 Volume 4 Chapter 5 of Clay Hanger by Arnold Bennett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5 The Bully. The next morning he was up early, preternaturally awake. When he descended the waiters were waiting for him, and the zealous porter stood ready to offer him a Sunday paper, just as though in the night they had refreshed themselves magically without going to bed. No sign nor relic of the Cinderella remained. He breakfasted in an absent mind, and then went idly into the lounge, a room with one immense circular window giving on the square. Rain was falling heavily. Already from the porter and in the very mien of the waiters, he had learned that the brightened Sunday was ruined. He left the window. On a round table in the middle of the room were ranged with religious regularity all the most esoteric examples of periodical literature in our language, from the iron trades review to the animals' guardian. With one careless movement he destroyed the balanced perfection of a labour into which some menial had put his soul, and then dropped into a gigantic easy chair near the fire whose thin flames were just rising through the intersties of great black lumps of coal. The housekeeper, stiff with embroidered silk, swam majestically into the lounge, bowed with a certain frigid and deferential surprise to the early guest, and proceeded to an inquiry into dust. In a moment she called sharp and low, Arthur, and a page ran eagerly in, to whom in the difficult corners of upholstery and of sculpted wood she pointed out his sins of omission, lashing him with a restrained voice that Edwin could scarcely hear. Passing her hand carelessly along the beading of a door-panel, and then examining her fingers, she departed, the page fetched to Duster. I see why this hotel has such a name, said Edwin to himself, and suddenly the image of Hilda in that dark and frowsy tenement in Preston Street on that wet Sunday morning filled his heart with a revolt capricious and violent. He sprang to his feet unreflecting, strode into the hall. Can I have a cab? he asked the porter. Certainly so, said the porter, as if saying, you ask me too little, why will you not ask for a white elephant so that I may prove my devotion? And within five seconds the screech of a whistle sped through the air to the cab-stand at the corner. Part 2 Why am I doing this? he once more asked himself when he heard the bell ring in answer to his pull within the house in Preston Street. The desire for a tranquil life had always been one of his strongest instincts, and of late years the instinct had been satisfied and so strengthened. Now he seemed to be obstinately searching for tumult, and he did not know why. He trembled at the sound of movement behind the door. In a moment he thought I shall be right in the thick of it. As he was expecting she opened the door herself, but only a little, with the gesture habitual to women who live alone in apprehension, and she kept her hand on the latch. Good morning, he said curtly, can I speak to you? His eye could not blaze like hers, but all his self-respect depended on his valour now, and with desperation he affronted her. She opened the door wider and he stepped in, and at once began to wipe his boots on the mat with nervous particularity. Frightful morning, he grinned. Yes, she said, is that your cab outside? He admitted that it was. Perhaps if we go upstairs she suggested. Thinking her he followed her upwards into the gloom at the head of the narrow stairs, and then along a narrow passage. The house appeared quite as unfavourably by day as by night. It was shabby. All its tints had merged by use and by time into one tint, nondescript and unpleasant, in which yellow prospered. The drawing-room was larger than the dining-room by the poor width of the hall. It was a heaped, confused mass of chairs, sofas, small tables, draperies, embroideries, and valueless knick-knacks. There was no peace in it for the eye, neither on the walls nor on the floor. The gaze was driven from one ugliness to another without rest. The fireplace was draped, the door was draped, the back of the piano was draped, and none of the dark suspicious stuff showed a clear pattern. The faded chairs were hidden by faded anti-maccasors. The little futile tables concealed their rickets under vague needlework, on which were displayed in straw or tinsel frames, pale portraits of dowdy people who had stood like sheep before fifteenth-rate photographers. The mantelpiece and the top of the piano were thickly strewn with fragments of coloured earthenware. At the windows hung heavy dark curtains from great rings that gleamed guilt near the ceiling. Unless the light which they admitted should be too powerful it was further screened by grayish-white curtains within them. The carpet was covered in most places by small rugs or bits of other carpets, and in the deep shadows beneath sofas and chairs, and behind the piano it seemed to slip altogether out of existence into black nothingness. The room lacked ventilation, but had the appearance of having been recently dusted. Part III Hilda closed the draped door with a mysterious, bitter, cynical smile. "'Sit down,' she said coldly. "'Last night, Edwin, began without sitting down when you mentioned the broker's man. Were you joking, or did you mean it?' She was taken aback. "'Did I say broker's man?' "'Well,' said Edwin, "'you've not forgotten, I suppose.' She sat down with some precision of prose on the principal sofa. "'Yes,' she said at length. "'As you're so curious, the landlords are in possession.' "'The bailiff's still here?' "'Yes.' "'But what are you going to do?' "'I'm expecting them to take the furniture away tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest,' she replied. "'And then what?' "'I don't know.' "'But haven't you got any money?' She took a purse from her pocket and opened it with a show of impartial curiosity. "'Two and seven,' she said. "'Any servant in the house?' "'What do you think?' she replied. "'Didn't you see me cleaning the door plate last night?' "'I do like that to look nice at any rate. "'I don't see much use in that looking nice when you've got the bailiffs in and no servant and no money,' Edwin said roughly, and added still more roughly. "'What should you do if anyone came inquiring for rooms?' He tried to guess her real mood, but her features would betray nothing. "'I was expecting three old ladies, sisters, next week,' she said. "'I'd been hoping I could hold out till they came. "'They're horrid women, though they don't know it. But they've stayed a couple of months in this house every winter, for I don't know how many years, and they're firmly convinced it's the best house in Brighton. "'They're quite enough to keep it going by themselves when they're here, but I shall have to write and tell them not to come this time.' "'Yes,' said Edwin, but I keep asking you, what then? And I keep saying, I don't know. You must have some plans.' "'I haven't,' she put her lips together and dimpled her chin, and again cynically smiled. At any rate, she had not resented his inquisition. "'I suppose you know you're behaving like a perfect fool,' he suggested angrily. She did not wince. "'And what if I am? What's that got to do with you?' she asked, as if pleasantly puzzled. "'You'll starve. You can't live forever on two and seven. Well, and the boy is he going to starve?' "'Oh,' said Hilda, Janet will look after him till something turns up. The fact is, that's one reason why I allowed her to take him. Something turns up? Something turns up?' Edwin repeated deliberately, letting himself go. "'You make me absolutely sick. It's absolutely incredible how some people will let things slide. What in the name of God Almighty do you think will turn up?' "'I don't know,' she said, with a certain weakness, still trying to be placidly bitter, but not now succeeding. Where is the bailiff, Johnny? He's in the kitchen with one of his friends, drinking.' Edwin, with bravado, flopped his hat down forcefully on a table, pushed a chair aside and strode towards the door. "'Where are you going?' she asked in alarm, standing up. "'Where do you suppose I'm going? I'm going to find out from that chap how much will settle it. If you can't show any common sense for yourself, other folks must show some for you. That's all.' I never heard of such work. And indeed to a respected and successful tradesman the entrance of the bailiffs into a house did really seem to be the very depth of disaster and shame for the people of that house. Edwin could not remember that he had ever before seen a bailiff. To him a bailiff was like a bug. Something heard of, something known to exist, but something not likely to enter the field of vision of an honest and circumspect man. He would deal with the bailiff, he would have a short way with the bailiff, secure in the confidence of his bankers he was ready to bully the innocent bailiff. He would not reflect, would not pause. He had heated himself, his steam was up and he would not let the pressure be weakened by argumentative hesitations. His emotion was not disagreeable. When he was in the passage he heard the sound of a sob. Prudently he had not banged the door after him. He stopped and listened. Was it a sob? Then he heard another sob. He went back to the drawing-room. Part 4 Yes, she stood in the middle of the room weeping. Save Clara, and possibly once or twice Maggie, he had never seen a woman cry. That is, in circumstances of intimacy. He had seen women crying in the street and the spectacle usually pained him. On occasion he had very nearly made Maggie cry and had felt exceedingly uncomfortable. But now, as he looked at the wet eyes and the shaken bosom of Hilda Cannon, he was aware of acute joy. Exquisite moment, damn her! He could have taken her and beaten her in his sudden passion. A passion not of revenge, not of punishment. He could have made her scream with pain that his love would inflict. She tried to speak and failed in a storm of sobs. He had left the door open. Half-blind with tears she dashed to the door and shot it and then turned and fronted him with her hands hovering near her face. I can't let you do it, she murmured imploringly, plaintively, and yet with that still obstinate bitterness in her broken voice. Then who is to do what he demanded, less bitterly than she had spoken, nevertheless not softly? Who is to keep you if I don't? Have you got any other friends who'll stand by you? I've got the augrees, she answered. And do you think it would be better for the augrees to keep you or for me? As she made no response he continued, anybody else beside the augrees? No, she muttered sulkily, I'm not the sort of woman that makes a lot of friends. I expect people don't like me as a rule. You're the sort of woman that behaves like a blooming infant, he said. Supposing I don't help you, what then I keep asking you? How shall you get money? You can only borrow it and there's nobody but Janet and she'd have to ask her father for it. Of course if you'd sooner borrow it from Osman Orgreave than from me. I don't want to borrow it from anyone, she protested. Then you want a starve and you want your boy to starve or else to live on charity. Why don't you look facts in the face? You'll have to look them in the face sooner or later and the sooner the better. You think you're doing a fine thing by sitting tight and bearing it and saying nothing and keeping it all a secret until you get pitched into the street? Let me tell you, you aren't. She dropped into a chair by the piano and rested her elbows on the curved lid of the piano. You're frightfully cruel, she sobbed, hiding her face. He fidgeted away to the larger of the two windows which was bathed, so that the room could boast a view of the sea. On the floor he noticed an open book pages downwards. He picked it up. It was the poems of Cresshaw, an author he had never read but had always been intending to read. Outside the driver of his cab was bunching up his head and shoulders together under a large umbrella upon which the rain spattered. The flanks of the resigned horse glistened with rain. You needn't talk about cruelty, he remarked staring hard at the signboard of an optician opposite. He could hear the faint clanging of the church bells. After a pause she said as if apologetically, Keeping a boarding house isn't my line, but what could I do? My sister-in-law had it and I was with her. And when she died, besides I dare say I can keep a boarding house as well as plenty of other people, but well it's no use going into that. Edwin abruptly sat down near her. Come now, he said less harshly, more persuasively. How much do you owe? Oh! she cried powering and shifting her feet. It's out of the question. They've restrained for seventy-five pounds. I don't care if they're restrained for seven hundred and seventy-five pounds. She seemed just like a girl to him again now in spite of her face and her figure. If that was cleared off you could carry on, couldn't you? This is just the season. Would you get a servant in in time for these three sisters? I could get a charwoman anyhow, she said unwillingly. Well, do you owe anything else? They'll be the expenses of the distraint? Yes, that's nothing. I shall lend you a hundred pounds. It just happens that I've got fifty pounds on me in notes. That and a cheque will settle the bailiff person, and the rest of the hundred I'll send you by post. It'll be a bit of work in capital. She rose and threaded between chairs and tables to the sofa, several feet from Edwin. With a vanquished and weary size she threw herself onto the sofa. I never knew there was anybody like you in the world she breathed, flicking away some fluff from her breast. She seemed to be regarding him not as a benefactor, but as a natural curiosity. He looked at her like a conqueror. He had taught her a thing or two. He had been a man. He was proud of himself. He was proud of all sorts of details in his conduct. The fifty pounds in notes, for example, was not an accident. Since the death of his father he had formed the habit of never leaving his base of supplies without a provision far in excess of what he was likely to need. He was extravagant in nothing, but the humiliations of his penurious youth and early manhood had implanted in him a morbid fear of being short of money. He had fantastically surmised circumstances in which he might need a considerable sum at Brighton, and lo the sequel had transformed his morbidity into prudence. This time yesterday he reflected in his triumph I hadn't even seen her, and didn't know where she was. Last night I was a fool. Half an hour ago she herself hadn't a notion that I was going to get the upper hand of her. Why, it isn't two days yet since I left home, and look where I am now. With pity and with joy he watched her slowly wiping her eyes. Thirty-four perhaps yet a child compared to him. But if she did not give a natural ingenuous smile of relief it was because she could not. If she acted foolishly it was because of her tremendous haughtiness. However he had lowered that. He had shown her her master. He felt that she had been profoundly wronged by destiny, and that gentleness must be lavished upon her. In a casual tone he began to talk about the most rapid means of getting rid of the bailiff. He could not tolerate the incubus of the bailiff a moment longer than was absolutely unavoidable. At intervals a misgiving shot like a thin flying needle through the solid satisfaction of his sensations. She's a strange and incalculable woman. Why am I doing this? Shot and was gone almost before perceived. Volume 6 The Rondevue In the afternoon the weather cleared somewhat. Edwin vaguely blissful but with nothing to occupy him save reflection sat in the lounge drinking tea at a moorish table. An old Jew who was likewise drinking tea at a moorish table had engaged him in conversation and was relating the history of a burglary in which he had lived for a long time. An old Jew who was likewise drinking tea at a moorish table had engaged him in conversation and was relating the history of a burglary in which he had lost from his flat in Bolton Street, Piccadilly, nineteen gold-cigarette cases and thirty-seven jewelled scarf pins. Tokens of esteem and regard offered to him by friends and colleagues at various crises of his life. The lounge was crowded but not with tea-drinkers. Despite the horrid dismalness of the morning, hope had sent down from London trains full of people whose determination was to live and to see life in a grandiose manner. And all about the lounge of the royal Sussex were groups of elegant youngish men and flaxen uneasily stylish women inviting the assistance of flattered waiters to decide what liqueurs they should have next. Edwin was humanly trying to publish in nonchalant gestures the scorn which he really felt for these nincompoots but whose free expression was hindered by a layer of envy. The whole porter appeared and his eye ranged like a condor's over the field until it discovered Edwin, whom he approached with a mien of joy, and handed to him a letter. Edwin took the letter with an air of custom as if he was anxious to convince the company that his stay at the royal Sussex was frequently punctuated by the arrival of special missives. Who brought this, he asked? An oldish man, sir, said the porter, and bowed and departed. The handwriting was hers. Probably the broker's man had offered to bring the letter. In the short colloquy with him in the morning Edwin had liked the slattenly coarse fellow. The bailiff could not unauthorized accept checks but his tone in suggesting an immediate visit to his employers had shown that he had bowels and that he sympathized with the difficulties of careless tenants in a harsh world of landlords. It was Hilda who furnished with notes and check had gone in Edwin's cab to placate the higher powers. She had preferred to go herself and to go alone. Edwin had not insisted. He had so mastered her that he could afford to yield to her in trifles. Part II The letter said exactly this. Everything is all right and settled. I had no trouble at all, but I should like to speak to you this afternoon. Will you meet me on the west pier at six, H.C. No form of greeting, no thanks, the bare words necessary to convey a wish. On leaving her in the morning no arrangement had been made for a further interview. She had said nothing and he had been too proud to ask. The terrible pride of the benefactor. It was only by a chance that it had even occurred to him to say, by the way I'm staying at the Royal Sussex. She had shown no curiosity whatever about him, his doings, his movements. She had not put to him a single question. He had intended to call at Preston Street on the Monday morning and now a letter from her. Her handwriting had scarcely changed. He was to meet her on the pier. At her own request he now had a rendezvous with her on the pier. Why not at her house? Perhaps she was afraid of his power over her in the house. Curious how she and she almost alone roused the masculine force in him. Perhaps she wanted to thank him in surroundings which would compel both of them to be calm. That would be like her. Very modest, restrained, and did she not know how to be meek, she who was so headstrong and independent? He looked at the clock, the hour was not yet five. Nevertheless he felt obliged to go out to bestow himself. On the misty crowded darkening promenade he abandoned himself afresh to indulgence in the souvenance of the great critical scene of the morning. Yes he had done marvels and fate was astoundingly kind to him also. But there was one aspect of the affair that intrigued and puzzled him and weakened his self-satisfaction. She had been defeated yet he was baffled by her. She was a mystery within folds of mysteries. He was no nearer he secretly felt to the essential her than he had been before the short struggle and his spectacular triumph. He wanted to reconstruct in his fancy all her emotional existence. He wanted to get at her to possess her intimate mind, and lo he could not even recall the expressions of her face from minute to minute during the battle. She hid herself from him, she eluded him, strange creature, the polishing of the door plate in the night, that volume of crassure on the floor, her cold almost demonic smile, her sobs, her sudden retreats. What was at the back of it all? He remembered her divine gesture over the fond's shushions. He remembered the ecstatic quality of her surrender in the shop. He remembered her first love-letter. Every bit of me is absolutely yours. And yet the ground seemed to be unsure beneath his feet, and he wondered whether he had ever in reality known her, ever grasped firmly the secret of her personality, even for an instant. He said to himself that he would be seeing her face to face in an hour, and that then he would, by the ardour of his gaze, get behind those enigmatic features to the arcana they concealed. Before six o'clock it was quite dark. He thought it a strange notion to fix a rendezvous at such an hour on a day in autumn in the open air. But perhaps she was very busy doing servants' work in the preparation of her house for visitors. When he reached the peer-gates at five minutes to six they were closed, and the obscure vista of the peer as deserted as some northern peer in midwinter. Naturally it was closed. There was a notice prominently displayed that the peer would close that evening at dusk. What did she mean? The truth was he decided that she lived in the clouds, ordering her existence by means of sudden and capricious decisions in which facts were neglected, and herein probably lay the explanation of her misfortunes. He was very philosophical, rather amused than disturbed, because her house was scarcely a stone's throw away. She could not escape him. He glanced up and down the lighted promenade and across the broad muddy road towards the opening of Preston Street. The crowds had disappeared, only scattered groups and couples, and now and then a solitary passed quickly in the gloom. The hotels were brilliant, and carriages with their flitting lamps were continually stopping in front of them. But the blackness of the shopfronts produced the sensation of melancholy proper to the day even in Brighton, and the renewed sound of church bells intensified this arid melancholy. Suddenly he saw her coming not across the road from Preston Street, but from the direction of Hove. He saw her before she saw him. Under the multiplicity of lamps her face was white and clear. He had a chance to read in it, but he could read nothing in it save her sadness, save that she had suffered. She seemed querulous, preoccupied, worried, and afflicted. She had the look of one who is never free from apprehension. Yet for him that look of hers had a quality unique, a quality that he had never found in another but which he was completely unable to define. He wanted acutely to explain to himself what it was, and he could not. You are frightfully cruel, she had said, and he admitted that he had been. Yes, he had bullied her. Her, who he was convinced had always been the victim. In spite of her vigorous individuality she was destined to be a victim. He was sure that she had never deserved anything but sympathy and respect and affection. He was sure that she was the very incarnation of honesty. Possibly she was too honest for the actual world. Did not the all-greaves worship her? And could he himself have been deceived in his estimate of her character? She recognized him only when she was close upon him. A faint, transient, wistful smile lightened her brooding face, pale and stern. Part 4 Oh, there you are, she exclaimed in her clear voice. Did I say six or five in my note? Six. I was afraid I had done when I came here at five and did not find you. I am so sorry. No, he said, I think I ought to be sorry. It is you who have had the writing to do. The pier is closed now. It was just closing at five, she answered. I ought to have known, but I did not. The fact is I scarcely ever go out. I remembered once seeing the pier open at night, and I thought it was always open. She shrugged her shoulders as if stopping a shiver. I hope you haven't caught cold, he said. Suppose we walk along a bit. They walked westward in silence. He felt as though he were by the side of a stranger. So far was he from having pierced the secret of that face. As they approached one of the new-glazed shelters, she said, Can't we sit down a moment? I can't talk standing up. I must sit down. They sat down, in an enclosed seat designed to hold four, and Edwin could feel the wind on his calves, which stretched beyond the screen side of the structure. Old people passed dimly to and fro in front of them, glanced at them with nonchalant curiosity and glanced away. On the previous evening he had observed couples in those shelters, and had wondered what could be the circumstances or the preferences which led them to accept such a situation. Certainly he could not have dreamed that within twenty-four hours he would be sitting in one of them, with her, by her appointment, at her request. He thrilled with excitement, with delicious anxieties. Janet told you I was a widow, Hilda began, gazing at the feral of her umbrella which gleamed on the ground. Yes, again she was surprising him. Well, we arrange, she should tell everyone that, but I think you ought to know that I'm not. No, he murmured weakly, and in one small, unimportant region of his mind he reflected with astonishment upon the hesitating, but convincing air with which Janet had lied to him. Janet! After what you've done she paused, and went on with unblurred clearness. After what you've insisted on doing I don't want there to be any misunderstanding. I'm not a widow, my husband's in prison. He'll be in prison for another six or seven years. That's all I wanted to tell you. I'm very sorry, he breathed. I had no idea you'd had this trouble. What could he say? What could anybody have said? I ought to have told you at once, she said. I ought to have told you last night. Another pause. Then perhaps you wouldn't have come again this morning. Yes, I should, he asserted eagerly, if you're in a hole, you're in a hole. What difference could it possibly make whether you're a widow or not? Oh, she said the wife of a convict, you know. He felt that she was evading the point. She went on. It's a good thing my three old ladies don't know anyhow. I'd no chance to tell you this morning you were too much for me. I don't care whose wife you are, he muttered as though to himself, as though resenting something said by someone who had gone away and left him. If you're in a hole, you're in a hole. She turned and looked at him, his eyes fell before hers. Well, she said, I've told you. I must go, I haven't a moment. Good night. She held out her hand. You don't want me to thank you a lot, do you? That I don't, he exclaimed. Good night. But I really must go. He rose and gave his hand the next instant she was gone. There was a deafening roar in his head. It was the complete destruction by earthquake of a city of dreams, a calamity which left nothing, even to be desired. A tremendous silence reigned after the event. Part 5 On the following evening, when from the windows of the London to Manchester express, he saw in the gloom the high leaping flames of the blast furnaces that seemed to guard eternally the southern frontier of the five towns, he felt that he had returned into daily reality out of an impossible world. Waiting for the loop-line train in the familiar tedium of K'nai platform, staring at the bookstore every item on which he knew by heart and despised, surrounded once more by local physiognomies, gestures and accent he thought to himself. This is my lot, and if I get messing about it only shows what a damn fool I am. He called himself a damn fool because Hilda had proved to have a husband. Because of that he condemned the whole expedition to Brighton as a piece of idiocy. His dejection was profound and bitter. At first after Hilda had quitted him on the Sunday night, he had tried to be cheerful, had persuaded himself indeed that he was cheerful, but gradually his spirit had sunk, beaten and miserable. He had not called at Preston Street again, pride forbade, and the terror of being misunderstood. And when he sat at his own table in his own dining-room, and watched the calm and curious Maggie dispensing to him his elaborate tea supper, with slightly more fuss and more devotion than usual, his thoughts had they been somewhat less vague, might have been summed up thus. The right sort of women don't get landed as the wives of convicts. Can you imagine such a thing happening to Maggie, for instance, or Janet? And yet Janet was in the secret. This disturbed the flow of his reflections. Hilda was too mysterious. Now she had half disclosed yet another mystery. But what? Why was her husband a convict? Under what circumstances, for what crime? Where? Since when? He knew the answer to none of these questions. More deeply than ever was that woman embedded in enigmas. What's this parcel on the sideboard, Maggie, inquired? Oh, I want you to send it in to Janet. It's from her particular friend, Mrs. Cannon, something for the kid, I believe. I ran across her in Brighton, and she asked me if I'd bring the parcel along. The innocence of his manner was perfectly acted. He wondered that he could do it so well. But really there was no danger. Nobody in Bursley, or in the world, had the least suspicion of his past relations with Hilda. The only conceivable danger would have been in hiding the fact that he had met her in Brighton. Of course, said Maggie mildly interested. I was forgetting she lived at Brighton. Well, and she put a few casual questions to which Edwin casually replied. He looked tired, she said later. He astonished her by admitting that he was. According to all precedent her statement ought to have drawn forth a quick contradiction. The sad image of Hilda could not be dismissed. He had to carry it about with him everywhere, and it was heavy enough to fatigue a stronger than Edwin Clayhanger. The pathos of her situation overwhelmed him, argue as he might about the immunity of the right sort of women from a certain sort of disaster. On the Tuesday he sent her a post of his order for twenty pounds. It was rather more than made up the agreed sum of a hundred pounds. She returned at saying she did not need it. Little fool, he said, he was not surprised. He was, however, very much surprised a few weeks later to receive from Hilda her own check for eighty pounds odd. More mystery, an absolutely incredible woman. Wentz had she obtained that eighty pounds. Needless to say she offered no explanation. He abandoned all conjecture, but he could not abandon the image. And first Auntie Hamp said, and then Clara, and then even Maggie admitted that Edwin was sticking too close to business, and needed a change, needed rousing. Auntie Hamp's urged openly that a wife ought to be found for him. But in a few days the great talkers of the family Auntie Hamp's and Clara had grown accustomed to Edwin's state, and some new topics supervened. is in the public domain. Chapter 7 The Wall One morning towards the end of November Edwin attended by Maggie was rearranging books in the drawing-room after breakfast, when there came a startling loud tap at the large central pane of the window. Both of them jumped. Who's throwing, Edwin exclaimed? I expected that boy, said Maggie almost angrily. Not Georgie. Yes, I wish they'd go and stop him, you've no idea what a tiresome little thing he is, and so rough too. This attitude of Maggie towards the mysterious nephew was a surprise for Edwin. She had never grumbled about him before. In fact they had seen little of him. Even for a fortnight he had not been abroad, and the rumour ran that he was unwell, that he was not so strong as he ought to be. And now Maggie suddenly charged him with a whole series of misdoings. But it was Maggie's way to keep unpleasant things from Edwin for a time in order to save her important brother from being worried, and then in a moment of tension to fling them full in his face like a wet clout. What's he been up to, Edwin inquired for details? Oh, I don't know, answered Maggie vaguely. At the same instant came another startling blow on the window. There, Maggie cried in triumph as if saying, That's what he's been up to. After all, the windows were Maggie's own windows. Edwin left on the sofa a whole pile of books that he was sorting, and went out into the garden. On the top of the wall separating him from the Orgreaves, a row of damaged earthenware objects, jugs, and jars chiefly, at once caught his eye. He witnessed the smashing of one of them, and then he ran to the wall, and taking a spring rested on it with his arms, his toes pushed into crevices. Young George, with hand outstretched to throw in the garden of the Orgreaves, seemed rather diverted by this apparition. Hello, said Edwin, what are you up to? I'm practicing breaking crocs, said the child, that he had acquired the local word gave Edwin pleasure. Yes, but do you know you're practicing breaking my windows, too? When you aim too high you simply can't miss one of my windows. George's face was troubled as he examined the facts, which had hitherto escaped his attention, that there was a whole world of consequences on the other side of the wall, and that a missile which did not prove its existence against either the wall or a croc, had not necessarily seized to exist. Edwin watched the face with a new joy, as though looking at some wonder of nature under a microscope. It seemed to him that he now saw vividly why children were interesting. I can't see any windows from here, said George in defence. If you climb up here you'll see them all right. Yes, but I can't climb up, I've tried to a lot of times. Even when I stood on my toes on this stump I could only just reach to put the crocs on the top. What did you want to get on the wall for? I wanted to see that swing of yours. Well, said Edwin, laughing, if you could remember the swing why couldn't you remember the windows? George shook his head at Edwin's stupidity and looked at the ground. A swing isn't windows, he said, then he glanced up with a different smile. I've often been wanting to come and see you. Edwin was tremendously flattered. If he had made a conquest the child by this frank admission had made a greater. Then why didn't you come? I couldn't by myself. Besides, my back hasn't been well. Did they tell you? George was so naturally serious that Edwin decided to be serious, too. I did hear something about it, he replied, the grave, confidential tone that he would have used to a man of his own age. This treatment was evidently appreciated by George and always afterwards Edwin conversed with him as with an equal for bearing from facetiousness. Damped, though it was, Edwin twisted himself round and sat on the wall next to the crocs and bent over the boy beneath who gazed with upturned face. Why didn't you ask Auntie Janet to bring you? I don't generally ask for things that I really want, said the boy with a peculiar glance. I see, said Edwin, with an air of comprehension. He did not, however, comprehend. He only felt that the boy was wonderful. Imagine the boy saying that. He bent lower. Come on up, he said. I'll give you a hand. Stick your feet into that nick there. Part 2 In an instant George was standing on the wall light as fluff. Edwin held him by the legs and his hand was on Edwin's cap. The feel of the boy was delightful. He was so lithe and so yielding and yet firm. And his glance was so trustful and admiring. Rough thought Edwin remembering Maggie's adjective. He isn't a bit rough. Unruly? Well, I daresay he can be unruly if he cares to be. It all depends how you handle him. Thus Edwin reflected in the pride of conquest, holding close to the boy and savoring intimately his charm. Even the boy's slightness attracted him. Difficult to believe that he was nine years old. His body was indeed backward. So too it appeared was his education. And yet was there not the wisdom of centuries in? I don't generally ask for things that I really want. Suddenly the boy wriggled and gave a sound of joy that was almost a yell. Look, he cried. The covered top of the steam car could just be seen gliding along above the high wall that separated Edwin's garden from the street. Yes, Edwin agreed. Funny, isn't it? But he considered that such glee at such a trifle was really more characteristic of six or seven than of nine years. George's face was transformed by ecstasy. It's when things move like that, horizontal, George explained, pronouncing the word carefully. Edwin felt that there was no end to the surpassing strangeness of this boy. One moment he was age six, and the next he was talking about horizontality. Why, what do you mean? I don't know, George's side, but somehow. Then with fresh vivacity, I tell you, when Janet comes to wake me up in the morning, the cat comes in too, with its tail up in the air, you know, Edwin nodded. Well, when I'm lying in bed I can't see the cat, but I can see the top of its tail sailing along the edge of the bed. But if I sit up I can see all the cat and that spoils it, so I don't sit up at first. The child was eager for Edwin to understand his pleasure in horizontal motion that had no apparent cause, like the tip of a cat's tail on the horizon of a bed, or the roof of a tram car on the horizon of the wall. And Edwin was eager to understand, and almost persuaded himself that he did understand, but he could not be sure. A marvellous child, disconcerting, he had a feeling of inferiority to the child because the child had seen beauty where he had not dreamed of seeing it. Want a swing, he suggested, before I have to go off to business? Part three. When it occurred to him that he had had as much violent physical exercise as was good for his years, and that he had left his books in disarray, and that his business demanded him, Edwin apologetically announced that he must depart, and the child admitted that Aunt Janet was probably waiting to give him his lessons. Are you going back the way you came? You'd better, it's always best, said Edwin. Is it? Yes. He lifted and pushed the writhing form onto the wall, dislodging a jar which crashed dully on the ground. Aunt Janet told me I could have them to do what I liked with, so I break them, said George, when they don't break themselves. I bet she never told you to put them on these walls, said Edwin. No, she didn't, but it was the best place for aiming, and she told me it didn't matter how many crocs I broke because they make crocs here. Do they really? Yes. Why? Because there's clay here, said Edwin glibly. Where? Oh, roundabout. White, like that, exclaimed George Eagley, handling a teapot without a spout. He looked at Edwin. Will you take me to see it? I should like to see white ground. Well, said Edwin more cautiously, the clay they get about here isn't exactly white. Then do they make it white? As a matter of fact the white clay comes from a long way off, Cornwall, for instance. Then why do they make the things here, George, persisted with the annoying obstinacy of his years? He had turned the teapot upside down. This was made here, it's got burrsly on it. Aunt Janet showed me. Edwin was caught. He saw himself punished for that intellectual sloth that leads adults to fob children off with any kind of a slipshod dishonestly simplified explanation of phenomena whose adequate explanation presents difficulty. He remembered how nearly twenty years earlier he had puzzled over the same question and for a long time had not found the answer. I'll tell you how it is, he said, determined to be conscientious. It's like this, he had to pause. Queer how hard it was to state the thing coherently. It's like this. In the old days they used to make crocs anyhow, very rough out of any old clay, and crocs were first made here because the people found common yellow clay and the coal to burn it with lying close together in the ground. You see how handy it was for them? Then the old crocs were yellow, more or less. Then people got more particular, you see, and when white clay was found somewhere else they had it brought here because everybody was used to making crocs here, and they had all the works and the tools they wanted, and the coal too. Very important, the coal. Much easier to bring the clay to the people and the works than cut off all the people and their families, don't forget, and so on to the clay, and build fresh works into the bargain. That's why. Now are you sure you see? George ignored the question. I suppose they used up all the yellow clay there was here, long ago. Not much, said Edwin, and they never will. You don't know what a saga it is, I reckon. What is a saga? Well, I can't stop to tell you all that now, but I will sometime. They make sagas out of the yellow clay. Will you show me the yellow clay? Yes, and some sagas too. When? I don't know, as soon as I can. Will you tomorrow? Tomorrow happened to be Thursday. It was not Edwin's free afternoon, but it was an afternoon to which a sort of license attached. He yielded to the ruthless egotism of the child. All right, he said. You won't forget. You can rely on me. Ask your auntie if you may go, and if she says you may, be ready for me to pull you up over the wall here about three o'clock. Auntie will have to let me go, said George in a savage tone, as Edwin helped him to slip down into the garden of the Orgreaves. Edwin went off to business with a singular consciousness of virtue, and with pride in his successful manner of taming wayward children, and with a very strong new interest in the immediate future. CHAPTER VIII. THE FRIENDSHIP The next afternoon George's invincible energy took both himself and the great bearded man Edwin to a certain spot on the hollow confines of the town towards Turn Hill, where there were several pits of mile and clay. They stared in silence at a vast ochre-coloured glistening cavity in the ground, on the high edges of which grew tufts of grass amid shards and broken bottles. In the bottom of the pit were laid planks, and along the planks men with pieces of string tied tight round their legs beneath the knees, drew large burrows full or empty, sometimes insecurely over pools of yellow water into which the planks sagged under their weight, and sometimes over little hillocks and through little defiles formed in the basin of the mine. They seemed to have no aim. The whole cavity had a sticky look, which at first amused George, but on the whole he was not interested, and Edwin gathered that the clay pit in some mysterious way fell short of expectations. A mineral line of railway which nearby ambled at random like a pioneer of a rough country was much more successful than the pit in winning his approval. Can we go and see the saggers now, he suggested? Edwin might have taken him to the manufactory in which Albert Benbow was a partner, but he preferred not to display to the father of Clara's offspring his avuncular patronage of George Cannon, and he chose the works of a customer down at Shoreport for whom he was printing a somewhat ambitious catalogue. He would call at the works and talk about the catalogue, and then incidentally mention that his young friend desired to see saggers. I suppose God put that clay there so that people could practice on it first before they tried the white clay George observed, as the pair descended Old Castle Street. Decidedly he had moments of talking like an infant, like a baby of three. Edwin recalled that Hilda used to torture herself about questions of belief, when she was not three, but twenty-three. The scene in the garden porch seemed to have happened after all not very long ago. Yet a new generation unconceived on that exciting and unforgettable night had since been born and had passed through infancy and was now trotting and arguing and dogmatising by his side. It was strange, but it was certainly a fact, that George regarded him as a being immeasurably old. He still felt a boy. How ought he to talk to the child concerning God? He was about to make a conventional response when he stopped himself. Confounded, why should I, he thought? If I were you, I shouldn't worry about God, he said aloud, in a casual and perhaps slightly ironic tone. Oh, I don't, George answered positively. But now and then he comes into your head, doesn't he? I was only just thinking. The boy seized, being attracted by the marvellous spectacle of a man perilously balanced on a crate-float, driving a long-tailed pony full-tilt down the steep slope of Old Castle Street. It was equal to a circus. Part II The visit to the works was a particularly brilliant success. By good fortune an oven was just being drawn, and the child had sight of the finest, the most barbaric picture that the manufacture of earthenware, from end-to-end picturesque, offers to the imaginative observer. Within the dark and sinister bowels of the kiln, illuminated by pale rays that came down through the upper orifice from the smoke-soiled sky, half-naked figures moved like ghosts, strenuous and damned, among the saggers of wear. At rapid intervals they emerged their hairy torso's glistening with sweat, carrying the fired wear which was still too hot for any but enured fingers to touch. An endless procession of plates and sauces and cups and mugs and jugs and basins, thousands and thousands, George stared in an enchanted silence of awe. And presently one of the Hercules picked him up and held him for a moment within the portal of the torrid kiln, and he gazed at the high-curved walls like the walls of a gigantic tomb, and at the yellow saggers that held the wear. Now he knew what a saga was. "'I'm glad you took me,' he said afterwards, clearly impressed by the authority of Edwin, who could stroll out and see such terrific goings on whenever he chose. During all the walk home he did not speak. On the Saturday, nominally in charge of his Auntie Janet, he called upon his chum with some water-colour drawings that he had done. They showed naked devils carrying cups and plates amid bright, salmon-tinted flames, designs horrible and horribly crude, interesting only because a child had done them. But somehow Edwin was obscurely impressed by them, and also he was touched by the coincidence that George painted in water-colours, and he too had once painted in water-colours. He was, moreover, expected to judge the drawings as an expert. On Monday he brought up the most complicated box of water-colours that his shop contained, and presented it to George, who, astounded, dazed, bore it away to his bedroom without a single word. Their friendship was sealed and published. It became a fact recognized by the two families. Part III About a week later, after a visit of a couple of days to Manchester, Edwin went out into the garden as usual when breakfast was finished, and discovered George standing on the wall. The boy had learned how to climb the wall from his own side of it without help. I say, George cried in a loud, rough, angry voice as soon as he saw Edwin at the garden door. I've got to go off in a minute, you know. Go off where? Home. Didn't they tell you in your house? Auntie Janet and I came to your house yesterday after I'd waited on the wall for you, I don't know how long, and you never came. We came to tell you, but you weren't in, so we asked Miss Clayhanger to tell you. Didn't Miss Clayhanger tell you? No, said Edwin, she must have forgot. It occurred to him that even the simple and placid Maggie had her personal prejudices, and that one of them might be against this child. For some reason she did not like the child. She positively could not have forgotten the child's visit with Janet. She had merely not troubled to tell him. A touch of that malice, which, though it be as rare as radium, nevertheless exists even in the most benignant natures. Edwin and George exchanged a silent, puzzled glance. Well, that's a nice thing, said the boy. It was. When are you going home? I'm going now. Mr. Orgreave has to go to London today, and Mama wrote to Auntie Janet yesterday to say that I must go with him if he'd let me, and she would meet me at London. She wants me back. So Auntie Janet is taking me to Knype to meet Mr. Orgreave there. He's gone to his office first, and the gardener has taken my luggage in the barrel up to Bleak Ridge Station. Auntie's putting her hat on. Can't you see I've got my other clothes on? Yes, said Edwin, I noticed that. And my other hat? Yes. I've promised Auntie I'll come and put my overcoat on as soon as she calls me. I say you wouldn't believe how jammed my trunk is with that paint box and everything. Auntie Janet had to sit on it like anything. I say shall you be coming to Brighton soon? Edwin shook his head. I never go to Brighton. But when I asked you once if you'd been, you said you had. So I have, but that was an accident. Was it long since? Well, said Edwin, you ought to know, it was when I brought that parcel for you. Oh, of course. Edwin was saying to himself, she's sent for him on purpose. She's heard that we're great friends and she's sent for him. She means to stop it, that's what it is. He had no rational basis for this assumption, it was instinctive. And yet why should she desire to interfere with the course of the friendship? How could it react unpleasantly on her? There obviously did not exist between mother and son one of those passionate attachments, which misfortune and sorrow sometimes engender. She had been able to let him go. And as for George he seldom mentioned his mother. He seldom mentioned anybody who was not actually present or necessary to the fulfilment of the idea that happened to be reigning in his heart. He lived a life of absorption hypnotised by the idea of the moment. These ideas succeeded each other like a dynasty of kings, like a series of dynasties, marked by frequent dynastic quarrels by depositions and sudden deaths. But George's loyalty was the same to all of them, it was absolute. Well, anyhow, said he, I shall come back here, mother will have to let me. And he jumped down from the wall into Edwin's garden carelessly, his hands in his pockets with a familiar ease of gesture that implied practice. He had in fact often done it before, but just this time perhaps he was troubled by the unaccustomed clothes, having lighted on his feet he failed to maintain his balance, and staggered back against the wall. Now clumsy Edwin commented, the boy turned pale and bit his lip, and then Edwin could see the tears in his eyes. One of his peculiarities was that he had no shame, whatever, about crying. He could not or would not suffer stoically. Now he put his hands to his back and writhed. Hurt yourself, Edwin asked? George nodded. He was very white and startled. At first he could not command himself sufficiently to be able to articulate. Then he spluttered. My back! He subsided gradually into a sitting posture. Edwin ran to him and picked him up, but he screamed until he was set down. At the open drawing-room window Maggie was arranging curtains. Edwin reluctantly left George for an instant and hurried to the window. I say, Maggie, bring a chair or something out, will you? This dash-kid's fallen and hurt himself. I'm not surprised, said Maggie calmly. What surprises me is that you should ever have given him permission to scramble over the wall and trample all about the flower beds the way he does. However she moved it once to a bay. He returned to George. Then Janet's voice was heard from the other garden calling him. George! Georgey! Nearly time to go! Edwin put his head over the wall. He's fallen and hurt his back, he answered to Janet, without any prelude. His back, she repeated in a frightened tone. Everybody was afraid of that mysterious back, and George himself was most afraid of it. I'll get over the wall, said Janet. Edwin quitted the wall. Maggie was coming out of the house with a large cane, easy chair and a large cushion, but George was now standing up, though still crying. His beautiful best sailor hat lay on the winter ground. Now, said Maggie to him, you mustn't be a baby. He glared at her resentfully. She would have dropped down dead on the spot of his wet and angry glance could have killed her. She was a powerful woman. She seized him carefully and set him in the chair and supported the famous spine with the cushion. I don't think he's much hurt, she decided. He couldn't make that noise, if he was, and see how his colour's coming back. In another case Edwin would have agreed with her, for the tendency of both was to minimise an ill and to exaggerate the philosophical attitude in the first moments of any occurrence that looked serious. But now he honestly thought that her judgment was being influenced by her prejudice, and he felt savage against her. The worst was that it was all his fault. Maggie was odiously right. He ought never to have encouraged the child to be acrobatic on the wall. It was he who had even put the idea of the wall as a means of access into the child's head. Does it hurt, he inquired, bending down his hands on his knees? Yes, said George, seizing to cry. Much, asked Maggie, dusting the sailor hat and sticking it on his head? No, not much, George unwillingly admitted. Maggie could not at any rate say that he did not speak the truth. Janet, having obtained steps, stood on the wall in her elaborate street array. Who's going to help me down? she demanded anxiously. She was not so young and sprightly as once she had been. Edwin obeyed the call. Then the three of them stood round the victim's chair, and the victim, like a god, permitted himself to be contemplated. And Janet had to hear Edwin's account of the accident, and also Maggie's account of it, as seen from the window. I don't know what to do, said Janet. It is annoying, isn't it? said Maggie, and just as you were going to the station, too. I think I'm all right, George announced. Janet passed a hand down his back as though expecting to be able to judge the condition of his spine through the thickness of all his clothes. Are you, she questioned doubtfully. It's nothing, said Maggie, with firmness. He'd be all right in the train, said Janet. It's the walking to the station that I'm afraid of. You never know. I can carry him, said Edwin, quickly. Of course you can't, Maggie contradicted. And even if you could, you jog him far worse than if he walked himself. There's no time to get a cab now, said Janet, looking at a watch, if we aren't a conniped father will wonder what on earth happened. And I don't know what his mother would say. Where's that old pram, Edwin demanded suddenly, of Maggie? What, Clara's? It's in the outhouse. I can run him up to the station in two gifs, in that. Oh yes, do, said George, you must, then lift me into the carriage. The notion was accepted. I hope it's the best thing to do, said Janet, apprehensive and doubtful as she hurried off to the other house, in order to get the boys overcoat and meet Edwin and the perambulator at the gates. I'm certain it is, said Maggie calmly. There's nothing really the matter with the child. Well, it's very good of Edwin, I'm sure, said Janet. Edwin had already rushed for the perambulator, an ancient vehicle which was sometimes used in the garden for infant benbows. In a few moments Trafalgar Rode had the spectacle of the bearded and eminent master-printer Edwin Clayhanger, steaming up its muddy pavement behind the perambulator with a grown boy therein, and dozens of persons who had not till then distinguished the boy from other boys, inquired about his identity, and gossip was aroused. Maggie was displeased. In obedience to the command Edwin lifted George into the train, and the feel of his little slippery body and the feel of Edwin's mighty arms seemed to make them more intimate than ever. Except for dirty tear marks on his cheeks, George's appearance was absolutely normal. Edwin expected to receive a letter from him, but none came, and this negligence wounded Edwin. End of Chapter 8, Volume 4 Volume 4, Chapter 9 of Clayhanger by Arnold Bennett This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9 The Arrival On a Saturday in the early days of the following year, 1892, Edwin, by special request, had gone in to take afternoon tea with the Orgreaves. Osman Orgreave was just convalescent after an attack of influenza, and in the opinion of Janet wanted cheering up. The task of enlivening him had been laid upon Edwin. The guest and Janet and her father and mother sat together in a group, round the fire in the drawing-room. The drawing-room alone had grown younger with years. Money had been spent on it rather freely. During the previous decade Osman's family, scattering, had become very much less costly to him, but his habits of industry had not changed, nor his faculty for collecting money. Hence the needs of the drawing-room, which had been pressing for quite twenty years, had at last been satisfied. Indeed Osman was saving through mere lack of that energetic interest in things which is necessary to spending. Possibly even the drawing-room would have remained untouched, both Janet and her elder sister Marion sentimentally preferred it as it was. Had not Mrs. Orgreave been positively ashamed of it when her married children, including Marion, came to see her. They were all married now, except Janet and Charlie and Johnny, and Alicia at any rate had a finer drawing-room than her mother. So far as the parents were concerned Charlie might as well have been married, for he had acquired a partnership in a practice at Ealing and seldom visited home. Johnny too might as well have been married, since Jimmy's wedding he had used the house strictly as a hotel, for sleeping and eating and not always for sleeping. He could not be retained at home. His interests were mysterious and lay outside it. Janet alone was faithful to the changed drawing-room, with its new carpets and wallpapers and upholstery. I've got more grandchildren than children now, said Mrs. Orgreave to Edwin, and I never thought to have. Have you really, Edwin, responded? Let me see. I've got nine. Ten mother, Janet corrected. She's forgetting her own grandchildren now. Bless me, exclaimed Mrs. Orgreave, taking off her eyeglasses and wiping them. I'd miss Tom's youngest. You'd better not tell Emily that, said Janet. Emily was the mother of Tom's children. Here, give me those eyeglasses, dear. You'll never get them right with a linen handkerchief. Where's your bit of chamois? Mrs. Orgreave absently and in somewhat stiff silence handed over the pond's knee. She was now quite an old woman, small, shapeless, and delightfully easygoing whose sense of humour had not developed with age. She could never see a joke which turned upon her relations with her grandchildren, and in fact the jocular members of the family had almost seized to employ this subject of humour. She was undoubtedly rather foolish about her grandchildren. Fond, as they say down there. The parents of the grandchildren did not object to this foolishness, that is, they only pretended to object. The task of preventing a pardonable weakness from degenerating into a tedious and mischievous mania fell solely upon Janet. Janet was ready to admit that the health of the grandchildren was a matter which could fairly be left to their fathers and mothers. And she stood passive when Mrs. Orgreave's grandmotherly indulgences seemed inimical to their health. But Mrs. Orgreave was apt to endanger her own health in her devotion to the profession of grandmother, for example, by sitting up to un-Christian hours with a needle. Then there would be a struggle of wills in which, of course, Mrs. Orgreave being the weaker was defeated. Though her beliefs survived that she and she alone, by watchfulness, advice, sagacity, and energy, kept her children's children out of the grave. On all other questions the harmony between Janet and her mother was complete, and Mrs. Orgreave undoubtedly considered that no mother had ever had a daughter who combined so many virtues and charms. Part II Mr. Orgreave, forgetful of the company, was deciphering the British medical journal in the twilight of the afternoon. His doctor had lent him this esoteric periodical, because there was an article therein on influenza, and Mr. Orgreave was very much interested in influenza. You remember the influenza of 89, Edwin, he asked suddenly, looking over the top of the paper? Do I, said Edwin? Yes, I fancy I do remember a sort of epidemic. I should think so indeed, Janet murmured. Well, continued Mr. Orgreave, I'm like you. I thought it was an epidemic, but now it seems it wasn't. It was a pandemic. What's a pandemic now? Give it up, said Edwin. You might just look in the dictionary, Ogilvy there. And while Edwin ferreted in the bookcase, Mr. Orgreave preceded reading. The pandemic of 1889 has been followed by epidemics, and by endemic prevalence in some areas. So you see how many demics there are? I suppose they'd call it an epidemic we've got in the town now. His voice had changed on the last sentence. He had meant to be a little facetious about the Greek words, but it was the slowly prepared and rather exasperating facetiousness of an aging man, and he had dropped it listlessly, as though he himself had perceived this. Influenza had weakened and depressed him. He looked worn and even outworn. But not influenza alone was responsible for his appearance. The incredible had happened. Osmond Orgreave was getting older. His bald head was not the worst sign of his declension, nor the thickened veins in his hands, nor the deliberation of his gestures, nor even the unsprightliness of his wit. The worst sign was that he was losing his terrific zest in life. His palette for the intense savor of it was dulled. In this last attack of influenza he had not fought against the onset of the disease. He had been wise, he had obeyed his doctor, and laid down his arms at once, and he showed no imprudent anxiety to resume them. Yes, a changed Osmond. He was still one of the most industrious professional men in Bursley, but he worked from habit, not from passion. When Edwin had found pandemic in Ogilvy, Mr. Orgreave wanted to see the dictionary for himself, and then he wanted the Greek dictionary, which could not be discovered, and then he began to quote further from the British medical journal. It may be said that there are three well-marked types of the disease, attacking respectively the respiratory, the digestive, and the nervous system. Well, I should say I've had them all three. As a rule the attack, thus he went on, Janet made a moor at Edwin who returned the signal. These youngsters were united in good nature for bearing condescension towards Mr. Orgreave. The excellent old fellow was prone to be tedious. They would accept his tediousness, but they would not disguise from each other their perception of it. I hear the vicar of St. Peter's is very ill indeed, said Mrs. Orgreave, blandly interrupting her husband. What, heave with influenza? Yes, I wouldn't tell you before, because I thought it might pull you down again. Mr. Orgreave in silence stared at the immense fire. What about this tea, Janet? He demanded. Janet rang the bell. Oh, I'd have done that, said Edwin, as soon as she had done it. Part three. While Janet was pouring out the tea, Edwin restored Ogilvy to his place in the bookshelf, feeling that he had had enough of Ogilvy. Not so many books here now as there used to be, he said, vacuously amiable as he shut the glass door which had once protected the treasures of Tom Orgreave. For a man who had been specially summoned to the task of cheering up, it was not a felicitous remark. In the first place it recalled the days when the house, which was now a hushed retreat, where settled and precise habits sheltered themselves from a changing world, had been an arena for the jolly, exciting combats of outspread individualities. And in the second place it recalled a slight difficulty between Tom and his father. Osmond Orgreave was a most reasonable father, but no father is perfect in reasonableness. And Osmond had quite inexcusably resented that Tom on his marriage should take away all Tom's precious books. Osmond's attitude had been that Tom might in decency have left, at any rate, some of the books. It was not that Osmond had a taste for book collecting, it was merely that he did not care to see his house depleted and bookcases empty. But Tom had shown no compassion. He had removed not merely every scrap of a book belonging to himself, but also to bookcases which he happened to have paid for. The weight of public opinion was decidedly against Mr. Orgreave, who had to yield and effect pleasantness. Nevertheless, books had become a topic which was avoided between father and son. Ah! muttered Orgreave satirical in response to Edwin's clumsiness. Suppose we have another gas-light, had Janet suggested. The servant had already lighted several burners and drawn the blinds and curtains. Edwin comprehended that he had been a blundering fool, and that Janet's object was to create a diversion. He lit the extra burner above her head. She sat there rather straight and rather prim between her parents, sticking to them, smooth increases for them, bearing their weight, living for them. She was the kindliest, the most dignified, the most capable creature. But she was now an old maid. You saw it even in the way she poured tea, and dropped pieces of sugar into the cups. Her youth was gone. Her complexion was nearly gone. And though, in one aspect, she seemed indispensable, in another the chief characteristic of her existence seemed to be a tragic futility. Whenever she came seriously into Edwin's thoughts, she saddened him. Useless for him to attempt to be gay and frivolous in that house. Part 4 With the inevitable passionate egotism of his humanity, he almost at once withdrew his aroused pity from her to himself. Look at himself! Was he not also to be sympathised with? What was the object or the use of his being alive? He worked, saved, improved his mind, voted right, practised philosophy, and was generally benevolent. But to what end? Was not his existence miserable and his career a respectable fiasco? He too had lost zest. He had diligently studied both Marcus Aurelius and Epictatus. He was enthusiastic to others about the merit of these two expert daily philosophers. But what had they done for him? Assuredly, they had not enabled him to keep one treasure of this world's zest. The year was scarcely a week old, and he was still young enough to have begun the year with resolutions, and fresh hopes and aspirations. But already the new year's sensation had left him, and the year might have been dying in his heart. And yet what could he have done that he had not done? With what could he reproach himself? Aughty too have continued to run after a married woman. Aughty too have set himself titanically against the conventions amid which he lived and devoted himself either to secret intrigue or to the outraging of the susceptibilities which environed him? There was only one answer. He could not have acted otherwise than he had acted. His was not the temperament of a rebel, nor was he the slave of his desires. He could sympathize with rebels and with slaves, but he could not join them. He regarded himself as spiritually their superior. And then the disaster of Hilda's career. He felt more than ever that he had failed in sympathy with her overwhelming misfortune. In the secrecy of his heart a full imaginative sympathy had been lacking. He had not realised as he seemed to realise then in front of the fire in the drawing-room at the Orgreaves what it must be to be the wife of a convict. Janet, sitting there as innocent as a doe, knew that Hilda was the wife of a convict. But did her parents know? And was she aware that he knew? He wondered, drinking his tea. Part 5 Then the servant, not the Martha who had been privileged to smile on duty if she felt so inclined, came with a tawny gold telegram on a silver plate and hesitated a moment as to where she should bestow it. Give it to me, Selina, said Janet. Selina impassively obeyed, imitating as well as she could the deportment of an automaton, and went away. That's my telegram, said Mr Orgreave. How is it addressed? Orgreave Bleakridge-Bursley. Then it's mine. Oh, no it isn't, Janet Archley protested. If you have your business telegram sent here you must take the consequences. I always open all telegrams that come here, don't I, mother? Mrs Orgreave made no reply but waited with candid and fretful impatience, thinking of her five absent children and her ten grandchildren for the telegram to be opened. Janet opened it. Her lips parted to speak and remained so in silent astonishment. Just read that, she said to Edwin, passing the telegram to him. And she added to her father, it was for me after all. Edwin read aloud, I'm sending George down today. Please meet 6.30 train at Knipe, Love-Hilda. Well, I never exclaim Mrs Orgreave. You don't mean to tell me she's letting that boy travel alone. What next? Where's the telegram sent from? asked Mr Orgreave. Edwin examined the official indications. Victoria. Then she's brought him up to London and she's putting him in a train at Euston, that's it. Only there is no London train that gets to Knipe at half past six, Edwin said. It's 7.12 or 7.14, I forget. Oh, that's near enough a Hilda Janet smiled looking at her watch. She doesn't mean any other train, Mrs Orgreave fearfully suggested. She can't mean any other train, there is no other, only probably she's been looking at the wrong timetable. Janet reassured her mother. Because if the poor little thing found no one to meet him at Knipe, don't worry dear, said Janet, the poor little thing would soon be engaging somebody's attention. Trust him. But has she been writing to you lately, Mrs Orgreave questioned? No. Then why, don't ask me, said Janet, no doubt I shall get a letter tomorrow after George has come and told us everything. Poor dear, I'm glad she's doing so much better now. Is she, Edwin murmured, surprised? Oh yes, said Janet, she's got a regular bustling partner, and they're that busy they scarcely know what to do. But they only keep one little servant. In the ordinary way Janet and Edwin never mentioned Hilda to one another. Each seemed to be held back by a kind of timid shame and by a cautious suspicion. Each seemed to be inquiring. What does he know? What does she know? If I thought it wasn't too cold I'd go with you to Knipe, said Mr Orgreave. Now Osmond, Mrs Orgreave sat up. Shall I go, said Edwin? Well, said Janet, with much kindliness, I'm sure he'd be delighted to see you. Mrs Orgreave rang the bell. What do you want, mother? They'll be the bed. Don't you trouble with those things, dear, said Janet very calmly. There's heaps of time. But Janet was just as excited as her parents. In two minutes the excitement had spread through the whole house, like a pecan and agreeable odour. The place was alive again. I'll just step across and ask Maggie to alter supper, said Edwin, and then I'll call for you. I suppose we'll go down by train. I'm thankful he's had influenza, observed Mrs Orgreave, implying thus that there would be less chance of George catching the disease under her infected roof. The George had been down with influenza before Christmas was the sole information about him that Edwin obtained. Nobody appeared to consider it worthwhile to discuss the possible reasons for his sudden arrival. Hilda's Caprices were accepted in that house like the visitations of Heaven. Part 6 Edwin and Janet stood together on the windy and bleak down-platform of Knipe Station, awaiting the express which had been signalled. Edwin was undoubtedly very nervous and constrained, and it seemed to him that Janet's demeanor lacked naturalness. It just occurred to me how she made that mistake about the time of the trains, said Edwin, chiefly because he found the silence intolerably irksome. It stops at Litchfield, and in running her eye across the page she must have mixed up the Litchfield figures with the Knipe figures. You know how awkward it is in a timetable. As a matter of fact, the train does stop at Litchfield at 6.30. I see, said Janet reflectively, and Edwin was saying to himself, It's a marvel to me how I can talk to her at all. What made me offer to come with her? How much does she know about me and Hilda? Hilda may have told her everything. If she's told her about her husband, why shouldn't she have told her about me? And here we are both pretending that there's never been anything at all between me and Hilda. Then the train appeared obscure around the curve and bore down formidable and dark upon them, growing at every instant in stature and in noise until it deafened and seemed to fill the station, and the platform was suddenly in an uproar. And almost opposite Janet and Edwin, leaning forth high above them from the door of a third class carriage, the head and the shoulders of George Cannon were displayed in the gaslight. He seemed to dominate the train and the platform. At the windows on either side of him were adult faces, excited by his excitement of the people who had doubtless been friendly to him during the journey. He distinguished Janet and Edwin almost at once and shouted and then waved. Hello young son of a gun, Edwin greeted him trying to turn the handle of the door, but the door was locked and it was necessary to call a porter who tarried. I made mama let me come, George cried victoriously, I told you I should. He was far too agitated to think of shaking hands and seemed to be in a state of fever. All his gestures were those of a proud hysterical conqueror, and like a conqueror he gazed down at Edwin and Janet who stood beneath him with upturned faces. He had absolutely forgotten the existence of his acquaintances in the carriage. Did you know I've had the influenza? My temperature was up to a hundred and four once, but it didn't stay long, he added regretfully. When the door was at length opened he jumped headlong and Edwin caught him. He shook hands with Edwin and allowed Janet to kiss him. How hot you are, Janet murmured. The people in the compartment passed down his luggage, and after one of them had shouted goodbye to him twice, he remembered them as it were by an effort and replied, Goodbye, Goodbye, in a quick impatient tone. It was not until his anxious and assiduous foster parents had bestowed him and his goods in the tranquility of an empty compartment of the loop-line train that they began to appreciate the morbid unusualness of his condition. His eyes glittered with extraordinary brilliance. He talked incessantly, not listening to their answers, and his skin was burning hot. Why, whatever's the matter with you, my dear, asked Janet alarmed. You're like an oven. I'm thirsty, said George, if I don't have something to drink soon, I don't know what I shall do. Janet looked at Edwin. There won't be time to get something at the refreshment room. They both felt heavily responsible. I might, Edwin said irresolutely. But just then the guard whistled. Never mind, Janet comforted the child. In twenty minutes we shall be in the house. No, you must keep your overcoat buttoned. How long have you been like that, George? Edwin asked. You weren't like that when you started, surely? No, said George judicially. It came on in the train. After this he appeared to go to sleep. He's certainly not well, Janet whispered. Edwin shrugged his shoulders. Don't you think he's grown? He observed. Oh, yes, said Janet. It's astonishing, isn't it, how children shoot up in a few weeks? They might have been parents exchanging notes instead of celibates playing at parenthood for a hobby. Mama says I've grown an inch. George opened his eyes. She says it's about time I had. I dare say I shall be very tall. Are we nearly there? His high, curt, febrile tones were really somewhat alarming. When the train threw them out into the sodden waste that surrounds Bleak Ridge Station, George could scarcely stand. At any rate he showed no wish to stand. His protectors took him strongly by either arm and thus bore him to Lane End House, with irregular unwilling assistance from his own feet. A porter followed with the luggage. It was an extremely distressing passage. Each protector in secret was imagining for George some terrible fever, a swift onslaught and fatal effect. At length they entered the garden thanking their gods. He's not well, said Janet to her mother, who was fussily awaiting them in the hall. Her voice showed apprehension, and she was not at all convincing when she added, but it's nothing serious. I shall put him straight to bed and let him eat there. Instantly George became the centre of the house. The women disappeared with him, and Edwin had to recount the whole history of the arrival to Osmond Orgreave in the dining room. This recital was interrupted by Mrs Orgreave. Mr Edwin, Janet thinks if we sent for the doctor just to be sure. As Johnny isn't in, would you mind? Sterling, I suppose, said Edwin. Sterling was the young Scottish doctor who had recently come into the town and taken it by storm. When Edwin at last went home to a much delayed meal he was in a position to tell Maggie that young George Cannon had thought fit to catch influencer a second time in a couple of months. And Maggie, without a clear word, contrived to indicate that it was what she would have expected from a boy of George's violent temperament. End of chapter 9 volume 4 Volume 4 chapter 10 of Clay Hanger by Arnold Bennett This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10 George and the Vicar On the Tuesday evening Edwin came home from business at six o'clock and found that he was to eat alone. The servant anxiously explained that Ms Clay Hanger had gone across to the Orgreaves to assist Ms Orgreave. It was evident that before going Ms Clay Hanger had inspired the servant with a full sense of the importance of Mr Clay Hanger's solitary meal and of the terrible responsibility lying upon the person in charge of it. The girl was thrillingly alive. She would have liked some friend or other of the house to be always seriously ill, so that Ms Clay Hanger might often leave her to the voluptuous savoring of this responsibility, whose formidableness surpassed words. Edwin, as he went upstairs and as he came down again, was conscious of her excited presence somewhere near him, half visible in the warm, gas-lit house, spying upon him in order to divine the precise moment for the final service of the meal. And in the dining-room the table was laid differently, so that he might be well situated with regard to the light for reading. And by the side of his plate were the newspaper, the magazines, and the book, among which Maggie had well guessed that he would make his choice for Perusso. He was momentarily touched. He warmed his hands at the splendid fire and then he warmed his back, watching the servant as with little flouncings and perking she served, and he was touched by the placid and perfect efficiency of Maggie as a housekeeper. Maggie gave him something that no money could buy. The servant departed and shut the door. When he sat down he minutely changed the situation of nearly everything on the table, so that his magazine might be lodged at exactly the right distance and angle, and so that each necessary object might be quite handy. He was in luxury and he yielded himself to it absolutely. The sense that unusual events were happening that the course of social existence was disturbed, while his comfort was not disturbed, that danger hung cloudy on the horizon, this sense somehow intensified the appreciation of the hour, and positively contributed to his pleasure. Moreover, he was agreeably excited by a dismaying anticipation affecting himself alone. Part II The door opened again and Auntie Hamps was shown in by the servant. Before he could move the old lady had with overwhelming sweet supplications insisted that he should not move—no, not even to shake hands. He rose only to shake hands and then fell back into his comfort. Auntie Hamps fixed the chair for herself opposite him, and drummed her black-gloved hands on the white tablecloth. She was steadily becoming stouter, and those chubby little hands seemed impossibly small against the vast mountain of fur which was crowned by her smirking crimson face. The supreme peak of her bonnet. They keep very friendly those two, she remarked with a strangely significant air, when he told her where Maggie was. She had shown no surprise at finding him alone, for the reason that she had already learned everything from the servant in the hall. Janet and Maggie, they're friendly enough when they can be of use to each other. How kind Miss Janet was when your father was ill! I'm sure Maggie feels she must do all she can to return her kindness. Mrs. Hamps murmured with emotion. I shall always be grateful for her helpfulness. She's a grand girl, a grand girl. Yes, said Edwin awkwardly. She's still waiting for you, said Mrs. Hamps, not actually, but sadly. Edwin restively pooed. At the first instant of her arrival he had been rather glad to see her, or unusual events create a desire to disgust them. But if she meant to proceed in that strain, unuttered curses would soon begin to accumulate for her in his heart. I expect the kid must be pretty bad, he said. Yes, said Mrs. Hamps, and probably poor Mrs. Orgreave is more in the way than anything else. And Mr. Orgreave only just out of bed, as you may say. That young lady must have her hands full, my word. What a blessing it is that she has made such friends with Maggie. Mrs. Hamps had the peculiar gift which developed into ever-increasing perfection, as her hair grew whiter, of being able to express ideas by means of words which had no relation to them at all. Within three minutes by three different remarks, whose occult message no stranger could have understood, but which forced itself with unpleasant clearness upon Edwin, Mrs. Hamps had conveyed, Janet Orgreave only cultivates Maggie because Maggie is the sister of Edwin Clayhanger. You're all devoted to that child, she said, meaning. There is something mysterious in that quarter which sooner or later is bound to come out. And the meaning was so clear that Edwin was intimidated. What did she guess? Did she know anything? Tonight, Auntie Hamps was displaying her gift at its highest. I don't know that Maggie's so desperately keen on the infant, he said. She's not like you about him, that's sure, Mrs. Hamps admitted, and she went on in a tone that was only superficially casual. I wonder the mother doesn't come down to him. Not his mother, the mother. Odd the effect of that trifle. Mrs. Hamps was a great artist in phrasing. Oh, said Edwin, it's not serious enough for that. Well, I'm not so sure, Auntie Hamps gravely replied. The vicar is dead. The emphasis which she put on these words was tremendous. Is he, Edwin Stamford, but what's that got to do with it? He tried to be condescending towards her absurdly superstitious assumption that the death of the vicar of St. Peter's could increase the seriousness of George's case, and he feebly succeeded in being condescending. Nevertheless, he could not meet his auntie's gaze without self-consciousness. For her emphasis had been double, and he knew it. It had implied, secondly, that the death of the vicar was an event especially affecting Edwin's household. The rough sketch of a romance between the vicar and Maggie had never been completed into a picture, but on the other hand, it had never been destroyed. The vicar and Maggie had been supposed to be still interested in each other, despite the vicar's pricelessness which laterally had perhaps grown more marked, just as his church had grown more ritualistic. It was a strange affair, thin, elusive, but an affair it was. The vicar and Maggie had seldom met of recent years. They had never, as so far as anyone knew, met alone. And yet upon the news of the vicar's death the first thought of nearly everybody was for Maggie Clayhanger. Mrs. Hamp's eyes, swimming in the satisfaction of several simultaneous woes, said plainly, What about poor Maggie? When did you hear Edwin asked? It isn't in this afternoon's paper. I've only just heard he died at four o'clock. She had come up immediately with the news as fresh as orchard fruit. And the Duke of Clarence is no better, she said, in a luxurious sighing gloom. And I'm afraid it's all over with cardinal manning. She made a peculiar noise in her throat, not quite a sigh, rather a brave protest against the general fatality of things, stiffened by a determination to be strong, though melancholy in misfortune. Part 3 Maggie suddenly entered hattered with a jacket over her arm. Hello, Aunty, you here? They had already met that morning. I just called, said Mrs. Hamp's, guiltily. Edwin felt as though Maggie had surprised them both in some criminal act. They knew that Mr. Heave was dead, she did not know. She had to be told. He wished violently that Aunty Hamp's had been elsewhere. Everything all right, Maggie asked Edwin, surveying the table. I gave particular orders about the eggs. As writers reigns at Edwin, putting into his voice a note of true appreciation, he saw that her sense of duty towards him had brought her back to the house. She had taken every precaution to ensure his well-being, but she could not be content without seeing for herself that the servant had not betrayed the trust. How are things across? Well, said Maggie, frowning. That's one reason why I came back sooner than I meant. The doctor's just been. His temperature is getting higher and higher. I wish you'd go over as soon as you've finished. If you ask me, I think they ought to telegraph to his mother. But Janet doesn't seem to think so. Of course, it's enough when Mrs. Orgrieve begins worrying about telegraphing for Janet to say there's no need to telegraph. She's rather trying, Mrs. Orgrieve is, I must admit. All that I've been doing is to keep her out of the bedroom. Janet has everything on her shoulders. Mr. Orgrieve is just about as fidgety as Mrs. and, of course, the servants have their own work to do. Naturally, Johnny isn't in. Her tone grew sarcastic and bitter. What the sterlings say about telegraphing Edwin demanded. He had intended saying telegraphing for Mrs. Cannon, but he could not utter the last words. He could not compel his vocal organs to utter them. He became aware of the beating of his heart. For twenty-four hours he had been contemplating the possibility of a summons to Hilda. Now the possibility had developed into a probability. Nay, a certainty. Maggie was the very last person to be alarmist. Maggie replied, He says it might be as well to wait till tomorrow, but then you know he is like that, a bit. So they say Auntie Hamp's agreed. Have you seen the kid Edwin asked? About two minutes, said Maggie, it's pitiable to watch him. Why is he in pain? Not what you'd call pain, no, but he's so upset. Worried about himself, he's got a terrific fever on him. I'm certain he's delirious sometimes, poor little thing. Tears gleamed in her eyes. The plight of the boy had weakened her prejudices against him. Assuredly he was not rough now. Astounded and frightened by those shimmering tears Edwin exclaimed, You don't mean to say there's actual danger? Well, Maggie hesitated and stopped. There was silence for a moment. Edwin felt that the situation was now further intensified. I expect you've heard about the poor Vika, Mrs. Hamp's funerally insinuated. Edwin mutely damned her. Maggie looked up sharply. No, he's not. Mrs. Hamp's nodded twice. The tears vanished from Maggie's eyes, forced backwards by all the secret pride that was in her. It was obvious that not the news of the Vika had originally caused those tears, but nevertheless there should be no shadow of misunderstanding. The death of the Vika must be associated with no more serious sign of distress in Maggie than in others. She must be above suspicion. For one acute moment as he read her thoughts and as the profound sacrificial tragedy of her entire existence loomed less indistinctly than usual before him, Edwin seized to think about himself and Hilda. She made a quick hysterical movement. I wish she'd go across Edwin, she said harshly. I'll go now, he answered with softness, and he was glad to go. Part 4 It was Osmond Orgrieve who opened to him the front door of Lane End House. Maggie had told the old gentleman that she should send Edwin over, and he was wandering vaguely about in nervous expectation. In an instant they were discussing George's case and the advisability of telegraphing to Hilda. Mrs. Orgrieve immediately joined them in the hall. Both father and mother clearly stood in awe of the gentle but powerful Janet, and somehow the child was considered as her private affair into which others might not thrust themselves save on sufferance. Perceiving that Edwin was slightly inclined to the course of telegraphing, they drew him towards them as a reinforcement. But while Mrs. Orgrieve frankly displayed her dependence on him, Mr. Orgrieve affected to be strong, independent, and judicial. I wish you'd go and speak to her, Mrs. Orgrieve, and treated upstairs. It won't do any harm, anyway, said Osmond, finally indifferent. They went up the stairs in a procession. Edwin did not wish to tell them about the vicar. He could see no sense in telling them about the vicar, and yet before they reached the top of the stairs he heard himself saying in a concerned whisper, You know about the vicar of St. Peter's? No. Died at four o'clock. Oh, dear me, dear me, murmured Mrs. Orgrieve agonised. Most evidently George's case was aggravated by the vicar's death, and not only in the eyes of Mrs. Orgrieve and her falsely stoic husband, but in Edwin's eyes too. Useless for him to argue with himself about idiotic superstitiousness. The death of the vicar had undoubtedly influenced his attitude towards George. They halted on the landing outside a door that was a jar. Near them burned a gas jet, and beneath the bracket was a large-framed photograph of the bridal party at Alicia's wedding. Father along the landing were other similar records of the weddings of Marion, Tom and Jimmy. Mr. Orgrieve pushed the door half open. Janet, said Mr. Orgrieve conspiratorially. Well, from within the bedroom, here's Edwin. Janet appeared in the doorway pale. She was wearing an apron with a bib. I thought I'd just look in and inquire, Edwin said awkwardly, fiddling with his hat and a pocket of his overcoat. What's he like now? Janet gave details. The sick room lay hidden behind the face of the door, mysterious and sacred. Mr. Edwin thinks you ought to telegraph, said Mrs. Orgrieve timidly. Do you? demanded Janet. Her eyes seemed to pierce him. Why did she gaze at him with such particularity as though he possessed a special interest in Hilda? Well, he muttered, you might just wire how things are and leave it to her to come as she thinks fit. Just so, said Mr. Orgrieve quickly, as if Edwin had expressed his own thought. But the telegram couldn't be delivered tonight, Janet objected, it's nearly half past seven now. It was true, yet Edwin was more than ever conscious of a keen desire to telegraph at once. But it would be delivered first thing in the morning, he said, so she'd have more time to make arrangements if she wanted to. Well, if you think like that, Janet acquiesced. The visage of Mrs. Orgrieve lightened. I'll run down and telegraph myself, if you like, said Edwin. Of course you've written to her, she knows. Oh yes! Part five. In a minute he was walking rapidly with his ungainly, slouching stride down Trafalgar Road, his overcoat flying loose. Another crisis was approaching, he thought. As he came to Duck Square he met a newspaper boy shouting shrilly and wearing the contents-bill of a special edition of The Signal as an apron. Duke of Clarence, more serious bulletin. The scourge and fear of influenza was upon the town, upon the community, tangible oppressive tragic. In the evening calm of the shabby, gloomy post office, holding a stubby pencil that was chained by a cable to the wall, he stood over a blank telegraph form, hesitating how to word the message. Behind the counter an instrument was ticking unheeded, and far within could be discerned the vague bodies of men dealing with parcels. He wrote, Canon 59 Preston Street Brighton, George's temperature 104. Then he paused and added, Edwin. It was sentimental, he ought to have signed Janet's name, and if he was determined to make the telegram personal, he might at least have put his surname. He knew it was sentimental and he loathed sentimentality, but that evening he wanted to be sentimental. He crossed to the counter and pushed the form under the wire netting. A sleepy girl accepted it and glanced mechanically at the clock, and then wrote the hour 7.42. It won't be delivered to-night, she said, looking up as she counted the words. No, I know, said Edwin. Sixpence, please. As he paid the sixpence he felt as though he had accomplished some great critical agitating deed, and his heart asserted itself again, thunderously beating.