middle of a country called +England, and not the ornamental water in the Bois de Boulogne! And +yet.... The delicious possibility of ineffable indiscretions on the +part of Simon Fuge monopolized my mind till the train stopped at Knype, +and I descended. Nevertheless, I think I am a serious and fairly +insular Englishman. It is truly astonishing how a serious person can be +obsessed by trifles that, to speak mildly, do not merit sustained +attention. +</P> + +<P> +I wondered where Ham Lake was. I knew merely that it lay somewhere in +the environs of the Five Towns. What put fuel on the fire of my +interest in the private affairs of the dead painter was the slightly +curious coincidence that on the evening of the news of his death I +should be travelling to the Five Towns—and for the first time in my +life. Here I was at Knype, which, as I had gathered from Bradshaw, and +from my acquaintance Brindley, was the traffic centre of the Five Towns. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +My knowledge of industrial districts amounted to nothing. Born in +Devonshire, educated at Cambridge, and fulfilling my destiny as curator +of a certain department of antiquities at the British Museum, I had +never been brought into contact with the vast constructive material +activities of Lancashire, Yorkshire, and Staffordshire. I had but +passed through them occasionally on my way to Scotland, scorning their +necessary grime with the perhaps too facile disdain of the clean-faced +southerner, who is apt to forget that coal cannot walk up unaided out +of the mine, and that the basin in which he washes his beautiful purity +can only be manufactured amid conditions highly repellent. Well, my +impressions of the platform of Knype station were unfavourable. There +was dirt in the air; I could feel it at once on my skin. And the scene +was shabby, undignified, and rude. I use the word 'rude' in all its +senses. What I saw was a pushing, exclamatory, ill-dressed, determined +crowd, each member of which was bent on the realization of his own +desires by the least ceremonious means. If an item of this throng +wished to get past me, he made me instantly aware of his wish by +abruptly changing my position in infinite space; it was not possible to +misconstrue his meaning. So much crude force and naked will-to-live I +had not before set eyes on. In truth, I felt myself to be a very +brittle, delicate bit of intellectual machinery in the midst of all +these physical manifestations. Yet I am a tallish man, and these +potters appeared to me to be undersized, and somewhat thin too! But +what elbows! What glaring egoistic eyes! What terrible decisiveness in +action! +</P> + +<P> +'Now then, get in if ye're going!' said a red-haired porter to me +curtly. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm not going. I've just got out,' I replied. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, then, why dunna' ye stand out o' th' wee and let them get in as +wants to?' +</P> + +<P> +Unable to offer a coherent answer to this crushing demand, I stood out +of the way. In the light of further knowledge I now surmise that that +porter was a very friendly and sociable porter. But at the moment I +really believed that, taking me for the least admirable and necessary +of God's creatures, he meant to convey his opinion to me for my own +good. I glanced up at the lighted windows of the train, and saw the +composed, careless faces of haughty persons who were going direct from +London to Manchester, and to whom the Five Towns was nothing but a +delay. I envied them. I wanted to return to the shelter of the train. +When it left, I fancied that my last link with civilization was broken. +Then another train puffed in, and it was simply taken by assault in a +fraction of time, to an incomprehensible bawling of friendly sociable +porters. Season-ticket holders at Finsbury Park think they know how to +possess themselves of a train; they are deceived. So this is where +Simon Fuge came from (I reflected)! The devil it is (I reflected)! I +tried to conceive what the invaders of the train would exclaim if +confronted by one of Simon Fuge's pictures. I could imagine only one +word, and that a monosyllable, that would meet the case of their +sentiments. And his dalliance, his tangential nocturnal deviations in +gondolas with exquisite twin odalisques! There did not seem to be much +room for amorous elegance in the lives of these invaders. And his +death! What would they say of his death? Upon my soul, as I stood on +that dirty platform, in a milieu of advertisements of soap, boots, and +aperients, I began to believe that Simon Fuge never had lived, that he +was a mere illusion of his friends and his small public. All that I saw +around me was a violent negation of Simon Fuge, that entity of rare, +fine, exotic sensibilities, that perfectly mad gourmet of sensations, +that exotic seer of beauty. +</P> + +<P> +I caught sight of my acquaintance and host, Mr Robert Brindley, coming +towards me on the platform. Hitherto I had only met him in London, +when, as chairman of the committee of management of the Wedgwood +Institution and School of Art at Bursley, he had called on me at the +British Museum for advice as to loan exhibits. He was then dressed like +a self-respecting tourist. Now, although an architect by profession, he +appeared to be anxious to be mistaken for a sporting squire. He wore +very baggy knickerbockers, and leggings, and a cap. This raiment was +apparently the agreed uniform of the easy classes in the Five Towns; +for in the crowd I had noticed several such consciously superior +figures among the artisans. Mr Brindley, like most of the people in the +station, had a slightly pinched and chilled air, as though that morning +he had by inadvertence omitted to don those garments which are not +seen. He also, like most of the people there, but not to the same +extent, had a somewhat suspicious and narrowly shrewd regard, as who +should say: 'If any person thinks he can get the better of me by a +trick, let him try—that's all.' But the moment his eye encountered +mine, this expression vanished from his face, and he gave me a candid +smile. +</P> + +<P> +'I hope you're well,' he said gravely, squeezing my hand in a sort of +vice that he carried at the end of his right arm. +</P> + +<P> +I reassured him. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, I'm all right,' he said, in response to the expression of my hopes. +</P> + +<P> +It was a relief to me to see him. He took charge of me. I felt, as it +were, safe in his arms. I perceived that, unaided and unprotected, I +should never have succeeded in reaching Bursley from Knype. +</P> + +<P> +A whistle sounded. +</P> + +<P> +'Better get in,' he suggested; and then in a tone of absolute command: +'Give me your bag.' +</P> + +<P> +I obeyed. He opened the door of a first-class carriage. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm travelling second,' I explained. +</P> + +<P> +'Never mind. Get in.' +</P> + +<P> +In his tones was a kindly exasperation. +</P> + +<P> +I got in; he followed. The train moved. +</P> + +<P> +'Ah!' breathed Mr Brindley, blowing out much air and falling like a +sack of coal into a corner seat. He was a thin man, aged about thirty, +with brown eyes, and a short blonde beard. +</P> + +<P> +Conversation was at first difficult. Personally I am not a bubbling +fount of gay nothings when I find myself alone with a comparative +stranger. My drawbridge goes up as if by magic, my postern is closed, +and I peer cautiously through the narrow slits of my turret to estimate +the chances of peril. Nor was Mr Brindley offensively affable. However, +we struggled into a kind of chatter. I had come to the Five Towns, on +behalf of the British Museum, to inspect and appraise, with a view to +purchase by the nation, some huge slip-decorated dishes, excessively +curious according to photographs, which had been discovered in the +cellars of the Conservative Club at Bursley. Having shared in the +negotiations for my visit, Mr Brindley had invited me to spend the +night at his house. We were able to talk about all this. And when we +had talked about all this we were able to talk about the singular +scenery of coal dust, potsherds, flame and steam, through which the +train wound its way. It was squalid ugliness, but it was squalid +ugliness on a scale so vast and overpowering that it became sublime. +Great furnaces gleamed red in the twilight, and their fires were +reflected in horrible black canals; processions of heavy vapour drifted +in all directions across the sky, over what acres of mean and miserable +brown architecture! The air was alive with the most extraordinary, +weird, gigantic sounds. I do not think the Five Towns will ever be +described: Dante lived too soon. As for the erratic and exquisite +genius, Simon Fuge, and his odalisques reclining on silken cushions on +the enchanted bosom of a lake—I could no longer conjure them up even +faintly in my mind. +</P> + +<P> +'I suppose you know Simon Fuge is dead?' I remarked, in a pause. +</P> + +<P> +'No! Is he?' said Mr Brindley, with interest. 'Is it in the paper?' +</P> + +<P> +He did not seem to be quite sure that it would be in the paper. +</P> + +<P> +'Here it is,' said I, and I passed him the Gazette. +</P> + +<P> +'Ha!' he exclaimed explosively. This 'Ha!' was entirely different from +his 'Ah!' Something shot across his eyes, something incredibly +rapid—too rapid for a wink; yet it could only be called a wink. It was +the most subtle transmission of the beyond-speech that I have ever +known any man accomplish, and it endeared Mr Brindley to me. But I knew +not its significance. +</P> + +<P> +'What do they think of Fuge down here?' I asked. +</P> + +<P> +'I don't expect they think of him,' said my host. +</P> + +<P> +He pulled a pouch and a packet of cigarette papers from his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +'Have one of mine,' I suggested, hastily producing my case. +</P> + +<P> +He did not even glance at its contents. +</P> + +<P> +'No, thanks,' he said curtly. +</P> + +<P> +I named my brand. +</P> + +<P> +'My dear sir,' he said, with a return to his kindly exasperation, 'no +cigarette that is not fresh made can be called a cigarette.' I stood +corrected. 'You may pay as much as you like, but you can never buy +cigarettes as good as I can make out of an ounce of fresh B.D.V. +tobacco. Can you roll one?' I had to admit that I could not, I who in +Bloomsbury was accepted as an authority on cigarettes as well as on +porcelain. 'I'll roll you one, and you shall try it.' +</P> + +<P> +He did so. +</P> + +<P> +I gathered from his solemnity that cigarettes counted in the life of Mr +Brindley. He could not take cigarettes other than seriously. The worst +of it was that he was quite right. The cigarette which he constructed +for me out of his wretched B.D.V. tobacco was adorable, and I have made +my own cigarettes ever since. You will find B.D.V. tobacco all over the +haunts frequented by us of the Museum now-a-days, solely owing to the +expertise of Mr Brindley. A terribly capable and positive man! He KNEW, +and he knew that he knew. +</P> + +<P> +He said nothing further as to Simon Fuge. Apparently he had forgotten +the decease. +</P> + +<P> +'Do you often see the Gazette?' I asked, perhaps in the hope of +attracting him back to Fuge. +</P> + +<P> +'No,' he said; 'the musical criticism is too rotten.' +</P> + +<P> +Involuntarily I bridled. It was startling, and it was not agreeable, to +have one's favourite organ so abruptly condemned by a provincial +architect in knickerbockers and a cap, in the midst of all that +industrial ugliness. What could the Five Towns know about art? Yet here +was this fellow condemning the Gazette on artistic grounds. I offered +no defence, because he was right—again. But I did not like it. +</P> + +<P> +'Do you ever see the Manchester Guardian?' he questioned, carrying the +war into my camp. +</P> + +<P> +'No,' I said. +</P> + +<P> +'Pity!' he ejaculated. +</P> + +<P> +'I've often heard that it's a very good paper,' I said politely. +</P> + +<P> +'It isn't a very good paper,' he laid me low. 'It's the best paper in +the world. Try it for a month—it gets to Euston at half-past +eight—and then tell me what you think.' +</P> + +<P> +I saw that I must pull myself together. I had glided into the Five +Towns in a mood of gentle, wise condescension. I saw that it would be +as well, for my own honour and safety, to put on another mood as +quickly as possible, otherwise I might be left for dead on the field. +Certainly the fellow was provincial, curt, even brutal in his despisal +of diplomacy. Certainly he exaggerated the importance of cigarettes in +the great secular scheme of evolution. But he was a man; he was a very +tonic dose. I thought it would be safer to assume that he knew +everything, and that the British Museum knew very little. Yet at the +British Museum he had been quite different, quite deferential and +rather timid. Still, I liked him. I liked his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +The train stopped at an incredible station situated in the centre of a +rolling desert whose surface consisted of broken pots and cinders. I +expect no one to believe this. +</P> + +<P> +'Here we are,' said he blithely. 'No, give me the bag. Porter!' +</P> + +<P> +His summons to the solitary porter was like a clap of thunder. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +He lived in a low, blackish-crimson heavy-browed house at the corner of +a street along which electric cars were continually thundering. There +was a thin cream of mud on the pavements and about two inches of mud in +the roadway, rich, nourishing mud like Indian ink half-mixed. The +prospect of carrying a pound or so of that unique mud into a civilized +house affrighted me, but Mr Brindley opened his door with his latchkey +and entered the abode as unconcernedly as if some fair repentent had +cleansed his feet with her tresses. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't worry too much about the dirt,' he said. 'You're in Bursley.' +</P> + +<P> +The house seemed much larger inside than out. A gas-jet burnt in the +hall, and sombre portieres gave large mysterious hints of rooms. I +could hear, in the distance, the noise of frizzling over a fire, and of +a child crying. Then a tall, straight, wellmade, energetic woman +appeared like a conjuring trick from behind a portiere. +</P> + +<P> +'How do you do, Mr Loring?' she greeted me, smiling. 'So glad to meet +you.' +</P> + +<P> +'My wife,' Mr Brindley explained gravely. +</P> + +<P> +'Now, I may as well tell you now, Bob,' said she, still smiling at me. +'Bobbie's got a sore throat and it may be mumps; the chimney's been on +fire and we're going to be summoned; and you owe me sixpence.' +</P> + +<P> +'Why do I owe you sixpence?' +</P> + +<P> +'Because Annie's had her baby and it's a girl.' +</P> + +<P> +'That's all right. Supper ready?' +</P> + +<P> +'Supper is waiting for you.' +</P> + +<P> +She laughed. 'Whenever I have anything to tell my husband, I always +tell him at ONCE!' she said. 'No matter who's there.' She pronounced +'once' with a wholehearted enthusiasm for its vowel sound that I have +never heard equalled elsewhere, and also with a very magnified 'w' at +the beginning of it. Often when I hear the word 'once' pronounced in +less downright parts of the world, I remember how they pronounce it in +the Five Towns, and there rises up before me a complete picture of the +district, its atmosphere, its spirit. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Brindley led me to a large bathroom that had a faint odour of warm +linen. In addition to a lot of assorted white babyclothes there were +millions of towels in that bathroom. He turned on a tap and the place +was instantly full of steam from a jet of boiling water. +</P> + +<P> +'Now, then,' he said, 'you can start.' +</P> + +<P> +As he showed no intention of leaving me, I did start. 'Mind you don't +scald yourself,' he warned me, 'that water's HOT.' While I was washing, +he prepared to wash. I suddenly felt as if I had been intimate with him +and his wife for about ten years. +</P> + +<P> +'So this is Bursley!' I murmured, taking my mouth out of a towel. +</P> + +<P> +'Bosley, we call it,' he said. 'Do you know the limerick—"There was a +young woman of Bosley"?' +</P> + +<P> +'No.' +</P> + +<P> +He intoned the local limerick. It was excellently good; not meet for a +mixed company, but a genuine delight to the true amateur. One good +limerick deserves another. It happened that I knew a number of the +unprinted Rossetti limericks, precious things, not at all easy to get +at. I detailed them to Mr Brindley, and I do not exaggerate when I say +that I impressed him. I recovered all the ground I had lost upon +cigarettes and newspapers. He appreciated those limericks with a juster +taste than I should have expected. So, afterwards, did his friends. My +belief is that I am to this day known and revered in Bursley, not as +Loring the porcelain expert from the British Museum, but as the man who +first, as it were, brought the good news of the Rossetti limericks from +Ghent to Aix. +</P> + +<P> +'Now, Bob,' an amicable voice shrieked femininely up from the +ground-floor, 'am I to send the soup to the bathroom or are you coming +down?' +</P> + +<P> +A limerick will make a man forget even his dinner. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Brindley performed once more with his eyes that something that was, +not a wink, but a wink unutterably refined and spiritualized. This time +I comprehended its import. Its import was to the effect that women are +women. +</P> + +<P> +We descended, Mr Brindley still in his knickerbockers. +</P> + +<P> +'This way,' he said, drawing aside a portiere. Mrs Brindley, as we +entered the room, was trotting a male infant round and round a table +charged with everything digestible and indigestible. She handed the +child, who was in its nightdress, to a maid. +</P> + +<P> +'Say good night to father.' +</P> + +<P> +'Good ni', faver,' the interesting creature piped. +</P> + +<P> +'By-bye, sonny,' said the father, stooping to tickle. 'I suppose,' he +added, when maid and infant had gone, 'if one's going to have mumps, +they may as well all have it together.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, of course,' the mother agreed cheerfully. 'I shall stick them all +into a room.' +</P> + +<P> +'How many children have you?' I inquired with polite curiosity. +</P> + +<P> +'Three,' she said; 'that's the eldest that you've seen.' +</P> + +<P> +What chiefly struck me about Mrs Brindley was her serene air of +capableness, of having a self-confidence which experience had richly +justified. I could see that she must be an extremely sensible mother. +And yet she had quite another aspect too—how shall I explain it?—as +though she had only had children in her spare time. +</P> + +<P> +We sat down. The room was lighted by four candles, on the table. I am +rather short-sighted, and so I did not immediately notice that there +were low book-cases all round the walls. Why the presence of these +book-cases should have caused me a certain astonishment I do not know, +but it did. I thought of Knype station, and the scenery, and then the +other little station, and the desert of pots and cinders, and the mud +in the road and on the pavement and in the hall, and the baby-linen in +the bathroom, and three children all down with mumps, and Mr Brindley's +cap and knickerbockers and cigarettes; and somehow the books—I soon +saw there were at least a thousand of them, and not circulating-library +books, either, but BOOKS—well, they administered a little shock to me. +</P> + +<P> +To Mr Brindley's right hand was a bottle of Bass and a corkscrew. +</P> + +<P> +'Beer!' he exclaimed, with solemn ecstasy, with an ecstasy gross and +luscious. And, drawing the cork, he poured out a glass, with fine skill +in the management of froth, and pushed it towards me. +</P> + +<P> +'No, thanks,' I said. +</P> + +<P> +'No beer!' he murmured, with benevolent, puzzled disdain. 'Whisky?' +</P> + +<P> +'No, thanks,' I said. 'Water.' +</P> + +<P> +'<I>I</I> know what Mr Loring would like,' said Mrs Brindley, jumping up. 'I +KNOW what Mr Loring would like.' She opened a cupboard and came back to +the table with a bottle, which she planted in front of me. 'Wouldn't +you, Mr Loring?' +</P> + +<P> +It was a bottle of mercurey, a wine which has given me many dreadful +dawns, but which I have never known how to refuse. +</P> + +<P> +'I should,' I admitted; 'but it's very bad for me.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nonsense!' said she. She looked at her husband in triumph. +</P> + +<P> +'Beer!' repeated Mr Brindley with undiminished ecstasy, and drank about +two-thirds of a glass at one try. Then he wiped the froth from his +moustache. 'Ah!' he breathed low and soft. 'Beer!' +</P> + +<P> +They called the meal supper. The term is inadequate. No term that I can +think of would be adequate. Of its kind the thing was perfect. Mrs +Brindley knew that it was perfect. Mr Brindley also knew that it was +perfect. There were prawns in aspic. I don't know why I should single +out that dish, except that it seemed strange to me to have crossed the +desert of pots and cinders in order to encounter prawns in aspic. Mr +Brindley ate more cold roast beef than I had ever seen any man eat +before, and more pickled walnuts. It is true that the cold roast beef +transcended all the cold roast beef of my experience. Mrs Brindley +regaled herself largely on trifle, which Mr Brindley would not +approach, preferring a most glorious Stilton cheese. I lost touch, +temporarily, with the intellectual life. It was Mr Brindley who +recalled me to it. +</P> + +<P> +'Jane,' he said. (This was at the beef and pickles stage.) +</P> + +<P> +No answer. +</P> + +<P> +'Jane!' +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Brindley turned to me. 'My name is not Jane,' she said, laughing, +and making a moue simultaneously. 'He only calls me that to annoy me. I +told him I wouldn't answer to it, and I won't. He thinks I shall give +in because we've got "company"! But I won't treat you as "company", Mr +Loring, and I shall expect you to take my side. What dreadful weather +we're having, aren't we?' +</P> + +<P> +'Dreadful!' I joined in the game. +</P> + +<P> +'Jane!' +</P> + +<P> +'Did you have a comfortable journey down?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, thank you.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, then, Mary!' Mr Brindley yielded. +</P> + +<P> +'Thank you very much, Mr Loring, for your kind assistance,' said his +wife. 'Yes, dearest?' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Brindley glanced at me over his second glass of beer. +</P> + +<P> +'If those confounded kids are going to have mumps,' he addressed his +words apparently into the interior of the glass, 'it probably means the +doctor, and the doctor means money, and I shan't be able to afford the +Hortulus Animoe.' +</P> + +<P> +I opened my ears. +</P> + +<P> +'My husband goes stark staring mad sometimes,' said Mrs Brindley to me. +'It lasts for a week or so, and pretty nearly lands us in the +workhouse. This time it's the Hortulus Animoe. Do you know what it is? +I don't.' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' I said, and the prestige of the British Museum trembled. Then I +had a vague recollection. 'There's an illuminated manuscript of that +name in the Imperial Library of Vienna, isn't there?' +</P> + +<P> +'You've got it in one,' said Mr Brindley. 'Wife, pass those walnuts.' +</P> + +<P> +'You aren't by any chance buying it?' I laughed. +</P> + +<P> +'No,' he said. 'A Johnny at Utrecht is issuing a facsimile of it, with +all the hundred odd miniatures in colour. It will be the finest thing +in reproduction ever done. Only seventy-five copies for England.' +</P> + +<P> +'How much?' I asked. +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' said he, with a preliminary look at his wife,'thirty-three +pounds.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thirty-three POUNDS!' she screamed. 'You never told me.' +</P> + +<P> +'My wife never will understand,' said Mr Brindley, 'that complete +confidence between two human beings is impossible.' +</P> + +<P> +'I shall go out as a milliner, that's all,' Mrs Brindley returned. +'Remember, the Dictionary of National Biography isn't paid for yet.' +</P> + +<P> +'I'm glad I forgot that, otherwise I shouldn't have ordered the +Hortulus.' +</P> + +<P> +'You've not ORDERED it?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, I have. It'll be here tomorrow—at least the first part will.' +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Brindley affected to fall back dying in her chair. +</P> + +<P> +'Quite mad!' she complained to me. 'Quite mad. It's a hopeless case.' +</P> + +<P> +But obviously she was very proud of the incurable lunatic. +</P> + +<P> +'But you're a book-collector!' I exclaimed, so struck by these feats of +extravagance in a modest house that I did not conceal my amazement. +</P> + +<P> +'Did you think I collected postage-stamps?' the husband retorted. 'No, +<I>I</I>'m not a book-collector, but our doctor is. He has a few books, if +you like. Still, I wouldn't swop him; he's much too fond of fashionable +novels.' +</P> + +<P> +'You know you're always up his place,' said the wife; 'and I wonder +what <I>I</I> should do if it wasn't for the doctor's novels!' The doctor +was evidently a favourite of hers. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm not always up at his place,' the husband contradicted. 'You know +perfectly well I never go there before midnight. And HE knows perfectly +well that I only go because he has the best whisky in the town. By the +way, I wonder whether he knows that Simon Fuge is dead. He's got one of +his etchings. I'll go up.' +</P> + +<P> +'Who's Simon Fuge?' asked Mrs Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't you remember old Fuge that kept the Blue Bell at Cauldon?' +</P> + +<P> +'What? Simple Simon?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes. Well, his son.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! I remember. He ran away from home once, didn't he, and his mother +had a port-wine stain on her left cheek? Oh, of course. I remember him +perfectly. He came down to the Five Towns some years ago for his aunt's +funeral. So he's dead. Who told you?' +</P> + +<P> +'Mr Loring.' +</P> + +<P> +'Did you know him?' she glanced at me. +</P> + +<P> +'I scarcely knew him,' said I. 'I saw it in the paper.' +</P> + +<P> +'What, the Signal?' +</P> + +<P> +'The Signal's the local rag,' Mr Brindley interpolated. 'No. It's in +the Gazette.' +</P> + +<P> +'The Birmingham Gazette?' +</P> + +<P> +'No, bright creature—the Gazette,' said Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh!' She seemed puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +'Didn't you know he was a painter?' the husband condescendingly +catechized. +</P> + +<P> +'I knew he used to teach at the Hanbridge School of Art,' said Mrs +Brindley stoutly. 'Mother wouldn't let me go there because of that. +Then he got the sack.' +</P> + +<P> +'Poor defenceless thing! How old were you?' +</P> + +<P> +'Seventeen, I expect.' +</P> + +<P> +'I'm much obliged to your mother.' +</P> + +<P> +'Where did he die?' Mrs Brindley demanded. +</P> + +<P> +'At San Remo,' I answered. 'Seems queer him dying at San Remo in +September, doesn't it?' +</P> + +<P> +'Why?' +</P> + +<P> +'San Remo is a winter place. No one ever goes there before December.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, is it?' the lady murmured negligently. 'Then that would be just +like Simon Fuge. <I>I</I> was never afraid of him,' she added, in a defiant +tone, and with a delicious inconsequence that choked her husband in the +midst of a draught of beer. +</P> + +<P> +'You can laugh,' she said sturdily. +</P> + +<P> +At that moment there was heard a series of loud explosive sounds in the +street. They continued for a few seconds apparently just outside the +dining-room window. Then they stopped, and the noise of the bumping +electric cars resumed its sway over the ear. +</P> + +<P> +'That's Oliver!' said Mr Brindley, looking at his watch. 'He must have +come from Manchester in an hour and a half. He's a terror.' +</P> + +<P> +'Glass! Quick!' Mrs Brindley exclaimed. She sprang to the sideboard, +and seized a tumbler, which Mr Brindley filled from a second bottle of +Bass. When the door of the room opened she was standing close to it, +laughing, with the full, frothing glass in her hand. +</P> + +<P> +A tall, thin man, rather younger than Mr Brindley and his wife, +entered. He wore a long dust-coat and leggings, and he carried a +motorist's cap in a great hand. No one spoke; but little puffs of +laughter escaped all Mrs Brindley's efforts to imprison her mirth. Then +the visitor took the glass with a magnificent broad smile, and said, in +a rich and heavy Midland voice— +</P> + +<P> +'Here's to moy wife's husband!' +</P> + +<P> +And drained the nectar. +</P> + +<P> +'Feel better now, don't you?' Mrs Brindley inquired. +</P> + +<P> +'Aye, Mrs Bob, I do!' was the reply. 'How do, Bob?' +</P> + +<P> +'How do?' responded my host laconically. And then with gravity: 'Mr +Loring—Mr Oliver Colclough—thinks he knows something about music.' +</P> + +<P> +'Glad to meet you, sir,' said Mr Colclough, shaking hands with me. He +had a most attractively candid smile, but he was so long and lanky that +he seemed to pervade the room like an omnipresence. +</P> + +<P> +'Sit down and have a bit of cheese, Oliver,' said Mrs Brindley, as she +herself sat down. +</P> + +<P> +'No, thanks, Mrs Bob. I must be getting towards home.' +</P> + +<P> +He leaned on her chair. +</P> + +<P> +'Trifle, then?' +</P> + +<P> +'No, thanks.' +</P> + +<P> +'Machine going all right?' +</P> + +<P> +'Like oil. Never stopped th' engine once.' +</P> + +<P> +'Did you get the Sinfonia Domestica, Ol?' Mr Brindley inquired. +</P> + +<P> +'Didn't I say as I should get it, Bob?' +</P> + +<P> +'You SAID you would.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, I've got it.' +</P> + +<P> +'In Manchester?' +</P> + +<P> +'Of course.' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Brindley's face shone with desire and Mr Oliver Colclough's face +shone with triumph. +</P> + +<P> +'Where is it?' +</P> + +<P> +'In the hall.' +</P> + +<P> +'My hall?' +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' +</P> + +<P> +'We'll play it, Ol.' +</P> + +<P> +'No, really, Bob! I can't stop now. I promised the wife—' +</P> + +<P> +'We'll PLAY it, Ol! You'd no business to make promises. Besides, +suppose you'd had a puncture!' +</P> + +<P> +'I expect you've heard Strauss's Sinfonia Domestica, Mr Loring, up in +the village?' Mr Colclough addressed me. He had surrendered to the +stronger will. +</P> + +<P> +'In London?' I said. 'No. But I've heard of it.' +</P> + +<P> +'Bob and I heard it in Manchester last week, and we thought it 'ud be a +bit of a lark to buy the arrangement for pianoforte duet.' +</P> + +<P> +'Come and listen to it,' said Mr Brindley. 'That is, if nobody wants +any more beer.' +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H4> + +<P> +The drawing-room was about twice as large as the dining-room, and it +contained about four times as much furniture. Once again there were +books all round the walls. A grand piano, covered with music, stood in +a corner, and behind was a cabinet full of bound music. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Brindley, seated on one corner of the bench in front of the piano, +cut the leaves of the Sinfonia Domestica. +</P> + +<P> +'It's the devil!' he observed. +</P> + +<P> +'Aye, lad!' agreed Mr Colclough, standing over him. 'It's difficult.' +</P> + +<P> +'Come on,' said Mr. Brindley, when he had finished cutting. +</P> + +<P> +'Better take your dust-coat off, hadn't you?' Mrs Brindley suggested to +the friend. She and I were side by side on a sofa at the other end of +the room. +</P> + +<P> +'I may as well,' Mr Colclough admitted, and threw the long garment on +to a chair. 'Look here, Bob, my hands are stiff with steering.' +</P> + +<P> +'Don't find fault with your tools,' said Mr Brindley; 'and sit down. +No, my boy, I'm going to play the top part. Shove along.' +</P> + +<P> +'I want to play the top part because it's easiest,' Mr Colclough +grumbled. +</P> + +<P> +'How often have I told you the top part is never easiest? Who do you +suppose is going to keep this symphony together—you or me?' +</P> + +<P> +'Sorry I spoke.' +</P> + +<P> +They arranged themselves on the bench, and Mr Brindley turned up the +lower corners of every alternate leaf of the music. +</P> + +<P> +'Now,' said he. 'Ready?' +</P> + +<P> +'Let her zip,' said Mr Colclough. +</P> + +<P> +They began to play. And then the door opened, and a servant, whose +white apron was starched as stiff as cardboard, came in carrying a tray +of coffee and unholy liqueurs, which she deposited with a rattle on a +small table near the hostess. +</P> + +<P> +'Curse!' muttered Mr Brindley, and stopped. +</P> + +<P> +'Life's very complex, ain't it, Bob?' Mr Colclough murmured. +</P> + +<P> +'Aye, lad.' The host glanced round to make sure that the rattling +servant had entirely gone. 'Now start again.' +</P> + +<P> +'Wait a minute, wait a minute!' cried Mrs Brindley excitedly. 'I'm just +pouring out Mr Loring's coffee. There!' As she handed me the cup she +whispered, 'We daren't talk. It's more than our place is worth.' +</P> + +<P> +The performance of the symphony proceeded. To me, who am not a +performer, it sounded excessively brilliant and incomprehensible. Mr +Colclough stretched his right hand to turn over the page, and fumbled +it. Another stoppage. +</P> + +<P> +'Damn you, Ol!' Mr Brindley exploded. 'I wish you wouldn't make +yourself so confoundedly busy. Leave the turning to me. It takes a +great artist to turn over, and you're only a blooming chauffeur. We'll +begin again.' +</P> + +<P> +'Sackcloth!' Mr Colclough whispered. +</P> + +<P> +I could not estimate the length of the symphony; but my impression was +one of extreme length. Halfway through it the players both took their +coats off. There was no other surcease. +</P> + +<P> +'What dost think of it, Bob?' asked Mr Colclough in the weird silence +that reigned after they had finished. They were standing up and putting +on their coats and wiping their faces. +</P> + +<P> +'I think what I thought before,' said Mr Brindley. 'It's childish.' +</P> + +<P> +'It isn't childish,' the other protested. 'It's ugly, but it isn't +childish.' +</P> + +<P> +'It's childishly clever,' Mr Brindley modified his description. He did +not ask my opinion. +</P> + +<P> +'Coffee's cold,' said Mrs Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +'I don't want any coffee. Give me some Chartreuse, please. Have a drop +o' green, Ol?' +</P> + +<P> +'A split soda 'ud be more in my line. Besides, I'm just going to have +my supper. Never mind, I'll have a drop, missis, and chance it. I've +never tried Chartreuse as an appetizer.' +</P> + +<P> +At this point commenced a sanguinary conflict of wills to settle +whether or not I also should indulge in green Chartreuse. I was +defeated. Besides the Chartreuse, I accepted a cigar. Never before or +since have I been such a buck. +</P> + +<P> +'I must hook it,' said Mr Colclough, picking up his dust-coat. +</P> + +<P> +'Not yet you don't,' said Mr Brindley. 'I've got to get the taste of +that infernal Strauss out of my mouth. We'll play the first movement of +the G minor? La-la-la—la-la-la—la-la-la-ta.' He whistled a phrase. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Colclough obediently sat down again to the piano. +</P> + +<P> +The Mozart was like an idyll after a farcical melodrama. They played it +with an astounding delicacy. Through the latter half of the movement I +could hear Mr Brindley breathing regularly and heavily through his +nose, exactly as though he were being hypnotized. I had a tickling +sensation in the small of my back, a sure sign of emotion in me. The +atmosphere was changed. +</P> + +<P> +'What a heavenly thing!' I exclaimed enthusiastically, when they had +finished. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Brindley looked at me sharply, and just nodded in silence. Well, +good night, Ol.' +</P> + +<P> +'I say,' said Mr Colclough; 'if you've nothing doing later on, bring Mr +Loring round to my place. Will you come, Mr Loring? Do! Us'll have a +drink.' +</P> + +<P> +These Five Towns people certainly had a simple, sincere way of offering +hospitality that was quite irresistible. One could see that hospitality +was among their chief and keenest pleasures. +</P> + +<P> +We all went to the front door to see Mr Colclough depart homewards in +his automobile. The two great acetylene head-lights sent long glaring +shafts of light down the side street. Mr Colclough, throwing the score +of the Sinfonia Domestica into the tonneau of the immense car, put on a +pair of gloves and began to circulate round the machine, tapping here, +screwing there, as chauffeurs will. Then he bent down in front to start +the engine. +</P> + +<P> +'By the way, Ol,' Mr Brindley shouted from the doorway, 'it seems Simon +Fuge is dead.' +</P> + +<P> +We could see the man's stooping form between the two head-lights. He +turned his head towards the house. +</P> + +<P> +'Who the dagger is Simon Fuge?' he inquired. 'There's about five +thousand Fuges in th' Five Towns.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! I thought you knew him.' +</P> + +<P> +'I might, and I mightn't. It's not one o' them Fuge brothers +saggar-makers at Longshaw, is it?' +</P> + +<P> +'No, It's—' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Colclough had succeeded in starting his engine, and the air was rent +with gun-shots. He jumped lightly into the driver's seat. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, see you later,' he cried, and was off, persuading the enormous +beast under him to describe a semicircle in the narrow street backing, +forcing forward, and backing again, to the accompaniment of the +continuous fusillade. At length he got away, drew up within two feet of +an electric tram that slid bumping down the main street, and vanished +round the corner. A little ragged boy passed, crying, 'Signal, extra,' +and Mr Brindley hailed him. +</P> + +<P> +'What IS Mr Colclough?' I asked in the drawing-room. +</P> + +<P> +'Manufacturer—sanitary ware,' said Mr Brindley. 'He's got one of the +best businesses in Hanbridge. I wish I'd half his income. Never buys a +book, you know.' +</P> + +<P> +'He seems to play the piano very well.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, as to that, he doesn't what you may call PLAY, but he's the best +sight-reader in this district, bar me. I never met his equal. When you +come across any one who can read a thing like the Domestic Symphony +right off and never miss his place, you might send me a telegram. +Colclough's got a Steinway. Wish I had.' +</P> + +<P> +Mrs Brindley had been looking through the Signal. +</P> + +<P> +'I don't see anything about Simon Fuge here,' said she. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, nonsense!' said her husband. 'Buchanan's sure to have got +something in about it. Let's look.' +</P> + +<P> +He received the paper from his wife, but failed to discover in it a +word concerning the death of Simon Fuge. +</P> + +<P> +'Dashed if I don't ring Buchanan up and ask him what he means! Here's a +paper with an absolute monopoly in the district, and brings in about +five thousand a year clear to somebody, and it doesn't give the news! +There never is anything but advertisements and sporting results in the +blessed thing.' +</P> + +<P> +He rushed to his telephone, which was in the hall. Or rather, he did +not rush; he went extremely quickly, with aggressive footsteps that +seemed to symbolize just retribution. We could hear him at the +telephone. +</P> + +<P> +'Hello! No. Yes. Is that you, Buchanan? Well, I want Mr Buchanan. Is +that you, Buchanan? Yes, I'm all right. What in thunder do you mean by +having nothing in tonight about Simon Fuge's death? Eh? Yes, the +Gazette. Well, I suppose you aren't Scotch for nothing. Why the devil +couldn't you stop in Scotland and edit papers there?' Then a laugh. 'I +see. Yes. What did you think of those cigars? Oh! See you at the +dinner. Ta-ta.' A final ring. +</P> + +<P> +'The real truth is, he wanted some advice as to the tone of his +obituary notice,' said Mr Brindley, coming back into the drawing-room. +'He's got it, seemingly. He says he's writing it now, for tomorrow. He +didn't put in the mere news of the death, because it was exclusive to +the Gazette, and he's been having some difficulty with the Gazette +lately. As he says, tomorrow afternoon will be quite soon enough for +the Five Towns. It isn't as if Simon Fuge was a cricket match. So now +you see how the wheels go round, Mr Loring.' +</P> + +<P> +He sat down to the piano and began to play softly the Castle motive +from the Nibelung's Ring. He kept repeating it in different keys. +</P> + +<P> +'What about the mumps, wife?' he asked Mrs Brindley, who had been out +of the room and now returned. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! I don't think it is mumps,' she replied. 'They're all asleep.' +</P> + +<P> +'Good!' he murmured, still playing the Castle motive. +</P> + +<P> +'Talking of Simon Fuge,' I said determined to satisfy my curiosity, +'who WERE the two sisters?' +</P> + +<P> +'What two sisters?' +</P> + +<P> +'That he spent the night in the boat with, on Ilam Lake.' +</P> + +<P> +'Was that in the Gazette? I didn't read all the article.' +</P> + +<P> +He changed abruptly into the Sword motive, which he gave with a violent +flourish, and then he left the piano. 'I do beg you not to wake my +children,' said his wife. +</P> + +<P> +'Your children must get used to my piano,' said he. 'Now, then, what +about these two sisters?' +</P> + +<P> +I pulled the Gazette from my pocket and handed it to him. He read aloud +the passage describing the magic night on the lake. +</P> + +<P> +'<I>I</I> don't know who they were,' he said. 'Probably something tasty from +the Hanbridge Empire.' +</P> + +<P> +We both observed a faint, amused smile on the face of Mrs Brindley, the +smile of a woman who has suddenly discovered in her brain a piece of +knowledge rare and piquant. +</P> + +<P> +'I can guess who they were,' she said. 'In fact, I'm sure.' +</P> + +<P> +'Who?' +</P> + +<P> +'Annie Brett and—you know who.' +</P> + +<P> +'What, down at the Tiger?' +</P> + +<P> +'Certainly. Hush!' Mrs Brindley ran to the door and, opening it, +listened. The faint, fretful cry of a child reached us. 'There! You've +done it! I told you you would!' +</P> + +<P> +She disappeared. Mr Brindley whistled. +</P> + +<P> +'And who is Annie Brett?' I inquired. +</P> + +<P> +'Look here,' said he, with a peculiar inflection. 'Would you like to +see her?' +</P> + +<P> +'I should,' I said with decision. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, come on, then. We'll go down to the Tiger and have a drop of +something.' +</P> + +<P> +'And the other sister?' I asked. +</P> + +<P> +'The other sister is Mrs Oliver Colclough,' he answered. 'Curious, +ain't it?' +</P> + +<P> +Again there was that swift, scarcely perceptible phenomenon in his eyes. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +V +</H4> + +<P> +We stood at the corner of the side-street and the main road, and down +the main road a vast, white rectangular cube of bright light came +plunging—its head rising and dipping—at express speed, and with a +formidable roar. Mr Brindley imperiously raised his stick; the +extraordinary box of light stopped as if by a miracle, and we jumped +into it, having splashed through mud, and it plunged off again—bump, +bump, bump—into the town of Bursley. As Mr Brindley passed into the +interior of the car, he said laconically to two men who were smoking on +the platform— +</P> + +<P> +'How do, Jim? How do, Jo?' +</P> + +<P> +And they responded laconically— +</P> + +<P> +'How do, Bob?' +</P> + +<P> +'How do, Bob?' +</P> + +<P> +We sat down. Mr Brindley pointed to the condition of the floor. +</P> + +<P> +'Cheerful, isn't it?' he observed to me, shouting above the din of +vibrating glass. +</P> + +<P> +Our fellow-passengers were few and unromantic, perhaps half-a-dozen +altogether on the long, shiny, yellow seats of the car, each apparently +lost in gloomy reverie. +</P> + +<P> +'It's the advertisements and notices in these cars that are the joy of +the super-man like you and me,' shouted Mr Brindley. 'Look there, +"Passengers are requested not to spit on the floor." Simply an +encouragement to lie on the seats and spit on the ceiling, isn't it? +"Wear only Noble's wonderful boots." Suppose we did! Unless they came +well up above the waist we should be prosecuted. But there's no sense +of humour in this district.' +</P> + +<P> +Greengrocers' shops and public-houses were now flying past the windows +of the car. It began to climb a hill, and then halted. +</P> + +<P> +'Here we are!' ejaculated Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +And he was out of the car almost before I had risen. +</P> + +<P> +We strolled along a quiet street, and came to a large building with +many large lighted windows, evidently some result of public effort. +</P> + +<P> +'What's that place?' I demanded. +</P> + +<P> +'That's the Wedgwood Institution.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! So that's the Wedgwood Institution, is it?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes. Commonly called the Wedgwood. Museum, reading-room, public +library—dirtiest books in the world, I mean physically—art school, +science school. I've never explained to you why I'm chairman of the +Management Committee, have I? Well, it's because the Institution is +meant to foster the arts, and I happen to know nothing about 'em. I +needn't tell you that architecture, literature, and music are not arts +within the meaning of the act. Not much! Like to come in and see the +museum for a minute? You'll have to see it in your official capacity +tomorrow.' +</P> + +<P> +We crossed the road, and entered an imposing portico. Just as we did so +a thick stream of slouching men began to descend the steps, like a +waterfall of treacle. Mr Brindley they appeared to see, but evidently I +made no impression on their retinas. They bore down the steps, hands +deep in pockets, sweeping over me like Fate. Even when I bounced off +one of them to a lower step, he showed by no sign that the fact of my +existence had reached his consciousness—simply bore irresistibly +downwards. The crowd was absolutely silent. At last I gained the +entrance hall. +</P> + +<P> +'It's closing-time for the reading room,' said Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm glad I survived it,' I said. +</P> + +<P> +'The truth is,' said he, 'that people who can't look after themselves +don't flourish in these latitudes. But you'll be acclimatized by +tomorrow. See that?' +</P> + +<P> +He pointed to an alabaster tablet on which was engraved a record of the +historical certainty that Mr Gladstone opened the Institution in 1868, +also an extract from the speech which he delivered on that occasion. +</P> + +<P> +'What do you THINK of Gladstone down here?' I demanded. +</P> + +<P> +'In my official capacity I think that these deathless words are the +last utterance of wisdom on the subject of the influence of the liberal +arts on life. And I should advise you, in your official capacity, to +think the same, unless you happen to have a fancy for having your teeth +knocked down your throat.' +</P> + +<P> +'I see,' I said, not sure how to take him. +</P> + +<P> +'Lest you should go away with the idea that you have been visiting a +rude and barbaric people, I'd better explain that that was a joke. As a +matter of fact, we're rather enlightened here. The only man who stands +a chance of getting his teeth knocked down his throat here is the +ingenious person who started the celebrated legend of the man-and-dog +fight at Hanbridge. It's a long time ago, a very long time ago; but his +grey hairs won't save him from horrible tortures if we catch him. We +don't mind being called immoral, we're above a bit flattered when +London newspapers come out with shocking details of debauchery in the +Five Towns, but we pride ourselves on our manners. I say, Aked!' His +voice rose commandingly, threateningly, to an old bent, spectacled man +who was ascending a broad white staircase in front of us. +</P> + +<P> +'Sir!' The man turned. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't turn the lights out yet in the museum.' +</P> + +<P> +'No, sir! Are you coming up?' The accents were slow and tremulous. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes. I have a gentleman here from the British Museum who wants to look +round.' +</P> + +<P> +The oldish man came deliberately down the steps, and approached us. +Then his gaze, beginning at my waist, gradually rose to my hat. +</P> + +<P> +'From the British Museum?' he drawled. 'I'm sure I'm very glad to meet +you, sir. I'm sure it's a very great honour.' +</P> + +<P> +He held out a wrinkled hand, which I shook. +</P> + +<P> +'Mr Aked,' said Mr Brindley, by way of introduction. 'Been caretaker +here for pretty near forty years.' +</P> + +<P> +'Ever since it opened, sir,' said Aked. +</P> + +<P> +We went up the white stone stairway, rather a grandiose construction +for a little industrial town. It divided itself into doubling curving +flights at the first landing, and its walls were covered with pictures +and designs. The museum itself, a series of three communicating rooms, +was about as large as a pocket-handkerchief. +</P> + +<P> +'Quite small,' I said. +</P> + +<P> +I gave my impression candidly, because I had already judged Mr Brindley +to be the rare and precious individual who is worthy of the high honour +of frankness. +</P> + +<P> +'Do you think so?' he demanded quickly. I had shocked him, that was +clear. His tone was unmistakable; it indicated an instinctive, +involuntary protest. But he recovered himself in a flash. 'That's +jealousy,' he laughed. 'All you British Museum people are the same.' +Then he added, with an unsuccessful attempt to convince me that he +meant what he was saying: 'Of course it is small. It's nothing, simply +nothing.' +</P> + +<P> +Yes, I had unwittingly found the joint in the armour of this +extraordinary Midland personage. With all his irony, with all his +violent humour, with all his just and unprejudiced perceptions, he had +a tenderness for the Institution of which he was the dictator. He loved +it. He could laugh like a god at everything in the Five Towns except +this one thing. He would try to force himself to regard even this with +the same lofty detachment, but he could not do it naturally. +</P> + +<P> +I stopped at a case of Wedgwood ware, marked 'Perkins Collection.' +</P> + +<P> +'By Jove!' I exclaimed, pointing to a vase. 'What a body!' +</P> + +<P> +He was enchanted by my enthusiasm. +</P> + +<P> +'Funny you should have hit on that,' said he. 'Old Daddy Perkins always +called it his ewe-lamb.' +</P> + +<P> +Thus spoken, the name of the greatest authority on Wedgwood ware that +Europe has ever known curiously impressed me. +</P> + +<P> +'I suppose you knew him?' I questioned. +</P> + +<P> +'Considering that I was one of the pall-bearers at his funeral, and +caught the champion cold of my life!' +</P> + +<P> +'What sort of a man was he?' +</P> + +<P> +'Outside Wedgwood ware he wasn't any sort of a man. He was that scourge +of society, a philanthropist,' said Mr Brindley. 'He was an upright +citizen, and two thousand people followed him to his grave. I'm an +upright citizen, but I have no hope that two thousand people will +follow me to my grave.' +</P> + +<P> +'You never know what may happen,' I observed, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +'No.' He shook his head. 'If you undermine the moral character of your +fellow-citizens by a long course of unbridled miscellaneous +philanthropy, you can have a funeral procession as long as you like, at +the rate of about forty shillings a foot. But you'll never touch the +great heart of the enlightened public of these boroughs in any other +way. Do you imagine anyone cared a twopenny damn for Perkins's Wedgwood +ware?' +</P> + +<P> +'It's like that everywhere,' I said. +</P> + +<P> +'I suppose it is,' he assented unwillingly. +</P> + +<P> +Who can tell what was passing in the breast of Mr Brindley? I could +not. At least I could not tell with any precision. I could only gather, +vaguely, that what he considered the wrong-headedness, the blindness, +the lack of true perception, of his public was beginning to produce in +his individuality a faint trace of permanent soreness. I regretted it. +And I showed my sympathy with him by asking questions about the design +and construction of the museum (a late addition to the Institution), of +which I happened to know that he had been the architect. +</P> + +<P> +He at once became interested and interesting. Although he perhaps +insisted a little too much on the difficulties which occur when +original talent encounters stupidity, he did, as he walked me up and +down, contrive to convey to me a notion of the creative processes of +the architect in a way that was in my experience entirely novel. He was +impressing me anew, and I was wondering whether he was unique of his +kind or whether there existed regiments of him in this strange parcel +of England. +</P> + +<P> +'Now, you see this girder,' he said, looking upwards. +</P> + +<P> +That's surely something of Fuge's, isn't it?' I asked, indicating a +small picture in a corner, after he had finished his explanation of the +functions of the girder. +</P> + +<P> +As on the walls of the staircase and corridors, so on the walls here, +there were many paintings, drawings, and engravings. And of course the +best were here in the museum. The least uninteresting items of the +collection were, speaking generally, reproductions in monotint of +celebrated works, and a few second—or third-rate loan pictures from +South Kensington. Aside from such matters I had noticed nothing but the +usual local trivialities, gifts from one citizen or another, +travel-jottings of some art-master, careful daubs of apt students +without a sense of humour. The aspect of the place was exactly the +customary aspect of the small provincial museum, as I have seen it in +half-a-hundred towns that are not among 'the great towns'. It had the +terrible trite 'museum' aspect, the aspect that brings woe and +desolation to the heart of the stoutest visitor, and which seems to +form part of the purgatorio of Bank-holidays, wide mouths, and stiff +clothes. The movement for opening museums on Sundays is the most +natural movement that could be conceived. For if ever a resort was +invented and fore-ordained to chime with the true spirit of the British +sabbath, that resort is the average museum. I ought to know. I do know. +</P> + +<P> +But there was the incomparable Wedgwood ware, and there was the little +picture by Simon Fuge. I am not going to lose my sense of perspective +concerning Simon Fuge. He was not the greatest painter that ever lived, +or even of his time. He had, I am ready to believe, very grave +limitations. But he was a painter by himself, as all fine painters are. +He had his own vision. He was Unique. He was exclusively preoccupied +with the beauty and the romance of the authentic. The little picture +showed all this. It was a painting, unfinished, of a girl standing at a +door and evidently hesitating whether to open the door or not: a very +young girl, very thin, with long legs in black stockings, and short, +white, untidy frock; thin bare arms; the head thrown on one side, and +the hands raised, and one foot raised, in a wonderful childish +gesture—the gesture of an undecided fox-terrier. The face was an +infant's face, utterly innocent; and yet Simon Fuge had somehow caught +in that face a glimpse of all the future of the woman that the girl was +to be, he had displayed with exquisite insolence the essential +naughtiness of his vision of things. The thing was not much more than a +sketch; it was a happy accident, perhaps, in some day's work of Simon +Fuge's. But it was genius. When once you had yielded to it, there was +no other picture in the room. It killed everything else. But, wherever +it had found itself, nothing could have killed IT. Its success was +undeniable, indestructible. And it glowed sombrely there on the wall, a +few splashes of colour on a morsel of canvas, and it was Simon Fuge's +unconscious, proud challenge to the Five Towns. It WAS Simon Fuge, at +any rate all of Simon Fuge that was worth having, masterful, +imperishable. And not merely was it his challenge, it was his scorn, +his aristocratic disdain, his positive assurance that in the battle +between them he had annihilated the Five Towns. It hung there in the +very midst thereof, calmly and contemptuously waiting for the +acknowledgement of his victory. +</P> + +<P> +'Which?' said Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +That one.' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, I fancy it is,' he negligently agreed. 'Yes, it is.' +</P> + +<P> +'It's not signed,' I remarked. +</P> + +<P> +'It ought to be,' said Mr Brindley; then laughed, 'Too late now!' +</P> + +<P> +'How did it get here?' +</P> + +<P> +'Don't know. Oh! I think Mr Perkins won it in a raffle at a bazaar, and +then hung it here. He did as he liked here, you know.' +</P> + +<P> +I was just going to become vocal in its praise, when Mr Brindley said— +</P> + +<P> +'That thing under it is a photograph of a drinking-cup for which one of +our pupils won a national scholarship last year!' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Aked appeared in the distance. +</P> + +<P> +'I fancy the old boy wants to be off to bed,' Mr Brindley whispered +kindly. +</P> + +<P> +So we left the Wedgwood Institution. I began to talk to Mr Brindley +about music. The barbaric attitude of the Five Towns towards great +music was the theme of some very lively animadversions on his part. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +VI +</H4> + +<P> +The Tiger was very conveniently close to the Wedgwood Institution. The +Tiger had a 'yard', one of those long, shapeless expanses of the +planet, partly paved with uneven cobbles and partly unsophisticated +planet, without which no provincial hotel can call itself respectable. +We came into it from the hinterland through a wooden doorway in a brick +wall. Far off I could see one light burning. We were in the centre of +Bursley, the gold angel of its Town Hall rose handsomely over the roof +of the hotel in the diffused moonlight, but we might have been in the +purlieus of some dubious establishment on the confines of a great +seaport, where anything may happen. The yard was so deserted, so +mysterious, so shut in, so silent, that, really, infamous characters +ought to have rushed out at us from the obscurity of shadows, and +felled us to the earth with no other attendant phenomenon than a low +groan. There are places where one seems to feel how thin and brittle is +the crust of law and order. Why one should be conscious of this in the +precincts of such a house as the Tiger, which I was given to understand +is as respectable as the parish church, I do not know. But I have +experienced a similar feeling in the yards of other provincial hotels +that were also as correct as parish churches. We passed a dim fly, with +its shafts slanting forlornly to the ground, and a wheelbarrow. Both +looked as though they had been abandoned for ever. Then we came to the +lamp, which illuminated a door, and on the door was a notice: 'Private +Bar. Billiards.' +</P> + +<P> +I am not a frequenter of convivial haunts. I should not dare to +penetrate alone into a private bar; when I do enter a private bar it is +invariably under the august protection of an habitue, and it is +invariably with the idea that at last I am going to see life. Often has +this illusion been shattered, but each time it perfectly renewed +itself. So I followed the bold Mr Brindley into the private bar of the +Tiger. +</P> + +<P> +It was a small and low room. I instinctively stooped, though there was +no necessity for me to stoop. The bar had no peculiarity. It can be +described in a breath: Three perpendicular planes. Back plane, bottles +arranged exactly like books on bookshelves; middle plane, the upper +halves of two women dressed in tight black; front plane, a counter, +dotted with glasses, and having strange areas of zinc. Reckon all that +as the stage, and the rest of the room as auditorium. But the stage of +a private bar is more mysterious than the stage of a theatre. You are +closer to it, and yet it is far less approachable. The edge of the +counter is more sacred than the footlights. Impossible to imagine +yourself leaping over it. Impossible to imagine yourself in that +cloistered place behind it. Impossible to imagine how the priestesses +got themselves into that place, or that they ever leave it. They are +always there; they are always the same. You may go into a theatre when +it is empty and dark; but did you ever go into a private bar that was +empty and dark? A private bar is as eternal as the hills, as changeless +as the monomania of a madman, as mysterious as sorcery. Always the same +order of bottles, the same tinkling, the same popping, the same +time-tables, and the same realistic pictures of frothing champagne on +the walls, the same advertisements on the same ash-trays on the +counter, the same odour that wipes your face like a towel the instant +you enter; and the same smiles, the same gestures, the same black +fabric stretched to tension over the same impressive mammiferous +phenomena of the same inexplicable creatures who apparently never eat +and never sleep, imprisoned for life in the hallowed and mystic hollow +between the bottles and the zinc. +</P> + +<P> +In a tone almost inaudible in its discretion, Mr Brindley let fall to +me as he went in— +</P> + +<P> +This is she.' +</P> + +<P> +She was not quite the ordinary barmaid. Nor, as I learnt afterwards, +was she considered to be the ordinary barmaid. She was something midway +in importance between the wife of the new proprietor and the younger +woman who stood beside her in the cloister talking to a being that +resembled a commercial traveller. It was the younger woman who was the +ordinary barmaid; she had bright hair, and the bright vacant stupidity +which, in my narrow experience, barmaids so often catch like an +infectious disease from their clients. But Annie Brett was different. I +can best explain how she impressed me by saying that she had the mien +of a handsome married woman of forty with a coquettish and +superficially emotional past, but also with a daughter who is just +going into long skirts. I have known one or two such women. They have +been beautiful; they are still handsome at a distance of twelve feet. +They are rather effusive; they think they know life, when as a fact +their instinctive repugnance for any form of truth has prevented them +from acquiring even the rudiments of the knowledge of life. They are +secretly preoccupied by the burning question of obesity. They flatter, +and they will pay any price for flattery. They are never sincere, not +even with themselves; they never, during the whole of their existence, +utter a sincere word, even in anger they coldly exaggerate. They are +always frothing at the mouth with ecstasy. They adore everything, +including God; go to church carrying a prayer-book and hymn-book in +separate volumes, and absolutely fawn on the daughter. They are +stylish—and impenetrable. But there is something about them very +wistful and tragic. +</P> + +<P> +In another social stratum, Miss Annie Brett might have been such a +woman. Without doubt nature had intended her for the role. She was just +a little ample, with broad shoulders and a large head and a lot of dark +chestnut hair; a large mouth, and large teeth. She had earrings, a +brooch, and several rings; also a neat originality of cuffs that would +not have been permitted to an ordinary barmaid. As for her face, there +were crow's-feet, and a mole (which had selected with infinite skill a +site on her chin), and a general degeneracy of complexion; but it was +an effective face. The little thing of twenty-three or so by her side +had all the cruel advantages of youth and was not ugly; but she was +'killed' by Annie Brett. Miss Brett had a maternal bust. Indeed, +something of the maternal resided in all of her that was visible above +the zinc. She must have been about forty; that is to say, apparently +older than the late Simon Fuge. Nevertheless, I could conceive her, +even now, speciously picturesque in a boat at midnight on a moonstruck +water. Had she been on the stage she would have been looking forward to +ingenue parts for another five years yet—such was her durable sort of +effectiveness. Yes, she indubitably belonged to the ornamental half of +the universe. +</P> + +<P> +'So this is one of them!' I said to myself. +</P> + +<P> +I tried to be philosophical; but at heart I was profoundly +disappointed. I did not know what I had expected; but I had not +expected THAT. I was well aware that a thing written always takes on a +quality which does not justly appertain to it. I had not expected, +therefore, to see an odalisque, a houri, an ideal toy or the remains of +an ideal toy; I had not expected any kind of obvious brilliancy, nor a +subtle charm that would haunt my memory for evermore. On the other +hand, I had not expected the banal, the perfectly commonplace. And I +think that Miss Annie Brett was the most banal person that it has +pleased Fate to send into my life. I knew that instantly. She was a +condemnation of Simon Fuge. SHE, one of the 'wonderful creatures who +had played so large a part' in the career of Simon Fuge! Sapristi! +Still, she WAS one of the wonderful creatures, etc. She HAD floated +o'er the bosom of the lake with a great artist. She HAD received his +homage. She HAD stirred his feelings. She HAD shared with him the magic +of the night. I might decry her as I would; she had known how to cast a +spell over him—she and the other one! Something there in her which had +captured him and, seemingly, held him captive. +</P> + +<P> +'Good-EVENING, Mr Brindley,' she expanded. 'You're quite a stranger.' +And she embraced me also in the largeness of her welcome. +</P> + +<P> +'It just happens,' said Mr Brindley, 'that I was here last night. But +you weren't.' +</P> + +<P> +'Were you now!' she exclaimed, as though learning a novel fact of the +most passionate interest. The truth is, I had to leave the bar to Miss +Slaney last night. Mrs Moorcroft was ill—and the baby only six weeks +old, you know—and I wouldn't leave her. No, I wouldn't.' +</P> + +<P> +It was plain that in Miss Annie Brett's opinion there was only one +really capable intelligence in the Tiger. This glimpse of her +capability, this out-leaping of the latent maternal in her, completely +destroyed for the moment my vision of her afloat on the bosom of the +lake. +</P> + +<P> +'I see,' said Mr Brindley kindly. Then he turned to me with +characteristic abruptness. 'Well, give it a name, Mr Loring.' +</P> + +<P> +Such is my simplicity that I did not immediately comprehend his +meaning. For a fraction of a second I thought of the baby. Then I +perceived that he was merely employing one of the sacred phrases, +sanctified by centuries of usage, of the private bar. I had already +drunk mercurey, green Chartreuse, and coffee. I had a violent desire +not to drink anything more. I knew my deplorable tomorrows. Still, I +would have drunk hot milk, cold water, soda water, or tea. Why should I +not have had what I did not object to having? Herein lies another +mystery of the private bar. One could surely order tea or milk or soda +water from a woman who left everything to tend a mother with a +six-weeks-old baby! But no. One could not. As Miss Annie Brett smiled +at me pointedly, and rubbed her ringed hands, and kept on smiling with +her terrific mechanical effusiveness, I lost all my self control; I +would have resigned myself to a hundred horrible tomorrows under the +omnipotent, inexplicable influence of the private bar. I ejaculated, as +though to the manner born— +</P> + +<P> +'Irish.' +</P> + +<P> +It proved to have been rather clever of me, showing as it did a due +regard for convention combined with a pretty idiosyncrasy. Mr Brindley +was clearly taken aback. The idea struck him as a new one. He +reflected, and then enthusiastically exclaimed— +</P> + +<P> +'Dashed if I don't have Irish too!' +</P> + +<P> +And Miss Brett, delighted by this unexpected note of Irish in the long, +long symphony of Scotch, charged our glasses with gusto. I sipped, +death in my heart, and rakishness in my face and gesture. Mr Brindley +raised his glass respectfully to Miss Annie Brett, and I did the same. +Those two were evidently good friends. +</P> + +<P> +She led the conversation with hard, accustomed ease. When I say 'hard' +I do not in the least mean unsympathetic. But her sympathetic quality +was toughened by excessive usage, like the hand of a charwoman. She +spoke of the vagaries of the Town Hall clock, the health of Mr +Brindley's children, the price of coal, the incidence of the annual +wakes, the bankruptcy of the draper next door, and her own sciatica, +all in the same tone of metallic tender solicitude. Mr Brindley adopted +an entirely serious attitude towards her. If I had met him there and +nowhere else I should have taken him for a dignified mediocrity, little +better than a fool, but with just enough discretion not to give himself +away. I said nothing. I was shy. I always am shy in a bar. Out of her +cold, cold roving eye Miss Brett watched me, trying to add me up and +not succeeding. She must have perceived, however, that I was not like a +fish in water. +</P> + +<P> +There was a pause in the talk, due, I think, to Miss Annie Brett's +preoccupation with what was going on between Miss Slaney, the ordinary +barmaid, and her commercial traveller. The commercial traveller, if he +was one, was reading something from a newspaper to Miss Slaney in an +indistinct murmur, and with laughter in his voice. +</P> + +<P> +'By the way,' said Mr Brindley, 'you used to know Simon Fuge, didn't +you?' +</P> + +<P> +'Old Simon Fuge!' said Miss Brett. 'Yes; after the brewery company took +the Blue Bell at Cauldon over from him, I used to be there. He would +come in sometimes. Such a nice queer old man!' +</P> + +<P> +'I mean the son,' said Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh yes,' she answered. 'I knew young Mr Simon too.' A slight +hesitation, and then: 'Of course!' Another hesitation. 'Why?' +</P> + +<P> +'Nothing,' said Mr Brindley. 'Only he's dead.' +</P> + +<P> +'You don't mean to say he's dead?' she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +'Day before yesterday, in Italy,' said Mr Brindley ruthlessly. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Annie Brett's manner certainly changed. It seemed almost to become +natural and unecstatic. +</P> + +<P> +'I suppose it will be in the papers?' she ventured. +</P> + +<P> +'It's in the London paper.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well I never!' she muttered. +</P> + +<P> +'A long time, I should think, since he was in this part of the world,' +said Mr Brindley. 'When did YOU last see him?' +</P> + +<P> +He was exceedingly skilful, I considered. +</P> + +<P> +She put the back of her hand over her mouth, and bending her head +slightly and lowering her eyelids, gazed reflectively at the counter. +</P> + +<P> +'It was once when a lot of us went to Ilam,' she answered quietly. 'The +St Luke's lot, YOU know.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh!' cried Mr Brindley, apparently startled. 'The St Luke's lot?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes.' +</P> + +<P> +'How came he to go with you?' +</P> + +<P> +'He didn't go with us. He was there—stopping there, I suppose.' +</P> + +<P> +'Why, I believe I remember hearing something about that,' said Mr +Brindley cunningly. 'Didn't he take you out in a boat?' +</P> + +<P> +A very faint dark crimson spread over the face of Miss Annie Brett. It +could not be called a blush, but it was as like a blush as was possible +to her. The phenomenon, as I could see from his eyes, gave Mr Brindley +another shock. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' she replied. 'Sally was there as well.' +</P> + +<P> +Then a silence, during which the commercial traveller could be heard +reading from the newspaper. +</P> + +<P> +'When was that?' gently asked Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't ask ME when it was, Mr Brindley,' she answered nervously. 'It's +ever so long ago. What did he die of?' +</P> + +<P> +'Don't know.' +</P> + +<P> +Miss Annie Brett opened her mouth to speak, and did not speak. There +were tears in her reddened eyes. I felt very awkward, and I think that +Mr Brindley also felt awkward. But I was glad. Those moist eyes caused +me a thrill. There was after all some humanity in Miss Annie Brett. +Yes, she had after all floated on the bosom of the lake with Simon +Fuge. The least romantic of persons, she had yet felt romance. If she +had touched Simon Fuge, Simon Fuge had touched her. She had memories. +Once she had lived. I pictured her younger. I sought in her face the +soft remains of youthfulness. I invented languishing poses for her in +the boat. My imagination was equal to the task of seeing her as Simon +Fuge saw her. I did so see her. I recalled Simon Fuge's excited +description of the long night in the boat, and I could reconstitute the +night from end to end. And there the identical creature stood before +me, the creature who had set fire to Simon Fuge, one of the 'wonderful +creatures' of the Gazette, ageing, hardened, banal, but momentarily +restored to the empire of romance by those unshed, glittering tears. As +an experience it was worth having. +</P> + +<P> +She could not speak, and we did not. I heard the commercial traveller +reading: '"The motion was therefore carried by twenty-five votes to +nineteen, and the Countess of Chell promised that the whole question of +the employment of barmaids should be raised at the next meeting of the +B.W.T.S." There! what do you think of that?' +</P> + +<P> +Miss Annie Brett moved quickly towards the commercial traveller. +</P> + +<P> +Til tell you what <I>I</I> think of it,' she said, with ecstatic resentment. +'I think it's just shameful! Why should the Countess of Chell want to +rob a lot of respectable young ladies of their living? I can tell you +they're just as respectable as the Countess of Chell is—yes, and +perhaps more, by all accounts. I think people do well to call her +"Interfering Iris". When she's robbed them of their living, what does +she expect them to do? Is she going to keep them? Then what does she +expect them to do?' +</P> + +<P> +The commercial traveller was inept enough to offer a jocular reply, and +then he found himself involved in the morass of 'the whole question'. +He, and we also, were obliged to hear in immense detail Miss Annie +Brett's complete notions of the movement for the abolition of barmaids. +The subject was heavy on her mind, and she lifted it off. Simon Fuge +was relinquished; he dropped like a stone into the pool of +forgetfulness. And yet, strange as it seems, she was assuredly not +sincere in the expression of her views on the question of barmaids. She +held no real views. She merely persuaded herself that she held them. +When the commercial traveller, who was devoid of sense, pointed out +that it was not proposed to rob anybody of a livelihood, and that +existent barmaids would be permitted to continue to grace the counters +of their adoption, she grew frostily vicious. The commercial traveller +decided to retire and play billiards. Mr Brindley and I in our turn +departed. I was extremely disappointed by this sequel. +</P> + +<P> +'Ah!' breathed Mr Brindley when we were outside, in front of the Town +Hall. 'She was quite right about that clock.' +</P> + +<P> +After that we turned silently into a long illuminated street which rose +gently. The boxes of light were flashing up and down it, but otherwise +it seemed to be quite deserted. Mr Brindley filled a pipe and lit it as +he walked. The way in which that man kept the match alight in a fresh +breeze made me envious. I could conceive myself rivalling his exploits +in cigarette-making, the purchase of rare books, the interpretation of +music, even (for a wager) the drinking of beer, but I knew that I +should never be able to keep a match alight in a breeze. He threw the +match into the mud, and in the mud it continued miraculously to burn +with a large flame, as though still under his magic dominion. There are +some things that baffle the reasoning faculty. 'Well,' I said, 'she +must have been a pretty woman once.' +</P> + +<P> +'"Pretty," by God!' he replied, 'she was beautiful. She was considered +the finest piece in Hanbridge at one time. And let me tell you we're +supposed to have more than our share of good looks in the Five Towns.' +</P> + +<P> +'What—the women, you mean?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes.' +</P> + +<P> +'And she never married?' +</P> + +<P> +'No.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nor—anything?' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh no,' he said carelessly. +</P> + +<P> +'But you don't mean to tell me she's never—' I was just going to +exclaim, but I did not, I said: 'And it's her sister who is Mrs +Colclough?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes.' He seemed to be either meditative or disinclined to talk. +However, my friends have sometimes hinted to me that when my curiosity +is really aroused, I am capable of indiscretions. +</P> + +<P> +'So one sister rattles about in an expensive motor-car, and the other +serves behind a bar!' I observed. +</P> + +<P> +He glanced at me. +</P> + +<P> +'I expect it's a bit difficult for you to understand,' he answered; +'but you must remember you're in a democratic district. You told me +once you knew Exeter. Well, this isn't a cathedral town. It's about a +century in front of any cathedral town in the world. Why, my good sir, +there's practically no such thing as class distinction here. Both my +grandfathers were working potters. Colclough's father was a joiner who +finished up as a builder. If Colclough makes money and chooses to go to +Paris and get the best motor-car he can, why in Hades shouldn't his +wife ride in it? If he is fond of music and can play like the devil, +that isn't his sister-in-law's fault, is it? His wife was a dressmaker, +at least she was a dressmaker's assistant. If she suits him, what's the +matter?' +</P> + +<P> +'But I never suggested—' +</P> + +<P> +'Excuse me,' he stopped me, speaking with careful and slightly +exaggerated calmness, 'I think you did. If the difference in the +situations of the two sisters didn't strike you as very extraordinary, +what did you mean?' +</P> + +<P> +'And isn't it extraordinary?' I demanded. +</P> + +<P> +'It wouldn't be considered so in any reasonable society,' he insisted. +'The fact is, my good sir, you haven't yet quite got rid of Exeter. I +do believe this place will do you good. Why, damn it! Colclough didn't +marry both sisters. You think he might keep the other sister? Well, he +might. But suppose his wife had half-a-dozen sisters, should he keep +them all! I can tell you we're just like the rest of the world, we find +no difficulty whatever in spending all the money we make. I dare say +Colclough would be ready enough to keep his sister-in-law. I've never +asked him. But I'm perfectly certain that his sister-in-law wouldn't be +kept. Not much! You don't know these women down here, my good sir. +She's earned her living at one thing or another all her life, and I +reckon she'll keep on earning it till she drops. She is, without +exception, the most exasperating female I ever came across, and that's +saying something; but I will give her THAT credit: she's mighty +independent.' +</P> + +<P> +'How exasperating?' I asked, surprised to hear this from him. +</P> + +<P> +'<I>I</I> don't know. But she is. If she was my wife I should kill her one +night. Don't you know what I mean?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, I quite agree with you,' I said. 'But you seemed to be awfully +good friends with her.' +</P> + +<P> +'No use being anything else. No woman that it ever pleased Providence +to construct is going to frighten me away from the draught Burton that +you can get at the Tiger. Besides, she can't help it. She was born like +that.' +</P> + +<P> +'She TALKS quite ordinarily,' I remarked. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! It isn't what she says, particularly. It's HER. Either you like +her or you don't like her. Now Colclough thinks she's all right. In +fact, he admires her.' +</P> + +<P> +'There's one thing,' I said, 'she jolly nearly cried tonight.' +</P> + +<P> +'Purely mechanical!' said Mr Brindley with cruel curtness. +</P> + +<P> +What seemed to me singular was that the relations which had existed +between Miss Annie Brett and Simon Fuge appeared to have no interest +whatever for Mr Brindley. He had not even referred to them. +</P> + +<P> +'You were just beginning to draw her out,' I ventured. +</P> + +<P> +'No,' he replied; 'I thought I'd just see what she'd say. No one ever +did draw that woman out.' +</P> + +<P> +I had completely lost my vision of her in the boat, but somehow that +declaration of his, 'no one ever did draw that woman out', partially +restored the vision to me. It seemed to invest her with agreeable +mystery. +</P> + +<P> +'And the other sister—Mrs Colclough?' I questioned. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm taking you to see her as fast as I can,' he answered. His tone +implied further: 'I've just humoured one of your whims, now for the +other.' +</P> + +<P> +'But tell me something about her.' +</P> + +<P> +'She's the best bridge-player—woman, that is—in Bursley. But she will +only play every other night for fear the habit should get hold of her. +There you've got her.' +</P> + +<P> +'Younger than Miss Brett?' +</P> + +<P> +'Younger,' said Mr Brindley. 'She isn't the same sort of person, is +she?' +</P> + +<P> +'She is not,' said Mr Brindley. And his tone implied: 'Thank God for +it!' +</P> + +<P> +Very soon afterwards, at the top of a hill, he drew me into the garden +of a large house which stood back from the road. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +VII +</H4> + +<P> +It was quite a different sort of house from Mr Brindley's. One felt +that immediately on entering the hall, which was extensive. There was +far more money and considerably less taste at large in that house than +in the other. I noticed carved furniture that must have been bought +with a coarse and a generous hand; and on the walls a diptych by Marcus +Stone portraying the course of true love clingingly draped. It was just +like Exeter or Onslow Square. But the middle-aged servant who received +us struck at once the same note as had sounded so agreeably at Mr +Brindley's. She seemed positively glad to see us; our arrival seemed to +afford her a peculiar and violent pleasure, as though the hospitality +which we were about to accept was in some degree hers too. She robbed +us of our hats with ecstasy. +</P> + +<P> +Then Mr Colclough appeared. +</P> + +<P> +'Delighted you've come, Mr Loring!' he said, shaking my hand again. He +said it with fervour. He obviously was delighted. The exercise of +hospitality was clearly the chief joy of his life; at least, if he had +a greater it must have been something where keenness was excessive +beyond the point of pleasure, as some joys are. 'How do, Bob? Your +missis has just come.' He was still in his motoring clothes. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Brindley, observing my gaze transiently on the Marcus Stones, said: +'I know what you're looking for; you're looking for "Saul's Soul's +Awakening". We don't keep it in the window; you'll see it inside.' +</P> + +<P> +'Bob's always rotting me about my pictures,' Mr Colclough smiled +indulgently. He seemed big enough to eat his friend, and his rich, +heavy voice rolled like thunder about the hall. 'Come along in, will +you?' +</P> + +<P> +'Half-a-second, Ol,' Mr Brindley called in a conspiratorial tone, and, +turning to me: Tell him THE Limerick. You know.' +</P> + +<P> +'The one about the hayrick?' +</P> + +<P> +Mr Brindley nodded. +</P> + +<P> +There were three heads close together for a space of twenty seconds or +so, and then a fearful explosion happened—the unique, tremendous +laughter of Mr Colclough, which went off like a charge of melinite and +staggered the furniture. +</P> + +<P> +'Now, now!' a feminine voice protested from an unseen interior. +</P> + +<P> +I was taken to the drawing-room, an immense apartment with an immense +piano black as midnight in it. At the further end two women were seated +close together in conversation, and I distinctly heard the name 'Fuge'. +One of them was Mrs Brindley, in a hat. The other, a very big and stout +woman, in an elaborate crimson garment that resembled a teagown, rose +and came to meet me with extended hand. +</P> + +<P> +'My wife—Mr Loring,' said Mr Oliver Colclough. +</P> + +<P> +'So glad to meet you,' she said, beaming on me with all her husband's +pleasure. 'Come and sit between Mrs Brindley and me, near the window, +and keep us in order. Don't you find it very close? There are at least +a hundred cats in the garden.' +</P> + +<P> +One instantly perceived that ceremonial stiffness could not exist in +the same atmosphere with Mrs Oliver Colclough. During the whole time I +spent in her house there was never the slightest pause in the +conversation. Mrs Oliver Colclough prevented nobody from talking, but +she would gladly use up every odd remnant of time that was not employed +by others. No scrap was too small for her. +</P> + +<P> +'So this is the other one!' I said to myself. 'Well, give me this one!' +</P> + +<P> +Certainly there was a resemblance between the two, in the general +formation of the face, and the shape of the shoulders; but it is +astonishing that two sisters can differ as these did, with a profound +and vital difference. In Mrs Colclough there was no coquetterie, no +trace of that more-than-half-suspicious challenge to a man that one +feels always in the type to which her sister belonged. The notorious +battle of the sexes was assuredly carried on by her in a spirit of +frank muscular gaiety—she could, I am sure, do her share of fighting. +Put her in a boat on the bosom of the lake under starlight, and she +would not by a gesture, a tone, a glance, convey mysterious nothings to +you, a male. She would not be subtly changed by the sensuous influences +of the situation; she would always be the same plump and earthly piece +of candour. Even if she were in love with you, she would not convey +mysterious nothings in such circumstances. If she were in love with you +she would most clearly convey unmysterious and solid somethings. I was +convinced that the contributing cause to the presence of the late Simon +Fuge in the boat on Ilam Lake on the historic night was Annie the +superior barmaid, and not Sally of the automobile. But Mrs Colclough, +if not beautiful, was a very agreeable creation. Her amplitude gave at +first sight an exaggerated impression of her age; but this departed +after more careful inspection. She could not have been more than +thirty. She was very dark, with plenteous and untidy black hair, thick +eyebrows, and a slight moustache. Her eyes were very vivacious, and her +gestures, despite that bulk, quick and graceful. She was happy; her +ideals were satisfied; it was probably happiness that had made her +stout. Her massiveness was apparently no grief to her; she had fallen +into the carelessness which is too often the pitfall of women who, +being stout, are content. +</P> + +<P> +'How do, missis?' Mr Brindley greeted her, and to his wife, 'How do, +missis? But, look here, bright star, this gadding about is all very +well, but what about those precious kids of yours? None of 'em dead +yet, I hope.' +</P> + +<P> +'Don't be silly, Bob.' +</P> + +<P> +'I've been over to your house,' Mrs Colclough put in. 'Of course it +isn't mumps. The child's as right as rain. So I brought Mary back with +me.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' said Mr Brindley, 'for a woman who's never had any children +your knowledge of children beggars description. What you aren't sure +you know about them isn't knowledge. However—' +</P> + +<P> +'Listen,' Mrs Colclough replied, with a delightful throwingdown of the +glove. 'I'll bet you a level sovereign that child hasn't got the mumps. +So there! And Oliver will guarantee to pay you.' +</P> + +<P> +'Aye!' said Mr Colclough; 'I'll back my wife any day.' +</P> + +<P> +'Don't bet, Bob,' Mrs Brindley enjoined her husband excitedly in her +high treble. +</P> + +<P> +'I won't,' said Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +'Now let's sit down.' Mrs Colclough addressed me with particular, +confidential grace. +</P> + +<P> +We three exactly filled the sofa. I have often sat between two women, +but never with such calm, unreserved, unapprehensive comfortableness as +I experienced between Mrs Colclough and Mrs Brindley. It was just as if +I had known them for years. +</P> + +<P> +'You'll make a mess of that, Ol,' said Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +The other two men were at some distance, in front of a table, on which +were two champagne bottles and five glasses, and a plate of cakes. +'Well,' I said to myself, 'I'm not going to have any champagne, anyhow. +Mercurey! Green Chartreuse! Irish whisky! And then champagne! And a +morning's hard work tomorrow! No!' +</P> + +<P> +Plop! A cork flew up and bounced against the ceiling. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Colclough carefully emptied the bottle into the glasses, of which Mr +Brindley seized two and advanced with one in either hand for the women. +It was the host who offered a glass to me. +</P> + +<P> +'No, thanks very much, I really can't,' I said in a very firm tone. +</P> + +<P> +My tone was so firm that it startled them. They glanced at each other +with alarmed eyes, like simple people confronted by an inexplicable +phenomenon. 'But look here, mister!' said Mr Colclough, pained, 'we've +got this out specially for you. You don't suppose this is our usual +tipple, do you?' +</P> + +<P> +I yielded. I could do no less than sacrifice myself to their enchanting +instinctive kindness of heart. 'I shall be dead tomorrow,' I said to +myself; 'but I shall have lived tonight.' They were relieved, but I saw +that I had given them a shock from which they could not instantaneously +recover. Therefore I began with a long pull, to reassure them. +</P> + +<P> +'Mrs Brindley has been telling me that Simon Fuge is dead,' said Mrs +Colclough brightly, as though Mrs Brindley had been telling her that +the price of mutton had gone down. +</P> + +<P> +I perceived that those two had been talking over Simon Fuge, after +their fashion. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh yes,' I responded. +</P> + +<P> +'Have you got that newspaper in your pocket, Mr Loring?' asked Mrs +Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +I had. +</P> + +<P> +'No,' I said, feeling in my pockets; 'I must have left it at your +house.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' she said, 'that's strange. I looked for it to show it to Mrs +Colclough, but I couldn't see it.' +</P> + +<P> +This was not surprising. I did not want Mrs Colclough to read the +journalistic obituary until she had given me her own obituary of Fuge. +</P> + +<P> +'It must be somewhere about,' I said; and to Mrs Colclough: 'I suppose +you knew him pretty well?' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, bless you, no! I only met him once.' +</P> + +<P> +'At Ilam?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes. What are you going to do, Oliver?' +</P> + +<P> +Her husband was opening the piano. +</P> + +<P> +'Bob and I are just going to have another smack at that Brahms.' +</P> + +<P> +'You don't expect us to listen, do you?' +</P> + +<P> +'I expect you to do what pleases you, missis,' said he. 'I should be a +bigger fool than I am if I expected anything else.' Then he smiled at +me. 'No! Just go on talking. Ol and I'll drown you easy enough. Quite +short! Back in five minutes.' +</P> + +<P> +The two men placed each his wine-glass on the space on the piano +designed for a candlestick, lighted cigars, and sat down to play. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' Mrs Colclough resumed, in a lower, more confidential tone, to +the accompaniment of the music. 'You see, there was a whole party of us +there, and Mr Fuge was staying at the hotel, and of course he knew +several of us.' +</P> + +<P> +'And he took you out in a boat?' +</P> + +<P> +'Me and Annie? Yes. Just as it was getting dusk he came up to us and +asked us if we'd go for a row. Eh, I can hear him asking us now! I +asked him if he could row, and he was quite angry. So we went, to +quieten him.' She paused, and then laughed. +</P> + +<P> +'Sally!' Mrs Brindley protested. 'You know he's dead!' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes.' She admitted the rightness of the protest. 'But I can't help it. +I was just thinking how he got his feet wet in pushing the boat off.' +She laughed again. 'When we were safely off, someone came down to the +shore and shouted to Mr Fuge to bring the boat back. You know his quick +way of talking.' (Here she began to imitate Fuge.) '"I've quarrelled +with the man this boat belongs to. Awful feud! Fact is, I'm in a +hostile country here!" And a lot more like that. It seemed he had +quarrelled with everybody in Ilam. He wasn't sure if the landlord of +the hotel would let him sleep there again. He told us all about all his +quarrels, until he dropped one of the oars. I shall never forget how +funny he looked in the moonlight when he dropped the oar. "There, +that's your fault!" he said. "You make me talk too much about myself, +and I get excited." He kept striking matches to look for the oar, and +turning the boat round and round with the other oar. "Last match!" he +said. "We shall never see land tonight." Then he found the oar again. +He considered we were saved. Then he began to tell us about his aunt. +"You know I'd no business to be here. I came down from London for my +aunt's funeral, and here I am in a boat at night with two pretty +girls!" He said the funeral had taught him one thing, and that was that +black neckties were the only possible sort of necktie. He said the +greatest worry of his life had always been neckties; but he wouldn't +have to worry any more, and so his aunt hadn't died for nothing. I +assure you he kept on talking about neckties. I assure you, Mr Loring, +I went to sleep—at least I dozed—and when I woke up he was still +talking about neckties. But then his feet began to get cold. I suppose +it was because they were wet. The way he grumbled about his feet being +cold! I remember he turned his coat collar up. He wanted to get on +shore and walk, but he'd taken us a long way up the lake by that time, +and he saw we were absolutely lost. So he put the oars in the boat and +stood up and stamped his feet. It might have upset the boat.' +</P> + +<P> +'How did it end?' I inquired. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, Annie and I caught the train, but only just. You see it was a +special train, so they kept it for us, otherwise we should have been in +a nice fix.' +</P> + +<P> +'So you have special trains in these parts?' +</P> + +<P> +'Why, of course! It was the annual outing of the teachers of St Luke's +Sunday School and their friends, you see. So we had a special train.' +</P> + +<P> +At this point the duettists came to the end of a movement, and Mr +Brindley leaned over to us from his stool, glass in hand. +</P> + +<P> +'The railway company practically owns Ilam,' he explained, 'and so they +run it for all they're worth. They made the lake, to feed the canals, +when they bought the canals from the canal company. It's an artificial +lake, and the railway runs alongside it. A very good scheme of the +company's. They started out to make Ilam a popular resort, and they've +made it a popular resort, what with special trains and things. But try +to get a special train to any other place on their rotten system, and +you'll soon see!' +</P> + +<P> +'How big is the lake?' I asked. +</P> + +<P> +'How long is it, Ol?' he demanded of Colclough. 'A couple of miles?' +</P> + +<P> +'Not it! About a mile. Adagio!' +</P> + +<P> +They proceeded with Brahms. +</P> + +<P> +'He ran with you all the way to the station, didn't he?' Mrs Brindley +suggested to Mrs Colclough. +</P> + +<P> +'I should just say he did!' Mrs Colclough concurred. 'He wanted to get +warm, and then he was awfully afraid lest we should miss it.' +</P> + +<P> +'I thought you were on the lake practically all night!' I exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +'All night! Well, I don't know what you call all night. But I was back +in Bursley before eleven o'clock, I'm sure.' +</P> + +<P> +I then contrived to discover the Gazette in an unsearched pocket, and I +gave it to Mrs Colclough to read. Mrs Brindley looked over her shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +There was no slightest movement of depreciation on Mrs Colclough's +part. She amiably smiled as she perused the GAZETTE'S version of Fuge's +version of the lake episode. Here was the attitude of the woman whose +soul is like crystal. It seems to me that most women would have +blushed, or dissented, or simulated anger, or failed to conceal vanity. +But Mrs Coclough might have been reading a fairy tale, for any emotion +she displayed. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' she said blandly; 'from the things Annie used to tell me about +him sometimes, I should say that was just how he WOULD talk. They seem +to have thought quite a lot of him in London, then?' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, rather!' I said. 'I suppose your sister knew him pretty well?' +</P> + +<P> +'Annie? I don't know. She knew him.' +</P> + +<P> +I distinctly observed a certain self-consciousness in Mrs Colclough as +she made this reply. Mrs Brindley had risen and with wifely +attentiveness was turning over the music page for her husband. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +VIII +</H4> + +<P> +Soon afterwards, for me, the night began to grow fantastic; it took on +the colour of a gigantic adventure. I do not suppose that either Mr +Brindley or Mr Colclough, or the other person who presently arrived, +regarded it as anything but a pleasant conviviality, but to a man of my +constitution and habits it was an almost incredible occurrence. The +other person was the book-collecting doctor. He arrived with a discreet +tap on the window at midnight, to spend the evening. Mrs Brindley had +gone home and Mrs Colclough had gone to bed. The book-collecting doctor +refused champagne; he was, in fact, very rude to champagne in general. +He had whisky. And those astonishing individuals, Messieurs Brindley +and Colclough, secretly convinced of the justice of the attack on +champagne, had whisky too. And that still most astonishing individual, +Loring of the B.M., joined them. It was the hour of limericks. +Limericks were demanded for the diversion of the doctor, and I +furnished them. We then listened to the tale of the doctor's +experiences that day amid the sturdy, natural-minded population of a +muling village not far from Bursley. Seldom have I had such a bath in +the pure fluid of human nature. All sense of time was lost. I lived in +an eternity. I could not suggest to my host that we should depart. I +could, however, decline more whisky. And I could, given the chance, +discourse with gay despair concerning the miserable wreck that I should +be on the morrow in consequence of this high living. I asked them how I +could be expected, in such a state, to judge delicate points of +expertise in earthenware. I gave them a brief sketch of my customary +evening, and left them to compare it with that evening. The doctor +perceived that I was serious. He gazed at me with pity, as if to say: +'Poor frail southern organism! It ought to be in bed, with nothing +inside it but tea!' What he did actually say was: 'You come round to my +place, I'll soon put you right!' 'Can you stop me from having a +headache tomorrow?' I eagerly asked. 'I think so,' he said with calm +northern confidence. +</P> + +<P> +At some later hour Mr Brindley and I 'went round'. Mr Colclough would +not come. He bade me good-bye, as his wife had done, with the most +extraordinary kindness, the most genuine sorrow at quitting me, the +most genuine pleasure in the hope of seeing me again. +</P> + +<P> +'There are three thousand books in this room!' I said to myself, as I +stood in the doctor's electrically lit library. +</P> + +<P> +'What price this for a dog?' Mr Brindley drew my attention to an +aristocratic fox-terrier that lay on the hearth. 'Well, Titus! Is it +sleepy? Well, well! How many firsts has he won, doctor?' +</P> + +<P> +'Six,' said the doctor. 'I'll just fix you up, to begin with,' he +turned to me. +</P> + +<P> +After I had been duly fixed up ('This'll help you to sleep, and THIS'll +placate your "god",' said the doctor), I saw to my intense surprise +that another 'evening' was to be instantly superimposed on the +'evening' at Mr Colclough's. The doctor and Mr Brindley carefully and +deliberately lighted long cigars, and sank deeply into immense +arm-chairs; and so I imitated them as well as I could in my feeble +southern way. We talked books. We just simply enumerated books without +end, praising or damning them, and arranged authors in neat pews, like +cattle in classes at an agricultural show. No pastime is more agreeable +to people who have the book disease, and none more quickly fleets the +hours, and none is more delightfully futile. +</P> + +<P> +Ages elapsed, and suddenly, like a gun discharging, Mr Brindley said— +</P> + +<P> +'We must go!' +</P> + +<P> +Of all things that happened this was the most astonishing. +</P> + +<P> +We did go. +</P> + +<P> +'By the way, doc.,' said Mr Brindley, in the doctor's wide porch, 'I +forgot to tell you that Simon Fuge is dead.' +</P> + +<P> +'Is he?' said the doctor. +</P> + +<P> +'Yes. You've got a couple of his etchings, haven't you?' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' said the doctor. 'I had. But I sold them several months ago.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh!' said Mr Brindley negligently; 'I didn't know. Well, so long!' +</P> + +<P> +We had a few hundred yards to walk down the silent, wide street, where +the gas-lamps were burning with the strange, endless patience that +gas-lamps have. The stillness of a provincial town at night is quite +different from that of London; we might have been the only persons +alive in England. +</P> + +<P> +Except for a feeling of unreality, a feeling that the natural order of +things had been disturbed by some necromancer, I was perfectly well the +same morning at breakfast, as the doctor had predicted I should be. +When I expressed to Mr Brindley my stupefaction at this happy sequel, +he showed a polite but careless inability to follow my line of thought. +It appeared that he was always well at breakfast, even when he did stay +up 'a little later than usual'. It appeared further that he always +breakfasted at a quarter to nine, and read the Manchester Guardian +during the meal, to which his wife did or did not descend—according to +the moods of the nursery; and that he reached his office at a quarter +to ten. That morning the mood of the nursery was apparently +unpropitious. He and I were alone. I begged him not to pretermit his +GUARDIAN, but to examine it and give me the news. He agreed, scarcely +unwilling. +</P> + +<P> +'There's a paragraph in the London correspondence about Fuge,' he +announced from behind the paper. +</P> + +<P> +'What do they say about him?' +</P> + +<P> +'Nothing particular.' +</P> + +<P> +'Now I want to ask you something,' I said. +</P> + +<P> +I had been thinking a good deal about the sisters and Simon Fuge. And +in spite of everything that I had heard—in spite even of the facts +that the lake had been dug by a railway company, and that the excursion +to the lake had been an excursion of Sunday-school teachers and their +friends—I was still haunted by certain notions concerning Simon Fuge +and Annie Brett. Annie Brett's flush, her unshed tears; and the +self-consciousness shown by Mrs Colclough when I had pointedly +mentioned her sister's name in connection with Simon Fuge's: these were +surely indications! And then the doctor's recitals of manners in the +immediate neighbourhood of Bursley went to support my theory that even +in Staffordshire life was very much life. +</P> + +<P> +'What?' demanded Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +'Was Miss Brett ever Simon Fuge's mistress?' +</P> + +<P> +At that moment Mrs Brindley, miraculously fresh and smiling, entered +the room. +</P> + +<P> +'Wife,' said Mr Brindley, without giving her time to greet me, 'what do +you think he's just asked me?' +</P> + +<P> +'<I>I</I> don't know.' +</P> + +<P> +'He's just asked me if Annie Brett was ever Simon Fuge's mistress.' +</P> + +<P> +She sank into a chair. +</P> + +<P> +'Annie BRETT?' She began to laugh gently. 'Oh! Mr Loring, you really +are too funny!' She yielded to her emotions. It may be said that she +laughed as they can laugh in the Five Towns. She cried. She had to wipe +away the tears of laughter. +</P> + +<P> +'What on earth made you think so?' she inquired, after recovery. +</P> + +<P> +'I—had an idea,' I said lamely. 'He always made out that one of those +two sisters was so much to him, and I knew it couldn't be Mrs +Colclough.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' she said, 'ask anybody down here, ANY-body! And see what +they'll say.' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' Mr Brindley put in, 'don't go about asking ANY-body. You might +get yourself disliked. But you may take it it isn't true.' +</P> + +<P> +'Most certainly,' his wife concurred with seriousness. +</P> + +<P> +'We reckon to know something about Simon Fuge down here,' Mr Brindley +added. 'Also about the famous Annie.' +</P> + +<P> +'He must have flirted with her a good bit, anyhow,' I said. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, FLIRT!' ejaculated Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +I had a sudden dazzling vision of the great truth that the people of +the Five Towns have no particular use for half-measures in any +department of life. So I accepted the final judgement with meekness. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IX +</H4> + +<P> +I returned to London that evening, my work done, and the municipality +happily flattered by my judgement of the slip-decorated dishes. Mr +Brindley had found time to meet me at the midday meal, and he had left +his office earlier than usual in order to help me to drink his wife's +afternoon tea. About an hour later he picked up my little bag, and said +that he should accompany me to the little station in the midst of the +desert of cinders and broken crockery, and even see me as far as Knype, +where I had to take the London express. No, there are no half-measures +in the Five Towns. Mrs Brindley stood on her doorstep, with her eldest +infant on her shoulders, and waved us off. The infant cried, expressing +his own and his mother's grief at losing a guest. It seems as if people +are born hospitable in the Five Towns. +</P> + +<P> +We had not walked more than a hundred yards up the road when a +motor-car thundered down upon us from the opposite direction. It was Mr +Colclough's, and Mr Colclough was driving it. Mr Brindley stopped his +friend with the authoritative gesture of a policeman. +</P> + +<P> +'Where are you going, Ol?' +</P> + +<P> +'Home, lad. Sorry you're leaving us so soon, Mr Loring.' +</P> + +<P> +'You're mistaken, my boy,' said Mr Brindley. 'You're just going to run +us down to Knype station, first.' +</P> + +<P> +'I must look slippy, then,' said Mr Colclough. +</P> + +<P> +'You can look as slippy as you like,' said Mr Brindley. +</P> + +<P> +In another fifteen seconds we were in the car, and it had turned round, +and was speeding towards Knype. A feverish journey! We passed electric +cars every minute, and for three miles were continually twisting round +the tails of ponderous, creaking, and excessively deliberate carts that +dropped a trail of small coal, or huge barrels on wheels that dripped +something like the finest Devonshire cream, or brewer's drays that left +nothing behind them save a luscious odour of malt. It was a breathless +slither over unctuous black mud through a long winding canon of +brown-red houses and shops, with a glimpse here and there of a +grey-green park, a canal, or a football field. +</P> + +<P> +'I daredn't hurry,' said Mr Colclough, setting us down at the station. +'I was afraid of a skid.' He had not spoken during the transit. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't put on side, Ol,' said Mr Brindley. 'What time did you get up +this morning?' +</P> + +<P> +'Eight o'clock, lad. I was at th' works at nine.' +</P> + +<P> +He flew off to escape my thanks, and Mr Brindley and I went into the +station. Owing to the celerity of the automobile we had half-an-hour to +wait. We spent it chiefly at the bookstall. While we were there the +extra-special edition of the STAFFORDSHIRE SIGNAL, affectionately +termed 'the local rag' by its readers, arrived, and we watched a +newsboy affix its poster to a board. The poster ran thus— +</P> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> + HANBRIDGE RATES LIVELY MEETING<BR> + —<BR> + KNYPE F.C. NEW CENTRE—FORWARD<BR> + —<BR> + ALL—WINNERS AND S.P.<BR> +</H4> + +<P> +Now, close by this poster was the poster of the DAILY TELEGRAPH, and +among the items offered by the DAILY TELEGRAPH was: 'Death of Simon +Fuge'. I could not forbear pointing out to Mr Brindley the difference +between the two posters. A conversation ensued; and amid the rumbling +of trains and the rough stir of the platform we got back again to Simon +Fuge, and Mr Brindley's tone gradually grew, if not acrid, a little +impatient. +</P> + +<P> +'After all,' he said, 'rates are rates, especially in Hanbridge. And +let me tell you that last season Knype Football Club jolly nearly got +thrown out of the First League. The constitution of the team for this +next season—why, damn it, it's a question of national importance! You +don't understand these things. If Knype Football Club was put into the +League Second Division, ten thousand homes would go into mourning. Who +the devil was Simon Fuge?' +</P> + +<P> +They joke with such extraordinary seriousness in the Five Towns that +one is somehow bound to pretend that they are not joking. So I replied— +</P> + +<P> +'He was a great artist. And this is his native district. Surely you +ought to be proud of him!' +</P> + +<P> +'He may have been a great artist,' said Mr Brindley, 'or he may not. +But for us he was simply a man who came of a family that had a bad +reputation for talking too much and acting the goat!' +</P> + +<P> +'Well,' I said, We shall see—in fifty years.' +</P> + +<P> +'That's just what we shan't,' said he. 'We shall be where Simon Fuge +is—dead! However, perhaps we are proud of him. But you don't expect us +to show it, do you? That's not our style.' +</P> + +<P> +He performed the quasi-winking phenomenon with his eyes. It was his +final exhibition of it to me. +</P> + +<P> +'A strange place!' I reflected, as I ate my dinner in the dining-car, +with the pressure of Mr Brindley's steely clasp still affecting my +right hand, and the rich, honest cordiality of his au revoir in my +heart. 'A place that is passing strange!' +</P> + +<P> +And I thought further: He may have been a boaster, and a chatterer, and +a man who suffered from cold feet at the wrong moments! And the Five +Towns may have got the better of him, now. But that portrait of the +little girl in the Wedgwood Institution is waiting there, right in the +middle of the Five Towns. And one day the Five Towns will have to 'give +it best'. They can say what they like! ... What eyes the fellow had, +when he was in the right company! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="bottle"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IN A NEW BOTTLE +</H3> + +<P> +Commercial travellers are rather like bees; they take the seed of a +good story from one district and deposit it in another. +</P> + +<P> +Thus several localities, imperfectly righteous, have within recent +years appropriated this story to their own annals. I once met an old +herbalist from Wigan-Wigan of all places in beautiful England!—who +positively asserted that the episode occurred just outside the London +and North-Western main line station at Wigan. This old herbalist was no +judge of the value of evidence. An undertaker from Hull told me flatly, +little knowing who I was and where I came from, that he was the +undertaker concerned in the episode. This undertaker was a liar. I use +this term because there is no other word in the language which +accurately expresses my meaning. Of persons who have taken the trouble +to come over from the United States in order to inform me that the +affair happened at Harper's Ferry, Poughkeepsie, Syracuse, Allegheny, +Indianapolis, Columbus, Charlotte, Tabernacle, Alliance, Wheeling, +Lynchburg, and Chicago it would be unbecoming to speak—they are best +left to silence themselves by mutual recrimination. The fact is that +the authentic scene of the affair was a third-class railway carriage +belonging to the North Staffordshire Railway Company, and rolling on +that company's loop-line between Longshaw and Hanbridge. The undertaker +is now dead—it is a disturbing truth that even undertakers die +sometimes—and since his widow has given me permission to mention his +name, I shall mention his name. It was Edward Till. Of course everybody +in the Five Towns knows who the undertaker was, and if anybody in the +Five Towns should ever chance to come across this book, I offer him my +excuses for having brought coals to Newcastle. +</P> + +<P> +Mr Till used to be a fairly well-known figure in Hanbridge, which is +the centre of undertaking, as it is of everything else, in the Five +Towns. He was in a small but a successful way of business, had one leg +a trifle shorter than the other (which slightly deteriorated the +majesty of his demeanour on solemn occasions), played the fiddle, kept +rabbits, and was of a forgetful disposition. It was possibly this +forgetful disposition which had prevented him from rising into a large +way of business. All admired his personal character and tempered +geniality; but there are some things that will not bear forgetting. +However, the story touches but lightly that side of his individuality. +</P> + +<P> +One morning Mr Till had to go to Longshaw to fetch a baby's coffin +which had been ordered under the mistaken impression that a certain +baby was dead. This baby, I may mention, was the hero of the celebrated +scare of Longshaw about the danger of being buried alive. The little +thing had apparently passed away; and, what is more, an inquest had +been held on it and its parents had been censured by the jury for +criminal carelessness in overlaying it; and it was within five minutes +of being nailed up, when it opened its eyes! You may imagine the +enormous sensation that there was in the Five Towns. One doctor lost +his reputation, naturally. He emigrated to the Continent, and now, +practising at Lucerne in the summer and Mentone in the winter, charges +fifteen shillings a visit (instead of three and six at Longshaw) for +informing people who have nothing the matter with them that they must +take care of themselves. The parents of the astonished baby moved the +heaven and earth of the Five Towns to force the coroner to withdraw the +stigma of the jury's censure; but they did not succeed, not even with +the impassioned aid of two London halfpenny dailies. +</P> + +<P> +To resume, Mr Till had to go to Longshaw. Now, unless you possess a +most minute knowledge of your native country, you are probably not +aware that in Aynsley Street, Longshaw, there is a provision dealer +whose reputation for cheeses would be national and supreme if the whole +of England thought as the Five Towns thinks. +</P> + +<P> +'Teddy,' Mrs Till said, as Mr Till was starting, 'you might as well +bring back with you a pound of Gorgonzola.' (Be it noted that I had the +details of the conversation from the lady herself.) +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' said he enthusiastically, 'I will.' +</P> + +<P> +'Don't go and forget it,' she enjoined him. +</P> + +<P> +'No,' he said. 'I'll tie a knot in my handkerchief.' +</P> + +<P> +'A lot of good that'll do!' she observed. 'You'd tied a knot in your +handkerchief when you forgot that Councillor Barker's wife's funeral +was altered from Tuesday to Monday.' +</P> + +<P> +'Ah!' he replied. 'But now I've got a bad cold.' +</P> + +<P> +'So you have!' she agreed, reassured. +</P> + +<P> +He tied the knot in his handkerchief and went. +</P> + +<P> +Thanks to his cold he did not pass the cheesemonger's without entering. +</P> + +<P> +He adored Gorgonzola, and he reckoned that he knew a bit of good +Gorgonzola when he met with it. Moreover, he and the cheesemonger were +old friends, he having buried three of the cheesemonger's children. He +emerged from the cheesemonger's with a pound of the perfectest +Gorgonzola that ever greeted the senses. +</P> + +<P> +The abode of the censured parents was close by, and also close to the +station. He obtained the coffin without parley, and told the mother, +who showed him the remarkable child with pride, that under the +circumstances he should make no charge at all. It was a ridiculously +small coffin. He was quite accustomed to coffins. Hence he did the +natural thing. He tucked the little coffin under one arm, and, dangling +the cheese (neat in brown paper and string) from the other hand, he +hastened to the station. With his unmatched legs he must have made a +somewhat noticeable figure. +</P> + +<P> +A loop-line train was waiting, and he got into it, put the cheese on +the rack in a corner, and the coffin next to it, assured himself that +he had not mislaid his return ticket, and sat down under his baggage. +It was the slackest time of day, and, as the train started at Longshaw, +there were very few passengers. He had the compartment to himself. +</P> + +<P> +He was just giving way to one of those moods of vague and pleasant +meditation which are perhaps the chief joy of such a temperament, when +he suddenly sprang up as if in fear. And fear had in fact seized him. +Suppose he forgot those belongings on the rack? Suppose, sublimely +careless, he descended from the train and left them there? What a +calamity! And similar misadventures had happened to him before. It was +the cheese that disquieted him. No one would be sufficiently +unprincipled to steal the coffin, and he would ultimately recover it at +the lost luggage office, babies' coffins not abounding on the North +Staffordshire Railway. But the cheese! He would never see the cheese +again! No integrity would be able to withstand the blandishments of +that cheese. Moreover, his wife would be saddened. And for her he had a +sincere and profound affection. +</P> + +<P> +His act of precaution was to lift the coffin down from the rack, and +place it on the seat beside him, and then to put the parcel of cheese +on the coffin. He surveyed the cheese on the coffin; he surveyed it +with the critical and experienced eye of an undertaker, and he decided +that, if anyone else got into the carriage, it would not look quite +decent, quite becoming—in a word, quite nice. A coffin is a coffin, +and people's feelings have to be considered. +</P> + +<P> +So he whipped off the lid of the coffin, stuck the cheese inside, and +popped the lid on again. And he kept his hand on the coffin that he +might not forget it. When the train halted at Knype, Mr Till was glad +that he had put the cheese inside, for another passenger got into the +compartment. And it was a clergyman. He recognized the clergyman, +though the clergyman did not recognize him. It was the Reverend Claud +ffolliott, famous throughout the Five Towns as the man who begins his +name with a small letter, doesn't smoke, of course doesn't drink, but +goes to football matches, has an average of eighteen at cricket, and +makes a very pretty show with the gloves, in spite of his thirty-eight +years; celibate, very High, very natty and learned about vestments, +terrific at sick couches and funerals. Mr Till inwardly trembled to +think what the Reverend Claud ffolliott might have said had he seen the +cheese reposing in the coffin, though the coffin was empty. +</P> + +<P> +The parson, whose mind was apparently occupied, dropped into the +nearest corner, which chanced to be the corner farthest away from Mr +Till. He then instantly opened a copy of The Church Times and began to +read it, and the train went forward. The parson sniffed, absently, as +if he had been dozing and a fly had tickled his nose. Shortly +afterwards he sniffed again, but without looking up from his perusals. +He sniffed a third time, and glanced over the top edge of THE CHURCH +TIMES at Mr Till. Calmed by the innocuous aspect of Mr Till, he bent +once more to the paper. But after an interval he was sniffing +furiously. He glanced at the window; it was open. Finally he lowered +The CHURCH TIMES, as who should say: 'I am a long-suffering man, but +really this phenomenon which assaults my nostrils must be seriously +inquired into.' +</P> + +<P> +Then it was that he caught sight of the coffin, with Mr Till's hand +caressing it, and Mr Till all in black and carrying a funereal +expression. He straightened himself, pulled himself together on account +of his cloth, and said to Mr Till in his most majestic and sympathetic +graveside voice— +</P> + +<P> +'Ah! my dear friend, I see that you have suffered a sad, sad +bereavement.' +</P> + +<P> +That rich, resonant voice was positively thrilling when it addressed +hopeless grief. Mr Till did not know what to say, nor where to look. +</P> + +<P> +'You have, however, one thing to be thankful for, very thankful for,' +said the parson after a pause, 'you may be sure the poor thing is not +in a trance.' +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Grim Smile of the Five Towns, by Arnold Bennett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRIM SMILE OF THE FIVE TOWNS *** + +***** This file should be named 4734-h.htm or 4734-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/7/3/4734/ + +Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. 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