 CHAPTER 5 CONSTANCE CHAPTER 5 ANOTHER CRIME PART ONE One night it was late in the afternoon of the same year, about six months after the tragedy of the Florin. Samuel Povey was wakened up by a hand on his shoulder, and a voice that whispered, FATHER! the thief and the liar was standing in his night-shirt by the bed. Samuel's sleepy eyes could just describe him in the thick gloom. What—what? questioned the father, gradually coming to consciousness. What are you doing there? I didn't want to wake mother up. The boy whispered that someone been throwing dirt or something at our windows, and has been for a long time. Eh? What? Samuel stared at the dim form of the thief and liar. The boy was tall, not in the least like a little boy, and yet then he seemed to his father as quite a little boy, a little thing in the night-shirt, with childish gestures and childish inflections, and a childish, delicious quaint anxiety not to disturb his mother, who had lately been deprived of sleep owing to an illness of amies which had demanded nursing. His father had not so perceived him for years. In that instant the conviction that Cyril was permanently unfit for human society finally expired in the father's mind. Time had already weakened it very considerably. The decision that to be Cyril what he might, the summer holiday must be taken as usual, had dealt it a fearful blow. And yet, though Samuel and Constance had grown so accustomed to the companionship of a criminal, that they frequently lost memory of his guilt for long periods, nevertheless the convention of his leprosy had more or less persisted with Samuel until that moment, when it vanished with a strange suddenness, to Samuel's conscious relief. There was a rain of pellets on the window. Hear that! demanded Cyril, whispering dramatically, and it's been like that on my window too. Samuel arose. Go back to your room! he ordered, in the same dramatic whisper, but not as father to son, rather as conspirator to conspirator. Constance slept. They could hear her regular breathing. Barefooted, the elderly gown figure followed the younger, and one after the other they creaked down the two steps which separated Cyril's room from his parents. Shut the door quietly, said Samuel. Cyril obeyed. And then, having lighted Cyril's gas, Samuel drew the blind, unfastened the catch of the window, and began to open it with many precautions of silence. All the sashes in that house were difficult to manage. Cyril stood close to his father, shivering without knowing that he shivered, astonished only that his father had not told him to get back into bed at once. It was beyond doubt the proudest hour of Cyril's career. In addition to the mysterious circumstances of the night, there was in the situation that thrill which always communicates itself to a father and son when they are afoot together upon an enterprise unsuspected by the woman from whom their lives have no secrets. Samuel put his head out of the window. A man was standing there. "'That you, Samuel?' the voice came low. "'Yes,' replied Samuel cautiously. "'It's not cousin Daniel, is it?' "'I want ye,' said Daniel Povey, curtly. Samuel paused. "'I'll be down in a minute,' he said. Cyril at last received the command to get back into bed at once. "'Whatever's up, father?' he asked joyously. "'I don't know. I must put some things on and go and see.' He shut down the window on all the breezes that were pouring into the room. "'Now, quick, before I turn the gas out,' he admonished, his hand on the gas-tap. "'You'll tell me in the morning, won't you, father?' "'Yes,' said Mr. Povey, conquering his habitual impulse to say, "'No.' He crept back to the large bedroom, to grope for clothes. When, having descended to the parlour and lighted the gas there, he opened the side door, expecting to let cousin Daniel in, there was no sign of cousin Daniel. Suddenly he saw a figure standing at the corner of the square. He whistled. Samuel had a singular faculty of whistling, the envy of his son, and Daniel beckoned to him. He nearly extinguished the gas, and then ran out hatless. He was wearing most of his clothes, except his linen collar and neck-tie, and the collar of his coat was turned up. Daniel advanced before him, without waiting, into the confectioner's shop opposite, being part of the most modern building in the square. Daniel's shop was provided with the new roll-down iron shutter, by means of which you closed your establishment, with a motion similar to the winding of a large clock, instead of putting up twenty separate shutters one by one as in the sixteenth century. The little portal in the vast sheet of armour was ajar, and Daniel had passed into the gloom beyond. At the same moment a policeman came along on his beat, cutting off Mr. Povey from Daniel. Good-night, officer! Brrrr! said Mr. Povey, gathering his dignity about him, and holding himself as though it were part of his normal habit to take exercise bare-headed and collarless in St. Luke's Square on cold November nights. He behaved so, because if Daniel had desired the service of a policeman, Daniel would, of course, have spoken to this one. Good-night, sir! said the policeman, after recognizing him. What time is it? asked Samuel, bold. Quarter past one, sir. The policeman, leaving Samuel at the little open door, went forward across the Lamplit Square, and Samuel entered his cousin's shop. Daniel Povey was standing behind the door, and as Samuel came in, he shut the door with a startling sudden movement. Say, for the twinkle of gas, the shop was in darkness. It had the empty appearance, which a well-managed confectioners and bakers always has at night. The large brass scales near the flower-bins glinted, and the glass cake stands, with scarce a tart among them, also caught the faint flare of the gas. What's the matter, Daniel? Anything wrong? Samuel asked, feeling boyish, as he usually did in the presence of Daniel. The well-favoured white-haired man seized him with one hand by the shoulder in a grip that convicted Samuel of frailty. Look here, Samuel," said he, in his low, pleasant voice, somewhat altered by excitement. You know, as my wife drinks." He stared defiantly at Samuel. No," said Samuel. That is, no one's ever said. This was true. He did not know that Mrs. Daniel Povey, at the age of fifty, had definitely taken to drink. There had been rumours that she enjoyed a glass with too much gusto, but drinks meant more than that. She drinks, Daniel Povey continued, and has done these last two year. I'm very sorry to hear it," said Samuel, tremendously shocked by this brutal rending of the cloak of decency. Always everybody had feigned to Daniel, and Daniel had feigned to everybody that his wife was as other wives. And now the man himself had torn to pieces in a moment the veil of thirty years weaving. And as if that were the worst, Daniel murmured reflectively, loosening his grip. Samuel was excessively disturbed. His cousin was hinting at matters which he himself, at any rate, had never hinted at, even to Constance. So abhorrent were they? Matters unutterable, which hung like clouds in the social atmosphere of the town, and of which, at rare intervals, one conveyed one's cognizance, not by words, but by something scarce perceptible as a glance, an accent. Not often is a town such as Bursley starred with such a woman as Mrs. Daniel Povey. But what's wrong? Samuel asked, trying to be firm. And what is wrong? He asked himself, what does all this mean, at after one o'clock in the morning? Look here, Samuel! Daniel recommenced, seizing his shoulder again. I went to Liverpool Corn Market today, and missed the last train. So I came by mail from crew. And what do I find? I find Dick sitting on the stairs in the dark, pretty eye-naked. Sitting on the stairs? Dick? Ah, this is what I come home to. But, hold on, he's been in bed for a couple of days with a feverish cold, caught through lying in damp sheets as his mother forgot to air. She brings him no supper to-night. He calls out. No answer. Then he gets up and goes downstairs to see what's happened. And he slips on the stairs and breaks his knee or puts it out or something. Sat there hours seemingly. Couldn't walk, neither up nor down. And was your wife, or was Mrs. dead drunk in the parlour, Samuel? But a servant. Servant? Daniel Povey laughed. We can't keep servants. They won't stay. You know that. He did. Mrs. Daniel Povey's domestic methods and idiosyncrasies could at any rate be freely discussed, and they were. And what have you done? Done why I picked him up in my arms and carried him upstairs again. And a fine job I had too. Here, come here. Daniel strode impulsively across the shop. The counter-flap was up, and opened a door at the back. Samuel followed, never before had he penetrated so far into his cousin's secrets. On the left within the doorway were the stairs, dark. On the right a shut door, and in front an open door, giving on to a yard. At the extremity of the yard he discerned a building, vaguely lit, and naked figures strangely moving in it. What's that? Who's there? He asked sharply. That's the bake-house! Daniel replied, as if surprised at such a question, each one of their long nights. Never, during the brief remainder of his life, did Samuel eat a mouthful of common bread without recalling that midnight apparition. He had lived for half a century, and thoughtlessly eaten bread, as though loaves grew ready-made on trees. Lesson, Daniel commanded him. He cocked his ear, and caught a feeble, complaining wail through an upper floor. That's dick, that is, said Daniel Povey. It sounded more like the distress of a child, than of an adventurous young man of twenty-four or so. But is he in pain? Haven't you fetched the doctor? Not yet, answered Daniel, with a vacant stare. Samuel gazed at him closely for a second, and Daniel seemed to him very old and helpless and pathetic, a man unequal to the situation in which he found himself. And yet, despite the dignified snow of his age, wistfully boyish. Samuel thought swiftly, this has been too much for him. He's almost out of his mind, that's the explanation. Someone's got to take charge, and I must. And all the courageous resolution of his character braced itself to the crisis. Being without a collar, being in slippers, and his suspenders imperfectly fastened anyhow, these things seemed to be a part of the crisis. I'll just run upstairs and have a look at him, said Samuel, in a matter-of-fact tone. Daniel did not reply. There was a glimmer at the top of the stairs. Samuel mounted, found the gas-jet, and turned it on full. A dingy, dirty, untidy passage was revealed, the very anti-chamber of discomfort. Guided by the moans, Samuel entered a bedroom, which was in a shameful condition of neglect, and lighted only by a nearly expired candle. Was it possible that a house-mistress could so lose her self-respect? Samuel thought of his own abode, meticulously and impeccably kept, and a hard bitterness against Mrs. Daniel surged up in his soul. Is that you, doctor? said a voice from the bed. The moans ceased. Samuel raised the candle. Dick lay there, his face, on which was a beard of several days growth, distorted by anguish, sweating, his tuzzled brown hair was limp with sweat. Where the hell's the doctor? the young man demanded brusquely. Evidently he had no curiosity about Samuel's presence. The one thing that struck him was that Samuel was not the doctor. He's coming, he's coming, said Samuel soothingly. Well, if he isn't here so nice, he'll be damn well dead. Said Dick, in feeble, resentful anger. I can tell you that. Samuel deposited the candle and ran downstairs. I say, Daniel, he said, roused and hot. This is really ridiculous. Why on earth didn't you fetch the doctor while you were waiting for me? Where's the Mrs? Daniel Povey was slowly emptying grains of Indian corn out of his jacket pocket into one of the big receptacles behind the counter on the baker's side of the shop. He had provisioned himself with Indian corn as ammunition for Samuel's bedroom window. He was now returning the surplus. Are you going far up? he questioned, hesitatingly. Why, of course, Samuel exclaimed, where's the Mrs? Appney had better go and have a look at her, said Daniel Povey. She's in the parlor. He proceeded Samuel to the shut door on the right. When he opened it, the parlor appeared in full illumination. There, go in, said Daniel. Samuel went in afraid, in a room as dishevelled and filthy as the bedroom. Mrs. Daniel Povey lay stretched awkwardly on a worn horsehair sofa. Her head thrown back, her face discoloured, her eyes bulging, her mouth wet and yawning, a sight horribly offensive. Samuel was frightened. He was struck with fear and with disgust. The singing gas beat down ruthlessly on that dreadful figure, a wife and mother, the lady of a house, the centre of order, the fount of healing, the balm for worry and the refuge of distress. She was vile. Her scanty yellow-gray hair was dirty, her hollowed neck all grime, her hands abominable, her black dress in decay. She was the dishonour of her sex, her situation and her years. She was a fowler obscenity than the inexperienced Samuel had ever conceived. By the door stood her husband, neat, spotless, almost stately. The man who, for thirty years, had marshaled all his immense pride to suffer this woman, the jolly man who had laughed through thick and thin. Samuel remembered when they were married, and he remembered when, years after their marriage, she was still as pretty, artificial, coquettish and adamantine in her caprices as a young harlot with a fool at her feet. Time and the slow wrath of God had changed her. He remained master of himself and approached her and then stopped. But he stammered. Aye, Samuel lad, said the old man from the door. I doubt I've killed her. I doubt I've killed her. I took and shook her. I got her by the neck, and thought I knew where I was. I'd done it. She'll never drink brandy again. This is what it's come to. He moved away. All Samuel's flesh tingled as a heavy wave of emotion rolled through his being. It was just as if someone had dealt him a blow unimaginably tremendous. His heart shivered as a ship shivers at the mountainous crash of the waters. He was numbed. He wanted to weep, to vomit, to die, to sing away. But a voice was whispering to him, You will have to go through with this. You are in charge of this. He thought of his wife and child, innocently asleep in the cleanly pureness of his home, and he felt the roughness of his coat-collar round his neck, and the insecurity of his trousers. He passed out of the room, shutting the door, and across the yard he had a momentary glimpse of those new nocturnal forms unconsciously attitudinizing in the bake-house, and down the stairs came the protests of Dick, driven by pain into a monotonous, silly blasphemy. I'll fetch Harrop," he said, melancholically, to his cousin. The doctor's house was less than fifty yards off, and the doctor had a night-bell, which, though he was a much older man than his father had been at his age, he still answered promptly. No need to bombard the doctor's premises with Indian corn. While Samuel was parleying with the doctor through a window, the question ran incessantly through his mind, what about telling the police? But when, in advance of old Harrop, he returned to Daniel's shop, though the policeman previously encountered had returned upon his beat, and Daniel was talking to him in the little doorway. No other soul was about. Down King Street, along Wedgewood Street, up the square, towards Broom Street, nothing but gas-lamps burning with their everlasting patience, and the blind facades of shops. Only in the second story of the bank-building at the top of the square a light showed mysteriously through a blind somebody ill there. The policeman was in a high state of nervous excitement. That had happened to him which had never happened to him before. Of the sixty policemen in Bursley, just he had been chosen by fate to fill the socket of destiny. He was startled. What's this? What's this, Mr. Povey? He turned hastily to Samuel. What's this, as Mr. Counselor Povey is telling me? You'll come in, Sergeant," said Daniel. If I come in," said the policeman to Samuel, you mustn't go along Wedgewood Bank, Mr. Povey, and bring my mate. He should be on Duck Bank, by rights. It was astonishing when once the stone had began to roll, how quickly it ran. In half an hour Samuel had actually parted from Daniel at the police office behind the shambles and was hurrying to rouse his wife, so that she could look after Dick Povey until he might be taken off to Pire Hill Infirmary, as old Harrop had instantly on seeing him decreed. Ah! he reflected in the turmoil of his soul. God is not mocked. That was his basic idea. God is not mocked. Daniel was a good fellow, honourable, brilliant, a figure in the world. But what of his licentious tongue? What of his frequenting of bars? How had he come to miss that train from Liverpool? How? For many years he, Samuel, had seen in Daniel a living refutation of the authenticity of the old Hebrew menaces. But he had been wrong after all. God is not mocked. And Samuel was aware of a revulsion in himself towards that strict codified godliness, from which in thought he had perhaps been slipping away. And with it all he felt, too, a certain officious self-importance as he woke his wife and is said to break the news to her in a manner tactfully calm. He had assisted at the most overwhelming event ever known in the history of the town. 2. Your muffler. I'll get it, said Constance. Cyril, run upstairs and get Father's muffler. You know the drawer. Cyril ran. It behoved everybody that morning to be prompt and efficient. I don't need any muffler, thank you, said Samuel, coughing and smothering the cough. Oh, but Sam, Constance protested. Now, please, don't worry me, said Samuel, with frigid finality. I've got quite enough. He did not finish. Constance sighed as her husband stepped nervous and self-important, out of the side door into the street. It was early, not yet eight o'clock, and the shop still unopened. Your father couldn't wait, Constance said to Cyril, when he had thundered down the stairs in his heavy schoolboy boots. Give it to me. She went to restore the muffler to its place. The whole house was upset, and Amy's still an invalid. Existence was disturbed. There vaguely seemed to be a thousand novel things to be done, and yet she could think of nothing whatever that she needed to do at that moment. So she occupied herself with the muffler. Before she reappeared, Cyril had gone to school. He, who was usually a laggard. The truth was that he could no longer contain within himself a recital of the night, and in particular of the fact that he had been the first to hear the summons of the murderer on the windowpane. This imperious news had to be imparted to somebody, as a preliminary to the thrilling of the whole school, and Cyril had issued forth in search of an appreciative and worthy confident. He was scarcely five minutes after his father. In St. Luke's Square was a crowd of quite two hundred persons standing moveless in the November mud. The body of Mrs. Daniel Povey had already been taken to the Tiger Hotel. A young Dick Povey was on his way in a covered wagonet to Pirehill Infirmary on the other side of night. The shop of the crime was closed, and the blinds drawn at the upper windows of the house. There was absolutely nothing to be seen, not even a policeman. Nevertheless, the crowd stared with an extraordinary obstinate attentiveness at the fatal building in Bolton Terrace. Hypnotised by this face of bricks and mortar, it had apparently forgotten all earthly ties, and regardless of breakfast and livelihood, was determined to stare at it till the house fell down, or otherwise rendered up its secret. Most of its component individuals wore neither overcoats nor collars, but were kept warm by a scarf round the neck, and by dint of forcing their fingers into the furthest inch of their pockets. Then they would slowly lift one leg after the other. Starrers of infirm purpose would occasionally detach themselves from the throng and sidle away, ashamed of their fickleness. But reinforcements were continually arriving. And to these newcomers all that had been said in gossip had to be repeated and repeated, the same questions, the same answers, the same exclamations, the same proverbial philosophy. The same prophecies recurred in all parts of the square with an uncanny itterance. Well-dressed men spoke to mere professional loiterers for this unparalleled and glorious sensation whose uniqueness grew every instant more impressive brought out the essential brotherhood of mankind. All had a peculiar feeling that the day was neither Sunday nor weekday, but some eighth day of the week. Yet in the St. Luke's covered market close by, the stallkeepers were preparing their stalls just as though it were a Saturday, just as though a town counsellor had not murdered his wife at last. It was stated, and restated infinitely, that the povy baking had been taken over by Brindley, the second best baker and confectioner who had a stall in the market, and it was asserted as a philosophical truth, and reasserted infinitely that there would have been no sense in wasting good food. Samuel's emergence stirred the multitude, but Samuel passed up the square with a rapt expression he might have been under an illusion caused by the extreme gravity of his preoccupations that he was crossing a deserted square. He hurried past the bank and down the Turnhill Road to the private residence of young Lawton, son of the deceased lawyer Lawton. Young Lawton followed his father's profession. He was, as his father had been, the most successful solicitor in the town, though reputed by his learned rivals to be a fool, but the custom of calling men by their occupations had died out with horse-cars. Samuel caught young Lawton as his breakfast and presently drove with him in the Lawton buggy to the police station, where their arrival electrified a crowd as large as that instant looped square. Later they drove together to Handbridge, informally to brief a barrister, and Samuel, not permitted to be present at the first part of the interview between the solicitor and the barrister, was humbled before the pomposity of legal etiquette. It seemed to Samuel again the whole rigmarole of police and police cells and formalities seemed insincere. His cousin's case was not like any other case, and though formalities might be necessary, it was rather absurd to pretend that it was like any other case. In what manner it differed from other cases, Samuel did not analytically inquire. He thought young Lawton was self-important and Daniel too humble in the colloquy of these two, and he endeavored to indicate, by the dignity of his own demeanour, that in his opinion the proper relative's tones had not been set. He could not understand Daniel's attitude, for he lacked imagination to realize what Daniel had been through. After all, Daniel was not a murderer. His wife's death was, due to accident, was simply a mishap. But in the crowded and stinking courtroom of the town hall, Samuel began to feel qualms. It occurred that the stipendury magistrate was sitting that morning at Bursley. He sat alone, as not one of the borough justices cared to occupy the bench, while the town councillor was in the dock. The stipendury, recently appointed, was a young man from the southern part of the county, and a town councillor of Bursley was no more to him than a petty tradesman to a man of fashion. He was youthfully enthusiastic for the majesty and the impartiality of English justice, and behaved as though the entire responsibility for the safety of that vast fabric rested on his shoulders. He and the barrister from Handbridge had a historic quarrel at Cambridge, and their behaviour to each other was a lesson to the valga in the art of chill and consummate politeness. Young Lawton, having been to Oxford, secretly scorned the pair of them, but as he had engaged council he, of course, was precluded from adding to the eloquence which chagrined him. These three were the aristocracy of the courtroom. They knew it. Samuel Povey knew it. Everybody knew it, and felt it. The barrister brought an unexceptionable zeal to the performance of his duties. He referred, in suitable terms, to Daniel's character and high position in the town, but nothing could hide the fact that for him, too, his client was a petty tradesman accused of simple murder. Naturally the stipendury was bound to show that before the law all men are equal, the town councillor and the common tippler. He succeeded. The policeman gave his evidence, and the inspector swore to what Daniel Povey had said when charged. The hearing proceeded so smoothly and quickly that it seemed nought but an empty right, with Daniel as a lay figure in it. The stipendury achieved marvellously the illusion that to him the murder by a town councillor in St Luke's Square was quite an everyday matter. Vale was inconceivable, and the barrister, being unable to suggest any reason why the stipendury should grant her demand, and indeed there was no reason, Daniel Povey was committed to the stafford of sizes for trial. The stipendury instantly turned to the consideration of an alleged defence against the factory acts by a large local firm of Potters. The young magistrate had mistaken his vocation with his steely calm, with his imperturbable detachment from weak humanity. He ought to have been a general of the order of Jesuits. Daniel was removed. He did not go. He was removed by two bareheaded constables. Samuel wanted to have speech with him, and could not, and later Samuel stood in the porch of the town hall, and Daniel appeared out of a corridor, still in the keeping of two policemen, helmeted now, and down below at the bottom of the broad flight of steps, up which passed dancers on the nights of subscription balls, was a dense crowd, held at bay by other policemen, and beyond the crowd a black van, and Daniel, to his cousin a sort of Christ between thieves, was hurried past the privileged loafers in the corridor, and down the broad steps. A murmuring wave agitated the crowd. Unkempt idlers and ne'er-do-wells in corduroy leapt up like tigers in the air, and the policemen fought them back furiously, and Daniel and his guardians shot through the little living lane. Quick, quick! For the captive is more sacred even than a messiah. The law has him in charge, and like a feat of prestidigitation, Daniel disappeared into the blackness of the van. A door slammed loudly triumphantly, and a whip cracked. The crowd had been bought. It was though the crowd had yelled for Daniel's blood and bones, and the faithful constables had saved him from their lust. Yet Samuel had qualms. He had a sickness in the stomach. The aged superintendent of police walked by with the aged rector. The rector was Daniel's friend. Never before had the rector spoken to the nonconformist Samuel. But now he spoke to him. He squeezed his hand. Ah, Mr. Bovey! he ejaculated grievously. I'm afraid it's serious, Samuel stammered. He hated to admit that it was serious, but the words came out of his mouth. He looked at the superintendent of police, expecting the superintendent to assure him that it was not serious, but the superintendent only raised his small white-bearded chin, saying nothing. The rector shook his head, and shook a senile tear out of his eye. After another chat with young Lawton, Samuel, on behalf of Daniel, dropped his pose of the righteous man to whom a mere mishap has occurred, and who is determined, with the lofty pride of innocence, to indulge all the whims of the law, to be more royalist than the king. He perceived that the law must be fought with its own weapons, that no advantage must be surrendered, and every possible advantage seized. He was truly astonished at himself that such a pose had ever been adopted. His eyes were opened. He saw things as they were. He returned home through a square that was more interested than ever in the façade of his cousin's house. People were beginning to come from Hambridge, Knife, Longshore, Turnhill, and villages such as Muathorn to gaze at that façade. And the fourth edition of the signal, containing a full report of what the stipendury and the barrister had said to each other, was being cried. In his shop he found customers as absorbed in the trivialities of purchase as though nothing whatever had happened. He was shocked. He resented their callousness. I'm too busy now, he said, curtly to one who accosted him. Sam! His wife called him in a low voice. She was standing behind the till. What is it? He was ready to crush, and especially to crush, indiscreet babble in his shop. He thought she was going to vent her womanly curiosity at once. Mr. Huntbatch is waiting for you in the parlour, said Constance. Mr. Huntbatch? Yes, from Longshore. She whispered, it's Mrs. Povey's cousin. He's come to see about the funeral and so on. The inquest, I suppose. Sammy will pause. Oh, has he, said he, defiantly, well, I'll see him. If he wants to see me, I'll see him. That evening Constance learned all that was in his mind of bitterness against the memory of the dead woman whose failings had brought Daniel Povey to Stafford Jail and Dick to the Pyehill Infirmary. Again and again, in the ensuing days, he referred to the state of foul discomfort which he had discovered in Daniel's house. He nursed a feud against all her relatives, and when, after the inquest at which he gave evidence, full of resentment, she was buried, he vented an angry sigh of relief and said, well, she's out of the way. Thenceforward he had a mission, religious in its solemn intensity, to defend and save Daniel. He took the enterprise upon himself, spending the whole of himself upon it, to the neglect of his business and the scorn of his health. He lived solely for Daniel's trial, pouring out money in preparation for it. He thought and spoke of nothing else. The affair was his one preoccupation, and as the weeks passed by, he became more and more sure of success, more and more sure that he would return with Daniel to Bursley in triumph after their size. He was convinced of the impossibility that anything should happen to Daniel. The circumstances were too clear, too overwhelmingly in Daniel's favour. When Brindley, the second best baker and confectioner, made an offer for Daniel's business, as a going concern, he was indignant at first, then Constance and the lawyer and Daniel, whom he saw on every permitted occasion, between them persuaded him that if some arrangement was not made and made quickly, the business would lose all its value, and he consented on Daniel's behalf to a temporary agreement, under which Brindley should reopen the shop and manage it on certain terms until Daniel regained his freedom towards the end of January. He would not listen to Daniel's plaintive insistence that he would never care to be seen in Bursley again. He poo-pooed it. He protested furiously that the whole town was seething with sympathy for Daniel, and this was true. He became Daniel's defending angel, rescuing Daniel from Daniel's own weakness and apathy. He became, indeed, Daniel. One morning the shop's shutter was wound up, and Brindley, inflated with the importance of controlling two establishments, strutted in and out under the sign of Daniel Povey, and traffic in bread and cakes and flour was resumed. Apparently the Sea of Time had risen and covered Daniel, and all that was his, for his wife was under earth, and Dick lingered at Pirehill, unable to stand, and Daniel was locked away. Apparently, in the regular flow of life of the square, Daniel was forgotten. But not in Samuel Povey's heart was he forgotten. There, before an altar erected to the altar, the sacred flame of a new faith burned with fierce consistency, Samuel, in his graying middle age, had inherited the eternal youth of the apostle. End of Chapter 5, Part 1, Book 2, Chapter 5, Part 2 of The Old Wives Tale, by Arnold Bennett. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter. The Old Wives Tale, by Arnold Bennett. Book 2. Constance Chapter 5. Another Crime. Part 2. 3. On the dark winter morning, when Samuel set off to the grander's eyes, Constance did not ask his views as to what protection he would adopt against the weather. She silently ranged special under-clothing, and by the warmth of the fire, which for days she had kept a blaze in the bedroom, Samuel silently donned the special under-clothing. Over that, with particular fastidious care, he put his best suit. Not a word was spoken. Constance and he were not estranged, but the relations between them were in a state of feverish excitation. Samuel had had a cold on his flat chest for weeks, and nothing that Constance could invent would move it. A few days in bed, or even in one room at a uniform temperature, would surely have worked the cure. Samuel, however, would not stay in one room. He would not stay in the house, nor yet in Bursley. He would take his lacerating cough on chilly trains to Stafford. He had no ears for reason. He simply could not listen. He was in a dream. After Christmas a crisis came. Constance grew desperate. It was a battle between her will and his that occurred one night, when Constance, marshalling all her forces, suddenly insisted that he must go out no more until he was cured. In the fight Constance was scarcely recognizable. She deliberately gave way to hysteria. She was no longer soft and gentle. She flung bitterness at him like vitriol. She shrieked like a common shrew. It seems almost incredible that Constance should have gone so far, but she did. She accused him amid sobs of putting his cousin before his wife and son, of not caring whether or not she was left a widow as a result of this obstinacy. And she ended by crying passionately that she might as well talk to a post. She might just as well have talked to a post. Samuel answered quietly and coldly. He told her that it was useless for her to put herself about, as he should act as he thought fit. It was a most extraordinary scene and quite unique in their annals. Constance was beaten. She accepted the defeat, gradually controlling her sobs, and changing her tone to the tone of the vanquished. She kissed him in bed, kissing the rod, and he gravely kissed her. Henceforward she knew in practice what the inevitable, when you have to live with it, may contain the vanquish, wretched and humiliating. Her husband was risking his life, so she was absolutely convinced, and she could do nothing. She had come to the bedrock of Samuel's character. She felt that, for the time being, she had a madman in the house, who could not be treated according to ordinary principles. The continual strain aged her. Her one source of relief was to talk with Cyril. She talked to him without reserve, and the words, Your Father, Your Father, were ever lastingly on her complaining tongue. Yes, she was utterly changed. Often she would weep when alone. Nevertheless, she frequently forgot that she had been beaten. She had no notion of honourable warfare. She was always beginning again, always firing under a flag of truce, and thus she constituted the very inconvenient opponent. Samuel was obliged, while hardening on the main point, to compromise on lesser questions. She too could be formidable, and when her lips took a certain pose and her eyes glowed, he was put on forty mufflers, had she commanded. Thus it was she who arranged all the details of the supreme journey to Stafford. Samuel was to drive to Knipe, so as to avoid the rigours of the loop-line train from Bursley and the waiting on cold platforms. At Knipe he was to take the express and to travel first-class. After he was dressed on that gaslit morning, he learned, bit by bit, the extent of her elaborate preparations. The breakfast was a special breakfast, and he had to eat it all. Then the cab came, and he saw Amy put hot bricks into it. Constance herself put galoshes over his boots, not because it was damp, but because India rubber keeps the feet warm. Constance herself bandaged his neck, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, and stuck an extra flannel under his dickie. Constance herself warmed his woolen gloves, and enveloped him in his largest overcoat. Samuel then saw Cyril getting ready to go out. Where are you off? he demanded. He's going with you as far as night, said Constance grimly. He'll see you into the train, and then come back here in the cab. She had sprung this indignity upon him. She glared. Cyril glanced with timid bravado from one to the other. Samuel had to yield. Thus, in the winter darkness, for it was not yet dawn, Samuel set forth to the trial, escorted by his son. The reverberation of his appalling cough from the cab was the last thing that Constance heard. During most of the day Constance sat in Miss Insull's corner, in the shop. Twenty years ago this very corner had been hers, but now, instead of large millinery boxes enwrapped in brown paper, it was shut off from the rest of the counter by a rich screen of mahogany and ground glass, and within the enclosed space all the apparatus necessary to the activity of Miss Insull had been provided for. However, it remained the coldest part of the whole shop as Miss Insull's fingers testified. Constance established herself there, more from a desire to do something, to interfere in something, than from a necessity of supervising the shop, though she had said to Samuel that she would keep an eye on the shop. Miss Insull, whose throne was usurped, had to sit by the stove with less important creatures, as she did not like it, and her underlings suffered accordingly. It was a long day. Towards tea-time, just before Cyril was due from school, Mr. Critchlow came surprisingly in. That is to say, his arrival was less of a surprise to Miss Insull and the rest of the staff than to Constance, for he had lately formed an irregular habit of popping in at tea-time to chat with Miss Insull. Mr. Critchlow was still defying time. He kept his long, thin figure perfectly erect. His features had not altered. His hair and beard could not have been whiter than they had been for years past. He wore his long white apron, and over that a thick reefer jacket. In his long, knotty fingers he carried a copy of the signal. Evidently he had not expected to find the corner occupied by Constance. She was sewing. So it's you, he said, in his unpleasant, grating voice, not even glancing at Miss Insull. He had gained the reputation of being the rudest old man in Bursley. But his general demeanour expressed indifference rather than rudeness. He was a manner that said, You've got to take me as I am. I may be a negatist, hard, mean, and convinced, but those who don't like it can lump it. I'm indifferent. He put one elbow on the top of the screen, showing the signal. Mr. Critchlow, said Constance, primly. She had acquired Samuel's dislike of him. It's begun, he observed with mysterious glee. Has it, Constance said eagerly? Is it in the paper already? She had been far more disturbed about her husband's health than about the trial of Daniel Povey for murder, but her interest in the trial was, of course, tremendous, and this news that it had actually begun thrilled her. I, said Mr. Critchlow, didn't hear the signal, boy, hollering just now all over the square. No, said Constance. For her, newspapers did not exist. She never had the idea of opening one, never felt any curiosity which she could not satisfy, if she could satisfy it at all, without the powerful aid of the press. And even on this day it had not occurred to her that the signal might be worth opening. I, repeated Mr. Critchlow, seemingly it began at two o'clock, or thereabouts. He gave a moment of his attention to a noisy gas jet which he carefully lowered. What does it say? Nothing yet, said Mr. Critchlow, and they read the few brief sentences under their big heading which described the formal commencement of the trial of Daniel Povey for the murder of his wife. There were somers, said he remarked, pushing up his spectacles, that grand jury would alter the charge or summit. He laughed grimly tolerant of the extreme absurdity. Ah, he added contemplatively, turning his head to see if the assistants were listening. They were. It would have been too much on such a day to expect a strict adherence to the etiquette of the shop. Constance had been hearing a good deal lately of grand juries, but she had understood nothing, nor had she sought to understand. I'm very glad it's come on so soon, she said. In a sense, that is, I was afraid Sam might be kept at Stafford for days. Do you think it will last long? Not it, said Mr. Critchlow positively. There's not in it to spin out. Then a silence punctuated by the sound of stitching. Constance would really have preferred not to converse with the old man, but the desire for reassurance, for the calming of her own fears, forced her to speak. Though she knew well that Mr. Critchlow was precisely the last man in town to give moral assistance, if he thought it was wanted. I do hope everything will be all right, she murmured. Everything will be all right, he said gaily. Everything will be all right. Only it'll be all wrong for Dan. Whatever do you mean, Mr. Critchlow, she protested. Nothing, she reflected, could arouse pity in that heart, not even a tragedy like Daniel's. She bit her lip for having spoken. Well, he said in loud tones, frankly addressing the girls round the stove as much as Constance, I've met with some rare good arguments this new year, no mistake. There's been some must say that Dan never meant to do it. That's as may be, but if it's a good reason for not hanging, then there's an end to capital punishment in this country. Never meant. There's a lot of them as never meant. Then I'm told she was a gallivanting woman and no housekeeper of as often drunk as sober. I've no call to be told that. If strangling's a right punishment for a wife who spends her time in drinking brandy instead of sweeping floors and airing sheets, then Dan's safe. But I don't seem to see Judge Lindley telling the jury as it is. I've been a juryman and a Judge Lindley myself, and more than once, and I don't seem to see him like. He paused with his mouth open. As for all them knobs, he continued, including the rector, as I've gone to Stafford to kiss the book and swear that Dan's reputation is second and on, if they could have sworn as Dan wasn't in the ass at all that night, if they could have sworn he was in Jericho, that had been some sense in their going. But as it is, they had done better to stop at home and mind their business. Bless us, Sam, on to me to go. He laughed again in the faces of the horrified and angry women. I'm surprised at you, Mr. Critch, though I really am, Constance exclaimed. And the assistance inarticulately supported her with vague sounds. Miss Insull got up and poked the stove. Every soul in the establishment was loyally convinced that Daniel Povey would be acquitted, and to breathe a doubt on the brightness of this certainty was a hideous crime. The conviction was not within the domain of reason. It was an act of faith, and arguments merely fretted without in the slightest degree disturbing it. You may be, Mr. Critchlow gaily concurred. He was very content. Just as he shuffled round to leave the shop, Cyril entered. Good afternoon, Mr. Critchlow, said Cyril, sheepishly polite. Mr. Critchlow gazed hard at the boy, then nodded his head several times rapidly, as though to say he is another fool in the making, so that generations follow one another. He made no answer to the salutation, and departed. Cyril ran round to his mother's corner, pitching his bag onto the showroom's stairs as he passed them. Taking off his hat, he kissed her, and she unbuttoned his overcoat with her cold hands. What's old Methusel thereafter, he demanded. Hush! Constance softly corrected him. He came in to tell me the trial had started. Oh, I knew that! A boy bought a paper, and I saw it. I say, mother, will father be in the paper? And then, in a different tone, I say, mother, what is there for tea? When his stomach had learned exactly what there was for tea, the boy began to show an immense and talkative curiosity in the trial. He would not set himself to his home lessons. It's no use, mother, he said. I can't. They returned to the shop together, and Cyril would go every moment to the door to listen for the cry of a newsboy. Presently, he hit upon the idea that perhaps newsboys might be crying the special edition of the signal in the marketplace in front of the town hall to the neglect of St Luke's Square, and nothing would satisfy him that he must go forth and see. He went, without his overcoat, promising to run. The shop waited for the strange anxiety. Cyril had created, by his restless movements, to and fro, an atmosphere of strained expectancy. It seemed now as if the whole town stood with beating heart, fearful of tidings, and yet burning to get them. Constance pictured Stafford, which she had never seen, and a court of justice, which she had never seen, and her husband and Daniel in it. And she waited. Cyril ran in. No, he announced breathlessly. Nothing yet. Don't take cold now, you're hot! Constance advised. But he would keep near the door. Soon he ran off again. And perhaps fifteen seconds after he had gone, the strident cry of a signal boy was heard in the distance, faint and indistinct at first, and then clearer and louder. There's a paper, said the apprentice. Sh! said Constance, listening. Sh! echoed Miss Insull. Yes, it is, said Constance. Miss Insull, just step out and get a paper. Here's a hateney. The hateney passed quickly from one thimbled hand to another. Miss Insull scurried. She came in triumphantly with the sheet, which Constance tremblingly took. Constance could not find the report at first. Miss Insull pointed to it and read, Summing up, lower down, lower down. After an absence of thirty-five minutes, the jury found the prisoner guilty of murder with a recommendation to mercy. The judge assumed the black cap and pronounced sentence of death, saying that he would forward the recommendation to the proper quarter. Cyril returned. Not yet, he was saying, when he saw the paper lying on the counter. His crest fell. Long after the shop was shut, Constance and Cyril waited in the parlour for the arrival of the master of the house. Constance was in the blackest despair. She saw nothing but death around her. Miss Fortune's never come singly. Why did not Samuel come? All was ready for him. Everything that her imagination could suggest in the way of food, remedies, and the means of warmth. Amy was not allowed to go to bed, lest she might be needed. Constance did not even hint that Cyril should go to bed. The dark dreadful minutes ticked themselves off on the mantelpiece, until only five minutes separated Constance from the moment when she would not know what to do next. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. If at half-mast Samuel did not appear, then he could not come that night, unless the last train from Stafford was inconceivably late. The sound of a carriage. It ceased at the door. Mother and son sprang up. Yes, it was Samuel. She beheld him once more. And the sight of his condition, moral and physical, terrified her. His great strapping son and Amy helped him upstairs. Will he ever come down those stairs again? The thought lanced Constance's heart. The pain was common, gone in a moment. But it had surprised her tranquil common sense, which was naturally opposed to and generally scornful of hysterical fears. As she puffed with her stoutness up the stairs, that bland cheerfulness of hers cost her an immense effort of will. She was profoundly troubled. Great disasters seemed to be slowly approaching her from all quarters. Should she send for the doctor? No. To do so would only be a concession to the panic instinct. She knew exactly what was the matter with Samuel. His severe cough persistently neglected. No more. As she had expressed herself many times to inquirers, he's never been what you might call ill. Nevertheless, as she laid him in bed and posited him, how frail and fragile he looked, and he was so exhausted that he would not even talk about the trial. If he's not better tomorrow I shall send for the doctor, she said to herself. As for his getting up, she swore she would keep him in bed by force, if necessary. Four. The next morning she was glad and proud that she had not yielded to a scare, for he was most strangely and obviously better. He had slept heavily and she had slept a little. True that Daniel was condemned to death. Leaving Daniel to his fate, she was conscious of joy springing in her heart. How absurd to have asked herself will he ever come down those stairs again. A message reached her from the forgotten shop during the morning that Mr. Lawton had called to see Mr. Povey. Already Samuel had wanted to arise, but she had forbidden it in the tone of a woman who is dangerous, and Samuel had been very reasonable. He now said that Mr. Lawton must be asked up. She glanced round the bedroom. It was done. It was faultlessly correct as a sick chamber. She agreed to the introduction into it of the man from another sphere, and after a preliminary minute she left the two to talk together. This visit of young Lawtons was a dramatic proof of Samuel's importance, and of the importance of the matter in hand. The august occasion demanded etiquette. An etiquette said that a wife should depart from her husband when he had to transact affairs beyond the grasp of a wife. The idea of a petition to the home secretary took shape at this interview, and before the day was out it had spread over the town and over the five towns, and it was in the signal. The signal spoke of Daniel Povey as the condemned man, and the phrase startled the whole district into an indignant agitation for his reprieve. The district woke up to the fact that a town councillor, a figure in the world, an honest tradesman of unspotted character, was cooped solitary in a little cell at Stafford, waiting to be hanged by the neck until he was dead. The district determined that this must not and should not be. Why, Dan Povey had actually once been chairman of the Bursley Society for the Prosecution of Felons, that association for annual eating and drinking, whose members humorously called each other Felons. Impossible, monstrous, that an ex-chairman of the Felons should be a sentenced criminal. However, there was nothing to fear. No home secretary would dare to run counter to the jury's recommendation and the expressed wish of the whole district. Besides, the home secretary's nephew was MP for the Knight Division. Of course, a verdict of guilty had been inevitable. Everybody recognized that now. Even Samuel and all the hottest partisans of Daniel Povey recognized it. They talked as if they had always foreseen it, directly contradicting all that they had said on only the previous day. Without any sense of inconsistency or of shame, they took up an absolutely new position. The structure of blind faith had once again crumbled at the assault of realities and unhealthy, un-English truths, the statement of which would have meant ostracism twenty-four hours earlier, became suddenly the platitudes of the square and the marketplace. Dispatch was necessary in the affair of the petition, for the condemned man had but three Sundays. But there was delay at the beginning, because neither young lord nor any of his colleagues was acquainted with the proper formula of a petition to the home secretary for the reprieve of a criminal condemned to death. No such petition had been made in the district within living memory, and at first young Lawton could not get sight or copy of any such petition anywhere, in the five towns or out of them. Of course, there must exist a proper formula, and of course that formula and no other could be employed. Nobody was bold enough to suggest that young Lawton should commence the petition to the most noble the Marquis of Wellin, KCB. May it please your lordship and end it, and your petitioners will ever pray. An insert between those phrases is a simple appeal for the reprieve, with a statement of reasons. No, the formula consecrated by tradition must be found. And after Daniel had arrived a day and a half nearer death, it was found. A lawyer at Annick had the draft of a petition which had secured for a murderer in Northumberland twenty years' penal servitude instead of sudden death, and on request he lent it to young Lawton. The prime movers in the petition felt that Daniel Povey was now as good as saved. Hundreds of forms were printed to receive signatures, and these forms, together with copies of the petition, were laid on the counters of all the principal shops, not merely in Bursley, but in the other towns. They were also to be found at the offices of the signal in railway waiting rooms and in the various reading rooms. And on the second of Daniel's three Sundays they were exposed in the porches of churches and chapels. Chapelkeepers and verges would come to Samuel and ask with the heavy inertia of their stupidity about penins and ink, sir. These officials had the air of audaciously disturbing the sacrosanct routine of centuries in order to confer a favor. Samuel continued to improve. His cough shook him less, and his appetite increased. Constance allowed him to establish himself in the drawing-room, which was next to the bedroom, and of which the grate was particularly efficient. Here, in an old winter overcoat, he directed the vast affair of the petition, which grew daily to vast proportions. Samuel dreamt of twenty thousand signatures. Each sheet held twenty signatures, and several times a day he counted the sheets. The supply of forms actually failed once, and Constance herself had to hurry to the printers to order more. Samuel was put into a passion by this carelessness of the printers. He offered Cyril sixpence for every sheet of signatures which the boy would obtain. At first Cyril was too shy to canvas, but his father made him blush, and in a few hours Cyril had developed into an eager canvasser. One whole day he stayed away from school to canvas. Altogether he earned over fifteen shillings, quite honestly, except that he got a companion to forge a couple of signatures with the dresses lacking at the end of the last sheet, generously rewarding him with sixpence, the value of the entire sheet. When Samuel had received a thousand sheets with twenty thousand signatures, he set his heart on twenty-five thousand signatures, and he also announced his firm intention of accompanying young Lawton to London with the petition. The petition had, in fact, become one of the most remarkable petitions of modern times. So the signal said, the signal gave a daily account of its progress, and its progress was astonishing. In certain streets every householder had signed it. The first sheets had been reserved to the signatures of members of parliament, ministers of religion, civic dignities, justices of the peace, etc. These sheets were nobly filled. The aged rector of Bursley signed first of all. After him the mayor of Bursley, as was right, then Sundry MPs. Samuel emerged from the drawing-room. He went into the parlor, and later into the shop, and no evil consequence followed. His cough was nearly, but not quite, cured. The weather was extraordinarily mild for the season. He repeated that he should go with the petition to London, and he went. Constance could not validly oppose the journey. She, too, was a little intoxicated by the petition. It weighed considerably over a hundred weight. The crowning signature, that of the MP for Knipe, was duly obtained in London, and Samuel's one disappointment was that his hope of twenty-five thousand signatures had fallen short of realisation, by only a few score. The few score could have been got had not time urgently pressed. He returned from London a man of mark, full of confidence, but his cough was worse again. His confidence in the power of public opinion and the inherent virtue of justice might have proved to be well placed. Had not the Home Secretary happened to be one of your humane officials. The Marquis of Wellin was celebrated through every stratum of the governing classes for his humane instincts, which were continually fighting against his sense of duty. Unfortunately, his sense of duty, which he had inherited from several centuries of ancestors, made havoc among his humane instincts on nearly every occasion of conflict. It was reported that he suffered horribly in consequence. Others also suffered, for he was never known to advise a remission of a sentence of flogging. Certain capital sentences he had commuted, but he did not commute Daniel Poviz. He could not permit himself to be influenced by a wave of popular sentiment, and assuredly not by his own nephew's signature. He gave the case the patient remorseless examination which he gave to every case. He spent a sleepless night in trying to discover a reason for yielding to his humane instincts, but without success. As Judge Lindley remarked in his confidential report, the sole arguments in favour of Daniel were provocation and his previous high character, and these were no sort of an argument. The provocation was utterly inadequate, and the previous high character was quite too ludicrously beside the point, so once more the Marquis's humane instincts were routed, and he suffered horribly. 5. On the Sunday morning, after the day on which the signal had printed the menu of Daniel Poviz's supreme breakfast, and the exact length of the drop which the executioner had administered to him, Constance and Cyril stood together at the window of the large bedroom. The boy was in his best clothes, but Constance's garments gave no sign of the Sabbath. She wore a large apron over an old dress that was rather tight for her. She was pale and looked ill. 6. Oh, mother! Cyril exclaimed suddenly, listen, I'm sure I can hear the band. She checked him with the soundless movement of her lips, and they both glanced anxiously at the silent bed. Cyril, with a gesture of apology for having forgotten that he must make no noise. The strains of the band came from Down King Street in the direction of St Luke's Church. The music appeared to linger a long time in the distance, and then it approached, growing louder, and the Bursley Town silver prize band passed under the window at the solemn pace of Handel's dead march. The effect of that requiem, heavy with its own inherent beauty, and with the vast weight of harrowing tradition, was to ring the tears from Constance's eyes. They fell on her apron bosom and she sank into a chair. And though the cheeks of the trumpeters were puffed out, and though the drummer had to protrude his stomach and arch his spine backwards, unless he should tumble over his drum, there was majesty in the passage of the band. The boom of the drum, desolating the interruptions of the melody, made sick the heart, but with a lofty grief, and the dirge seemed to be weaving a purple pole that covered every meanness. The bandsmen were not all in black, but they all wore crepe on their sleeves, and their instruments were knotted with crepe. They carried in their hats a black-edged card. Cyril held one of these cards in his hand. It ran thus, sacred to the memory of Daniel Povey, a town counsellor of this town, judicially murdered at eight o'clock in the morning, eighth of February, 1888. He was more sinned against than sinning. In the wake of the band came the aged rector, bare-headed, and wearing a surplus over his overcoat. His thin white hair was disarranged by the breeze that played in the chilly sunshine. His hands were folded on a guilt-edged book. A curate, church wardens, and sidesmen followed. And after these, tramping through the dock, mud in a procession that had apparently no end, wound the unofficial male multitude, nearly all in mourning, and all save the more aristocratic, carrying the memorial card in their hats. Lofas, women, and children, had collected on the drying pavements, and a window just opposite Constance, was ornamented with the entire family of the landlord of the Sun vaults. In the great bar of the vaults a barman was craning over the pitch-pined screen that secured privacy to drinkers. The procession continued without break, eternally rising over the verge of King Street Bank, and eternally vanishing round the corner into St Luke's Square. At intervals it was punctuated by a clergyman, a nonconformist minister, a town crier, a group of foremen, or a few vital volunteers. The watching crowd grew as the procession lengthened. Then another band was heard, also playing the march from Saul. The first band had now reached the top of the square, and was scarcely audible from King Street. The reiterated glitter in the sun of memorial cards in hats gave the fanciful illusion of an impossible whitish snake that was straggling across the town. Three-quarters of an hour elapsed before the tail of the snake came into view, and a rabble of unkempt boys closed in upon it, filling the street. "'I shall go to the drawing-room window, mother,' said Cyril. She nodded. He crept out of the bedroom. St Luke's Square was a sea of hats and memorial cards. Most of the occupiers of the square had hung out flags at half-mast, and a flag at half-mast was flying over the town hall in the distance. Sightseers were at every window. The two bands had united at the top of the square, and behind them, on a North Staffordshire railway lorry, stood the white clad rector and several black figures. The rector was speaking, but only those close to the lorry could hear his feeble, treble voice. Such was the massive protest of Bursley against what Bursley regarded as a callous injustice. The execution of Daniel Povey had most genuinely excited indignation of the town. That execution was not only an injustice, it was an insult, a humiliating snub. And the worst was that the rest of the country had really discovered no sympathetic interest in the affair. Certain London papers, indeed, in commenting casually on the execution, had slurred the morals and manners of the five towns, professing to regard the district as notoriously beyond the realm of the Ten Commandments. This had helped to render furious the townsmen. This, as much as anything, had encouraged the spontaneous outburst of feeling which had culminated in a St Luke's Square full of people with memorial cards in their hats. The demonstration had scarcely been organised. It had somehow organised itself, employing the places of worship and a few clubs as centres of gathering. And it proved an immense success. There were seven or eight thousand people in the Square. And the pity was that England as a whole could not have had a glimpse of the spectacle. Since the execution of the Elephant nothing had so profoundly agitated Bursley. Constance, who left the bedroom momentarily for the drawing-room, reflected that the death and burial of Cyril's honoured grandfather, though resounding had bent, had not caused one-tenth of the stir which she beheld. But then John Baines had killed nobody. Director spoke too long. Everyone felt that. But at length he finished. The bands performed the doxology, and the immense multitudes began to disperse by the eight streets that radiate from the Square. At the same time one o'clock struck, and the public houses opened with their customary admirable promptitude. Respectable persons, of course, ignored the public houses and hastened homewards to a delayed dinner. But in a town of over thirty thousand souls there are sufficient dregs to fill all the public houses on an occasion of ceremonial excitement. Constance saw the bar of the vaults crammed with individuals whose sense of decent fitness was imperfect. The barman and the landlord, and the principal members of the landlord's family, were hard put to it to quench that funerial thirst. Constance, as she ate a little meal in the bedroom, could not but witness the orgy, a bandsman with his silver instrument was prominent at the counter. At five minutes to three, the vaults spewed forth a squirt of roisterers who walked on the pavement as if on a tightrope. Among them was the bandsman, his silver instrument only half enveloped in its bag of green surge. He established an equilibrium in the gutter. It would not have mattered so seriously if he had not been a bandsman. The barman and the landlord pushed the ultimate sock by force into the street, and bolted the door, till six o'clock, just as a policeman strolled along. The first policeman of the day. It became known that similar scenes were enacting at the threshold of other inns, and the judicious were sad. Six. When the altercation between the policeman and the musician in the gutter was at its height, Samuel Povey became restless. But since he had scarcely stirred through the performances of the bands, it was probably not the cries of the drunkard that had aroused him. He had shown very little interest in the preliminaries of the great demonstration. The flame of his passion for the case of Daniel Povey seemed to have shot up on the day before the execution, and then to have expired. On that day he went to Stafford in order by permit of the prison governor to see his cousin for the last time. His condition then was undoubtedly not far removed from Monomania. Unhinged was the conventional expression which frequently rose in Constance's mind as a description of the mind of her husband, but she fought it down. She would not have it. It was too crude with its associations. She would only admit that the case had got on his mind. A startling proof of this was that he actually suggested taking Cyril with him to see the condemned man. He wished Cyril to see Daniel. He said gravely that he thought Cyril ought to see him. The proposal was monstrous, inexplicable, nor explicable only by the assumption that his mind, while not unhinged, had temporarily lost its balance. Constance opposed an absolute negative, and Samuel, being in every way enfeebled, she overcame. As for Cyril, he was divided between fear and curiosity. On the whole, perhaps, Cyril regretted that he would not be able to say at school that he had had speech with the most celebrated killer of the age on the day before his execution. Samuel returned hysterical from Stafford. His account of the scene, which he gave in a very loud voice, was a most absurd and yet pathetic recycle, obviously distorted by memory. When he came to the point of the entrance of Dick Povey, who was still at the hospital, and who had been specially driven to Stafford and carried into the prison, he wept without restraint. His hysteria was painful in a very high degree. He went to bed, of his own accord, for his cough had improved again. And on the following day, the day of the execution, he remained in bed till the afternoon. In the evening the rector sent for him to the rectory to discuss the proposed demonstration. On the next day, Saturday, he said he should not get up. Icy showers were sweeping the town, and his cough was worse after the evening visit to the rector. Constance had no apprehensions about him. The most dangerous part of the winter was over, and there was nothing now to force him into indiscretions. She said to herself calmly that he should stay in bed as long as he liked, that he could not have too much repose after the cruel fatigues, physical and spiritual which he had suffered. His cough was short, but not as troublesome as in the past. His face flushed, dusky, and settled in gloom. And he was slightly feverish, with a quick pulse and quick breathing, the symptoms were renewed cold. He passed a wakeful night, broken by brief dreams in which he talked. At dawn he had some hot food, asked what day it was, frowned, and seemed to doze off at once. At eleven o'clock he had refused food, and he had intermittently dozed during the progress of the demonstration and its orgiastic sequel. Constance had food ready for his waking, and she approached the bed and lent over him. The fever had increased somewhat. The breathing was more rapid, and his lips were covered with tiny purple pimples. He feebly shook his head with a disgusted air at her mention of food. It was this obstinate refusal of food which first alarmed her. A little uncomfortable suspicion shot up in her. Surely there was nothing matter with him. Something impossible to say what caused her to bend still lower and put her ear to his chest. She heard within that mysterious box a rapid succession of thin, dry, crackling sounds, sounds such as she would have produced by rubbing her hair between her fingers close to her ear. The crepitations ceased, then recommenced, and she perceived that it coincided with the intake of his breath. He coughed. The sounds were intensified. A spasm of pain ran over his face, and he put his damp hand to his side. My pain in my side! he whispered with difficulty. Constance stepped into the drawing-room where Cyril was sketching by the fire. Cyril, she said, go across and ask Dr. Harrop to come round at once, and if he isn't in, then his new partner. Is it for Father? Yes. What's the matter? Now do as I say, please," said Constance sharply, adding, I don't know what's the matter. Perhaps nothing, but I'm not satisfied. The venerable Harrop pronounced the word pneumonia. It was a cute double pneumonia that Samuel had got. During the three worst months of the year he had escaped the fatal perils which await a man with a flat chest and a chronic cough who ignores his condition and defies the weather, but a journey of five hundred yards to the rectory had been one journey too many. The rectory was so close to the shop that he had not trouble to wrap himself up, as for an excursion to Stafford. He survived the crisis of the disease, and then died of toxemia, caused by a heart that would not do its duty by the blood. A casual death scarce noticed in the reaction after the great febrile demonstration. Besides, Samuel Povey never could impose himself on the burgesses. He lacked individuality. He was little. I have often laughed at Samuel Povey, but I liked and respected him. He was a very honest man. I have always been glad to think that, at the end of his life, destiny took hold of him, and displayed, to the observant, the vein of greatness which ran through every soul without exception. He embraced the cause, lost it, and died of it. Chapter 6 The Widow Constance, alone in the parlour, stood expectant by the set tea-table. She was not wearing weeds. Her mother and she, on the death of her father, had talked of the various disadvantages of weeds. Her mother had worn them unwillingly, and only because a public opinion not sufficiently advanced had intimidated her. Constance had said, If ever I am a widow, I won't wear them, positively, and a tone of youth. And Mrs. Baines had replied, I hope you won't, my dear. That was over twenty years ago. But Constance perfectly remembered. And now she was a widow. How strange, and how impressive was life! And she had kept her word. Not positively, not without hesitations. For though times were changed, Bursley was still Bursley. But she had kept it. This was the first Monday after Samuel's funeral. Existence in the house had been resumed on the plane which would henceforth be the normal plane. Constance had put on for tea a dress of black silk with a jet brooch of her mother's. Her hands, just meticulously washed, had that feeling of being dirty, which comes from roughening of the epidermis caused by a day spent in fingering stuffs. She had been going through Samuel's things, and her own, and ranging all anew. It was astonishing how little the man had collected of things in the course of over half a century. All his clothes were contained in two long drawers and a short one. He had the least possible quantity of haberdashery and linen, for he invariably took from the sharp such articles as he required, when he required them, and he would never preserve what was done with. He possessed no jewellery, save a set of gold studs, a scarf ring, and a wedding ring. The wedding ring was buried with him. Once, when Constance had offered her father's gold watch and chain, he had politely refused it, saying that he preferred his own, a silver watch, with a black cord, which kept excellent time. He had said later that he might save the gold watch and chain for Cyril when he was twenty-one. Beyond these trifles and a half empty box of cigars and a pair of spectacles, he left nothing personal to himself. Some men leave behind them a litter which takes months to sift and distribute, but Samuel had not the mania for owning. Constance put his clothes in a box to be given away gradually, all except an overcoat and handkerchiefs, which might do for Cyril. She locked up the watch and its black cord, the spectacles and the scarf ring. She gave the gold studs to Cyril. She climbed on a chair and hid the cigar box on top of her wardrobe, and scarce a trace of Samuel remained. By his own wish, the funeral had been as simple and private as possible. One or two distant relations, whom Constance scarcely knew, and who would probably not visit her again until she, too, was dead, came and went, and lo, the affair was over. The simple celerity of the funeral would have satisfied even Samuel, whose tremendous self-esteem hid itself so effectually behind such externals that nobody had ever fully perceived it. Not even Constance quite knew Samuel's secret opinion of Samuel. Constance was aware that he had a ridiculous side, that his greatest lack had been a lack of spectacular dignity. Even in the coffin, where nevertheless most people are finally effective, he had not been imposing, with his finicky little grey beard persistently sticking up. The vision of him in his coffin, there in the churchyard, just at the end of King Street, with the lids screwed down on that unimportant beard, recurred frequently in the mind of the widow, as something untrue and misleading. She had to say to herself, yes, he is really there. And that is why I have this particular feeling in my heart. She saw him as an object, pathetic and wistful, not majestic, and yet she genuinely thought that there could not exist another husband. Quite so honest, quite so just, quite so reliable, quite so good as Samuel had been. What a conscience he had, how he would try and try to be fair with her. Twenty years she could remember of ceaseless, constant endeavour on his part to behave rightly to her. She could recall many an occasion when he had obviously checked himself, striving against his tendency to cold abruptness and to sullenness, in order to give her the respect due to a wife. What loyalty was his? How she could depend on him? How much better he was than herself, she thought, with modesty? His death was an amputation for her. But she faced it with calmness. She was not bowed with sorrow. She did not nurse the idea that her life was at an end. On the contrary, she obstinately put it away from her, dwelling on Cyril. She did not indulge in the innovating voluptuousness of grief. She had begun, in the first hours of bereavement, by picturing herself as one marked out for the blows of fate. She had lost her father and her mother and now her husband. Her career seemed to be punctuated by interments. But after a while her gentle common sense came to insist that most human beings lose their parents, and that every marriage must end in either a widow or a widow, and that all careers are punctuated by interments. Had she not had nearly twenty-one years of happy married life? Twenty-one years rolled up. The sudden thought of their naive ignorance of life, hers and his, when they had first married, brought tears into her eyes. How wise and experienced she was now! And had she not Cyril? Compared to many women she was indeed very fortunate. The one visitation which had been specially hers was the disappearance of Sophia. And yet even that was not worse than the death outright of Sophia, was perhaps not so bad, for so far might return out of the darkness. The blow of Sophia's flight had seemed unique when it was fresh, and long afterwards had seemed to separate the Bain's family from all other families in a particular shame. But at the age of forty-three Constance had learnt that such events are not uncommon in families, and strange sequels to them not unknown. Thinking often of Sophia, she hoped wildly and frequently. She looked at the clock. She had a little spasm of nervousness, lest Cyril might fail to keep his word on that first day of their new regular life together. And at the instant he burst into the room, invading it like an armed force, having previously laid waste the shop in his passage. I'm not late, mother. I'm not late. He cried proudly. She smiled warmly, happy in him, drawing out of him balm and solace. He did not know that in that stout, familiar body before him was a sensitive, trembling soul that clutched at him ecstatically as the one reality in the universe. He did not know that that evening meal, partaken of, without hurry, after school had released him to her, was to be the ceremonial sign of their intimate unity and their interdependence, the tender and delicious proof that they were all in all to each other. He saw only his tea, for which he was hungry, just as hungry as though his father were not scarcely yet cold in the grave. But he saw obscurely that the occasion demanded something not quite ordinary, and so exerted himself to be boyishly charming to his mother. She said to herself how good he was. He felt at ease and confident in the future, because he detected, beneath her customary judicial impartial mask, a clear desire to spoil him. After tea, she regretfully left him at his home lessons in order to go into the shop. The shop was the great unsolved question. What was she to do with the shop? Was she to continue the business or to sell it? With the fortunes of her father and her aunt and the economies of twenty years, she had more than sufficient means. She was indeed rich according to the standards of the square. No, wealthy! Therefore she was under no material compulsion to keep the shop. Moreover, to keep it would mean personal superintendence and the burden of responsibility from which her calm, lethargy shrank. On the other hand, to dispose of the business would mean the breaking of ties and leaving the premises, and from this she also shrank. Young Lawton, without being asked, had advised her to sell. But she did not want to sell. She wanted the impossible. That matters should proceed in the future as in the past. But Samuel's death should change nothing, save in her heart. In the meantime, Miss Insull was priceless. Constance thoroughly understood one side of the shop. But Miss Insull understood both, and the finance of it also. Miss Insull could have directed the establishment with credit, if not with brilliance. She was indeed directing it at that moment. Constance, however, felt jealous of Miss Insull. She was conscious of a slight antipathy towards the faithful one. She did not care to be in the hands of Miss Insull. There were one or two customers at the millinery counter. They greeted her with a deplorable copiousness of tact. Most tactfully they avoided any reference to Constance's loss. But by their tone, their glances at Constance and at each other, and their heroically restrained size, they spread desolation as though they had been spreading ashes instead of butter on bread. The assistants, too, had a special demeanour for the poor lone widow which was excessively trying to her. She wished to be natural, and she would have succeeded had they not all of them apparently conspired together to make her task impossible. She moved away to the other side of the shop, to Samuel's desk, at which he used to stand, staring absently out of the little window into King Street, while murmurously casting figures. She lighted the gas-jet there, arranged the light exactly to suit her, and then lifted the large flap of the desk and drew forth some account books. Miss Insull, she called, in a low, clear voice, with a touch of haughtiness and a touch of command in it. The pose, a comical contradiction of Constance's benevolent character, was deliberately adopted. It illustrated the effects of jealousy on even the softest disposition. Miss Insull responded. She had no alternative but to respond, and she gave no sign of resenting her employer's attitude. But then Miss Insull seldom did give any sign of being human. The customers departed, one after another, obsequiously sped by the assistants, who thereupon lowered the gases somewhat, according to secular rule, and in the dim eclips, as they restored boxes to shelves, they could hear the tranquil, regular, half-whispered conversation of the two women at the desk, discussing accounts, and then the chink of gold. Suddenly there was an eruption. One of the assistants sprang instinctively to the gas, but on perceiving that the disturb of the piece was only a slathenly girl, atlas, and imperfectly clean, she decided to leave the gas as it was, and put on a condescending, suspicious demeanour. "'If you please, can I speak to the Mrs?' said the girl, breathlessly. She seemed to be about eighteen years of age, fat and plain. Her blue frock was torn, and over it she wore a rough brown apron, caught up at one corner to the waist. Her bare forearms were a brick red colour. "'What is it?' demanded the assistant. Miss Insull looked over her shoulder at the shop. "'It must be Maggie's, Mrs. Hollins' daughter,' said Miss Insull under her breath. "'What can she want?' said Constance, leaving the desk instantly, and to the girl who stood sturdily holding her own against the group of assistants. "'You are Mrs. Hollins' daughter, aren't you?' "'Yes, ma'am.' "'What's your name?' "'Maggie, ma'am. "'And if you please, might have sent me to ask if you'll kindly give her a funeral card?' "'A funeral card?' "'Yes, of Mr. Povey. She's been expecting one, and she thought as how perhaps you'd forgotten it, especially as she wasn't a hux to the funeral.' The girl stopped. Constance perceived that by mere negligence she had seriously wounded the feelings of Maggie's senior. The truth was she had never thought of Maggie. She ought to have remembered that funeral cards were almost the sole ornamentation of Maggie's abominable cottage. "'Certainly,' she replied, after a pause. "'Miss Insult, there are a few cards left in the desk, aren't there? Please put me one in an envelope for Mrs. Hollins.' She gave the heavily bordered envelope to the ruddy wench, who unfolded it in her apron, and with her age shy thanks ran off. "'Tell your mother I send her a card with pleasure,' Constance called after the girl. The strangeness of the hazards of life made her thoughtful. She, to whom Maggie had always seemed an old woman, was a widow. But Maggie's husband survived as a lusty invalid, and she guessed that Maggie, vilely struggling in squalor and poverty, was somehow happy in her frowsy, careless way. She went back to the accounts, dreaming. Two. When the shop had been closed under her own critical and precise superintendent's, she extinguished the last gas in it and returned to the parlour, wondering where she might discover some entirely reliable man or boy to deal with the shutters night and morning. Samuel had ordinarily dealt with the shutters himself, and on extraordinary occasions, and during holidays, Miss Insult and one of her subordinates had struggled with their unwieldiness. But the extraordinary occasion had now become ordinary, and Miss Insult could not be expected to continue indefinitely in the functions of a male. Constance had a mind to engage an errand boy, a luxury against which Samuel had always set his face. She did not dream of asking the Herculean Cyril to open and shut shop. He had apparently finished his home lessons. The books were bushed aside, and he was sketching in lead pencil on a drawing-block. To the right of the fireplace, over the sofa, there hung an engraving after Landseer, showing a lonely stag paddling into a lake. The stag at Eve had drunk or was about to drink his fill, and Cyril was copying him. He had already indicated a flight of birds in the middle distance. Vague birds on the wing being easier than detailed stags, he had begun with the birds. Constance put a hand on his shoulder. Finished your lessons? she murmured, caressingly. Before speaking, Cyril gazed up at the picture with a frowning, busy expression, and then replied in an absent-minded voice, yes, and after a pause, except by arithmetic, I shall do that in the morning before breakfast. Oh, Cyril! she protested. It had been a positive ordinance for a long time past, that there should be no sketching until lessons were done. In his father's lifetime, Cyril had never dared to break it. He bent over his block, feigning an intense absorption. Constance's hand slipped from his shoulder. She wanted to command him formally to resume his lessons, but she could not. She feared an argument. She mistrusted herself, and moreover, it was so soon after his father's death. You know you won't have time to-morrow morning, she said, weekly. Oh, mother! he retorted superiorly. Don't worry! and in, in a conjoling tone, had wanted to do that stag for ages. She sighed and sat down in her rocking-chair. He went on sketching, rubbing out, and making queer expostulatory noises against his pencil, or against the difficulties needlessly invented by Sir Edwin Lancer. The ones he rose and changed the position of the gas-bracket, staring fiercely at the engraving, as though it had committed a sin. Amy came to lay the supper. He did not acknowledge that she existed. Now, Master Cyril, after you with that table, if you please. She announced herself, brustly, with the privilege of an old servant and a woman who would never see thirty again. Ah, what a nuisance you are, Amy! he gruffly answered. Look here, mother, can't Amy lay the cloth on that half of the table? I'm right in the middle of my drawing. There's plenty of room there for two. He seemed not to be aware that in the phrase plenty of room for two he had made a callous reference to their loss. The fact was there was plenty of room for two. Constance said quickly, Very well, Amy, for this once. Amy grunted, but obeyed. Constance had to summon him twice from art to nourishment. He ate with rapidity, frequently regarding the picture, with half-shut, searching eyes. When he had finished, he refilled his glass with water and put it next to his sketching-block. You surely aren't thinking of beginning to paint at this time of night? Constance exclaimed, astonished. Oh, yes, mother, he fretfully appealed. It's not late. Another positive ordinance of his fathers had been that there should be nothing after supper except bed. Nine o'clock was the latest permissible moment for going to bed. It was now less than a quarter to. It only wants twelve minutes of nine. Constance pointed out. Well, what if it does? Now, Cyril, she said, I do hope you're going to be a good boy and not cause your mother anxiety. But she said it too kindly. He said sullenly. I do think you might let me finish it. I've begun it. It won't take me long. She made the mistake of leaving the main point. How can you possibly choose your colors properly by gaslight? She said. I'm going to do it in sepia. He replied in triumph. It mustn't occur again, she said. He thanked God for a good supper and sprang to the harmonium, where his paint box was. Amy cleared away. Constance did crochet work. There was silence. The clock struck nine. And it also struck half past nine. She warned him repeatedly. At ten minutes to ten, she said, persuasive me, Now, Cyril, when the clock strikes ten, I shall really put the gas out. The clock struck ten. Half a mow, half a mow, he cried. I've done, I've done. Her hand was arrested. Another four minutes elapsed. And then he jumped up. There you are! He said proudly, showing her the block. And all his gestures were full of grace and cajolery. Yes, it's very good, Constance said, rather indifferently. I don't believe you care for it, he accused her, but with a bright smile. I care for your health, she said. Just look at that clock! He sat down in the other rocking chair deliberately. Now, Cyril! Well, mother, I suppose you'll let me take my boots off. He said it with teasing good humour. When he kissed her good night, she wanted to cling to him, so affectionate was his kiss. But she could not throw off the habits of restraint which she had been originally taught, and had all her life practised. She keenly regretted the inability. In her bedroom, alone, she listened to his movements as he undressed. The door between the two rooms was unlatched. She had to control her desire to open it ever so little and peep at him. He would not have liked that. He could have enriched her heart beyond all hope, and at no cost to himself. But he did not know his power. As she could not cling to him with her hands, she clung to him with that heart of hers, while moving sedately up and down the room alone. And her eyes saw him through the solid wood of the door. At last she got heavily into bed. She thought, with placid anxiety in the dark, I shall have to be firm with Cyril. And she thought also, simultaneously, he really must be a good boy. He must! And clung to him passionately, without shame. Lying alone there, in the dark, she could be as unrestrained and girlish as her heart chose. When she loosed her hold, she instantly saw the boy's father arranged in his coffin, or flitting about the room. Then she would hug that vision, too, for the pleasure of the pain it gave her. Three. She was reassured as to Cyril during the next few days. He did not attempt to repeat his ingenious naughtiness of the Monday evening, and he came home directly for tea. Moreover, he had, as a kind of miracle, performed to dazzle her, actually arisen early on the Tuesday morning, and done his arithmetic. To express her satisfaction, she had manufactured a specially elaborate straw frame for the sketch after Sir Edwin Lansear, and had hung it in her bedroom, an honour which Cyril appreciated. She was as happy as a woman, suffering from a recent amputation can be, and compared with the long nightmare created by Samuel's monomania and illness, her existence seemed to be now a beneficent calm. Cyril, she thought, had realised the importance in her eyes of tea, of that evening hour, and that companionship, which were for her the flowering of the day. And she had such confidence in his goodness that she would pour the boiling water on the Horniman tea-leaves even before he arrived, certainly could not be more sure. And then on the Friday of the first week he was late. He bounded in after dark, and the state of his clothes indicated too clearly that he had been playing football in the mud that was a grassy field in summer. Have you been kept in, my boy? She asked for the sake of form. No, mother, he said casually, we were just kicking a ball about a bit. Am I late? Better go and tidy yourself, she said, not replying to his question. You can't sit down in that state. And I'll have some fresh tea made. This is spoilt. Oh, very well! Her sacred tea, the institution which she wanted to hallow by long habit, and which was to count before everything for both of them, had been carelessly sacrificed to the kicking of a football in mud, and his father buried not ten days. She was wounded, a deep, clean, dangerous wound that would not bleed. She tried to be glad that he had not lied. He might easily have lied, saying that he had been detained for a fault and could not help being late. No, he was not given to lying. He would lie like any human being when a great occasion demanded such prudence. But he was not a liar. He might fairly be called a truthful boy. She tried to be glad, and did not succeed. She would have preferred him to have lied. Amy, grumbling, had to boil more water. When he returned to the parlour, superficially cleaned, Constance expected him to apologise in his roundabout boyish way, at any rate to woo and weedle her, to show by some gesture that he was conscious of having put an affront on her. But his attitude was quite otherwise. His attitude was rather brusque and overbearing and noisy. He ate a very considerable amount of jam, far too quickly, and then asked for more, in a tone of a monarch who calls for his own. An air-tea was finished, he said boldly, apropos of nothing. I say, mother, you'll just have to let me go to the School of Art after Easter, and stared at her with a fixed challenge in his eyes. He meant, by the School of Art, the evening classes at the School of Art. His father had decided absolutely against the project. His father had said that it was in to fair with his lessons, would keep him up too late at night, and involve absence from home in the evening. The last had always been the real objection. His father had not been able to believe that Cyril's desire to study art sprang purely from his love of art. He could not avoid suspecting that it was a plan to obtain freedom in the evenings—that freedom which Samuel had invariably forbidden. In all Cyril's suggestions, Samuel had been ready to detect the same scheme lurking. He had finally said that when Cyril left school and took to a vocation, then he could study art at night if he chose, but not before. You know what father said, Constance replied. But, mother, that's all very well, I'm sure father would have agreed. If I'm going to take up drawing, I ought to do it at once. That's what the drawing master says, and I suppose he ought to know. He finished on a tone of insolence. I can't allow you to do it yet, said Constance quietly. It's quite out of the question—quite. He pouted, and then he sulked. It was war between them. At times he was the image of his aunt Sophia. He would not leave the subject alone, but he would not listen to Constance's reasoning. He openly accused her of harshness. He asked her how she could expect him to get on if she thwarted him in his most earnest desires. He pointed to other boys whose parents were wiser. It's all very fine of you to put it on father, he observed sarcastically. He gave up his drawing entirely. When she hinted that if he attended the School of Art, she would be condemned to solitary evenings, he looked at her as though saying, Well, and if you are, he seemed to have no heart. After several weeks of intense unhappiness, she said, How many evenings do you want to go? The war was over. He was charming again. When she was alone she could cling to him again. And she said to herself, If we can be happy together only when I give way to him, I must give way to him. And there was ecstasy in her yielding. After all, she said to herself, Perhaps it's very important that he should go to the School of Art. She solaced herself with such thoughts on three solitary evenings a week, waiting for him to come home.