NRLF 
 


THESE TWAIN 
 
 BY 
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WIVES' *TALE," "THE OLD ADAM, 
 "CLAYHANGER," "HILDA LESSWAYS," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1915, 
 BY ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK I 
 
 THE WOMAN IN THE HOUSE 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE HOUSE 1 
 
 II. HILDA ON THE STAIRS 14 
 
 III. ATTACK AND REPULSE 25 
 
 IV. THE WORD e . 46 
 
 V. TERTIUS INGPEN 56 
 
 VI. HUSBAND AND WIFE 79 
 
 VII. THE TRUCE 87 
 
 VIII. THE FAMILY AT HOME 99 
 
 IX. THE WEEK-END 138 
 
 X. THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 187 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 THE PAST 
 
 XI. LITHOGRAPHY 221 
 
 XII. DARTMOOR 242 
 
 XIII. THE DEPARTURE 254 
 
 XIV. TAVY MANSION 267 
 
 XV. THE PRISON 293 
 
 XVI. THE GHOST , 319 
 
vi CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 EQUILIBRIUM 
 
 CHAFTEB PACK 
 
 XVII. GEORGE'S EYES . . 355 
 
 XVIII. AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED , 403 
 
 XIX. DEATH AND BURIAL 434 
 
 XX. THE DISCOVERY . . .475 
 
BOOK I 
 THE WOMAN IN THE HOUSE 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HOUSE 
 
 IN the year 1892 Bleafcridge, residential suburb of 
 Bursley, was still most plainly divided into old and 
 new, that is to say, into the dull red or dull yellow 
 with stone facings, and the bright red with terra cotta 
 gimcrackery. Like incompatible liquids congealed in 
 a pot, the two components had run into each other 
 and mingled, but never mixed. 
 
 Paramount among the old was the house of the Mem- 
 ber of Parliament, near the top of the important 
 mound that separates Hanbridge from Bursley. The 
 aged and widowed Member used the house little, but he 
 kept it up, and sometimes came into it with an unex- 
 pectedness that extremely flattered the suburb. Thus 
 you might be reading in the morning paper that the 
 Member had given a lunch in London on the previous 
 day to Cabinet Ministers and ladies as splendid as the 
 Countess of Chell, and glancing out of the window 
 you might see the Member himself walking down 
 Trafalgar Road, sad, fragile, sedately alert, with his 
 hands behind him, or waving a gracious hand to an 
 acquaintance. Whereupon you would announce, not 
 apathetically : "Member's gone down to Macllvaine's !" 
 
 1 
 
:THSE TWAIN 
 
 's being hhe-' works in which the Member 
 had an interest) and there would perhaps be a rush 
 to the window. Those were the last great days of 
 Bleakridge. 
 
 After the Member's house ranked such historic resi- 
 dences as those of Osmond Orgreave, the architect, 
 (which had the largest, greenest garden and the best 
 smoke-defying trees in Bleakridge), and Fearns, the 
 Hanbridge lawyer; together with Manor "Cottage" 
 (so-called, though a spacious house), where lived the 
 mechanical genius who had revolutionised the pottery 
 industry and strangely enough made a fortune thereby, 
 and the dark abode of the High Church parson. 
 
 Next in importance came the three terraces, Manor 
 Terrace, Abbey Terrace, and the Sneyd Terrace each 
 consisting of three or four houses, and all on the west 
 side of Trafalgar Road, with long back-gardens and a 
 distant prospect of Hillport therefrom over the Manor 
 fields. The Terraces, considered as architecture, were 
 unbeautiful, old-fashioned, inconvenient, perhaps pal- 
 try, as may be judged from the fact that rents ran 
 as low as 25 a year; but they had been wondrous in 
 their day, the pride of builders and owners and the 
 marvel of a barbaric populace. They too had his- 
 tories, which many people knew. Age had softened 
 them and sanctioned their dignity. A gate might creak, 
 but the harsh curves of its ironwork had been mollified 
 by time. Moreover the property was always maintained 
 in excellent repair by its landlords, and residents cared 
 passionately for the appearance of the windows and the 
 front-steps. The plenary respectability of the resi- 
 dents could not be impugned. They were as good as 
 the best. For address, they would not give the num- 
 ber of the house in Trafalgar Road, but the name of 
 its Terrace. Just as much as the occupiers of de- 
 
THE HOUSE 3 
 
 tached houses, they had sorted themselves out from 
 the horde. Conservative or Liberal, they were anti- 
 democratic, ever murmuring to themselves as they de- 
 scended the front-steps in the morning and mounted 
 them in the evening: "Most folks are nobodies, but I 
 am somebody." And this was true. 
 
 The still smaller old houses in between the Ter- 
 races, and even the old cottages in the side streets 
 (which all ran to the east) had a similar distinction of 
 caste, aloofness, and tradition. The least of them was 
 scornful of the crowd, and deeply conscious of itself 
 as a separate individuality. When the tenant-owner of 
 a cottage in Manor Street added a bay-window to his 
 front-room the event seemed enormous in Manor Street, 
 an4 affected even Trafalgar Road, as a notorious clean- 
 shaven figure in the streets may disconcert a whole 
 quarter by growing a beard. The congeries of cottage 
 yards between Manor Street and Higginbotham Street, 
 as visible from certain high back-bedrooms in Trafal- 
 gar Road, a crowded higgledy-piggledy of plum-col- 
 oured walls and chimneys, blue-brick pavements, and 
 slate roofs well illustrated the grand Victorian epoch 
 of the Building Society, when eighteenpence was added 
 weekly to eighteenpence, and land haggled over by the 
 foot, and every brick counted, in the grim, long effort 
 to break away from the mass. 
 
 The traditionalism of Bleakridge protected even 
 Roman Catholicism in that district of Nonconformity, 
 where there were at least three Methodist chapels to 
 every church and where the adjective "popish" was 
 commonly used in preference to "papal." The little 
 "Catholic Chapel" and the priest's house with its cross- 
 keys at the top of the mound were as respected as any 
 other buildings, because Roman Catholicism had always 
 been endemic there, since the age when the entire ham- 
 
4 THESE TWAIN 
 
 let belonged to Cistercian monks in white robes. A 
 feebly endemic Catholicism and a complete exemption 
 from tithes w?re all that remained of the Cistercian oc- 
 cupation. The exemption was highly esteemed by the 
 possessing class. 
 
 Alderman Sutton, towards the end of the seventies, 
 first pitted the new against the old in Bleakridge. The 
 lifelong secretary of a first-class Building Society, he 
 was responsible for a terrace of three commodious mod- 
 ern residences exactly opposite the house of the Mem- 
 ber. The Member and Osmond Orgreave might mod- 
 ernise their antique houses as much as they liked, they 
 could never match the modernity of the Alderman's 
 Terrace, to which, by the way, he declined to give a 
 name. He was capable of covering his drawing-room 
 walls with papers at three-and-six a roll, and yet he 
 capriciously preferred numbers to a name! These 
 houses cost twelve hundred pounds each (a lot of money 
 in the happy far-off days when good bricks were only 
 1 a thousand, or a farthing apiece), and imposed 
 themselves at once upon the respect and admiration of 
 Bleakridge. A year or two later the Clayhanger house 
 went up at the corner of Trafalgar Road and Hulton 
 Street, and easily outvied the Sutton houses. Geo- 
 graphically at the centre of the residential suburb, it 
 represented the new movement in Bleakridge at its 
 apogee, and indeed was never beaten by later ambitious 
 attempts. 
 
 Such fine erections, though nearly every detail of 
 them challenged tradition, could not disturb Bleak- 
 ridge's belief in the stability of society. But simul- 
 taneously whole streets of cheap small houses (in real- 
 ity, pretentious cottages) rose round about. Hul- 
 ton Street was all new and cheap. Oak Street offered 
 a row of pink cottages to Osmond Orgreave's garden- 
 
THE HOUSE 5 
 
 gates, and there were three other similar new streets 
 between Oak Street and the Catholic Chapel. Jerry- 
 building was practised in Trafalgar Road itself, on a 
 large plot in full view of the Catholic Chapel, where a 
 speculative builder, too hurried to use a measure, 
 "stepped out" the foundations of fifteen cottages with 
 his own bandy legs, and when the corner of a freshly- 
 constructed cottage fell into the street remarked that 
 accidents would happen and had the bricks replaced. 
 But not every cottage was jerry-built. Many, perhaps 
 most, were of fairly honest workmanship. All were 
 modern, and relatively spacious, and much superior in 
 plan to the old. All had bay-windows. And yet all 
 their bay-windows together could not produce an ef- 
 fect equal to one bay-window in ancient Manor Street, 
 because they had omitted to be individual. Not one 
 showy dwelling was unlike another, nor desired to be 
 unlike another. 
 
 The garish new streets were tenanted by magic. On 
 Tuesday the paperhangers might be whistling in those 
 drawing-rooms (called parlours in Manor Street), 
 on Wednesday bay-windows were curtained and chim- 
 neys smoking. And just as the cottages lacked indi- 
 viduality, so the tenants were nobodies. At any rate 
 no traditional person in Bleakridge knew who they 
 were, nor where they came from, except that they 
 came mysteriously up out of the town. (Not that 
 there had been any shocking increase in the birthrate 
 down there!) And no traditional person seemed to 
 care. The strange inroad and portent ought to have 
 puzzled and possibly to have intimidated traditional 
 Bleakridge: but it did not. Bleakridge merely ob- 
 served that "a lot of building was going on," and left 
 the phenomenon at that. At first it was interested and 
 flattered ; then somewhat resentful and regretful. And 
 
6 THESE TWAIN 
 
 even Edwin Clayhanger, though he counted himself 
 among the enlightened and the truly democratic, felt 
 hurt when quite nice houses, copying some features of 
 his own on a small scale, and let to such people as in- 
 surance agents, began to fill up the remaining empty 
 spaces of Trafalgar Road. He could not help think- 
 ing that the prestige of Bleakridge was being impaired. 
 
 Edwin Clayhanger, though very young in marriage, 
 considered that he was getting on in years as a house- 
 holder. His age was thirty-six. He had been mar- 
 ried only a few months, under peculiar circumstances 
 which rendered him self-conscious, and on an evening 
 of August 1892, as he stood in the hall of his house 
 awaiting the commencement of a postponed and un- 
 usual At Home, he felt absurdly nervous. But the ner- 
 vousness was not painful; because he himself could 
 laugh at it. He might be timid, he might be a little 
 gawky, he might often have the curious sensation of 
 not being really adult but only a boy after all, the 
 great impressive facts would always emerge that he 
 was the respected head of a well-known family, that he 
 was successful, that he had both ideas and money, and 
 that his position as one of the two chief master-printers 
 of the district would not be challenged. He knew that 
 he could afford to be nervous. And further, since he 
 was house-proud, he had merely to glance round his 
 house in order to be reassured and puffed up. 
 
 Loitering near the foot of the stairs, discreetly styl- 
 ish in an almost new blue serge suit and a quite new 
 black satin tie, with the light of the gas on one 
 side of his face, and the twilight through the glazed 
 front-door mitigating the shadow on the other, Ed- 
 
THE HOUSE 7 
 
 win mused pleasingly upon the whole organism of 
 his home. Externally, the woodwork and metalwork 
 of the house had just been repainted, and the brick- 
 work pointed. He took pleasure in the thought of 
 the long even lines of fresh mortar, and of the new 
 sage-tinted spoutings and pipings, every foot of which 
 he knew by heart and where every tube began and 
 where it ended and what its purpose was. The nice 
 fitting of a perpendicular spout into a horizontal one, 
 and the curve of the joint from the eave to the wall of 
 the house, and the elaborate staples that firmly held 
 the spout to the wall, and the final curve of the spout 
 that brought its orifice accurately over a spotless grid 
 in the ground, the perfection of all these ridiculous 
 details, each beneath the notice of a truly celestial mind, 
 would put the householder Edwin into a sort of con- 
 templative ecstasy. Perhaps he was comical. But 
 such inner experiences were part of his great interest 
 in life, part of his large general passion. 
 
 Within the hall he regarded with equal interest and 
 pride the photogravure of Bellini's "Agony in the Gar- 
 den," from the National Gallery, and the radiator 
 which he had just had installed. The radiator was 
 only a half-measure, but it was his precious toy, his pet 
 lamb, his mistress; and the theory of it was that by 
 warming the hall and the well of the staircase it softly 
 influenced the whole house and abolished draughts. He 
 had exaggerated the chilliness of the late August night 
 so that he might put the radiator into action. About 
 the small furnace in the cellar that heated it he was 
 both crotchetty and extravagant. The costly efficiency 
 of the radiator somewhat atoned in his mind for the 
 imperfections of the hot water apparatus, depending on 
 the kitchen boiler. Even in 1892 this middle-class pio- 
 neer and sensualist was dreaming of an ideal house in 
 
x 
 8 THESE TWAIN 
 
 which inexhaustible water was always positively steam- 
 ing, so that if a succession of persons should capri- 
 ciously desire hot baths in the cold middle of the night, 
 their collective fancy might be satisfied. 
 
 Bellini's picture was the symbol of an artistic revolu- 
 tion in Edwin. He had read somewhere that it was 
 "perhaps the greatest picture in the world." A critic's 
 exhortation to "observe the loving realistic passion 
 shown in the foreshortening of the figure of the sleep- 
 ing apostle" had remained in his mind; and, thrilled, 
 he would point out this feature of the picture 
 alike to the comprehending and the uncomprehend- 
 ing. The hanging-up of the Bellini, in its strange frame 
 of stained unpolished oak, had been an epochal event, 
 closing one era and inaugurating another. And 
 yet, before the event, he had not even noticed the 
 picture on a visit to the National Gallery! A 
 hint, a phrase murmured in the right tone in a peri- 
 odical, a glimpse of an illustration, and the mighty 
 magic seed was sown. In a few months all Vic- 
 torian phenomena had been put upon their trial, and 
 most of them condemned. And condemned without even 
 the forms of justice! Half a word (in the right tone) 
 might ruin any of them. Thus was Sir Frederick Leigh- 
 ton, P. R. A., himself overthrown. One day his "Bath 
 of Psyche" reigned in Edwin's bedroom, and the next 
 it had gone, and none knew why. But certain aged 
 Victorians, such as Edwin's Auntie Hamps, took the 
 disappearance of the licentious engraving as a sign 
 that the beloved queer Edwin was at last coming to his 
 senses as, of course, they knew he ultimately would. 
 He did not and could not explain. More and more he 
 was growing to look upon his house as an island, cut 
 off by a difference of manners from the varnished bar- 
 barism of multitudinous new cottages, and by an im- 
 
THE HOUSE 9 
 
 mensely more profound difference of thought from both 
 the cottages and the larger houses. It seemed astound- 
 ing to Edwin that modes of thought so violently sepa- 
 rative as his and theirs could exist so close together and 
 under such appearances of similarity. Not even all the 
 younger members of the Orgreave family, who counted 
 as his nearest friends, were esteemed by Edwin to be 
 meet for his complete candour. 
 
 The unique island was scarcely a dozen years old, but 
 historical occurrences had aged it for Edwin. He had 
 opened the doors of all three reception-rooms, partly 
 to extend the benign sway of the radiator, and partly 
 so that he might judge the total effect of the illuminated 
 chambers and improve that effect if possible. And 
 each room bore the mysterious imprints of past emo- 
 tion. 
 
 In the drawing-room, with its new orange-coloured 
 gas-globes that gilded everything beneath them, Ed- 
 win's father used to sit on Sunday evenings, alone. 
 And one Sunday evening, when Edwin, entering, had 
 first mentioned to his father a woman's name, his 
 father had most terribly humiliated him. But now 
 it seemed as if some other youth, and not Edwin, had 
 been humiliated, so completely was the wound 
 healed. . . . And he could remember leaning in the 
 doorway of the drawing-room one Sunday morn- 
 ing, and his sister Clara was seated at the piano, and 
 his sister Maggie, nursing a baby of Clara's, by her 
 side, and they were singing Balfe's duet "Excelsior," 
 and his father stood behind them, crying, crying stead- 
 ily, until at length the bitter old man lost control of 
 himself and sobbed aloud under the emotional stress 
 of the women's voices, and Clara cheerfully upbraided 
 him for foolishness; and Edwin had walked suddenly 
 away. This memory was somehow far more poignant 
 
10 THESE TWAIN 
 
 than the memory of his humiliation. . . . And in the 
 drawing-room too he had finally betrothed himself to 
 Hilda. That by comparison was only yesterday; yet 
 it was historical and distant. He was wearing his 
 dressing-gown, being convalescent from influenza; he 
 could distinctly recall the feel of his dressing-gown; 
 and Hilda came in over her face was a veil. . . . 
 
 The dining-room, whose large glistening table was 
 now covered with the most varied and modern "refresh- 
 ments" for the At Home, had witnessed no event spe- 
 cially dramatic, but it had witnessed hundreds of mo- 
 notonous tragic meals at which the progress of his 
 father's mental malady and the approach of his death 
 could be measured by the old man's increasing disability 
 to distinguish between his knife and his fork; it had 
 seen Darius Clayhanger fed like a baby. And it had 
 never been the same dining-room since. Edwin might 
 transform it, re-paper it, re-furnish it, the mysterious 
 imprint remained. . . . 
 
 And then there was the little "breakfast-room," in- 
 serted into the plan of the house between the hall and 
 the kitchen. Nothing had happened there, because the 
 life of the household had never adjusted itself to the 
 new, borrowed convention of the "breakfast-room." 
 Nothing? But the most sensational thing had hap- 
 pened there ! When with an exquisite passing timidity 
 she took possession of Edwin's house as his wife, Hilda 
 had had a sudden gust of audacity in the breakfast- 
 room. A mature woman (with a boy aged ten to prove 
 it), she had effervesced into the nai've gestures of a 
 young girl who has inherited a boudoir. "This shall 
 be my very own room, and I shall arrange it just how I 
 like, without asking you about anything. And it will 
 be my very own." She had not offered an idea ; she 
 had announced a decision. Edwin had had other no- 
 
THE HOUSE 11 
 
 tions for the room, but he perceived that he must bury 
 them in eternal silence, and yield eagerly to this caprice. 
 Thus to acquiesce had given him deep and strange joy. 
 He was startled, perhaps, to discover that he had 
 brought into his house not a woman, but a tripartite 
 creature woman, child, and sibyl. Neither Maggie 
 nor Clara, nor Janet Orgreave, nor even Hilda before 
 she became his wife, had ever aroused in him the least 
 suspicion that a woman might be a tripartite creature. 
 He was married, certainly nobody could be more le- 
 gally and respectably married than was he but the 
 mere marriage seemed naught in comparison with the 
 enormous fact that he had got this unexampled crea- 
 ture in his house and was living with her, she at his 
 mercy, and he at hers. Enchanting escapade ! Solemn 
 doom ! . . . By the way, she had yet done nothing with 
 the breakfast-room. Yes, she had stolen a "cabinet" 
 gold frame from the shop, and put his photograph into 
 it, and stuck his picture on the mantelpiece; but that 
 was all. She would not permit him to worry her about 
 her secret designs for thejbreakfast-room. The break- 
 fast-room was her affair. Indeed the whole house was 
 her affair. It was no longer his house, in which he 
 could issue orders without considering another individu- 
 ality orders that would infallibly be executed, either 
 cheerfully or glumly, by the plump spinster, Maggie. 
 He had to mind his p's and q's; he had to be wary, 
 everywhere. The creature did not simply live in the 
 house; she pervaded it. As soon as he opened the 
 front-door he felt her. 
 
 ra 
 
 She was now upstairs in their joint bedroom, dress- 
 ing for the At Home. All day he had feared she might 
 
12 THESE TWAIN 
 
 be late, and as he looked at the hall-clock he saw that 
 the risk was getting acute. 
 
 Before the domestic rearrangements preceding the 
 marriage had been fully discussed, he had assumed, 
 and Maggie and Clara had assumed, and Auntie Hamps 
 had absolutely assumed, that the husband and wife 
 would occupy the long empty bedroom of old 
 Darius, because it was two-foot-six broader than 
 Edwin's, and because it was the "principal" bedroom. 
 But Hilda had said No to him privately. Where- 
 upon, being himself almost morbidly unsentimental, 
 he had judiciously hinted that to object to a room 
 because an old man had died in it under distressing 
 circumstances was to be morbidly sentimental and un- 
 worthy of her. Whereupon she had mysteriously 
 smiled, and called him sweet bad names, and kissed him, 
 and hung on his neck. She sentimental! Could not 
 the great stupid see without being told that what in- 
 fluenced her was not an aversion for his father's bed- 
 room, but a predilection for Edwin's. She desired that 
 they should inhabit his room. She wanted to sleep in 
 his room; and to wake up in it, and to feel that she 
 was immersing herself in his past. . . . (Ah ! The ex- 
 citing flattery, like an aphrodisiac !) And she would 
 not allow him to uproot the fixed bookcases on either 
 side of the hearth. She said that for her they were 
 part of the room itself. Useless to argue that they 
 occupied space required for extra furniture! She 
 would manage ! She did manage. He found that the 
 acme of convenience for a husband had not been 
 achieved, but convenience was naught in the rapture of 
 the escapade. He had "needed shaking up," as they 
 say down there, and he was shaken up. 
 
 Nevertheless, though undoubtedly shaken up, he had 
 the male wit to perceive that the bedroom episode had 
 
THE HOUSE 13 
 
 been a peculiar triumph for himself. Her attitude in 
 it, imperious superficially, was in truth an impassioned 
 and outright surrender to him. And further, she had 
 at once become a frankly admiring partisan of his the- 
 ory of bedrooms. The need for a comfortable solitude 
 earlier in life had led Edwin to make his bedroom 
 habitable by means of a gas-stove, an easy chair, and 
 minor amenities. When teased by hardy compatriots 
 about his sybaritism Edwin was apt sometimes to flush 
 and be "nettled," and he would make offensive un- 
 English comments upon the average bedroom of the 
 average English household, which was so barbaric that 
 during eight months of the year you could not maintain 
 your temperature in it unless you were either in 
 bed or running about the room, and that even in Sum- 
 mer you could not sit down therein at ease because there 
 was nothing easy to sit on, nor a table to sit at nor 
 even a book to read. He would caustically ask to be 
 informed why the supposedly practical and comfort- 
 loving English were content with an Alpine hut for a 
 bedroom. And in this way he would go on. He was 
 rather pleased with the phrase "Alpine hut." One day 
 he had overheard Hilda replying to an acquaintance 
 upstairs : "People may say what they like, but Edwin 
 and I don't care to sleep in an Alpine hut." She had 
 caught it! She was his disciple in that matter! And 
 how she had appreciated his easy-chair! As for calm 
 deliberation in dressing and undressing, she could aston- 
 ishingly and even disconcertingly surpass him in the 
 quality. But it is to be noted that she would not permit 
 her son to have a gas-stove in his bedroom. Nor would 
 she let him occupy the disdained principal bedroom, her 
 argument being that that room was too large for a little 
 boy. Maggie Clayhanger's old bedroom was given to 
 George, and the principal bedroom remained empty. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 HILDA ON THE STATES 
 
 ADA descended the stairs, young, slim, very neat. 
 Ada was one of Hilda's two new servants. Before tak- 
 ing charge of the house Hilda had ordained the opera- 
 tion called "a clean sweep," and Edwin had approved. 
 The elder of Maggie's two servants had been a good 
 one, but Hilda had shown no interest in the catalogue 
 of her excellences. She wanted fresh servants. Mag- 
 gie, Eke Edwin, approved, but only as a general prin- 
 ciple. In the particular case she had hinted that her 
 prospective sister-in-law was perhaps unwise to let slip 
 a tested servant. Hilda wanted not merely fresh serv- 
 ants, but young servants agreeable to behold. "I will 
 not have a lot of middle-aged scowling women about 
 my house," Hilda had said. Maggie was reserved, but 
 her glance was meant to remind Hilda that in those 
 end-of-the-century days mistresses had to be content 
 with what they could get. Young and comely servants 
 were all very well if you could drop on them, but sup- 
 posing you couldn't? The fact was that Maggie could 
 not understand Hilda's insistence on youth and comeli- 
 ness in a servant, and she foresaw trouble for Hilda. 
 Hilda, however, obtained her desire. She was outspoken 
 with her servants. If Edwin after his manner implied 
 that she was dangerously ignoring the touchiness of the 
 modern servant, she would say indifferently: "It's al- 
 ways open to them to go if they don't like it." They 
 
 14 
 
HILDA ON THE STAIRS 15 
 
 did not go. It is notorious that foolhardy mistresses 
 are often very lucky. 
 
 As soon as Ada caught sight of her master in the 
 hall she became self-conscious; all the joints of her 
 body seemed to be hung on very resilient springs, and, 
 reddening slightly, she lowered her gaze and looked at 
 her tripping toes. Edwin seldom spoke to her more 
 than once a day, and not always that. He had one day 
 visited the large attic into which, with her colleague, 
 she disappeared late at night and from which she 
 emerged early in the morning, and he had seen two 
 small tin trunks and some clothes behind the door, and 
 an alarm-clock and a portrait of a fireman on the man- 
 telpiece. (The fireman, he seemed to recollect, was her 
 brother.) But she was a stranger in his house, and 
 he had no sustained curiosity about her. The days 
 were gone when he used to be the intimate of servants 
 of Mrs. Nixon, for example, sole prop of the Clay- 
 hanger family for many years, and an entirely human 
 being to Edwin. Mrs. Nixon had never been either 
 young, slim, or neat. She was dead. The last servant 
 whom he could be said to have known was a pert niece 
 of Mrs. Nixon's now somebody's prolific wife and 
 much changed. And he was now somebody's husband, 
 and bearded, and perhaps occasionally pompous, and 
 much changed in other ways. So that enigmatic Adas 
 bridled at sight of him and became intensely aware of 
 themselves. Still, this Ada in her smartness was a 
 pretty sight for his eyes as like an aspen she trembled 
 down the stairs, though the coarseness of her big red 
 hands, and the vulgarity of her accent were a sur- 
 prising contrast to her waist and her fine carriage. 
 
 He knew she had been hooking her mistress's dress, 
 and that therefore the hooking must be finished. He 
 liked to think of Hilda being attired thus in the bed- 
 
16 THESE TWAIN 
 
 room by a natty deferential wench. The process gave 
 to Hilda a luxurious, even an oriental quality, which 
 charmed him. He liked the suddenly impressive tone 
 in which the haughty Hilda would say to Ada, "Your 
 master," as if mentioning a sultan. He was more and 
 more anxious lest Hilda should be late, and he wanted 
 to ask Ada: "Is Mrs. Clayhanger coming down?" 
 
 But he discreetly forbore. He might have run up 
 to the bedroom and burst in on the toilette Hilda 
 would have welcomed him. But he preferred to remain 
 with his anxiety where he was, and meditate upon Hilda 
 bedecking herself up there in the bedroom to please 
 him ; to please not the guests, but him. 
 
 Ada disappeared down the narrow passage leading 
 to the kitchen, and a moment later he heard a crude 
 giggle, almost a scream, and some echo of the rough 
 tones in which the servants spoke to each other when 
 they were alone in the kitchen. There were in fact two 
 Adas ; one was as timid as a fawn with a voice like a 
 delicate invalid's ; the other a loud-mouthed hoity-toity 
 girl such as rushed out of potbanks in flannel apron at 
 one o'clock. The Clayhanger servants were satisfac- 
 tory, more than satisfactory, the subject of favourable 
 comment for their neatness among the mistresses of 
 other servants. He liked them to be about ; their pres- 
 ence and their official demeanour flattered him; they 
 perfected the complex superiority of his house, that 
 island. But when he overheard them alone together, or 
 when he set himself to imagine what their soul's life 
 was, he was more than ever amazed at the unnoticed 
 profound differences between modes of thought that in 
 apparently the most natural manner could exist so 
 close together without producing a cataclysm. Auntie 
 Hamps's theory was that they were all he, she, the 
 servants equal in the sight of God ! 
 
HILDA ON THE STAIRS IT 
 
 ii 
 
 Hilda's son, George Edwin, sidled surprisingly into 
 the hall. He was wearing a sailor suit, very new, and 
 he had probably been invisible somewhere against the 
 blue curtains of the drawing-room window an example 
 of nature's protective mimicry. George was rather 
 small for his ten years. Dark, like his mother, he had 
 her eyes and her thick eyebrows that almost met in 
 the middle, and her pale skin. As for his mind, he 
 seemed to be sometimes alarmingly precocious and 
 sometimes a case of arrested development. In this and 
 many other respects he greatly resembled other boys. 
 The son of a bigamist can have no name, unless it be 
 his mother's maiden name, but George knew nothing 
 of that. He had borne his father's name, and when 
 at the exciting and puzzling period of his mother's 
 marriage he had learnt that his surname would in 
 future be Clayhanger he had a little resented the affront 
 to his egoism. Edwin's explanation, however, that the 
 change was for the convenience of people in general 
 had caused him to shrug his shoulders in concession 
 and to murmur casually: "Oh, well then !" He 
 seemed to be assenting with loftiness: "If it's any 
 particular use to the whole world, I don't really mind." 
 
 "I say, uncle," he began. 
 
 Edwin had chosen this form of address. "Step- 
 father" was preposterous, and "father" somehow of- 
 fended him; so he constituted himself an uncle. 
 
 "Hello, kid!" said he. "Can you find room to keep 
 anything else in your pockets besides your hands?" 
 
 George snatched his hands out of his pockets. Then 
 he smiled confidently up. These two were friends. Ed- 
 win was as proud as the boy of the friendship, and per- 
 haps more flattered. At first he had not cared for 
 
18 THESE TWAIN 
 
 George, being repelled by George's loud, positive tones, 
 his brusque and often violent gestures, and his intense 
 absorption in himself. But gradually he had been won 
 by the boy's boyishness, his smile, his little, soft body, 
 his unspoken invocations, his resentment of injustice 
 (except when strict justice appeared to clash with his 
 own interests), his absolute impotence against adult de- 
 crees, his touching fatalism, his recondite personal dis- 
 tinction that flashed and was gone, and his occasional 
 cleverness and wit. He admitted that George charmed 
 him. But he well knew that he also charmed George. 
 He had a way of treating George as an equal that few 
 children (save possibly Clara's) could have resisted. 
 True, he would quiz the child, but he did not forbid the 
 child to quiz. The mother was profoundly relieved and 
 rejoiced by this friendship. She luxuriated in it. Edwin 
 might well have been inimical to the child; he might 
 through the child have shown a jealousy of the child's 
 father. But, somewhat to the astonishment of even 
 Edwin himself, he never saw the father in the child, 
 nor thought of the father, nor resented the parenthood 
 that was not his. For him the child was an individual. 
 And in spite of his stern determination not to fall into 
 the delusions of conceited parents, he could not help 
 thinking that George was a remarkable child. 
 
 "Have you seen my horse?" asked George. 
 
 "Have I seen your horse? ... Oh! ... I've seen 
 that you've left it lying about on the hall-table." 
 
 "I put it there so that you'd see it," George per- 
 suasively excused himself for the untidiness. 
 
 "Well, let's inspect it," Edwin forgave him, and 
 picked up from the table a piece of cartridge-paper 
 on which was a drawing of a great cart-horse with 
 shaggy feet. It was a vivacious sketch. 
 
 "You're improving," said Edwin, judicially, but in 
 
HILDA ON THE STAIRS 19 
 
 fact much impressed. Surely few boys of ten could 
 draw as well as that! The design was strangely more 
 mature than certain quite infantile watercolours that 
 Edwin had seen scarcely a year earlier. 
 
 "It's rather good, isn't it?" George suggested, lift- 
 ing up his head so that he could just see over the edge 
 of the paper which Edwin held at the level of his 
 watch-chain. 
 
 "I've met worse. Where did you see this particular 
 animal?" 
 
 "I saw him down near the Brewery this morning. 
 But when I'm doing a horse, I see him on the paper 
 before I begin to draw, and I just draw round him." 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "This kid is no ordinary kid." 
 
 He said : 
 
 "Well, we'll pin it up here. We'll have a Royal 
 Academy and hear what the public has to say." He 
 took a pin from under his waistcoat. 
 
 "That's not level," said George. 
 
 And when Edwin had readjusted the pin, George 
 persisted boldly: 
 
 "That's not level either." 
 
 "It's as level as it's going to be. I expect you've 
 been drawing horses instead of practising your piano." 
 
 He looked down at the mysterious little boy, who 
 lived always so much nearer to the earth's surface than 
 himself. 
 
 George nodded simply, and then scratched his head. 
 
 "I suppose if I don't practise while I'm young I shall 
 regret it in after life, shan't I?" 
 
 "Who told you that?" 
 
 "It's what Auntie Hamps said to me, I think. . . 
 I say, uncle." 
 
 "What's up?" 
 
20 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Is Mr. John coming to-night?" 
 
 "I suppose so. Why?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing. ... I say, uncle." 
 
 "That's twice you've said it." 
 
 The boy smiled. 
 
 "You know that piece in the Bible about if two of 
 you shall agree on earth ?" 
 
 "What of it?" Edwin asked rather curtly, antici- 
 pating difficulties. 
 
 "I don't think two boys would be enough, would 
 they? Two grown-ups might. But I'm not so sure 
 about two boys. You see in the very next verse it says 
 two or three, gathered together." 
 
 "Three might be more effective. It's always as well 
 to be on the safe side." 
 
 "Could you pray for anything? A penknife, for 
 instance?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "But could you?" George was a little impatient. 
 
 "Better ask your mother," said Edwin, who was 
 becoming self-conscious under the strain. 
 
 George exploded coarsely: 
 
 "Poh! It's no good asking mother." 
 
 Said Edwin: 
 
 "The great thing in these affairs is to know what 
 you want, and to want it. Concentrate as hard as you 
 can, a long time in advance. No use half wanting!" 
 
 "Well, there's one thing that's poz [positive]. I 
 couldn't begin to concentrate to-night." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Who could?" George protested. "We're all so 
 nervous to-night, aren't we, with this At Home busi- 
 ness. And I know I never could concentrate in my 
 best clothes." 
 
 For Edwin the boy with his shocking candour had 
 
HILDA ON THE STAIRS 21 
 
 suddenly precipitated out of the atmosphere, as it 
 were, the collective nervousness of the household, made 
 it into a phenomenon visible, tangible, oppressive. And 
 the household was no longer a collection of units, but 
 an entity. A bell rang faintly in the kitchen, and the 
 sound abraded his nerves. The first guests were on 
 the threshold, and Hilda was late. He looked at the 
 clock. Yes, she was late. The hour named in the 
 invitations was already past. All day he had feared 
 lest she should be late, and she was late. He looked 
 at the glass of the front-door ; but night had come, and 
 it was opaque. Ada tripped into view and ran upstairs. 
 
 "Don't you hear the front-door?" he stopped her 
 flight. 
 
 "It was missis's bell, sir." 
 
 "Ah!" Respite! 
 
 Ada disappeared. 
 
 Then another ring ! And no parlour-maid to answer 
 the bell! Naturally! Naturally Hilda, forgetting 
 something at the last moment, had taken the parlour- 
 maid away precisely when the girl was needed ! Oh ! 
 He had foreseen it ! He could hear shuffling outside and 
 could even distinguish forms through the glass many 
 forms. All the people converging from various streets 
 upon the waiting nervousness of the household seemed 
 to have arrived at once. 
 
 George moved impulsively towards the front-door. 
 
 "Where are you going?" Edwin asked roughly. 
 "Come here. It's not your place to open the door. 
 Come with me in the drawing-room." 
 
 It was no affair of Edwin's, thought Edwin crossly 
 and uncompromisingly, if guests were kept waiting at 
 the front-door. It was Hilda's affair; she was the 
 mistress of the house, and the blame was hers. 
 
 At high speed Ada swept with streamers down the 
 
22 THESE TWAIN 
 
 stairs, like a squirrel down the branch of a tree. And 
 then came Hilda. 
 
 ni 
 
 She stood at the turn of the stairs, waiting while 
 the front-door was opened. He and George could see 
 her over and through the banisters. And at sight of 
 her triumphant and happy air, all Edwin's annoyance 
 melted. He did not desire that it should melt, but it 
 melted. She was late. He could not rely on her not 
 to be late. In summoning the parlourmaid to her bed- 
 room when the parlourmaid ought to have been on 
 duty downstairs she had acted indefensibly and with- 
 out thought. No harm, as it happened, was done. 
 Sheer chance often thus saved her, but logically her 
 double fault was not thereby mitigated. He felt that 
 if he forgave her, if he dismissed the charge and wiped 
 the slate, he was being false to the great male principles 
 of logic and justice. The godlike judge in him re- 
 sented the miscarriage of justice. Nevertheless justice 
 miscarried. And the weak husband said like a woman : 
 "What does it matter?" Such was her shameful power 
 over him, of which the unscrupulous creature was quite 
 aware. 
 
 As he looked at her he asked himself: "Is she mag- 
 nificent? Or is she just ordinary and am I deluded? 
 Does she seem her age? Is she a mature woman get- 
 ting past the prime, or has she miraculously kept her- 
 self a young girl for me?" 
 
 In years she was thirty-five. She had large bones, 
 and her robust body, neither plump nor slim, showed 
 the firm, assured carriage of its age. It said: 
 "I have stood before the world, and I can- 
 not be intimidated." Still, marriage had rejuvenated 
 her. She was marvellously young at times, and 
 
HILDA ON THE STAIRS 23 
 
 experience would drop from her and leave the girl that 
 he had first known and kissed ten years earlier ; but a 
 less harsh, less uncompromising girl. At their first ac- 
 quaintance she had repelled him with her truculent seri- 
 ousness. Nowadays she would laugh for no apparent 
 reason, and even pirouette. Her complexion was good ; 
 he could nearly persuade himself that that olive skin 
 had not suffered in a decade of distress and disasters. 
 
 Previous to her marriage she had shown little in- 
 terest in dress. But now she would spasmodically 
 worry about her clothes, and she would make Edwin 
 worry. He had to decide, though he had no qualifica- 
 tions as an arbiter. She would scowl at a dressmaker 
 as if to say: "For God's sake do realise that upon 
 you is laid the sacred responsibility of helping me to 
 please my husband !" To-night she was wearing a 
 striped blue dress, imperceptibly decolletee, with the 
 leg-of-mutton sleeves of the period. The colours, two 
 shades of blue, did not suit her. But she imagined 
 that they suited her, and so did he; and the frock was 
 elaborate, was the result of terrific labour and pro- 
 duced a rich effect, meet for a hostess of position. 
 
 The mere fact that this woman with no talent for 
 coquetry should after years of narrow insufficiency 
 scowl at dressmakers and pout at senseless refractory 
 silks in the yearning for elegance was utterly delicious 
 to Edwin. Her presence there on the landing of the 
 stairs was in the nature of a miracle. He had. 
 wanted her, and he had got her. In the end he 
 had got her, and nothing had been able to stop 
 him not even the obstacle of her tragic adventure 
 with a rascal and a bigamist. The strong magic 
 of his passion had forced destiny to render her up to 
 him mysteriously intact, after all. The impossible had 
 occurred, and society had accepted it, beaten. There 
 
24 THESE TWAIN 
 
 she was, dramatically, with her thick eyebrows, and 
 the fine wide nostrils and the delicate lobe of the ear, 
 and that mouth that would startlingly fasten on him 
 and kiss the life out of him. 
 
 "There is dear Hilda !" said someone at the door amid 
 the arriving group. 
 
 None but Auntie Hamps would have said 'dear' 
 Hilda. Maggie, Clara, and even Janet Orgreave never 
 used sentimental adjectives on occasions of ceremony. 
 
 And in her clear, precise, dominating voice Hilda 
 with gay ease greeted the company from above : 
 
 "Good evening, all!" 
 
 "What the deuce was I so upset about just now?" 
 thought Edwin, in sudden, instinctive, exulting felicity: 
 "E very thing is absolutely all right." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 ATTACK AND REPULSE 
 
 THE entering guests were Edwin's younger sister 
 Clara with her husband Albert Benbow, his elder sister 
 Maggie, Auntie Hamps, and Mr. Peartree. They had 
 arrived together, and rather unfashionably soon after 
 the hour named in the invitation, because the Benbows 
 had called at Auntie Hamps's on the way up, and the 
 Benbows were always early, both in arriving and in de- 
 parting, "on account of the children." They called 
 themselves "early birds." Whenever they were out of 
 the nest in the evening they called themselves early 
 birds. They used the comparison hundreds, thousands, 
 of times, and never tired of it; indeed each time they 
 were convinced that they had invented it freshly for 
 the occasion. 
 
 Said Auntie Hamps, magnificent in jetty black, 
 handsome, and above all imposing: 
 
 "I knew you would be delighted to meet Mr. Peartree 
 again, Edwin. He is staying the night at my house 
 I can be so much more hospitable now Maggie is with 
 me and I insisted he should come up with us. But it 
 needed no insisting." 
 
 The old erect lady looked from Mr. Peartree with 
 pride towards her nephew. 
 
 Mr. Peartree was a medium-sized man of fifty, with 
 greying sandy hair. Twenty years before, he had been 
 second minister in the Bursley Circuit of the Wesleyan 
 Methodist Connexion. He was now Superintendent 
 
 25 
 
26 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Minister in a Cheshire circuit. The unchangeable 
 canons of Wesleyanism permit its ministers to marry, 
 and celibacy is even discouraged, for the reason that 
 wives and daughters are expected to toil in the cause, 
 and their labour costs the circuit not a halfpenny. But 
 the canons forbid ministers to take root and found a 
 home. Eleven times in thirty years Mr. Peartree had 
 been forced to migrate to a strange circuit and to 
 adapt his much-travelled furniture and family to a 
 house which he had not chosen, and which his wife gen- 
 erally did not like. During part of the period he had 
 secretly resented the autocracy of Superintendent Min- 
 isters, and during the remainder he had learnt that Su- 
 perintendent Ministers are not absolute autocrats. 
 
 He was neither overworked nor underpaid. He be- 
 longed to the small tradesman class, and, keeping a 
 shop in St. Luke's Square, he might well have worked 
 harder for less money than he now earned. His voca- 
 tion, however, in addition to its desolating nomadic 
 quality, had other grave drawbacks. It gave him con- 
 tact with a vast number of human beings, but the abnor- 
 mal proportion among them of visionaries, bigots, 
 hypocrites, and petty office-seekers falsified his general 
 estimate of humanity. Again, the canons rigorously 
 forbade him to think freely for himself on the subjects 
 which in theory most interested him; with the result 
 that he had remained extremely ignorant through the 
 very fear of knowledge, that he was a warm enemy 
 of freedom, and that he habitually carried intellectual 
 dishonesty to the verge of cynicism. Thirdly, he was 
 obliged always to be diplomatic (except of course with 
 his family), and nature had not meant him for the 
 diplomatic career. He was so sick of being all things 
 to all men that he even dreamed diplomatic dreams as 
 a galley-slave will dream of the oar; and so little 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 27 
 
 gifted for the role that he wore insignificant tight 
 turned-down collars, never having perceived the im- 
 mense moral advantage conferred on the diplomatist 
 by a high, loose, wide-rolling collar. Also he was sick 
 of captivity, and this in no wise lessened his objection 
 to freedom. He had lost all youthful enthusiasm, and 
 was in fact equally bored with earth and with heaven. 
 
 Nevertheless, he had authority and security. He 
 was accustomed to the public gaze and to the forms of 
 deference. He knew that he was as secure as a judge, 
 and far more secure than a cabinet-minister. Nothing 
 but the inconceivable collapse of a powerful and wealthy 
 sect could affect his position or his livelihood to the 
 very end of life. Hence, beneath his weariness and his 
 professional attitudinarianism there was a hint of the 
 devil-may-care that had its piquancy. He could foresee 
 with indifference even the distant but approaching day 
 when he would have to rise in the pulpit and assert that 
 the literal inspiration of the Scriptures was not and 
 never had been an essential article of Wesleyan faith. 
 
 Edwin blenched at the apparition of Mr. Peartree. 
 That even Auntie Hamps should dare uninvited to 
 bring a Wesleyan Minister to the party was startling; 
 but that the minister should be Mr. Peartree staggered 
 him. For twenty years and more Edwin had secretly, 
 and sometimes in public, borne a tremendous grudge 
 against Mr. Peartree. He had execrated, anathema- 
 tised, and utterly excommunicated Mr. Peartree, and 
 had extended the fearful curse to his family, all his 
 ancestors, and all his descendants. When Mr. Peartree 
 was young and fervent in the service of heaven he had 
 had the monstrous idea of instituting a Saturday 
 Afternoon Bible Class for schoolboys. Abetted by 
 parents weak-minded and cruel, he had caught and 
 horribly tortured some score of miserable victims, of 
 
28 THESE TWAIN 
 
 whom Edwin was one. The bitter memory of those 
 weekly half-holidays thieved from him and made deso- 
 late by a sanctimonious crank had never softened, nor 
 had Edwin ever forgiven Mr. Peartree. 
 
 It was at the sessions of the Bible Class that Edwin, 
 while silently perfecting himself in the art of profanity 
 and blasphemy, had in secret fury envenomed his in- 
 stinctive mild objection to the dogma, the ritual, and 
 the spirit of conventional Christianity, especially as 
 exemplified in Wesleyan Methodism. He had left Mr. 
 Peartree's Bible Class a convinced anti-religionist, a 
 hater and despiser of all that the Wesleyan Chapel 
 and Mr. Peartree stood for. He deliberately was not 
 impartial, and he took a horrid pleasure in being un- 
 fair. He knew well that Methodism had produced many 
 fine characters, and played a part in the moral devel- 
 opment of the race ; but he would not listen to his own 
 knowledge. Nothing could extenuate, for him, the nox- 
 iousness of Methodism. On the other hand he was full 
 of glee if he could add anything to the indictment 
 against it and Christianity. Huxley's controversial 
 victories over Gladstone were then occurring in the 
 monthly press, and he acclaimed them with enormous 
 gusto. When he first read that the Virgin Birth was 
 a feature of sundry creeds more ancient than Chris- 
 tianity, his private satisfaction was intense and lasted 
 acutely for days. 'When he heard that Methodism had 
 difficulty in maintaining its supply of adequately 
 equipped ministers, he rejoiced with virulence. His hos- 
 tility was the more significant in that it was concealed 
 embedded like a foreign substance in the rather suave 
 gentleness of his nature. At intervals ^creasingly 
 frequent, it is true he would carry it into the chapel 
 itself; for through mingled cowardice and sharp pru- 
 dence, he had not formally left the Connexion. To 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 29 
 
 compensate himself for such bowings-down he would 
 now and then assert, judicially to a reliable male friend, 
 or with ferocious contempt to a scandalised defenceless 
 sister, that, despite all parsons, religion was not a 
 necessity of the human soul, and that he personally had 
 never felt the need of it and never would. In which 
 assertion he was profoundly sincere. 
 
 And yet throughout he had always thought of him- 
 self as a rebel against authority ; and such is tfie mys- 
 terious intimidating prestige of the past he was out- 
 wardly an apologetic rebel. Neither his intellectual 
 pride nor his cold sustained resentment, nor his axi- 
 omatic conviction of the crude and total falseness of 
 Christian theology, nor all three together, had ever 
 sufficed to rid him of the self-excusing air. When 
 Auntie Hamps spoke with careful reverence of "the 
 Super" (short for "superintendent minister"), the 
 word had never in thirty years quite failed to inspire in 
 him some of the awe with which he had heard it as an 
 infant. Just as a policeman was not an employee but 
 a policeman, so a minister was not a person of the 
 trading-class who happened to have been through a cer- 
 tain educational establishment, subscribed to certain 
 beliefs, submitted to certain ceremonies and adopted a 
 certain costume, but a minister, a being inexplicably 
 endowed with authority, in fact a sort of arch-police- 
 man. And thus, while detesting and despising him, Ed- 
 win had never thought of Abel Peartree as merely a 
 man. 
 
 Now, in the gas-lit bustle of the hall, after an inter- 
 val of about twenty years, he beheld again his enemy, 
 his bugbear,^ his loathed oppressor, the living symbol 
 of all that his soul condemned. 
 
 Said Mrs. Hamps : 
 
 "I reminded Mr. Peartree that you used to attend 
 
30 THESE TWAIN 
 
 his Bible-class, Edwin. Do you remember? I hope 
 you do." 
 
 "Oh, yes !" said Edwin, with a slight nervous laugh, 
 blushing. His eye caught Clara's, but there was no 
 sign whatever of the old malicious grin on her maternal 
 face. Nor did Maggie's show a tremor. And, of 
 course, the majestic duplicity of Auntie Hamps did 
 not quiver under the strain. So that the Rev. Mr. 
 Peartree, protesting honestly that he should have recog- 
 nised his old pupil Mr. Clayhanger anywhere, never 
 suspected the terrific drama of the moment. 
 
 And the next moment there was no drama. . . . 
 Teacher and pupil shook hands. The recognition was 
 mutual. To Edwin, Mr. Peartree, save for the greying 
 of his hair, had not changed. His voice, his form, his 
 gestures, were absolutely the same. Only, instead of 
 being Mr. Peartree, he was a man like another man 
 a commonplace, hard-featured, weary man; a spare 
 little man, with a greenish-black coat and bluish-white 
 low collar; a perfunctory, listless man with an un- 
 pleasant voice ; a man with the social code of the Ben- 
 bows and Auntie Hamps ; a man the lines of whose 
 face disclosed a narrow and self-satisfied ignorance; a 
 man whose destiny had forbidden him ever to be natu- 
 ral; the usual snobbish man, who had heard of the im- 
 portance and the success and the wealth of Edwin Clay- 
 hanger and who kowtowed thereto and was naively 
 impressed thereby, and proud that Edwin Clayhanger 
 had once been his pupil; and withal an average decent 
 fellow. 
 
 Edwin rather liked the casual look in Mr. Peartree's 
 eyes that said: "My being here is part of my job. 
 I'm indifferent. I do what I have to do, and I really 
 don't care. I have paid tens of thousands of calls 
 and I shall pay tens of thousands more. If I am bored 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 31 
 
 I am paid to be bored, and I repeat I really don't care." 
 This was the human side of Mr. Peartree showing itself. 
 It endeared him to Edwin. 
 
 "Not a bad sort of cuss, after all !" thought Edwin. 
 
 All the carefully tended rage and animosity of twenty 
 years evaporated out of his heart and was gone. He 
 did not forgive Mr. Peartree, because there was no Mr. 
 Peartree there was only this man. And there was 
 no Wesleyan chapel either, but only an ugly forlorn 
 three-quarters-empty building at the top of Duck Bank. 
 And Edwin was no longer an apologetic rebel, nor even 
 any kind of a rebel. It occurred to nobody, not even 
 to the mighty Edwin, that in those few seconds the his- 
 tory of dogmatic religion had passed definitely out of 
 one stage into another. 
 
 Abel Peartree nonchalantly, and with a practised 
 aplomb which was not disturbed even by the vision of 
 George's heroic stallion, said the proper things to Ed- 
 win and Hilda; and it became known, somehow, that 
 the parson was re-visiting Bursley in order to deliver 
 his well-known lecture entitled "The Mantle and Mis- 
 sion of Elijah," the sole lecture of his repertoire, but 
 it had served to raise him ever so slightly out of the 
 ruck of 'Supers.' Hilda patronised him. Against the 
 rich background of her home, she assumed the pose of 
 the grand lady. Abel Peartree seemed to like the pose, 
 and grew momentarily vivacious in knightly response. 
 "And why not?" said Edwin to himself, justifying his 
 wife after being a little critical of her curtness. 
 
 Then, when the conversation fell, Auntie Hamps dis- 
 creetly suggested that she and the girls should "go 
 upstairs." The negligent Hilda had inexcusably for- 
 gotten in her nervous excitement that on these occa- 
 sions arriving ladies should be at once escorted to the 
 specially-titivated best bedroom, there to lay their 
 
32 THESE TWAIN 
 
 things on the best counterpane. She perhaps ought to 
 have atoned for her negligence by herself leading 
 Auntie Hamps to the bedroom. But instead she 
 deputed Ada. "And why not?" said Edwin to himself 
 again. As the ladies mounted Mr. Peartree laughed 
 genuinely at one of Albert Benbow's characteristic 
 pleasantries, which always engloomed Edwin. "Kin- 
 dred spirits, those two !" thought the superior sardonic 
 Edwin, and privately raised his eyebrows to his wife, 
 who answered the signal. 
 
 n 
 
 Somewhat later, various other guests having come 
 and distributed themselves over the reception-rooms, 
 the chandeliers glinted down their rays upon light sum- 
 mer frocks and some jewellery and coats of black and 
 dark grey and blue; and the best counterpanes in the 
 best bedroom were completely hidden by mantles and 
 cloaks, and the hatstand in the hall heavily clustered 
 with hats and caps. The reception was in being, and 
 the interior full of animation. Edwin, watchful and 
 hospitably anxious, wandered out of the drawing-room 
 into the hall. The door of the breakfast-room was 
 ajar, and he could hear Clara's voice behind it. He 
 knew that the Benbows and Maggie and Auntie Hamps 
 were all in the breakfast-room, and he blamed chiefly 
 Clara for this provincial clannishness, which was so 
 characteristic of her. Surely Auntie Hamps at any 
 rate ought to have realised that the duty of members 
 of the family was to spread themselves among the other 
 guests ! 
 
 He listened. 
 
 "No," Clara was saying, "we don't know what's hap- 
 pened to him since he came out of prison. He got two 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 33 
 
 years." She was speaking in what Edwin called her 
 'scandal' tones, low, clipped, intimate, eager, blissful. 
 And then Albert Benbow's voice : 
 "He's had the good sense not to bother us." 
 Edwin, while resenting the conversation, and the 
 Benbows' use of "we" and "us" in a matter which did 
 not concern them, was grimly comforted by the thought 
 of their ignorance of a detail which would have in- 
 terested them passionately. None but Hilda and him- 
 self knew that the bigamist was at that moment in 
 prison again for another and a later offence. Every- 
 thing had been told but that. 
 
 "Of course," said Clara, "they needn't have said 
 anything about the bigamy at all, and nobody outside 
 the family need have known that poor Hilda was not 
 just an ordinary widow. But we all thought " 
 
 "I don't know so much about that, Clary," Albert 
 Benbow interrupted his wife; "you mustn't forget his 
 real wife came to Turnhill to make enquiries. That 
 started a hare." 
 
 "Well, you know what I mean," said Clara vaguely. 
 Mr. Peartree's voice came in: 
 "But surely the case was in the papers?" 
 "I expect it was in the Sussex papers," Albert re- 
 plied. "You see, they went through the ceremony of 
 marriage at Lewes. But it never got into the local 
 rag, because he got married in his real name Cannon 
 wasn't his real name; and he'd no address in the 
 Five Towns, then. He was just a boarding- 
 house keeper at Brighton. It was a miracle it 
 didn't get into the Signal, if you ask me; but it 
 didn't. I happen to know" his voice grew important 
 "that the Signal people have an arrangement with 
 the Press Association for a full report of all matri- 
 monial cases that 'ud be likely to interest the district. 
 
34 THESE TWAIN 
 
 However, the Press Association weren't quite, on the 
 spot that time. And it's not surprising they weren't, 
 either." 
 
 Clara resumed: 
 
 "No. It never came out. Still, as I say, we all 
 thought it best not to conceal anything. Albert 
 strongly advised Edwin not to attempt any such thing." 
 ("What awful rot!" thought Edwin.) "So we just 
 mentioned it quietly like to a few friends. After all, 
 poor Hilda was perfectly innocent. Of course she felt 
 her position keenly when she came to live here after 
 the wedding." ("Did she indeed!" thought Edwin.) 
 "Edwin would have the wedding in London. We did 
 so feel for her." ("Did you indeed!" thought Edwin.) 
 "She wouldn't have an At Home. I knew it was a 
 mistake not to. We all knew. But no, she would not. 
 Folks began to talk. They thought it strange she 
 didn't have an At Home like other folks. Many young 
 married women have two At Homes nowadays. So in 
 the end she was persuaded. She fixed it for August 
 because she thought so many people would be away at 
 the seaside. But they aren't at least not so many as 
 you'd think. Albert says it's owing to the General 
 Election upset. And she wouldn't have it in the after- 
 noon like other folks. Mrs. Edwin isn't like other 
 folks, and you can't alter her." 
 
 "What's the matter with the evening for an At Home, 
 anyhow?" asked Benhow the breezy and consciously 
 broad-minded. 
 
 "Oh, of course, / quite agree. I like it. But folks 
 are so funny." 
 
 After a momentary pause, Mr. Peartree said uncer- 
 tainly : 
 
 "And there's a little boy?" 
 
 Said Clara: 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 35 
 
 "Yes, the one you've seen." 
 
 Said Auntie Hamps: 
 
 "Poor little thing! I do feel so sorry for him 
 when he grows up " 
 
 "You needn't, Auntie," said Maggie curtly, express- 
 ing her attitude to George in that mild curtness. 
 
 "Of course," said Clara quickly. "We never let it 
 make any difference. In fact our Bert and he are 
 rather friends, aren't they, Albert?" 
 
 At this moment George himself opened the door of 
 the dining-room, letting out a faint buzz of talk and 
 clink of vessels. His mouth was not empty. 
 
 Precipitately Edwin plunged into the breakfast- 
 room. 
 
 "Hello! You people!" he murmured. "Well, Mr. 
 Peartree." 
 
 There they were all of them, including the parson 
 grouped together, lusciously bathing in the fluid of 
 scandal. 
 
 Clara turned, and without the least constraint said 
 sweetly : 
 
 "Oh, Edwin! There you are! I was just telling 
 Mr. Peartree about you and Hilda, you know. We 
 thought it would be better." 
 
 "You see," said Auntie Hamps impressively, "Mr. 
 Peartree will be about the town to-morrow, and a word 
 from him " 
 
 Mr. Peartree tried unsuccessfully to look as if he 
 was nobody in particular. 
 
 "That's all right," said Edwin. "Perhaps the door 
 might as well be shut." He thought, as many a man 
 has thought : "My relations take the cake !" 
 
 Clara occupied the only easy chair in the room. 
 Mrs. Hamps and the parson were seated. Maggie- 
 stood. Albert Benbow, ever uxorious, was perched 
 
36 THESE TWAIN 
 
 sideways on the arm of his wife's chair. Clara, centre 
 of the conclave and of all conclaves in which she took 
 part, was the mother of five children, and nearing 
 thirty-five years of age. Maternity had ruined her once 
 slim figure, but neither she nor Albert seemed to mind 
 that, they seemed rather to be proud of her unshapeli- 
 ness. Her face was unspoiled. She was pretty and had 
 a marvellously fair complexion. In her face Edwin 
 could still always plainly see the pert, charming, ma- 
 licious girl of fourteen who loathed Auntie Hamps and 
 was rude to her behind her back. But Clara and Auntie 
 Hamps were fast friends nowadays. Clara's brood had 
 united them. They thought alike on all topics. Clara 
 had accepted Auntie Hamps's code practically entire; 
 but on the other hand she had dominated Auntie 
 Hamps. The respect which Auntie Hamps showed for 
 Clara and for Edwin, and in a slightly less degree for 
 Maggie, was a strange phenomenon in the old age of 
 that grandiose and vivacious pillar of Wesleyanism and 
 the conventions. 
 
 Edwin did not like Clara; he objected to her domes- 
 ticity, her motherliness, her luxuriant fruitfulness, the 
 Intonations of her voice, her intense self-satisfaction 
 and her remarkable duplicity; and perhaps more than 
 anything to her smug provinciality. He did not posi- 
 tively dislike his brother-in-law, but he objected to him 
 for his uxoriousness, his cheerful assurance of Clara's 
 perfection, his contented and conceited ignorance of 
 all intellectual matters, his incorrigible vulgarity of a 
 small manufacturer who displays everywhere the stig- 
 mata of petty commerce, and his ingenuous love of 
 office. As for Maggie, the plump spinster of forty, Ed- 
 win respected her when he thought of her, but re- 
 proached her for social gawkiness and taciturnity. As 
 for Auntie Hamps, he could not respect, but he was 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 37 
 
 forced to admire, her gorgeous and sustained hypocrisy, 
 in which no flaw had ever been found, and which vic- 
 timised even herself ; he was always invigorated by her 
 ageless energy and the sight of her handsome, erect, 
 valiant figure. 
 
 Edwin's absence had stopped the natural free course 
 of conversation. But there were at least three people 
 in the room whom nothing could abash: Mrs. Hamps, 
 Clara, and Mr. Peartree. 
 
 Mr. Peartree, sitting up with his hands on his baggy 
 knees, said: 
 
 "Everything seems to have turned out very well in 
 the end, Mr. Clayhanger very well, indeed." His 
 features showed less of the tedium of life. 
 
 "Eh, yes! Eh, yes!" breathed Auntie Hamps in 
 ecstasy. 
 
 Edwin, diffident and ill-pleased, was about to suggest 
 that the family might advantageously separate, when 
 George came after him into the room. 
 
 "Oh!" cried George. 
 
 "Well, little jockey!" Clara began instantly to him 
 with an exaggerated sweetness that Edwin thought must 
 nauseate the child, "would you like Bert to come up and 
 play with you one of these afternoons?" 
 
 George stared at her, and slowly flushed. 
 
 "Yes," said George. "Only" 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 "Supposing I was doing something else when he 
 came ?" 
 
 Without waiting for possible developments George 
 turned to leave the room again. 
 
 "You're a caution, you are!" said Albert Benbow; 
 and to the adults : "Hates to be disturbed, I suppose." 
 
 "That's it," said Edwin responsively, as brother-in- 
 law to brother-in-law. But he felt that he, with a few 
 
38 THESE TWAIN 
 
 months' experience of another's child, appreciated the 
 exquisite strange sensibility of children infinitely better 
 than Albert were he fifty times a father. 
 
 "What is a caution, Uncle Albert?" asked George, 
 peeping back from the door. 
 
 Auntie Hamps good-humouredly warned the child of 
 the danger of being impertinent to his elders : 
 
 "George ! George !" 
 
 "A caution is a caution to snakes," said Albert. 
 "Shoo!" Making a noise like a rocket, he feinted to 
 pursue the boy with violence. 
 
 Mr. Peartree laughed rather loudly, and rather like 
 a human being, at the word "snakes." Albert Ben- 
 bow's flashes of humour, indeed, seemed to surprise 
 him, if only for an instant, out of his attitudinarianism. 
 
 Clara smiled, flattered by the power of her husband 
 to reveal the humanity of the parson. 
 
 "Albert's so good with children," she said. "He 
 always knows exactly . . ." She stopped, leaving 
 what he knew exactly to the listeners' imagination. 
 
 Uncle Albert and George could be heard scuffling 
 in the hall. 
 
 Auntie Hamps rose with a gentle sigh, saying: 
 
 "I suppose we ought to join the others." 
 
 Her social sense, which was pretty well developed, 
 had at last prevailed. 
 
 The sisters Maggie and Clara, one in light and 
 the other in dark green, walked out of the room. Mag- 
 gie's face had already stiffened into mute constraint, 
 and Clara's into self-importance, at the prospect of 
 meeting the general company. 
 
 m 
 
 Auntie Hamps held back, and Edwin at once per- 
 ceived from the conspiratorial glance in her splendid 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 39 
 
 eyes that in suggesting a move she had intended to 
 deceive her fellow-conspirator in life, Clara. But 
 Auntie Hamps could not live without chicane. And 
 she was happiest when she had superimposed chicane 
 upon chicane in complex folds. 
 
 She put a ringed hand softly but arrestingly upon 
 Edwin's arm, and pushed the door to. Alone with her 
 and the parson, Edwin felt himself to be at bay, and he 
 drew back before an unknown menace. 
 
 "Edwin, dear," said she, "Mr. Peartree has something 
 to suggest to you. I was going to say 4 a favour to 
 ask,' but I won't put it like that. I'm sure my nephew 
 will look upon it as a privilege. You know how much 
 Mr. Peartree has at heart the District Additional 
 Chapels Fund " 
 
 Edwin did not know how much ; but he had heard of 
 the Macclesfield District Additional Chapels Fund, 
 Bursley being one of the circuits in the Macclesfield 
 District. Wesleyanism finding itself confronted with 
 lessening congregations and with a shortage of minis- 
 ters, the Macclesfield District had determined to prove 
 that Wesleyanism was nevertheless spiritually vigorous 
 by the odd method of building more chapels. Mr. 
 Peartree, inventor of Saturday afternoon Bible-Classes 
 for schoolboys, was one of the originators of the bricky 
 scheme, and in fact his lecture upon the "Mantle and 
 Mission of Elijah" was to be in aid of it. The next in- 
 stant Mr. Peartree had invited Edwin to act as District 
 Treasurer of the Fund, the previous treasurer having 
 died. 
 
 More chicane! The parson's visit, then, was not a 
 mere friendly call, inspired by the moment. It was 
 part of a scheme. It had been planned against him. 
 Did they (he seemed to be asking himself) think him 
 so ingenuous, so simple, as not to see through their 
 
40 THESE TWAIN 
 
 dodge? If not, then why the preliminary pretences? 
 He did not really ask himself these questions, for the 
 reason that he knew the answers to them. When a 
 piece of chicane had succeeded Auntie Hamps forgot 
 it, and expected others to forget it, or at any rate 
 she dared, by her magnificent front, anybody on earth 
 to remind her of it. She was quite indifferent whether 
 Edwin saw through her dodge or not. 
 
 "You're so good at business," said she. 
 
 Ah! She would insist on the business side of the 
 matter, affecting to ignore the immense moral sig- 
 nificance which would be attached to Edwin's accept- 
 ance of the office! Were he to yield, the triumph for 
 Methodism would ring through the town. He read all 
 her thoughts. Nothing could break down her magnifi- 
 cent front. She had cornered him by a device ; she had 
 him at bay; and she counted on his weak good-nature, 
 on his easy-going cowardice, for a victory. 
 
 Mr. Peartree talked. Mr. Peartree expressed his 
 certitude that Edwin was "with them at heart," and 
 his absolute reliance upon Edwin's sense of the re- 
 sponsibilities of a man in his, Edwin's, position. Auntie 
 Hamps recalled with fervour Edwin's early activities 
 in Methodism the Young Men's Debating Society, 
 for example, which met at six o'clock on frosty winter 
 mornings for the proving of the faith by dialectics. 
 
 And Edwin faltered in his speech. 
 
 "You ought to get Albert," he feebly suggested. 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Auntie. "Albert is grand in his 
 own line. But for this, we want a man like you." 
 
 It was a master-stroke. Edwin had the illusion of 
 trembling, and yet he knew that he did not tremble, even 
 inwardly. He seemed to see the forces of evolution and 
 the forces of reaction ranged against each other in a su- 
 preme crisis. He seemed to see the alternative of two fu- 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 41 
 
 tures for himself and in one he would he a humiliated 
 and bored slave, and in the other a fine, reckless ensign 
 of freedom. He seemed to be doubtful of his own cour- 
 age. But at the bottom of his soul he was not doubtful. 
 He remembered all the frightful and degrading ennui 
 which when he was young he had suffered as a martyr to 
 Wesleyanism and dogma, all the sinister deceptions 
 which he had had to practise and which had been prac- 
 tised upon him. He remembered his almost life-long in- 
 tense hatred of Mr. Peartree. And he might have 
 clenched his hands bitterly and said with homicidal ani- 
 mosity : "Now I will pay you out ! And I will tell you 
 the truth ! And I will wither you up and incinerate you, 
 and be revenged for everything in one single sentence !" 
 But he felt no bitterness, and his animosity was dead. 
 At the bottom of his soul there was nothing but a bland 
 indifference that did not even scorn. 
 
 "No," he said quietly. "I shan't be your treasurer. 
 You must ask somebody else." 
 
 A vast satisfaction filled him. The refusal was so 
 easy, the opposing forces so negligible. 
 
 Auntie Hamps and Mr. Peartree knew nothing of 
 the peculiar phenomena Induced in Edwin's mind by 
 the first sight of the legendary Abel Peartree after 
 twenty years. But Auntie Hamps, though puzzled for 
 an explanation, comprehended that she was decisively 
 beaten. The blow was hard. Nevertheless she did not 
 wince. The superb pretence must be kept up, and she 
 kept it up. She smiled and, tossing her curls, checked 
 Edwin with cheerful, indomitable rapidity. 
 
 "Now, now! Don't decide at once. Think it over 
 very carefully, and we shall ask you again. Mr. Pear- 
 tree will write to you. I feel sure . . ." 
 
 Appearances were preserved. 
 
 The colloquy was interrupted by Hilda, who came in 
 
42 THESE TWAIN 
 
 excited, gay, with sparkling eyes, humming an air. She 
 had protested vehemently against an A*. Home. She 
 had said again and again that the idea oi an At Home 
 was abhorrent to her, and that she hated all such whole- 
 sale formal hospitalities and could not bear "people." 
 And yet now she was enchanted with her situation as 
 hostess delighted with herself and her rich dress, 
 almost ecstatically aware of her own attractiveness and 
 domination. The sight of her gave pleasure and com- 
 municated zest. Mature, she was yet only beginning 
 life. And as she glanced with secret condescension at 
 the listless Mr. Peartree she seemed to say : "What is 
 all this talk of heaven and hell? I am in love with life 
 and the senses, and everything is lawful to me, and I 
 am above you." And even Auntie Hamps, though one 
 of the most self-sufficient creatures that ever lived, 
 envied in her glorious decay the young maturity of 
 sensuous Hilda. 
 
 "Well," said Hilda. "What's going on here? 
 They're all gone mad about missing words in the draw- 
 ing-room." 
 
 She smiled splendidly at Edwin, whose pride in her 
 thrilled him. Her superiority to other women was 
 patent. She made other women seem negative. In fact, 
 she was a tingling woman before she was anything 
 else that was it! He compared her with Clara, who 
 was now nothing but a mother, and to Maggie, who had 
 never been anything at all. 
 
 Mr. Peartree made the mistake of telling her the 
 subject of the conversation. She did not wait to hear 
 what Edwin's answer had been. 
 
 She said curtly, and with finality : 
 
 "Oh, no ! I won't have it." 
 
 Edwin did not quite like this. The matter con- 
 cerned him alone, and he was an absolutely free agent. 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 43 
 
 She ought to have phrased her objection differently. 
 For example, she might have said : "I hope he has re- 
 fused." 
 
 Still, his annoyance was infinitesimal. 
 
 "The poor boy works quite hard enough as it is," 
 she added, with delicious caressing intonation of the 
 first words. 
 
 He liked that. But she was confusing the issue. 
 She always would confuse the issue. It was not because 
 the office would involve extra work for him that he had 
 declined the invitation, as she well knew. 
 
 Of course Auntie Hamps said in a flash : 
 
 "If it means overwork for him I shouldn't dream " 
 She was putting the safety of appearances beyond 
 doubt. 
 
 "By the way, Auntie," Hilda continued. "What's 
 the trouble about the pew down at chapel? Both Clara 
 and Maggie have mentioned it." 
 
 "Trouble, my dear?" exclaimed Auntie Hamps, justi- 
 fiably shocked that Hilda should employ such a word 
 in the presence of Mr. Peartree. But Hilda was apt 
 to be headlong. 
 
 To the pew originally taken by Edwin's father, and 
 since his death standing in Edwin's name, Clara had 
 brought her husband ; and although it was a long pew, 
 the fruits of the marriage had gradually filled it, so that 
 if Edwin chanced to go to chapel there was not too 
 much room for him in the pew, which presented the 
 appearance of a second-class railway carriage crowded 
 with season-ticket holders. Albert Benbow had sug- 
 gested that Edwin should yield up the pew to the 
 Benbows, and take a smaller pew for himself and Hilda 
 and George. But the women had expressed fear lest 
 Edwin "might not like" this break in a historic tradi- 
 tion, and Albert Benbow had been forbidden to put 
 
44? THESE TWAIN 
 
 forward the suggestion until the diplomatic sex had 
 examined the ground. 
 
 "We shall be only too pleased for Albert to take 
 over the pew," said Hilda. 
 
 "But have you chosen another pew?" Mrs. Hamps 
 looked at Edwin. 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Hilda lightly. 
 
 "But" 
 
 "Now, Auntie," the tingling woman warned Auntie 
 Hamps as one powerful individuality may warn an- 
 other, "don't worry about us. You know we're not 
 great chapel-goer s." 
 
 She spoke the astounding words gaily, but firmly. 
 She could be firm, and even harsh, in her triumphant 
 happiness. Edwin knew that she detested Auntie 
 Hamps. Auntie Hamps no doubt also knew it. In 
 their mutual smilings, so affable, so hearty, so appre- 
 ciative, apparently so impulsive, the hostility between 
 them gleamed mysteriously like lightning in sunlight. 
 
 "Mrs. Edwin's family were Church of England," 
 said Auntie Hamps, in the direction of Mr. Peartree. 
 
 "Nor great church-goers, either," Hilda finished 
 cheerfully. 
 
 No woman had ever made such outrageous remarks 
 in the Five Towns before. A quarter of a century ago 
 a man might have said as much, without suffering in 
 esteem might indeed have earned a certain intellectual 
 prestige by the declaration ; but it was otherwise with a 
 woman. Both Mrs. Hamps and the minister thought 
 that Hilda was not going the right way to live down her 
 dubious past. Even Edwin in his pride was flurried. 
 Great matters, however, had been accomplished. Not 
 only had the attack of Auntie Hamps and Mr. Peartree 
 been defeated, but the defence had become an onslaught. 
 Not only was he not the treasurer of the District 
 
ATTACK AND REPULSE 45 
 
 Additional Chapels Fund, but he had practically ceased 
 to be a member of the congregation. He was free with 
 a freedom which he had never had the audacity to 
 hope for. It was incredible! Yet there it was! A 
 word said, bravely, in a particular tone, and a new 
 epoch was begun. The pity was that he had not done 
 it all himself. Hilda's courage had surpassed his own. 
 Women were astounding. They were disconcerting 
 too. His manly independence was ever so little wounded 
 by Hilda's boldness in initiative on their joint behalf. 
 
 "Do come and take something, Auntie," said Hilda, 
 with the most winning, the most loving inflection. 
 
 Auntie Hamps passed out. 
 
 Hilda turned back into the room: "Do go with 
 Auntie, Mr. Peartree. I must just " She affected 
 to search for something on the mantelpiece. 
 
 Mr. Peartree passed out. He was unmoved. He did 
 not care in his heart. And as Edwin caught his in- 
 different eye, with that "it's-all-one-to-me" glint in it, 
 his soul warmed again slightly to Mr. Peartree. And 
 further, Mr. Peartree's aloof unworldliness, his per- 
 sonal practical unconcern with money, feasting, ambi- 
 tion, and all the grosser forms of self-satisfaction, made 
 Edwin feel somewhat a sensual average man and accord- 
 ingly humiliated him. 
 
 As soon as, almost before, Mr. Peartree was beyond 
 the door, Hilda leaped at Edwin, and kissed him vio- 
 lently. The door was not closed. He could hear the 
 varied hum of the party. 
 
 "I had to kiss you while it's all going on," she whis- 
 pered. Ardent vitality shimmered in her eyes. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE WORD 
 
 ADA was just crossing the hall to the drawing-room, 
 a telegram on a salver in her red hand. 
 
 "Here you are, Ada," said Edwin, stopping her, 
 with a gesture towards the telegram. 
 
 "It's for Mr. Tom Swetnam, sir." 
 
 Edwin and Hilda followed the starched and fussy 
 girl into the drawing-room, in which were about a dozen 
 people, including Fearns, the lawyer, and his wife, the 
 recently married Stephen and Vera Cheswardine, sev- 
 eral Swetnams, and Janet Orgreave, who sat at the 
 closed piano, smiling vaguely. 
 
 Tom Swetnam, standing up, took the telegram. 
 
 "I never knew they delivered telegrams at this time 
 o' night," said Fearns sharply, looking at his watch. 
 He was wont to keep a careful eye on the organisation 
 of railways, ships, posts, and other contrivances for 
 the shifting of matter from one spot to another. An 
 exacting critic of detail, he was proud of them in the 
 mass, and called them civilisation. 
 
 "They don't," said Tom Swetnam naughtily, glad 
 to plague a man older than himself, and the father of 
 a family. Tom was a mere son, but he had travelled, 
 and was, indeed, just returned from an excursion 
 through Scandinavia. "Observe there's no deception. 
 The envelope's been opened. Moreover, it's addressed 
 
 46 
 
THE WORD 47 
 
 to Ben Clewlow, not to me. Ben's sent it up. I asked 
 him to. Now, we'll see." 
 
 Having displayed the envelope like a conjurer, he 
 drew forth the telegram, and prepared to read it aloud. 
 One half of the company was puzzled ; the other half 
 showed an instructed excitement. Tom read the mes- 
 sage: 
 
 " 'Twenty-seven pounds ten nine. Philosophers tell 
 us that there is nothing new under the sun. Never- 
 theless it may well be doubted whether the discovery of 
 gold at Barmouth, together with two earthquake shocks 
 following each other in quick succession in the same 
 district, does not constitute, in the history of the gal- 
 lant little Principality, a double event of unique ' " 
 He stopped. 
 
 Vera Cheswardine, pretty, fluffy, elegant, cried out 
 with all the impulsiveness of her nature: 
 
 "Novelty !" 
 
 "Whatever is it all about?" mildly asked Mrs. Fearns, 
 a quiet and dignified, youngish woman whom mother- 
 hood had made somewhat absent-minded when she was 
 away from her children. 
 
 "Missing-word competition," Fearns explained to 
 her with curt, genial superiority. He laughed out- 
 right. "You do go it, some of you chaps," he said. 
 "Why, that telegram cost over a couple of bob, I bet !" 
 
 "Well, you see," said Tom Swetnam, "three of us 
 share it. We get it thirty-six hours before the paper's 
 out fellow in London and there's so much mol'e time 
 to read the dictionary. No use half doing a thing! 
 Twenty-seven pounds odd ! Not a bad share this week, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Won anything?" 
 
 "Rather. We had the wire about the winning word 
 this morning. We'd sent it in four times. That makes 
 
48 THESE TWAIN 
 
 about 110, doesn't it? Between three of us. We sent 
 in nearly two hundred postal orders. Which leaves 
 100 clear. Thirty- three quid apiece, net." 
 
 He tried to speak calmly and nonchalantly, but his 
 excitement was extreme. The two younger Swetnams 
 regarded him with awe. Everybody was deeply im- 
 pressed by the prodigious figures, and in many hearts 
 envy, covetousness, and the wild desire for a large, 
 free life of luxury were aroused. 
 
 "Seems to me you've reduced this game to a science," 
 said Edwin. 
 
 "Well, we have," Tom Swetnam admitted. "We send 
 in every possible word." 
 
 "It's a mere thousand per cent profit per week," 
 murmured Fearns. "At the rate of fifty thousand per 
 cent per annum." 
 
 Albert Benbow, entering, caught the last phrase, 
 which very properly whetted his curiosity as a man of 
 business. Clara followed him closely. On nearly all 
 ceremonial occasions these two had an instinctive need 
 of each other's presence and support ; and if Albert did 
 not run after Clara, Clara ran after Albert. 
 
 n 
 
 Then came the proof of the genius, the cynicism 
 and the insight of the leviathan newspaper-proprietor 
 who h^i invented the dodge of inviting his readers to 
 risk a shilling and also to buy a coupon for the privilege 
 of supplying a missing word, upon the understanding 
 that the shillings of those who supplied the wrong word 
 should be taken for ever away from them and given to 
 those who supplied the right word. The entire com- 
 pany in the Clayhanger drawing-room was absorbed 
 in the tremendous missing-word topic, and listened to 
 
THE WORD 49 
 
 Swetnam as to a new prophet bearing the secret of 
 eternal felicity. The rumour of Swetnam's triumph 
 drew people out of the delectable dining-room to listen 
 to his remarks; and among these was Auntie Hamps. 
 So it was in a thousand, in ten thousand, in hundreds 
 of thousands of homes of all kinds throughout the 
 kingdom. The leviathan journalist's readers (though 
 as a rule they read nothing in his paper save the trun- 
 cated paragraph and the rules of the competition) had 
 grown to be equivalent to the whole British public. And 
 he not only held them but he had overshadowed all 
 other interests in their minds. Upon honeymoons peo- 
 ple thought of the missing-word amid caresses, and 
 it is a fact that people had died with the missing word 
 on their lips. Sane adults of both sexes read the dic- 
 tionary through from end to end every week with an 
 astounding conscientiousness. The leviathan news- 
 paper-proprietor could not buy enough paper, nor hire 
 sufficient presses, to meet the national demands. And 
 no wonder, seeing that any small news-agent in a side 
 street was liable at any moment to receive an order 
 from an impassioned student of periodical literature 
 for more copies of one issue of the journal than the 
 whole town had been used to buy before the marvellous 
 invention of the missing-word. The post office was 
 incommoded; even the Postmaster General was incom- 
 moded, and only by heroical efforts and miraculous 
 feats of resourcefulness did he save himself from the 
 ignominy of running out of shilling postal orders. Post 
 office girls sold shilling postal orders with a sarcastic 
 smile, with acerbity, with reluctance, it was naught to 
 them that the revenue was benefited and the pressure on 
 taxpayers eased. Employers throughout the islands 
 suffered vast losses owing to the fact that for months 
 their offices and factories were inhabited not by clerks 
 
50 THESE TWAIN 
 
 and other employees, but by wage-paid monomaniacs 
 who did naught but read dictionaries and cut out and 
 fill up coupons. And over all the land there hung the 
 dark incredible menace of an unjust prosecution under 
 the Gambling Laws, urged by interfering busybodies 
 who would not let a nation alone. 
 
 "And how much did you make last week, Mr. Swet- 
 nam?" judicially asked Albert Benbow, who was rather 
 pleased and flattered, as an active Wesleyan, to rub 
 shoulders with frank men of the world like Tom. As 
 an active Wesleyan he had hitherto utterly refused to 
 listen to the missing-word; but now it seemed to be 
 acquiring respectability enough for his ears. 
 
 Swetnam replied with a casual air: 
 
 "We didn't make much last week. We won some- 
 thing, of course. We win every week; that's a mathe- 
 matical certainty but sometimes the expenses mount 
 up a bit higher than the receipts. It depends on the 
 word. If it's an ordinary word that everybody chooses, 
 naturally the share is a small one because there are so 
 many winners." He gave no more exact details. 
 
 Clara breathed a disillusioned "Oh!" implying that 
 she had known there must be some flaw in the scheme 
 and her husband had at once put his finger on it. 
 
 But her husband, with incipient enthusiasm for the 
 word, said: "Well, it stands to reason they must take 
 one week with another, and average it out." 
 
 "Nowj Albert! Now, Albert!" Edwin warned him. 
 "No gambling." 
 
 Albert replied with some warmth : "I don't see that 
 there's any gambling in it. Appears to me that it's 
 chiefly skill and thoroughness that does the trick." 
 
 "Gambling!" murmured Tom Swetnam shortly. "Of 
 course it's not gambling." 
 
 "No!" 
 
THE WORD 51 
 
 "Well," said Vera Cheswardine, "I say 'novelty.' 
 'A double event of unique novelty.' That's it." 
 
 "I shouldn't go nap on 'novelty,' if I were you," 
 said Tom Swetnam, the expert. 
 
 Tom read the thing again. 
 
 "Novelty," Vera repeated. "I know it's novelty. 
 I'm always right, aren't I, Stephen?" She looked 
 round. "Ask Stephen." 
 
 "You were right last week but one, my child," said 
 Stephen. 
 
 "And did you make anything?" Clara demanded 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Only fifteen shillings," said Vera discontentedly. 
 "But if Stephen had listened to me we should have 
 made lots." 
 
 Albert Benbow's interest in the word was strength- 
 ened. 
 
 Fearns, leaning carefully back in his chair, asked 
 with fine indifference : "By the way, what is this week's 
 word, Tom? I haven't your secret sources of informa- 
 tion. I have to wait for the paper." 
 
 " 'Unaccountably,' " said Tom. "Had you anything 
 on it?" 
 
 "No," Fearns admitted. "I've caught a cold this 
 week, it seems." 
 
 Albert Benbow stared at him. Here was another 
 competitor and as acute a man of business as you 
 would find in the Five Towns ! 
 
 "Me, too !" said Edwin, smiling like a culprit. 
 
 Hilda sprang up gleefully, and pointed at him a 
 finger of delicious censure. 
 
 "Oh ! You wicked sinner ! You never told me you'd 
 gone in ! You deceitful old thing !" 
 
 "Well, it was a man at the shop who would have me 
 try," Edwin boyishly excused himself. 
 
52 THESE TWAIN 
 
 m 
 
 Hilda's vivacity enchanted Edwin. The charm of 
 her reproof was simply exquisite in its good-nature and 
 in the elegance of its gesture. The lingering taste of 
 the feverish kiss she had given him a few minutes earlier 
 bemused him and he flushed. To conceal his incon- 
 venient happiness in the thought of his wife he turned 
 to open the new enlarged window that gave on the gar- 
 den. (He had done away with the old garden-entrance 
 of the house, and thrown the side corridor into the 
 drawing-room.) Then he moved towards Janet 
 Orgreave, who was still seated at the closed piano. 
 
 "Your father isn't coming, I suppose?" he asked her. 
 
 The angelic spinster, stylishly dressed in white, and 
 wearing as usual her kind heart on her sleeve, smiled 
 with soft benignity, and shook her head. 
 
 "He told me to tell you he was too old. He is, you 
 know." 
 
 "And how's your mother?" 
 
 "Oh, pretty well, considering. . . I really ought 
 not to leave them." 
 
 "Oh, yes !" Edwin protested. The momentary vision 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Orgreave in the large house close by, 
 now practically deserted by all their children except 
 Janet, saddened him. 
 
 Then a loud voice dominated the general conversa- 
 tion behind him: 
 
 "I say, this is a bit stiff. I did think I should be 
 free of it here. But no ! Same old missing-word every- 
 where! What is it this week, Swetnam?" 
 
 It was Johnnie Orgreave, appreciably younger than 
 his sister, but a full-grown man of the world, and 
 somewhat dandiacal. After shaking hands with Hilda 
 he came straight to Edwin. 
 
THE WORD 53 
 
 "Awfully sorry I'm so late, old chap. How do, 
 Jan?" 
 
 "Of course you are," Edwin quizzed him like an 
 uncle. 
 
 "Where's Ingpen?" 
 
 "Not come." 
 
 "Not come! He said he should be here at eight. 
 Just like him!" said Johnnie. "I expect he's had a 
 puncture." 
 
 "I've been looking out for him every minute," Edwin 
 muttered. 
 
 In the middle of the room Albert Benbow, stocky 
 and vulgar, but feeling himself more and more a man 
 of the world among men and women of the world, was 
 proclaiming, not without excitement: 
 
 "Well, I agree with Mrs. Cheswardine. 'Novelty' 's 
 much more likely than 'interest.' 'Interest' 's the wrong 
 kind of word altogether. It doesn't agree with the 
 beginning of the paragraph." 
 
 "That's right, Mr. Benbow," Vera encouraged him 
 with flirtatious dimples. "You put your money on me, 
 even if my own husband won't." Albert as a dowdy 
 dissenter was quite out of her expensive sphere, but to 
 Vera any man was a man. 
 
 "Now, Albert," Clara warned him, "if you win any- 
 thing, you must give it to me for the new perambula- 
 tor." 
 
 ("Dash that girl's infernal domesticity!" thought 
 Edwin savagely.) 
 
 "Who says I'm going in for it, missis?" Albert chal- 
 lenged. 
 
 "I only say if you do, dear," Clara said smoothly. 
 
 "Then I will!' 9 Albert announced the great decision. 
 "Just for the fun of the thing, I will. Thank ye, Mrs. 
 Cheswardine." 
 
54 THESE TWAIN 
 
 He glanced at Mrs. Cheswardine as a knight at his 
 unattainable mistress. Indeed the decision had in it 
 something of the chivalrous; the attention of slim 
 provocative Vera, costliest and most fashionably 
 dressed woman in Bursley, had stirred his fancy to 
 wander far beyond its usual limits. 
 
 "Albert ! Well, I never !" exclaimed Mrs. Hamps. 
 
 "You don't mind, do you Auntie?" said Albert 
 jovially, standing over her. 
 
 "Not if it's not gambling," said Mrs. Hamps stoutly. 
 "And I hope it isn't. And it would be very nice for 
 Clara, I'm sure, if you won." 
 
 "Hurrah for Mrs. Hamps!" Johnnie Orgreave al- 
 most yelled. 
 
 At the same moment, Janet Orgreave, swinging 
 round on the music-stool, lifted the lid of the piano, 
 and, still with her soft, angelic smile, played loudly 
 and dashingly the barbaric, Bacchic, orgiastic melody 
 which had just recently inflamed England, Scotland, 
 Ireland, Wales, and the Five Towns the air which 
 was unlike anything ever heard before by British 
 ears, and which meant nothing whatever that could be 
 avowed, the air which heralded social revolutions and 
 inaugurated a new epoch. And as the ringed fingers 
 of the quiet, fading spinster struck out the shocking 
 melody, Vera Cheswardine and one or two others who 
 had been to London and there seen the great legendary 
 figure, Lottie Collins, hummed more or less brazenly 
 the syllables heavy with mysterious significance: 
 
 "Tarara-boom-deay! 
 Tarara^boom-deay! 
 Tarara-boom-deay! 
 Tarara-boom-deay!" 
 
THE WORD 55 
 
 Upon this entered Mr. Peartree, like a figure of 
 retribution, and silence fell. 
 
 "I'm afraid . . ." he began. "Mr. Benbow." 
 
 They spoke together. 
 
 A scared servant-girl had come up from the Benbow 
 home with the affrighting news that Bert Benbow, who 
 had gone to bed with the other children as usual, was 
 not in his bed and could not be discovered in the house. 
 Mr. Peartree, being in the hall, had chosen himself to 
 bear the grievous tidings to the drawing-room. In an 
 instant Albert and Clara were parents again. Both 
 had an idea that the unprecedented, incomprehensible 
 calamity was a heavenly dispensation to punish them 
 for having trifled with the missing-word. Their sudden 
 seriousness was terrific. They departed immediately, 
 without ceremony of any sort. Mrs. Hamps said that 
 she really ought to go too, and Maggie said that as 
 Auntie Hamps was going she also would go. The par- 
 son said that he had already stayed longer than he 
 ought, in view of another engagement, and he followed. 
 Edwin and Hilda dutifully saw them off and were as 
 serious as the circumstances demanded. But those who 
 remained in the drawing-room sniggered, and when 
 Hilda rejoined them she laughed. The house felt 
 lighter. Edwin, remaining longest at the door, saw a 
 bicyclist on one of the still quaint pneumatic-tyred 
 "safety" bicycles, coming along behind a "King of the 
 Road" lamp. The rider dismounted at the corner. 
 
 "That you, Mr. Ingpen?" 
 
 Said a blithe voice: 
 
 "How d'ye do, host? When you've known me a bit 
 longer you'll learn that I always manage to arrive just 
 when other people are leaving." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 TERTIUS INGPEtf 
 
 TERTIUS INGPEN was the new District Factory In- 
 spector, a man of about thirty-five, neither fair nor 
 dark, neither tall nor short. He was a native of the 
 district, having been born somewhere in the aristocratic 
 regions between Knype and the lordly village of Sneyd, 
 but what first struck the local observer in him was that 
 his speech had none of the local accent. In the pursuit 
 of his vocation he had lived in other places than the 
 Five Towns. For example, in London, where he had 
 become acquainted with Edwin's friend, Charlie Or- 
 greave, the doctor. When Ingpen received a goodish 
 appointment amid the industrial horrors of his birth, 
 Charlie Orgreave recommended him to Edwin, and Ed- 
 win and Ingpen had met once, under arrangement made 
 by Johnnie Orgreave. It was Johnnie who had im- 
 pulsively suggested in Ingpen's presence that Ingpen 
 should be invited to the At Home. Edwin, rather 
 intimidated by Ingpen's other- wo rldliness, had said: 
 "You'll run up against a mixed lot." But Ingpen, 
 though sternly critical of local phenomena, seemed to 
 be ready to meet social adventures in a broad and even 
 eager spirit of curiosity concerning mankind. He was 
 not uncomely, and he possessed a short silky beard of 
 which secretly he was not less proud than of his strik- 
 ing name. He wore a neat blue suit, with the trousers 
 fastened tightly round the ankles for bicycle-riding, 
 
 56 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 57 
 
 and thick kid gloves. He took off one glove to shake 
 hands, and then, having leisurely removed the other, 
 and talking all the time, he bent down with care and 
 loosed his trousers and shook them into shape. 
 
 "Now what about this jigger?" he asked, while still 
 bending. "I don't care to leave it anywhere. It's a 
 good jigger." 
 
 As it leaned on one pedal against the kerb of Hulton 
 Street, the strange-looking jigger appeared to be at 
 any rate a very dirty jigger. Fastened under the 
 saddle were a roll of paper and a mackintosh. 
 
 "There are one or two ordinaries knocking about the 
 place," said Edwin, "but we haven't got a proper 
 bicycle-house. I'll find a place for it somewhere in the 
 garden." He lifted the front wheel. 
 
 "Don't trouble, please. I'll take it," said Ingpen, 
 and before picking up the machine blew out the lamp, 
 whose extinction left a great darkness down the slope 
 of Hulton Street. 
 
 "You've got a very nice place here. Too central 
 for me, of course !" Ingpen began, after they had in- 
 sinuated the bicycle through narrow paths to the back 
 of the house. 
 
 Edwin was leading him along the side of the lawn 
 furthest away from Trafalgar Road. Certainly the 
 property had the air of being a very nice place. The 
 garden with its screen of high rustling trees seemed 
 spacious and mysterious in the gloom, and the lighted 
 windows of the house produced an effect of much rich- 
 ness especially the half-open window of the drawing- 
 room. Fearns and Cheswardine were standing in front 
 of it chatting (doubtless of affairs) with that im- 
 portant adult air which Edwin himself could never 
 successfully imitate. Behind them were bright women, 
 and the brilliant chandelier. The piano faintly 
 
58 THESE TWAIN 
 
 sounded. Edwin was proud of his very nice place. 
 "How strange !" he thought. "This is all mine ! These 
 are my guests ! And my wife is mine !" 
 
 "Well, you see," he answered Ingpen's criticism with 
 false humility. "I've no choice. I've got to be central." 
 
 Ingpen answered pleasantly. 
 
 "I take your word for it ; but I don't see." 
 
 The bicycle was carefully bestowed by its groping 
 owner in a small rustic arbour which, situated almost 
 under the wall that divided the Clayhanger property 
 from the first cottage in Hulton Street, was hidden 
 from the house by a clump of bushes. 
 
 In the dark privacy of this shelter Tertius Ingpen 
 said in a reflective tone : 
 
 "I understand that you haven't been married long, 
 and that this is a sort of function to inform the world 
 officially that you're no longer what you were?" 
 
 "It's something like that," Edwin admitted with a 
 laugh. 
 
 He liked the quiet intimacy of Ingpen's voice, whose 
 delicate inflections indicated highly cultivated sensibili- 
 ties. And he thought: "I believe I shall be friends 
 with this chap." And was glad, and faith in Ingpen 
 was planted in his heart. 
 
 "Well," Ingpen continued, "I wish you happiness. 
 It may seem a strange thing to say to a man in your 
 position, but my opinion is that the proper place for 
 women is behind the veil. Only my personal opinion, 
 of course! But I'm entitled to hold it, and therefore 
 to express it." Whatever his matter, his manner was 
 faultless. 
 
 "Yes ?" Edwin murmured awkwardly. What on earth 
 did Ingpen expect by way of reply to such a proposi- 
 tion? Surely Ingpen should have known that he was 
 putting his host in a disagreeable difficulty. His new- 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 59 
 
 born faith in Ingpen felt the harsh wind of experience 
 and shivered. Nevertheless, there was a part of Edwin 
 that responded to Ingpen's attitude. "Behind the veil." 
 Yes, something could be said for the proposition. 
 
 They left the arbour in silence. They had not gone 
 more than a few steps when a boy's shrill voice made 
 itself heard over the wall of the cottage yard. 
 
 "Oh Lord, thou 'ast said 'If two on ye sh'll agray 
 on earth as touching onything that they sh'll ask it 
 sh'll be done for them of my Father which is in 'eaven. 
 For where two or three are gathered together i' my 
 name theer am I in th' midst of 'em. Oh Lord, George 
 Edwin Clay'anger wants a two-bladed penknife. We 
 all three on us want ye to send George Edwin Clay- 
 'anger a two-bladed penknife." 
 
 The words fell with impressive effect on the men in 
 the garden. 
 
 "What the " Edwin exclaimed. 
 
 "Hsh!" Ingpen stopped him in an excited whisper. 
 "Don't disturb them for anything in the world !" 
 
 Silence followed. 
 
 Edwin crept away like a scout towards a swing 
 which he had arranged for his friend George before he 
 became the husband of George's mother. He climbed 
 into it and over the wall could just see three boys' 
 heads in the yard illuminated by a lamp in the back- 
 window of the cottage. Tertius Ingpen joined him, but 
 immediately climbed higher on to the horizontal beam 
 of the swing. 
 
 "Who are they?" Ingpen asked, restraining his joy 
 in the adventure. 
 
 "The one on the right's my stepson. The other big 
 one is my sister Clara's child, Bert. I expect the little 
 one's old Clowes', the gravedigger's kid. They say he's 
 a regular little parson probably to make up for his 
 
60 THESE TWAIN 
 
 parents. I expect they're out somewhere having a 
 jollification." 
 
 "Well," Ingpen breathed. "I wouldn't have missed 
 this for a good deal." He gave a deep, almost sound- 
 less giggle. 
 
 Edwin was startled as much as anything by the 
 extraordinary deceitfulness of George. Who could pos- 
 sibly have guessed from the boy's demeanour when his 
 Aunt Clara mentioned Bert to him, that he had made 
 an outrageous rendezvous with Bert that very night? 
 Certainly he had blushed, but then he often blushed. Of 
 course, the Benbows would assert that George had se- 
 iduced the guileless Bert. Fancy them hunting the town 
 for Bert at that instant! As regards Peter Clowes, 
 George, though not positively forbidden to do so, had 
 been warned against associating with him chiefly be- 
 cause of the bad influence which Peter's accent would 
 have on George's accent. His mother had said that she 
 could not understand how George could wish to be 
 friendly with a rough little boy like Peter. Edwin, 
 however, inexperienced as he was, had already compre- 
 hended that children, like Eastern women, have no 
 natural class bias; and he could not persuade himself 
 to be the first to inculcate into George ideas which 
 could only be called snobbish. He was a democrat. 
 Nevertheless he did not like George to play with Peter 
 Clowes. 
 
 The small Peter, with uplifted face and clasped 
 hands, repeated urgently, passionately: 
 
 "O God ! We all three on us want ye to send George 
 Edwin Clay'anger a two-bladed penknife. Now lads, 
 kneel, and all three on us together !" 
 
 He stood between the taller and better-dressed boys 
 unashamed, fervent, a born religionist. He was not 
 even praying for himself. He was praying out of his 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 61 
 
 profound impersonal interest in the efficacy of prayer. 
 
 The three boys, kneeling, and so disappearing from 
 sight behind the wall, repeated together: 
 
 "O God! Please send George Edwin Clayhanger a 
 two-bladed penknife." 
 
 Then George and Bert stood up again, shuffling 
 about. Peter Clowes did not reappear. 
 
 "I can't help it," whispered Ingpen in a strange, 
 moved voice, "I've got to be God. Here goes! And 
 it's practically new, too!" 
 
 Edwin in the darkness could see him feeling in his 
 waistcoat pocket, and then raise his arm, and, taking 
 careful aim, throw in the direction of the dimly lighted 
 yard. 
 
 "Oh !" came the cry of George, in sudden pain. 
 
 The descending penknife had hit him in the face. 
 
 There was a scramble on the pavement of the yard, 
 and some muttered talk. The group went to the back 
 window where the lamp was and examined the heavenly 
 penknife. They were more frightened than delighted 
 by the miracle. The unseen watchers in the swing 
 were also rather frightened, as though they had inter- 
 fered irremediably in a solemn and delicate crisis be- 
 yond their competence. In a curious way they were 
 ashamed. 
 
 "Yes, and what about me?" said the voice of fat Bert 
 Benbow, sulkily. "This is all very well. But what 
 about me? Ye tried without me and ye couldn't do 
 anything. Now I've come and ye've done it. What am 
 I going to get? Ye've got to give me something instead 
 of a half-share in that penknife, George." 
 
 George said: 
 
 "Let's pray for something for you now. What d'you 
 want?" 
 
 "I want a bicycle. Ye know what I want " 
 
62 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Oh, no, you don't, Bert Benbow!" said George. 
 "You've got to want something safer than a bike. 
 Suppose it comes tumbling down like the penknife did! 
 We shall be dam well killed." 
 
 Tertius Ingpen could not suppress a snorting giggle. 
 
 "I want a bike," Bert insisted. "And I don't want 
 nothin' else." 
 
 The two bigger boys moved vaguely away from the 
 window, and the little religionist followed them in si- 
 lence, ready to supplicate for whatever they should de- 
 cide. 
 
 "AU right," George agreed. "We'll pray for a 
 bicycle. But we'd better all stand as close as we can to 
 the wall, under the spouting, in case." 
 
 The ceremonial was recommenced. 
 
 "No," Ingpen murmured. "I'm not being God this 
 time. It won't run to it." 
 
 Footsteps were heard on the lawn behind the swing. 
 Ingpen slid down and Edwin jumped down. Johnnie 
 Orgreave was approaching. 
 
 "Hsh!" Ingpen warned him. 
 
 "What are you chaps " 
 
 "Hsh !" Ingpen was more imperative. 
 
 All three men walked away out of earshot of the 
 yard, towards the window of the drawing-room John- 
 nie Orgreave mystified, the other two smiling but with 
 spirits disturbed. Johnnie heard the story in brief; 
 it was told to him in confidence, as Tertius Ingpen held 
 firmly that eavesdroppers, if they had any honour left, 
 should at least hold their tongues. 
 
 When Tertius Ingpen was introduced to Hilda in the 
 drawing-room, the three men having entered by the 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 63 
 
 French window, Edwin was startled and relieved by 
 the deportment of the orientalist who thought that the 
 proper place for women was behind the veil. In his 
 simplicity he had assumed that the orientalist would 
 indicate his attitude by a dignified reserve. Not at all ! 
 As soon as Ingpen reached Hilda's hospitable gaze his 
 whole bearing altered. He bowed, with a deferential 
 bending that to an untravelled native must have seemed 
 exaggerated; his face was transformed by a sweet 
 smile ; his voice became the voice of a courtier ; he shook 
 hands with chivalrous solicitude for the fragile hand 
 shaken. Hilda was pleased by him, perceiving that this 
 man was more experienced in the world than any of the 
 other worldly guests. She liked that. Ingpen's new 
 symptoms were modified after a few moments, but when 
 he was presented to Mrs. Fearns he reproduced them 
 in their original intensity, and again when he was in- 
 troduced to Vera Cheswardine. 
 
 "Been out without your cap?" Hilda questioned Ed- 
 win, lifting her eyebrows. She said it in order to say 
 something, for the entry of this ceremonious personage, 
 who held all the advantages of the native and of the 
 stranger, had a little overpowered 'the company. 
 
 "Only just to see after Mr. Ingpen's machine. Give 
 me your cap, Mr. Ingpen. I'll hang it up." 
 
 When he returned to the drawing-room from the 
 hatstand Ingpen was talking with Janet Orgreave, 
 whom he already knew. 
 
 "Have you seen George, Edwin?" Hilda called across 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 "Hasn't he gone to bed?" 
 
 "That's what I want to know. I haven't seen him 
 lately." 
 
 Everyone, except Johnnie Orgreave and a Swetnam 
 or so, was preoccupied by the thought of children, by 
 
64 THESE TWAIN 
 
 the thought of this incalculable and disturbing race 
 that with different standards and ideals lived so mys- 
 teriously in and among their adult selves. Nothing 
 was said about the strange disappearance of Bert Ben- 
 bow, but each woman had it in mind, and coupled it 
 with Hilda's sudden apprehension concerning George, 
 and imagined weird connections between the one and 
 the other, and felt forebodings about children nearer to 
 her own heart. Children dominated the assemblage and, 
 made restless, the assemblage collectively felt that the 
 moment for separation approached. The At Home was 
 practically over. 
 
 Hilda rang the bell, and as she did so Johnnie Or- 
 greave winked dangerously at Edwin, who with stern- 
 ness responded. He wondered why he should thus 
 deceive his wife, with whom he was so deliciously in- 
 timate. He thought also that women were capricious 
 in their anxieties, and yet now and then their moods 
 once more by the favour of hazard displayed a 
 marvellous appositeness. Hilda had no reason 
 whatever for worrying more about George on this 
 night than on any other night. Nevertheless this 
 night happened to be the night on which anxiety would 
 be justified. 
 
 "Ada," said Hilda to the entering servant. "Have 
 you seen Master George?" 
 
 "No'm," Ada replied, almost defiantly. 
 
 "When did you see him last?" 
 
 "I don't remember, m'm." 
 
 "Is he in bed?" 
 
 "I don't know, m'm." 
 
 "Just go and see, will you?" 
 
 "Yes'm." 
 
 The company waited with gentle, concealed excite- 
 ment for the returning Ada, who announced: 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 65 
 
 "His bedroom door's locked, m'm." 
 
 "He will lock it sometimes, although I've positively 
 forbidden him to. But what are you to do?" said 
 Hilda, smilingly to the other mothers. 
 
 "Take the key away, obviously," Tertius Ingpen an- 
 swered the question, turning quickly and interrupting 
 his chat with Janet Orgreave. 
 
 "That ought not to be necessary," said Fearns, as 
 an expert father. 
 
 Ada departed, thankful to be finished with the ordeal 
 of cross-examination in a full drawing-room. 
 
 "Don't you know anything about him?" Hilda ad- 
 dressed Johnnie Orgreave suddenly. 
 
 "Me? About your precious? No. Why should I 
 know?" 
 
 "Because you're getting such friends, you two." 
 
 "Oh! Are we?" Johnnie said carelessly. Neverthe- 
 less he was flattered by a certain nascent admiration 
 on the part of George, which was then beginning to be 
 noticeable. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, when several guests had 
 gone, Hilda murmured to Edwin: 
 
 "I'm not easy about that boy. I'll just run up- 
 stairs." 
 
 "I shouldn't," said Edwin. 
 
 But she did. And the distant sound of knocking, 
 and "George, George," could be heard even down in 
 the hall. 
 
 "I can't wake him," said Hilda, back in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 "What do you want to wake him for, foolish girl?" 
 Edwin demanded. 
 
 She enjoyed being called "foolish girl," but she was 
 not to be tranquillised. 
 
 "Do you think he is in bed?" she questioned, before 
 
66 THESE TWAIN 
 
 the whole remaining company, and the dread suspicion 
 was out! 
 
 After more journeys upstairs, and more hangings, 
 and essays with keys, and even attempts at lock-pick- 
 ing, Hilda announced that George's room must be be- 
 sieged from its window. A ladder was found, and 
 interested visitors went into the back-entry, by the 
 kitchen, to see it reared and hear the result. Edwin 
 thought that the cook in the kitchen looked as guilty 
 as he himself felt, though she more than once asseverated 
 her belief that Master George was safely in bed. The 
 ladder was too short. Edwin mounted it, and tried to 
 prise himself on to the window-sill, but could not. 
 
 "Here, let me try!" said Ingpen, joyous. 
 
 Ingpen easily succeeded. He glanced through the 
 open window into George's bedroom, and then looked 
 Idown at the upturned faces, and Ada's apjon, whitely 
 visible in the gloom. 
 
 "He's here all right." 
 
 "Oh, good!" said Hilda. "Is he asleep?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He deserves to be wakened," she laughed. 
 
 "You see what a foolish girl you've been," said Edwin 
 affectionately. 
 
 "Never mind!" she retorted. "You couldn't get on 
 the window. And you were just as upset as anybody. 
 Do you think I don't know? Thank you, Mr. Ingpen." 
 
 "Is he really there?" Edwin whispered to Ingpen as 
 soon as he could. 
 
 "Yes. And asleep, too !" 
 
 "I wonder how the deuce he slipped in. I'll bet any- 
 thing those servants have been telling a lot of lies for 
 him. He pulls their hair down and simply does what 
 he likes with them." 
 
 Edwin was now greatly reassured, but he could not 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 67 
 
 quite recover from the glimpse he had had of George's 
 capacity for leading a double life. Sardonically he 
 speculated whether the heavenly penknife would be 
 brought to his notice by its owner, and if so by what 
 ingenious method. 
 
 ra 
 
 The final sensation was caused by the arrival, in a 
 nearly empty drawing-room, of plump Maggie, nervous, 
 constrained, and somewhat breathless. 
 
 "Bert has turned up," she said. "Clara thought I'd 
 better come along and tell you. She felt sure you'd 
 like to know." 
 
 "Well, that's all right then," Hilda replied perfunc- 
 torily, indicating that Clara's conceited assumption of 
 a universal interest in her dull children was ridiculous. 
 
 Edwin asked: 
 
 "Did the kid say where he'd been?" 
 
 "Been running about the streets. They idon't know 
 what's come over him because, you see, he'd actually 
 gone to bed once. Albert is quite puzzled ; but he says 
 he'll have it out of him before he's done." 
 
 "When he does get it out of him," thought Edwin 
 again, "there will be a family row and George will be 
 indicted as the corrupter of innocence." 
 
 Maggie would not stay a single moment. Hilda at- 
 tentively accompanied her to the hall. The former 
 and the present mistress of the house kissed with the 
 conventional signs of affection. But the fact that one 
 had succeeded the other seemed to divide them. Hilda 
 was always lying in wait for criticism from Maggie, 
 ready to resent it; Maggie divined this and said never 
 a word. The silence piqued Hilda as much as outspoken 
 criticism would have annoyed her. She could not bear 
 "it. 
 
68 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "How do you like my new stair-carpet?" she de- 
 manded defiantly. 
 
 "Very nice! Very nice, I'm sure!" Maggie replied 
 without conviction. And added, just as she stepped 
 outside the front-door, "You've made a lot of changes." 
 This was the mild, good-natured girl's sole thrust, and 
 it was as effective as she could have wished. 
 . Everybody had gone except the two Orgreaves and 
 Tertius Ingpen. 
 
 "I don't know about you, Johnnie, but I must go," 
 said Janet Orgreave when Hilda came back. 
 
 "Hold on, Jan!" Johnnie protested. "You're for- 
 getting those duets you are to try with Ingpen." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Duets!" cried Hilda, instantly uplifted and en- 
 thusiastic. "Oh, do let's have some music !" 
 
 Ingpen by arrangement with the Orgreaves had 
 brought some pianoforte duets. They were tied to his 
 bicycle. He was known as an amateur of music. Ed- 
 win, bidding Ingpen not to move, ran out into the gar- 
 den to get the music from the bicycle. Johnnie ran 
 after him through the French window. 
 
 "I say !" Johnnie called in a low voice. 
 
 "What's up?" Edwin stopped for him. 
 
 "I've a piece of news for you. About that land 
 you've set your heart on, down at Shawport! ... It 
 can be bought cheap at least the old man says it's 
 cheap whatever his opinion may be worth. I was 
 telling him about your scheme for having a new print- 
 ing works altogether. Astonishing how keen he is! 
 If I'd had a plan of the land, I believe he'd have sat 
 down and made sketches at once." 
 
 Johnnie (with his brother Jimmie) was in partner- 
 ship with old Orgreave as an architect. 
 
 " 'Set my heart on?' " Edwin mumbled, intimidated 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 69 
 
 as usual by a nearer view of an enterprise which he had 
 himself conceived and which had enchanted him from 
 afar. " 'Set my heart on?' " 
 
 "Well, had you, or hadn't you?" 
 
 "I suppose I had," Edwin admitted. "Look here, 
 I'll drop in and see you to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Right!" 
 
 Together they detached the music from the bicycle, 
 and, as Edwin unrolled it and rolled it the other side 
 out to flatten it, they returned silently through the 
 dark wind-stirred garden into the drawing-room. 
 
 There were now the two Orgreaves, Tertius Ingpen, 
 and Hilda and Edwin in the drawing-room. 
 
 "We will now begin the evening," said Ingpen, as he 
 glanced at the music. 
 
 All five were conscious of the pleasant feeling of free- 
 dom, intimacy, and mutual comprehension which ani- 
 mates a small company that by self-selection has sur- 
 vived out of a larger one. The lateness of the hour 
 aided their zest. Even the more staid among them 
 perceived as by a revelation that it did not in fact mat- 
 ter, once in a way, if they were tired and inefficient on 
 the morrow, and that too much regularity of habit was 
 bad for the soul. Edwin had brought in a tray from 
 the dining-room, and rearranged the chairs according 
 to Hilda's caprice, and was providing cushions to raise 
 the bodies of the duet-players to the proper height. 
 Janet began to excuse herself, asserting that if there 
 was one member of her family who could not play duets, 
 she was that member, that she had never seen this 
 Dvorak music before, and that if they had got her 
 brother Tom, or her elder sister Marion, or even Ali- 
 cia, etc., etc. 
 
 "We are quite accustomed to these formal prelimi- 
 naries from duet-players, Miss Orgreave," said Ing- 
 
70 THESE TWAIN 
 
 pen. "I never do them myself, not because I can 
 play well, but because I am hardened. Now shall we 
 start? Will you take the treble or the bass?" 
 
 Janet answered with eager modesty that she would 
 take the bass. 
 
 "It's all one to me," said Ingpen, putting on spec- 
 tacles; "I play either equally badly. You'll soon re- 
 gret leaving the most important part to me. How- 
 ever . . . ! Clayhanger, will you turn over?" 
 
 "Er yes," said Edwin boldly. "But you'd better 
 give me the tip." 
 
 He knew a little about printed music, from his ex- 
 periences as a boy when his sisters used to sing two- 
 part songs. That is to say, he had a vague idea "where 
 a player was" on a page. But the enterprise of turn- 
 ing over Dvorak's "Legends" seemed to him critically 
 adventurous. Dvorak was nothing but a name to him ; 
 beyond the correct English method of pronouncing that 
 name, he had no knowledge whatever of the subject in 
 hand. 
 
 Then the performance of the "Legends" began. De- 
 spite halts, hesitations, occasional loud insistent chant- 
 ing of the time, explanations between the players, many 
 wrong notes by Ingpen, and a few wrong notes by 
 Janet, and one or two enormous misapprehensions by 
 Edwin, the performance was a success, in that it put a 
 spell on its public, and permitted the loose and tender 
 genius of Dvorak to dominate the room. 
 
 "Play that again, will you?" said Hilda, in a low 
 dramatic voice, at the third "Legend." 
 
 "We will," Ingpen answered. "And we'll play it 
 better." 
 
 Edwin had the exquisite sensation of partially com- 
 prehending music whose total beauty was beyond the 
 limitations of his power to enjoy power, neverthe- 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 71 
 
 less, which seemed to grow each moment. Passages en- 
 tirely intelligible and lovely would break at intervals 
 through the veils of general sound and ravish him. All 
 his attention was intensely concentrated on the page. 
 He could hear Ingpen breathing hard. Out of the 
 corner of his eye he was aware of Johnnie Orgreave on 
 the sofa making signs to Hilda about drinks, and pour- 
 ing out something for her, and something for himself, 
 without the faintest noise. And he was aware of Ada 
 coming to the open door and being waved away to bed 
 by her mistress. * 
 
 "Well," he said, when the last "Legend" was played. 
 "That's a bit of the right sort no mistake." He was 
 obliged to be banal and colloquial. 
 
 Hilda said nothing at all. Johnnie, who had waited 
 for the end in order to strike a match, showed by two 
 words that he was an expert listener to duets. Tertius 
 Ingpen was very excited and pleased. "More tricky 
 than difficult, isn't it to read?" he said privately to 
 his fellow-performer, who concurred. Janet also was 
 excited in her fashion. But even amid the general ex- 
 citement Ingpen had to be judicious. 
 
 "Delightful stuff, of course," he said, pulling his 
 beard. "But he's not a great composer you know, all 
 the same." 
 
 "He'll do to be going on with," Johnnie mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Oh, yes! Delightful! Delightful!" Ingpen re- 
 peated warmly, removing his spectacles. "What a pity 
 we can't have musical evenings regularly !" 
 
 "But we can!" said Hilda positively. "Let's have 
 them here. Every week!" 
 
 "A great scheme!" Edwin agreed with enthusiasm, 
 admiring his wife's initiative. He had been a little 
 afraid that the episode of George had upset her for the 
 
72 THESE TWAIN 
 
 night, but he now saw that she had perfectly recovered 
 from it. 
 
 "Oh!" Ingpen paused. "I doubt if I could come 
 every week. I could come once a fortnight." 
 
 "Well, once a fortnight then!" said Hilda. 
 
 "I suppose Sunday wouldn't suit you?" 
 
 Edwin challenged him almost fiercely: 
 
 "Why won't it suit us? It will suit us first-class." 
 
 Ingpen merely said, with quiet delicacy : 
 
 "So much the better. . . . We might go all through 
 the Mozart fiddle sonatas." 
 
 "And who's your violinist?" asked Johnnie. 
 
 "I am, if you don't mind." Ingpen smiled. "If your 
 sister will take the piano part." 
 
 Hilda exclaimed admiringly: 
 
 "Do you play the violin, too, Mr. Ingpen?" 
 
 "I scrape it. Also the tenor. But my real instru- 
 ment is the clarinet." He laughed. "It seems odd," 
 he went on with genuine scientific unegotistic interest in 
 himself. "But d'you know I thoroughly enjoy playing 
 the clarinet in a bad orchestra whenever I get the 
 chance. When I happen to have a free evening I often 
 wish I could drop in at a theatre and play rotten music 
 in the band. It's better than nothing. Some of us are 
 born mad." 
 
 "But Mr. Ingpen," said Janet Orgreave anxiously, 
 after this speech had been appreciated. "I have never 
 played those Mozart sonatas." 
 
 "I am glad to hear it," he replied with admirable 
 tranquillity. "Neither have I. I've often meant to. 
 It'll be quite a sporting event. But of course we can 
 have a rehearsal if you like.'* 
 
 The project of the musical evenings was discussed 
 and discussed until Janet, having vanished silently up- 
 stairs, reappeared with her hat and cloak on. 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 73 
 
 "I can go alone if you aren't ready, Johnnie," said 
 she. 
 
 Johnnie yawned. 
 
 "No. I'm coming." 
 
 "I also must go I suppose,'* said Ingpen. 
 
 They all went into the hall. Through the open door 
 of the dining-room, where one gas-jet burned, could be 
 seen the rich remains of what had been "light refresh- 
 ments" in the most generous interpretation of the 
 term. 
 
 Ingpen stopped to regard the spectacle, fingering his 
 beard. 
 
 "I was just wondering," he remarked, with that 
 strange eternal curiosity about himself, "whether I'd 
 had enough to eat. I've got to ride home." 
 
 "Well, what have you had?" Johnnie quizzed him. 
 
 "I haven't had anything," said Ingpen, "except 
 drink." 
 
 Hilda cried. 
 
 "Oh! You poor sufferer! I am ashamed!" And 
 led him familiarly to the table. 
 
 rv 
 
 Edwin was kept at the front-door some time by 
 Johnnie Orgreave, who resumed as he was departing 
 the subject of the proposed new works, and maintained 
 it at such length that Janet, tired of waiting on the 
 pavement, said that she would walk on. When he re- 
 turned to the dining-room, Ingpen and Hilda were sit- 
 ting side by side at the littered table, and the first 
 words that Edwin heard were from Ingpen: 
 
 "It cost me a penknife. But it was dirt cheap at 
 the price. You can't expect to be the Almighty for 
 much less than a penknife." Seeing Edwin, he added 
 
74 THESE TWAIN 
 
 with a nonchalant smile: "I've told Mrs. Clayhanger 
 all about the answer to prayer. I thought she ought 
 to know." 
 
 Edwin laughed awkwardly, saying to himself: 
 
 "Ingpen, my boy, you ought to have thought of my 
 position first. You've been putting your finger into 
 a rather delicate piece of mechanism. Supposing she 
 cuts up rough with me afterwards for hiding it from 
 her all this time! . . . I'm living with her. You 
 aren't." 
 
 "Of course," Ingpen added. "I've sworn the lady to 
 secrecy." 
 
 Hilda said: 
 
 "I knew all the time there was something wrong." 
 
 And Edwin thought: 
 
 "No, you didn't. And if he hadn't happened to tell 
 you about the thing, you'd have been convinced that 
 you'd been alarming yourself for nothing." 
 
 But he only said, not certain of Hilda's humour, and 
 anxious to placate her: 
 
 "There's no doubt George ought to be punished." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind ! Nothing of the kind !" Ing- 
 pen vivaciously protested. "Why, bless my soul ! The 
 kids were engaged in a religious work. They were busy 
 with someone far more important than any parents." 
 And after a pause, reflectively: "Curious thing, the 
 mentality of a child! I doubt if we understand any- 
 thing about it." 
 
 Hilda smiled, but said naught. 
 
 "May I enquire what there is in that bottle?" Ing- 
 pen asked. 
 
 "Benedictine." 
 
 "Have some, Mr. Ingpen." 
 
 "I will if you will, Mrs. Clayhanger." 
 
 Edwin raised his eyebrows at his wife. 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 75 
 
 "You needn't look at me !" said Hilda. "I'm going 
 to have some." 
 
 Ingpen smacked his lips over the liqueur. 
 
 "It's a very bad thing late at night, of course. But 
 I believe in giving your stomach something to think 
 about. I never allow my digestive apparatus to boss 
 me." 
 
 "Quite right, Mr. Ingpen." 
 
 They touched glasses, without a word, almosj; in- 
 stinctively. 
 
 "Well," thought Edwin, "for a chap who thinks 
 women ought to be behind the veil ... !" 
 
 "Be a man, Clayhanger, and have some." 
 
 Edwin shook his head. 
 
 With a scarcely perceptible movement of her glass, 
 Hilda greeted her husband, peeping out at him as it 
 were for a fraction of a second in a glint of affection. 
 He was quite happy. They were all seated close to- 
 gether, Edwin opposite the other two at the large table. 
 The single gas-jet, by the very inadequacy with which 
 it lighted the scene of disorder, produced an effect of 
 informal homeliness and fellowship that warmed the 
 heart. Each of the three realised with pleasure that a 
 new and promising friendship was in the making. They 
 talked at length about the Musical Evenings, and Ed- 
 win said that he should buy some music, and Hilda 
 asked him to obtain a history of music that Ingpen 
 described with some enthusiasm, and the date of the 
 first evening was settled, Sunday week. And after 
 uncounted minutes Ingpen remarked that he presumed 
 he had better go. 
 
 "I have to cycle home," he announced once more. 
 
 "To-night?" Hilda exclaimed. 
 
 "No. This morning." 
 
 "All the way to Axe?" 
 
76 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Oh, no I I'm three miles this side of Axe. It's only 
 six and a half miles." 
 
 "But all those hills!" 
 
 "Pooh! Excellent for the muscles of the calf." 
 
 "Do you live alone, Mr. Ingpen?" 
 
 "I have a sort of housekeeper." 
 
 "In a cottage?" 
 
 "In a cottage." 
 
 "But what do you do all alone?" 
 
 "I cultivate myself." 
 
 And Hilda, in a changed tone, said: 
 
 "How wise you are!" 
 
 "Rather inconvenient, being out there, isn't it?" Ed- 
 win suggested. 
 
 "It may be inconvenient sometimes for my job. But 
 I can't help that. I give the State what I consider fair 
 value for the money it pays me, and not a grain more. 
 I've got myself to think about. There are some things 
 I won't do, and one of them is to live all the time in a 
 vile hole like the Five Towns. I won't do it. I'd sooner 
 be a blooming peasant on the land." 
 
 As he was a native he had the right to criticise the 
 district without protest from other natives. 
 
 "You're quite right as to the vile hole," said Hilda 
 with conviction. 
 
 "I don't know " Edwin muttered. "I think old 
 
 Bosley isn't so bad." 
 
 "Yes. But you're an old stick-in-the-mud, dearest," 
 said Hilda. "Mr. Ingpen has lived away from the dis- 
 trict, and so have I. You haven't. You're no judge. 
 We know, don't we, Mr. Ingpen?" 
 
 When, Ingpen having at last accumulated sufficient 
 resolution to move and get his cap, they went through 
 the drawing-room to the garden, they found that rain 
 was falling. 
 
TERTIUS INGPEN 77 
 
 "Never mind!" said Ingpen, lifting his head sar- 
 donically in a mute indictment of the heavens. "I have 
 my mack." 
 
 Edwin searched out the bicycle and brought it to 
 the window, and Hilda stuck a hat on his head. 
 Leisurely Ingpen clipped his trousers at the ankle, and 
 unstrapped a mackintosh cape from the machine, and 
 folded the strap. Leisurely he put on the cape, and 
 gazed at the impenetrable heavens again. 
 
 "I can make you up a bed, Mr. Ingpen." 
 
 "No, thanks. Oh, no, thanks ! The fact is, I rather 
 like rain." 
 
 Leisurely he took a box of fusees from his pocket, 
 and lighted his lamp, examining it as though it con- 
 tained some hidden and perilous defect. Then he 
 pressed the tyres. 
 
 "The back tyre'll do with a little more air," he said 
 thoughtfully. "I don't know if my pump will work." 
 
 It did work, but slowly. After which, gloves had to 
 be assumed. 
 
 "I suppose I can get out this way. Oh! My mu- 
 sic! Never mind, I'll leave it." 
 
 Then with a sudden access of ceremoniousness he 
 bade adieu to Hilda ; no detail of punctilio was omitted 
 from the formality. 
 
 "Good-bye. Many thanks." 
 
 "Good-bye. Thank your 
 
 Edwin preceded the bicyclist and the bicycle round 
 the side of the house to the front-gate at the corner of 
 Hulton Street and Trafalgar Road. 
 
 In the solemn and chill nocturnal solitude of rain- 
 swept Hulton Street, Ingpen straddled the bicycle, 
 with his left foot on one raised pedal and the other on 
 the pavement; and then held out a gloved hand to 
 Edwin. 
 
78 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Good-bye, old chap. See you soon." 
 
 Much good-will and appreciation and hope was im- 
 plicit in that rather casual handshake. 
 
 He sheered off strongly down the dark slope of Hul- 
 ton Street in the rain, using his ankles with skill in the 
 pedal-stroke. The man's calves seemed to be enor- 
 mously developed. The cape ballooned out behind his 
 swiftness, and in a moment he had swerved round the 
 flickering mournful gas-lamp at the bottom of the mean 
 new street and was gone. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE 
 
 "I'M upstairs," Hilda called in a powerful whisper 
 from the head of the stairs as soon as Edwin had closed 
 and bolted the front-door. 
 
 He responded humorously. He felt very happy, 
 lusty, and wideawake. The evening had had its contre- 
 temps, its varying curve of success, but as a whole it 
 was a triumph. And, above all, it was over, a thing 
 that had had to be accomplished and that had been 
 accomplished, with dignity and effectiveness. He 
 walked in ease from room to lighted empty room, and 
 the splendid waste of gas pleased him, arousing some- 
 thing royal that is at the bottom of generous natures. 
 In the breakfast-room especially the gas had been 
 flaring to no purpose for hours. "Her room, her very 
 own room!" He wondered indulgently when, if ever, 
 she would really make it her own room by impressing 
 her individuality upon it. He knew she was always 
 meaning to do something drastic to the room, but so 
 far she had got no further than his portrait. Child! 
 Infant! Wayward girl! . . . Still the fact of the 
 portrait on the mantelpiece touched him. 
 
 He dwelt tenderly on the invisible image of the woman 
 upstairs. It was marvellous how she was not the Hilda 
 he had married. The new Hilda had so overlaid and 
 hidden the old, that he had positively to make an effort 
 
 79 
 
80 THESE TWAIN 
 
 to recall what the old one was, with her sternness and 
 her anxious air of responsibility. But at the same 
 time she was the old Hilda too. He desired to be splen- 
 didly generous, to environ her with all luxuries, to lift 
 her clear above other women; he desired the means to 
 be senselessly extravagant for her. To clasp on her 
 arm a bracelet whose cost would keep a workingman's 
 family for three years would have delighted him. And 
 though he was interested in social schemes, and had a 
 social conscience, he would sooner have bought that 
 bracelet, and so purchased the momentary thrill of 
 putting it on her capricious arm, than have helped to 
 ameliorate the lot of thousands of victimised human be- 
 ings. He had Hilda in his bones and he knew it, and 
 he knew that it was a grand and a painful thing. 
 
 Nevertheless he was not without a considerable self- 
 satisfaction, for he had done very well by Hilda. He 
 had found her at the mercy of the world, and now she 
 was safe and sheltered and beloved, and made mistress 
 of a house and home that would stand comparison with 
 most houses and homes. He was proud of his house; 
 he always watched over it ; he was always improving it ; 
 and he would improve it more and more; and it should 
 never be quite finished. 
 
 The disorder in it, now, irked him. He walked to 
 and fro, and restored every piece of furniture to its 
 proper place, heaped the contents of the ash-trays into 
 one large ash-tray, covered some of the food, and 
 locked up the alcohol. He did this leisurely, while 
 thinking of the woman upstairs, and while eating two 
 chocolates, not more, because he had notions about 
 his stomach. Then he shut and bolted the drawing- 
 room window, and opened the door leading to the cellar 
 steps and sniffed, so as to be quite certain that the 
 radiator furnace was not setting the house on fire. 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE 81 
 
 And then he extinguished the lights, and the hall-light 
 last of all, and his sole illumination was the gas on the 
 first-floor landing inviting him upstairs. 
 
 Standing on the dark stairs, on his way to bed, eager 
 and yet reluctant to mount, he realised the entity of 
 the house. He thought of the astounding and mysteri- 
 ous George, and of those uncomprehended beings, Ada 
 and the cook in their attic, sleeping by the side of the, 
 portrait of a fireman in uniform. He felt sure that 
 one or both of them had been privy to George's un- 
 lawful adventures, and he heartily liked them for shield- 
 ing the boy. And he thought of his wife, moving about 
 in the bedroom upon which she had impressed her in- 
 dividuality. He went upstairs. . . . Yes, he should 
 proceed with the enterprise of the new works. He had 
 the courage for it now. He was rich, according to 
 Bursley ideas, he would be far richer. . . . He gave 
 a faint laugh at the memory of George's objection to 
 Bert's choice of a bicycle as a gift from heaven. 
 
 Hilda was brushing her hair. The bedroom seemed 
 to be full of her and the disorder of her multitudinous, 
 things. Whenever he asked why a particular item of 
 her goods was in a particular spot the spot appearing 
 to him to have been bizarrely chosen she always 
 proved to her own satisfaction, by a quite improvised 
 argument, that that particular spot was the sole pos- 
 sible spot for that particular item. The bedroom was 
 no longer theirs it was hers. He picnicked in it. 
 He didn't mind. In fact he rather liked the pic- 
 nic. It pleased him to exercise his talent for order 
 and organisation, so as to maintain his own com- 
 fort in the small spaces 'which she left to him. To-night 
 
82 THESE TWAIN 
 
 the room was in a divine confusion. He accepted it 
 with pleasure. The beds had not been turned down, 
 because it was improper to turn them down when they 
 were to be used for the deposit of strangers' finery. 
 On Edwin's bed now lay the dress which Hilda had 
 taken off. It was a most agreeable object on the bed, 
 and seemed even richer and more complex there than 
 on Hilda. He removed it carefully to a chair. An 
 antique diaphanous shawl remained, which was un- 
 familiar to him. 
 
 "What's this shawl?" he asked. "I've never seen this 
 shawl before. What is it?" 
 
 Hilda was busy, her bent head buried in hair. 
 
 "Oh, Edwin, what an old fusser you are !" she mum- 
 bled. "What shawl?" 
 
 He held it up. 
 
 "Someone must have left it." 
 
 He proceeded with the turning down of his bed. Then 
 he sat on a chair to regard Hilda. 
 
 When she had done her hair she padded across the 
 room and examined the shawl. 
 
 "What a precious thing !" she exclaimed. "It's Mrs. 
 Fearns's. She must have taken it off to put her jacket 
 on, and then forgotten it. But I'd no idea how good 
 it was. It's genuine old. I wonder how it would suit 
 me?" 
 
 She put it round her shoulders, and then stood smil- 
 ing, posing, bold, provocative, for his verdict. The 
 whiteness of her deshabille showed through the delicate 
 pattern and tints of the shawl, with a strange effect. 
 For him she was more than a woman; she was the in- 
 carnation of a sex. It Was marvellous how all she did, 
 all her ideas and her gestures, were so intensely femi- 
 nine, so sure to perturb or enchant him. Nervously he 
 began to wind his watch. He wanted to spring up and 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE 83 
 
 kiss her because she was herself. But he could not. 
 So he said: 
 
 "Come here, chit. Let me look at that shawl." 
 
 She obeyed. She knelt acquiescent. He put his 
 watch back into his pocket, and fingered the shawl. 
 
 Then she said : 
 
 "I suppose one'll be allowed to grumble at Georgie 
 for locking his bedroom door." And she said it with 
 a touch of mockery in her clear, precise voice, as 
 though twitting him, and Ingpen too, about their ab- 
 surd theoretical sense of honour towards children. And 
 there was a touch of fine bitterness in her voice also, 
 a reminiscence of the old Hilda. Incalculable creature ! 
 Who could have guessed that she would make such a 
 remark at such a moment? In his mind he dashed 
 George to pieces. But as a wise male he ignored all 
 her implications and answered casually, mildly, with 
 an affirmative. 
 
 She went on: 
 
 "What were you talking such a long time to John- 
 nie Orgreave about?" 
 
 "Talking a long time to Johnnie Orgreave? Oh! 
 D'you mean at the front-door? Why, it wasn't half a 
 minute ! He happened to mention a piece of land down 
 at Shawport that I had a sort of a notion of buying." 
 
 "Buying? What for?" Her tone hardened. 
 
 "Well, supposing I had to build a new works?" 
 
 "You never told me anything about it." 
 
 "I've only just begun to think of it myself. You 
 see, if I'm to go in for lithography as it ought to be 
 gone in for, I can't possibly stay at the shop. I must 
 have more room, and a lot more. And it would be 
 cheaper to build than to rent." 
 
 She stood up. 
 
 "Why go in more for lithography?" 
 
84 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "You can't stand still in business. Must either go 
 forward or go back." 
 
 "It seems to me it's very risky. I wondered what 
 you were hiding from me." 
 
 "My dear girl, I was not hiding anything from you," 
 he protested. 
 
 "Whose land is it?" 
 
 "It belongs to Tobias Hall's estate." 
 
 "Yes, and I've no doubt the Halls would be very 
 glad to get rid of it. Who told you about it?" 
 
 "Johnnie." 
 
 "Of course it would be a fine thing for him too." 
 
 "But I'd asked him if he knew of any land going 
 cheap." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and shrugged away the 
 disinterestedness of all Orgreaves. 
 
 "Anyone could get the better of you," she said. 
 
 He resented this estimate of himself as a good-na- 
 tured simpleton. He assuredly did not want to quar- 
 rel, but he was obliged to say: 
 
 "Oh! Could they?" 
 
 An acerbity scarcely intentional somehow entered 
 into his tone. As soon as he heard it he recognised the 
 tone as the forerunner of altercations. 
 
 "Of course!" she insisted, superiorly, and then went 
 on: "We're all right as we are. We spend too much 
 money, but I daresay we're all right. If you go in for 
 a lot of new things you may lose all we've got, and then 
 where shall we be?" 
 
 In his heart he said to her: 
 
 "What's it got to do with you? You manage your 
 home, and I'll manage my business! You know noth- 
 ing at all about business. You're the very antithesis of 
 business. Whatever business you've ever had to do 
 with you've ruined. You've no right to judge and no 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE 85 
 
 grounds for judgment. It's odious of you to asperse 
 any of the Orgreaves. They were always your best 
 friends. I should never have met you if it hadn't been 
 for them. And where would you be now without me? 
 Trying to run some wretched boarding-house and prob- 
 ably starving. Why do you assume that I'm a d d 
 
 fool? You always do. Let me tell you that I'm one 
 of the most common-sense men in this town, and every- 
 body knows it except you. Anyhow I was clever enough 
 to get you out of a mess. . . . You knew I was hiding 
 something from you, did you? I wish you wouldn't talk 
 such infernal rot. And moreover I won't have you in- 
 terfering in my business, dther wives don't, and you 
 shan't. So let that be clearly understood." In his 
 heart he was very ill-used and very savage. 
 
 But he only said: 
 
 "Well, we shall see." 
 
 She retorted: 
 
 "Naturally if you've made up your mind, there's no 
 more to be said." 
 
 He broke out viciously: 
 
 "I've not made up my mind. Don't I tell you I've 
 only just begun to think about it?" 
 
 He was angry. And now that he actually was angry, 
 he took an almost sensual pleasure in being angry. He 
 had been angry before, though on a smaller scale, with 
 less provocation, and he had sworn that he would never 
 be angry again. But now that he was angry again, he 
 gloomily and fiercely revelled in it. 
 
 Hilda silently folded up the shawl, and, putting it 
 into a drawer of the wardrobe, shut the drawer with 
 an irritatingly gentle click. . . . Click! He could 
 have killed her for that click. . . . She seized a dress- 
 ing-gown. 
 
 "I must just go and look at George," she murmured, 
 
86 THESE TWAIN 
 
 with cool, clear calmness, the virtuous, anxious 
 mother ; not a trace of coquetry anywhere in her. 
 
 "What bosh!" he thought. "She knows perfectly 
 well George's door is bolted." 
 
 Marriage was a startling affair. Who could have 
 foretold this finish to the evening? Nothing had oc- 
 curred . . . nothing . . . and yet everything. His 
 plans were all awry. He could see naught but trouble. 
 
 She was away some time. When she returned, he was 
 in bed, with his face averted. He heard her moving 
 about. 
 
 "Will she, or won't she, come and kiss me?" he 
 thought. 
 
 She came and kissed him, but it was a meaningless 
 kiss. 
 
 "Good-night," she said, aloofly. 
 
 " 'Night." 
 
 She slept. But he could not sleep. He kept think- 
 ing the same thought: "She's no right whatever. . . . 
 I must say I never bargained for this. . . ." etc. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE TRUCE 
 
 NEARLY a week passed. Hilda, in the leisure of a 
 woman of fashion after dinner, was at the piano in the 
 drawing-room. She had not urgent stockings to mend, 
 nor jam to make, nor careless wenches to overlook, nor 
 food to buy, nor accounts to keep, nor a new dress to 
 scheme out of an old one, nor to perform her duty to 
 her neighbour. She had nothing to do. Like Edwin, 
 she could not play the piano, but she had picked up 
 a note here and a note there in the course of her life, 
 and with much labour and many slow hesitations she 
 could puzzle out a chord or a melody from the printed 
 page. She was now exasperatingly spelling with her 
 finger a fragment of melody from one of Dvorak's 
 "Legends," a fragment that had inhabited her mind 
 since she first heard it, and that seemed to gather up 
 and state all the sweet heart-breaking intolerable melan- 
 choly implicit in the romantic existence of that city on 
 the map, Prague. On the previous day she had been 
 a quarter of an hour identifying the unforgetable, indis- 
 missible fragment amid the multitude of notes. Now 
 she had recognisably pieced its phrases together, and as 
 her stiff finger stumbled through it, her ears heard it, 
 once more; and she could not repeat it often enough. 
 What she heard was not what she was playing but 
 something finer, her souvenir of what Tertius Ingpen 
 
 87 
 
88 THESE TWAIN 
 
 had played; and something finer than that, something 
 finer than the greatest artist could possibly play 
 magic ! 
 
 It was in the nature of a miracle to her that she had 
 been able to reproduce the souvenir in physical sound. 
 She was proud of herself as a miracle-worker, and some- 
 what surprised. And at the same time she was abject 
 because she "could not play the piano." She thought 
 that she would be ready to sacrifice many happinesses 
 in order to be able to play as well as even George 
 played, that she would exchange all her own gifts mul- 
 tiplied by a hundred in order to be able to play as 
 Janet Orgreave played, and that to be a world-re- 
 nowned pianist dominating immense audiences in Euro- 
 pean capitals must mean the summit of rapture and 
 glory. (She had never listened to a world-renowned 
 pianist.) Meanwhile, without the ennui and slavery of 
 practice, she was enchanting herself ; and she savoured 
 her idleness, and thought of her young pretty servants 
 at work, and her boy loose and at large, and her hus- 
 band keeping her, and of the intensity of beautiful sor- 
 row palpitating behind the mediaeval fa9ades of Prague. 
 Had Ingpen overheard her, he might have demanded: 
 "Who is making that infernal noise on the piano?" 
 
 Edwin came into the room, holding a thick green 
 book. He ought long ago to have been back at the 
 works (or "shop," as it was still called, because it had 
 once been principally a shop), keeping her. 
 
 "Hello !" she murmured, without glancing away 
 from the piano. "I thought you were gone." 
 
 They had not quarrelled; but they had not made 
 peace; and the open question of lithography and the 
 new works still separated them. Sometimes they had 
 approached each other, pretending amiably or even af- 
 fectionately that there was no open question. But the 
 
THE TRUCE 89 
 
 reality of the question could not be destroyed by any 
 pretence of ignoring it. 
 
 While gazing at the piano, Hilda could also see Ed- 
 win. She thought she knew him, but she was always 
 making discoveries in this branch of knowledge. Now 
 and then she was so bewildered by discoveries that she 
 came to wonder why she had married him, and why 
 people do marry really! The fact was that she had 
 married him for the look in his eyes. It was a sad look, 
 and beyond that it could not be described. Also, a 
 little, she had married him for his bright untidy hair, 
 and for that short oblique shake of the head which 
 with him meant a greeting or an affirmative. She had 
 not married him for his sentiments nor for his goodness 
 of heart. Some points in him she did not like. He had 
 a tendency to colds, and she hated him whenever he 
 had a cold. She often detested his terrible tidiness, 
 though it was a convenient failing. More and more she 
 herself wilfully enjoyed being untidy, as her mother 
 had been untidy. . . . And to think that her mother's 
 untidiness used to annoy her ! On the other hand she 
 found pleasure in humouring Edwin's crotchettiness in 
 regard to the details of a meal. She did not like his 
 way of walking, which was ungainly, nor his way of 
 standing, which was infirm. She preferred him to be 
 seated. She could not but regret his irresolution, and 
 his love of ease. However, the look in his eyes was 
 paramount, because she was in love with him. She 
 knew that he was more deeply and helplessly in love 
 with her than she with him, but even she was perhaps 
 tightlier bound than in her pride she thought. 
 
 Her love had the maladies of a woman's love when it 
 is great; these may possibly be also the maladies of a 
 man's love. It could be bitter. Certainly it could 
 never rest from criticism, spoken or unspoken. In the 
 
90 THESE TWAIN 
 
 presence of others she would criticise him to herself, 
 if not aloud, nearly all the time; the ordeal was con- 
 tinuous. When she got him alone she would often en- 
 dow him at a stroke with perfection, and her tenderness 
 would pour over him. She trusted him profoundly; 
 and yet she had constant misgivings, which weakened 
 or temporarily destroyed her confidence. She would 
 treat a statement from him with almost hostile caution, 
 and accept blindly the very ' same statement from a 
 stranger! Her habit was to assume that in any en- 
 counter between him and a stranger he would be 
 worsted. She was afraid for him. She felt that she 
 could protect him better than he could protect him- 
 self, against any danger whatever. This instinct to 
 protect him was also the instinct of self -protection ; for 
 peril to him meant peril to her. And she had had 
 enough of peril. After years of disastrous peril she 
 was safe and George was safe. And if she was pas- 
 sionately in love with Edwin, she was also passionately 
 in love with safety. She had breathed a long sigh of 
 relief, and from a desperate self-defender had become 
 a woman. She lay back, as it were, luxuriously on a 
 lounge, after exhausting and horrible exertions ; she had 
 scarcely ceased to pant. At the least sign of recurring 
 danger all her nerves were on the qui vive. Hence her 
 inimical attitude towards the project of the new works 
 and the extension of lithography in Bursley. The sim- 
 pleton (a moment earlier the perfect man) might ruin 
 himself and her! In her view he was the last per- 
 son to undertake such an enterprise. 
 
 Since her marriage, Clara, Maggie, and Auntie 
 Hamps had been engaged in the pleasant endless task 
 of telling her all about everything that related to the 
 family, and she had been permitted to understand that 
 Edwin, though utterly admirable, was not of a creative 
 
THE TRUCE 91 
 
 disposition, and that he had done nothing but conserve 
 what his father had left. Without his father Edwin 
 "would have been in a very different position." She 
 believed this. Every day, indeed, Edwin, by the texture 
 of his hourly life, proved the truth of it. ... All the 
 persons standing to make a profit out of the new pro- 
 ject would get the better of his fine ingenuous tempera- 
 ment naturally I She knew the world. Did Edwin 
 suppose that she did not know what the world was? 
 . . . And then the interminable worry of the new enter- 
 prise misgivings, uncertainties, extra work, secret 
 preoccupations! What room for love, what hope of 
 
 tranquillity in all that? He might argue But 
 
 she did not want to argue; she would not argue. She 
 was dead against the entire project. He had not said 
 to her that it was no affair of hers, but she knew that 
 such was his thought, and she resented the attitude. 
 No affair of hers? When it threatened her felicity? 
 No ! She would not have it. She was happy and secure. 
 And while lying luxuriously back in her lounge she 
 would maintain all the defences of her happiness and 
 her security. 
 
 Holding the green book in front of her, Edwin said 
 quietly : 
 
 "Read this!" 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 He pointed with his finger. 
 
 She read : 
 
 "7 think I could turn and live with animals, they 
 are so placid and self-contained. 
 
 I stand and look at them long and long. 
 
 They do not sweat and whine about their condition. 
 
92 THESE TWAIN 
 
 They do not lie awake m the dark and weep for their 
 sins. 
 
 They do not make me sick discussing their duty to 
 God. 
 
 Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the 
 mania of owning things. 
 
 Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived 
 thousands of years ago. 
 
 Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole 
 earth." 
 
 Edwin had lately been exciting himself, not for the 
 first time, over Walt Whitman. 
 
 "Fine, isn't it?" he said, sure that she would share 
 his thrill. 
 
 "Magnificent!" she agreed with quiet enthusiasm. 
 "I must read more of that." She gazed over the top 
 of the book through the open blue-curtained window 
 into the garden. 
 
 He withdrew the book and closed it. 
 
 "You haven't got that tune exactly right, you know," 
 he said, jerking his head in the direction of the music. 
 
 "Oh !" She was startled. What did he know about 
 it? He could not play the piano. 
 
 "Where are you?" he asked. "Show me. Where's 
 the confounded place on the piano? Well! At the 
 end you play it like this." He imitated her. "Whereas 
 it ought to be like this." He played the last four notes 
 differently. 
 
 "So it ought !" She murmured with submission, after 
 having frowned. 
 
 "That bit of a tune's been running in my head, too," 
 he said. 
 
 The strange beauty of Whitman and the strange 
 beauty of Dvorak seemed to unite, and both Edwin and 
 
THE TRUCE 93 
 
 Hilda were uplifted, not merely by these mingled beau- 
 ties, but by their realisation of the wondrous fact that 
 they both took intense pleasure in the same varied 
 forms of beauty. Happiness rose about them like a 
 sweet smell in the spaces of the comfortable impeccable 
 drawing-room. And for a moment they leaned towards 
 each other in bliss across the open question. . . . 
 Was it still open? . . . Ah! Edwin might be in- 
 genuous, a simpleton, but Hilda admitted the astound- 
 ing, mystifying adroitness of his demeanour. Had he 
 abandoned the lithographic project, or was he privately 
 nursing it? In his friendliness towards herself was 
 there a reserve, or was there not? She knew . . . she 
 did not know . . . she knew. . . . Yes, there was a 
 reserve, but it was so infinitesimal that she could not 
 define it, could not decide whether it was due to ob- 
 stinacy of purpose, or merely to a sense of injury, 
 whether it was resentful or condescending. Exciting 
 times ! And she perceived that her new life was gradu- 
 ally getting fuller of such excitements. 
 
 "Well," said he. "It's nearly three. Quarter-day's 
 coming along. I'd better be off down and earn a bit 
 towards Maggie's rent." 
 
 Before the June quarter-day, he had been jocular in 
 the same way about Maggie's rent. In the division of 
 old Darius Clayhanger's estate Maggie had taken over 
 the Clayhanger house, and Edwin paid rent to her 
 therefor. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't talk like that," said Hilda, 
 pouting amiably. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Well, I wish you wouldn't." 
 
 "Anyhow, the rent has to be paid, I suppose." 
 
 "And I wish it hadn't. I wish we didn't live in 
 Maggie's house." 
 
94 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I don't like the idea of it." 
 
 "You're sentimental." 
 
 "You can call it what you like. I don't like the 
 idea of us living in Maggie's house. I never feel as if 
 I was at home. No, I don't feel as if I was at home." 
 
 "What a kid you are !" 
 
 "You won't change me," she persisted stoutly. 
 
 He knew that she was not sympathetic towards the 
 good Maggie. And he knew the reasons for her atti- 
 tude, though they had never been mentioned. One was 
 mere vague jealousy of Maggie as her predecessor in 
 the house. The other was that Maggie was always very 
 tepid towards George. George had annoyed her on his 
 visits previous to his mother's marriage, and moreover 
 Maggie had dimly resented Edwin's interest in the son 
 of a mysterious woman. If she had encountered George 
 after the proclamation of Edwin's engagement she 
 would have accepted the child with her customary 
 cheerful blandness. But she had encountered him too 
 soon, and her puzzled gaze had said to George : "Why 
 is my brother so taken up with you? There must be 
 an explanation, and your strange mother is the ex- 
 planation." Edwin did not deny Maggie's attitude to 
 George, but he defended Maggie as a human being. 
 Though dull, "she was absolutely the right sort," 
 and the very slave of duty and loyalty. He would have 
 liked to make Hilda see all Maggie's excellences. 
 
 "Do you know what I've been thinking?" Hilda went 
 on. "Suppose you were to buy the house from Mag- 
 gie? Then it would be ours." 
 
 He answered with a smile: 
 
 "What price 'the mania for owning things'? . . . 
 Would you like me to?" There was promise in his 
 roguish voice. 
 
THE TRUCE 95 
 
 "Oh! I should. I've often thought of it," she said 
 eagerly. And at the same time all her gestures and 
 glances seemed to be saying: "Humour me! I appeal 
 to you as a girl pouting and capricious. But humour 
 me. You know it gives you pleasure to humour me. 
 You know you like me not to be too reasonable. We 
 both know it. I want you to do this." 
 
 It was not the fact that she had often thought of the 
 plan. But in her eagerness she imagined it to be the 
 fact. She had never seriously thought of the plan un- 
 til that moment, and it appeared doubly favourable to 
 her now, because the execution of it, by absorbing cap- 
 ital, ought to divert Edwin from his lithographic pro- 
 ject, and perhaps render the lithographic project im- 
 possible for years. 
 
 She added, aloud: 
 
 "Then you wouldn't have any rent to pay." 
 
 "How true!" said Edwin, rallying her. "But it 
 would stand me in a loss, because I should have to pay 
 too much for the place." 
 
 "Why?" she cried, in arms. "Why should Maggie 
 ask too much just because you want it? And think 
 of all the money you've spent on it !" 
 
 "The money spent on it only increases its value to 
 Maggie. You don't seem to understand landlordism, 
 my child. But that's not the point at all. Maggie 
 won't ask any price. Only I couldn't decently pay her 
 less than the value she took the house over at when we 
 divided up. To wit, 1,800. It ain't worth that. I 
 only pay 60 rent." 
 
 "If she took it over at too high a value that's her 
 look-out," said the harsh and unjust Hilda. 
 
 "Not at all. She was a fool. Albert and Clara per- 
 suaded her. It was a jolly good thing for them. I 
 couldn't very well interfere." 
 
96 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "It seems a great shame you should have to pay for 
 what Albert and Clara did." 
 
 "I needn't unless I want to. Only, if I buy the 
 house, 1,800 will have to be the price." 
 
 "Well," said Hilda. "I wish you'd buy it." 
 
 "Would she feel more at home if he did?" he seduc- 
 tively chaffed her. 
 
 "Yes, she would." Hilda straightened her shoulders, 
 and smiled with bravado. 
 
 "And suppose Mag won't sell?" 
 
 "Will you allow me to mention it to her?" Hilda's 
 submissive tone implied that Edwin was a tyrant who 
 ruled with a nod. 
 
 "I don't mind," he said negligently. 
 
 "Well, one of these days I just will." 
 
 Edwin departed, leaving the book behind. Hilda was 
 flushed. She thought: "It is marvellous. I can do 
 what I like with him. When I use a particular tone, 
 and look at him in a particular way, I can do what I 
 like with him." 
 
 She was ecstatically conscious of an incomprehensi- 
 ble power. What a role, that of the capricious, pouting 
 queen, reclining luxuriously on her lounge, and subdu- 
 ing a tyrant to a slave! It surpassed that of the 
 world-renowned pianist! . . . 
 
 ra 
 
 But soon she became more serious. She had a deli- 
 cious glow of seriousness. She overflowed with grati- 
 tude to Edwin. His good-nature was exquisite. He 
 was not perfect. She could see all his faults just as 
 plainly as when she was angry with him. But he was 
 perfect in lovableness. She adored every aspect of him, 
 every manifestation of his character. She felt her 
 
THE TRUCE 97 
 
 responsibility to him and to George. It was hers to 
 bring grace into their lives. Without her, how miser- 
 able, how uncared for, those two would be! They 
 would be like lost children. Nobody could do for them 
 what she did. Money could not buy what she gave natu- 
 rally, and mere invention could not devise it. She 
 looked up to Edwin, but at the same time she was mys- 
 teriously above both him and George. She had a 
 strange soft wisdom for them. It was agreeable, and 
 it was proper, and it was even prudent, to be capri- 
 cious on occasion and to win by pouting and wiles and 
 seductions; but beneath all that lay the tremendous 
 sternness of the wife's duty, everlasting and intricate, a 
 heavy obligation that demanded all her noblest powers 
 for its fulfilment. She rose heroically to the thought of 
 duty, conceiving it as she had never conceived it be- 
 fore. She desired intensely to be the most wonderful 
 wife in the whole history of marriage. And she be- 
 lieved strongly in her capabilities. 
 
 She went upstairs to put on another and a finer 
 dress; for since the disastrous sequel to the At Home 
 she had somewhat wearied in the pursuit of elegance. 
 She had thought : "What is the use of me putting my- 
 self to such a lot of trouble for a husband who is in- 
 sensible enough to risk my welfare unnecessarily?" She 
 was now ashamed of this backsliding. Ada- was in the 
 bedroom finicking with something on the dressing-table. 
 Ada sprang to help as soon as she knew that her 
 mistress had to go out. And she openly admired the 
 new afternoon dress and seemed as pleased as though 
 she was to wear it herself. And Ada buttoned her boots 
 and found her gloves and her parasol, and remembered 
 her purse and her bag and her handkerchief. 
 
 "I don't quite know what time I shall be back, Ada." 
 "No'm," said Ada eagerly, as though saying: "Of 
 
98 THESE TWAIN 
 
 course you idon't, m'm. You have many engagements. 
 But no matter when you come back we shall be de- 
 lighted to see you because the house is nothing without 
 you." 
 
 "Of course I shall be back for tea." 
 
 "Oh, yes'm!" Ada agreed, as though saying: "Need 
 you tell me that, m'm? I know you would never leave 
 the master to have his tea alone." 
 
 Hilda walked regally down the stairs and glanced 
 round about her at the house, which belonged to Mag- 
 gie and which Edwin had practically promised to buy. 
 Yes, it was a fine house, a truly splendid abode. And 
 it seemed all the finer because it was Maggie's. Hilda 
 had this regrettable human trait of overvaluing what 
 was not hers and depreciating what was. It accounted 
 in part, possibly, for her often very critical attitude 
 towards Edwin. She passed out of the front-door in 
 triumph, her head full of wise schemes and plots. But 
 even then she was not sure whether she had destroyed 
 or could ever destroy, by no matter what arts ! the 
 huge dangerous lithographic project. 
 
 As soon as she was gone, Ada ran yelling to the 
 kitchen : 
 
 "Hooray! She's safe." 
 
 And both servants burst like infants into the garden, 
 to disport themselves upon the swing. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE FAMILY AT HOME 
 
 WHEN Hilda knocked at the door of Auntie Hamps's 
 house, in King Street, a marvellously dirty and untidy 
 servant answered the summons, and a smell of green- 
 gage jam in the making surged out through the door- 
 way into the street. The servant wore an apron of 
 rough sacking. 
 
 "Is Miss Clayhanger in?" coldly asked Hilda, of- 
 fended by the sight and the smell. 
 
 The servant looked suspicious and mysterious. 
 
 "No, mum. Her's gone out." 
 
 "Mrs. Hamps, then?" 
 
 "Missis is up yon," said the servant, jerking her 
 tousled head back towards the stairs. 
 
 "Will you tell her I'm here?" 
 
 The servant left the visitor on the doorstep, and 
 with an elephantine movement of the knees ran upstairs. 
 
 Hilda walked into the passage towards the kitchen. 
 On the kitchen fire was the brilliant copper pan sacred 
 te> "preserving." Rows of earthenware and glass jars 
 stood irregularly on the table. 
 
 "Her'll be down," said the brusque servant, return- 
 ing, and glared open-mouthed. 
 
 "Shall I wait in the sitting-room?" 
 
 The house, about seventy years old, was respectably 
 situated in the better part of King Street, at the bot- 
 tom of the slope near St. Luke's Church. It had once 
 
 99 
 
100 THESE TWAIN 
 
 been occupied by a dentist of a certain grandeur, and 
 possessed a garden, of which, however, Auntie Hamps 
 had made a wilderness. The old lady was magnificent, 
 but her magnificence was limited to herself. She could 
 be sublimely generous, gorgeously hospitable, but only 
 upon special occasions. Her teas, at which a fresh 
 and costly pineapple and wonderful confectionery and 
 pickled salmon and silver plate never lacked, were re- 
 nowned, but the general level of her existence was very 
 mean. Her servants, of whom she had many, though 
 never more than one at a time, were not only obliged to 
 be Wesleyan Methodists and to attend the Sunday 
 night service, and in the week to go to class-meeting for 
 the purpose of confessing sins and proving the power 
 of Christ, they were obliged also to eat dripping in- 
 stead of butter. The mistress sometimes ate dripping, 
 if butter ran short or went up in price. She considered 
 herself a tremendous housewife. She was a martyr to 
 her housewifely ideals. Her private career was chiefly 
 an endless struggle to keep the house clean to get for- 
 ward with the work. The house was always going to 
 be clean and never was, despite eternal soap, furniture- 
 polish, scrubbing, rubbing. Auntie Hamps never 
 changed her frowsy house-dress for rich visiting attire 
 without the sad thought that she was "leaving some- 
 thing undone." The servant never went to bed with- 
 out hearing the discontented phrase: "Well, we must 
 do it to-morrow." Spring-cleaning in that house lasted 
 for six weeks. On days of hospitality the effort to 
 get the servant "dressed" for tea-time was simply des- 
 perate, and not always successful. 
 
 Auntie Hamps had no sense of comfort and no sense 
 of beauty. She was incapable of leaning back in a 
 chair, and she regarded linoleum as one of the most 
 satisfactory inventions of the modern age. She "saved' f 
 
THE FAMILY AT TJQME 101, 
 
 her carpets bj means of patches of linoleum, often 
 stringy at the edges, and in some rooms there was more 
 linoleum than anything else. In the way of renewals 
 she bought nothing but linoleum, unless some chapel 
 bazaar forced her to purchase a satin cushion or a 
 hand-painted grate-screen. All her furniture was old, 
 decrepit and ugly; it belonged to the worst Victorian 
 period, when every trace of the eighteenth century had 
 disappeared. The abode was always oppressive. l 
 was oppressive even amid hospitality, for then the mere 
 profusion on the tables accused the rest of the interior, 
 creating a feeling of discomfort; and moreover Mrs. 
 Hamps could not be hospitable naturally. She could 
 be nothing and do nothing naturally. She could no 
 more take off her hypocrisy than she could take off 
 her skin. Her hospitality was altogether too ruthless. 
 And to satisfy that ruthlessness, the guests had always 
 to eat too much. She was so determined to demonstrate 
 her hospitality to herself, that she would never leave 
 a guest alone until he had reached the bursting point. 
 
 Hilda sat grimly in the threadbare sitting-room amid' 
 morocco-bound photograph albums, oleographs, and 
 beady knickknacks, and sniffed the strong odour of 
 jam ; and in the violence of her revolt against that wide- 
 spread messy idolatrous eternal domesticity of which 
 Auntie Hamps was a classic example, she protested that 
 she would sooner buy the worst jam than make the best, 
 and that she would never look under a table for dust, 
 and that naught should induce her to do any house- 
 work after midday, and that she would abolish spring- 
 cleaning utterly. 
 
 The vast mediocre respectability of the district 
 weighed on her heart. She had been a mistress-drudge 
 in Brighton during a long portion of her adult life; 
 she knew the very depths of domesticity ; but at Bright- 
 
1Q& THESE TWAIN 
 
 on the eye could find large, rich, luxurious, and some- 
 times beautiful things for its distraction; and there 
 was the sea. In the Five Towns there was nothing. 
 You might walk from one end of the Five Towns to 
 the other, and not see one object that gave a thrill 
 unless it was a pair of lovers. And when you went in- 
 side the houses you were no better off, you were even 
 worse off, because you came at once into contact with 
 an ignoble race of slatternly imprisoned serfs driven 
 by narrow-minded women who themselves were serfs 
 with the mentality of serfs and the prodigious conceit 
 of virtue. . . . Talk to Auntie Hamps at home of 
 lawn-tennis or a musical evening, and she would set 
 you down as flighty, and shift the conversation on to 
 soaps or chapels. And there were hundreds of houses 
 in the Five Towns into which no ideas- save the ideas 
 of Auntie Hamps had ever penetrated, and tens and 
 hundreds of thousands of such houses all over the in- 
 dustrial districts of Staffordshire, Cheshire, Lan- 
 cashire, and Yorkshire, houses where to keep bits of 
 wood clean and to fulfil the ceremonies of pietism, and 
 to help the poor to help themselves, was the highest 
 good, the sole good. Hilda in her mind saw every 
 house, and shuddered. She turned for relief to the 
 thought of her own house, and in a constructive spirit 
 of rebellion she shaped instantaneously a conscious pol- 
 icy for it. ... Yes, she took oath that her house 
 should at any rate be intelligent and agreeable before 
 it was clean. She pictured Auntie Hamps gazing at 
 a layer of dust in the Clayhanger hall, and heard her- 
 self saying: "Oh, yes, Auntie, it's dust right enough. 
 I keep it there on purpose, to remind me of something 
 I want to remember." She looked round Auntie 
 Hamps's sitting-room and revelled grimly in the mon- 
 strous catalogue of its mean ugliness. 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 103 
 
 And then Auntie Hamps came in, splendidly and 
 yet soberly attired in black to face the world, with her 
 upright, vigorous figure, her sparkling eye, and her 
 admirable complexion ; self-content, smiling hospitably ; 
 quite unconscious that she was dead, and that her era 
 was dead, and that Hilda was not guiltless of the mur- 
 der. 
 
 "This is nice of you, Hilda. It's quite an honour." 
 And then, archly: "I'm making jam." 
 
 "So I see," said Hilda, meaning that so she smelt. 
 "I just looked in on the chance of seeing Maggie." 
 
 "Maggie went out about half-an-hour ago." 
 
 Auntie Hamps's expression had grown mysterious, 
 Hilda thought : "What's she hiding from me?" 
 
 "Oh, well, it doesn't matter," said she. "You're 
 going out too, Auntie." 
 
 "I do wish I'd known you were coming, dear. Will 
 you stay and have a cup of tea?" 
 
 "No, no ! I won't keep you." 
 
 "But it will be a pleasure, dear," Auntie Hamps pro- 
 tested warmly. 
 
 "No, no! Thanks \ I'll just walk along with 
 you a little of the way. Which direction are you 
 going?" 
 
 Auntie Hamps hesitated, she was in a dilemma. 
 
 "What is she hiding from me?" thought Hilda. 
 
 "The truth is," said Auntie Hamps, "I'm just pop- 
 ping over to Clara's." 
 
 "Well, I'll go with you, Auntie." 
 
 "Oh, do !" exclaimed Mrs. Hamps almost passion- 
 ately. "Do! I'm sure Clara wiU be delighted!" She 
 added in a casual tone: "Maggie's there." 
 
 Thought Hilda: 
 
 "She evidently doesn't want me to go." 
 
 After Mrs. Hamps had peered into the grand cop- 
 
104 THESE TWAIN 
 
 per pan and most particularly instructed the servant, 
 they set off. 
 
 "I shan't be easy in my mind until I get back," said 
 Auntie Hamps. "Unless you look after them all the 
 time they always forget to stir it." 
 
 When they turned in at the gate of the Benbows' 
 house the front-door was already open, and Clara, hold- 
 ing Rupert her youngest by the hand, stood smiling 
 to receive them. Obviously they had been descried up 
 the street from one of the bow- windows. This small 
 fact, strengthening in Hilda's mind the gradually- 
 formed notion that the Benbows were always lying in 
 wait and that their existence was a vast machination 
 for getting the better of other people, enlivened her 
 prejudice against her sister-in-law. Moreover Clara 
 was in one of her best dresses, and her glance had a 
 peculiar self-conscious expression, partly guilty and 
 partly cunning. Nevertheless, the fair fragility of 
 Clara's face, with its wonderful skin, and her manner, 
 at once girlish and maternal, of holding fast the child's 
 hand, reacted considerably against Hilda's prejudice. 
 
 Rupert was freshly all in white, stitched and em- 
 broidered with millions of plain and fancy stitches ; he 
 had had time neither to tear nor to stain; only on his 
 bib there was a spot of jam. His obese right arm was 
 stretched straight upwards to attain the immense 
 height of the hand of the protective giantess his 
 mother, and this reaching threw the whole balance of 
 his little body over towards the left, and gave him a 
 comical and wistful appearance. He was a pretty and 
 yet sturdy child, with a look indicating a nice disposi- 
 tion, and he had recently been acquiring the marvellous 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 105 
 
 gift of speech. . . . Astounding how the infantile 
 brain added word to word and phrase to phrase, and 
 (as though there were not enough) actually invented 
 delicious words and graphic droll phrases! Nobody 
 could be surprised that he became at once the centre 
 of greetings. His grand-aunt snatched him up, and 
 without the slightest repugnance he allowed the ancient 
 woman to bury her nose in his face and neck. 
 
 And then Hilda embraced him with not less pleas- 
 ure, for the contact of his delicate flesh, and his flushed 
 timid smile, were exquisite. She wished for a moment 
 that George was only two and a half again, and that 
 she could bathe him, and wipe him, and nurse him 
 close. Clara's pride, though the visitors almost for- 
 got to shake hands with her, was ecstatic. At length 
 Rupert was safely on the step once more. He had 
 made no remark whatever. Shyness prevented him 
 from showing off his new marvellous gift, but his 
 mother, gazing at him, said that in ordinary life he 
 never stopped chattering. 
 
 "Come this way, will you?" said Clara effusively, and 
 yet conspiratorially, pointing to the drawing-room, 
 which was to the left of the front-door. From the 
 dining-room, which was to the right of the front-door, 
 issued confused sounds. "Albert's here. I'm so glad 
 you've come," she added to Hilda. 
 
 Auntie Hamps murmured warningly into Hilda's ear: 
 
 "It's Bert's birthday party." 
 
 A fortnight earlier Hilda had heard rumours of 
 Bert's approaching birthday his twelfth, and there- 
 fore a high solemnity but she had very wrongly for- 
 gotten about it. "I'm so glad you've come," Clara re- 
 peated in the drawing-room. "I was afraid you might 
 be hurt. I thought I'd just bring you in here first and 
 explain it all to you." 
 
 
106 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Oh! Bless me!" exclaimed Auntie Hamps, inter- 
 rupting, as she glanced round the drawing-room. "We 
 are grand! Well I never! We are grand!" 
 
 "Do you like it?" said Clara, blushing. 
 
 Auntie Hamps in reply told one of the major lies of 
 her career. She said with rapture that she did like 
 the new drawing-room suite. This suite was a proof, 
 disagreeable to Auntie Hamps, that the world would 
 never stand still. It quite ignored all the old Vic- 
 torian ideals of furniture; and in ignoring the past, i 
 also ignored the future. Victorian furniture had al- 
 ways sought after immortality; in Bursley there were 
 thousands of Victorian chairs and tables that defied 
 time and that nothing but an axe or a conflagration 
 could destroy. But this new suite thought not of the 
 morrow; it did not even pretend to think of the mor- 
 row. Nobody believed that it would last, and the 
 owners of it simply forbore to reflect upon what it 
 would be after a few years of family use. They con- 
 templated with joy its first state of dainty freshness, 
 and were content therein. Whereas the old Victorians 
 lived in the future (in so far as they truly lived at 
 all), the neo-Victorians lived careless in the present. 
 
 The suite was of apparent rosewood, with salmon- 
 tinted upholstery ending in pleats and bows. But 
 white also entered considerably into the scheme, for 
 enamel paint had just reached Bursley and was des- 
 tined to become the rage. Among the items of the suite 
 was a three-legged milking-stool in deal covered with 
 white enamel paint heightened by salmon-tinted bows 
 of imitation silk. Society had recently been thunder- 
 struck by the originality of putting a milking-stool in 
 a drawing-room; its quaintness appealed with tre- 
 mendous force to nearly all hearts ; nearly every house- 
 mistress on seeing a milking-stool in a friend's draw- 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 107 
 
 ing-room, decided that she must have a milking-stool 
 in her drawing-room, and took measures to get one. 
 Clara was among the earlier possessors, the pioneers. 
 Ten years five years before, Clara had appropriated 
 the word "aesthetic" as a term of sneering abuse, with 
 but a vague idea of its meaning ; and now such is the 
 miraculous effect of time she was caught up in the 
 movement as it had ultimately spread to the Five 
 Towns, a willing convert and captive, and nothing 
 could exceed her scorn for that which once she had 
 admired to the exclusion of all else. Into that mid- 
 Victorian respectable house, situate in a rather old- 
 fashioned street leading from Shawport Lane to the 
 Canal, and whose boast (even when inhabited by non- 
 jconf ormists ) was that it overlooked the Rectory gar- 
 den, the new ideals of brightness, freshness, eccentricity, 
 brittleness and impermanency had entered, and Auntie 
 Hamps herself was intimidated by them. 
 
 Hilda gave polite but perfunctory praise. Lef 
 alone, she might not have been averse from the new 
 ideals in their more expensive forms, but the influence 
 of Edwin had taught her to despise them. Edwin's 
 tastes in furniture, imbibed from the Orgreaves, neg- 
 lected the modern, and went even further back than 
 earliest Victorian. Much of the ugliness bought by his 
 father remained in the Clayhanger house, but all Ed- 
 win's own purchases were either antique, or, if new, 
 careful imitations of the pre- Victorian. Had England 
 been peopled by Edwins, all original artists in furni- 
 ture might have died of hunger. Yet he encouraged 
 original literature. What, however, put Hilda against 
 Clara's drawing-room suite, was not its style, nor its 
 enamel, nor its frills, nor the obviously inferior quality 
 of its varnish, but the mere fact that it had been ex- 
 posed for sale in Nixon's shop-window in Duck Bank, 
 
108 THESE TWAIN 
 
 with the price marked. Hilda did not like this. Now 
 Edwin might see an old weather-glass in some frowsy 
 second-hand shop at Hanbridge or Turnhill, and from 
 indecision might leave it in the second-hand shop for 
 months, and then buy it and hang it up at home, and 
 instantly it was somehow transformed into another 
 weather-glass, a superior and personal weather-glass. 
 But Clara's suite was not for Hilda thus trans- 
 formed. Indeed, as she sat there in Clara's drawing- 
 room, she had the illusion of sitting in Nixon's shop. 
 
 Further, Nixon had now got in his window another 
 suite precisely like Clara's. It was astonishing to 
 Hilda that Clara was not ashamed of the publicity and 
 the wholesale reproduction of her suite. But she was 
 not. On the contrary she seemed to draw a mysteri- 
 ous satisfaction from the very fact that suites pre- 
 cisely similar to hers were to be found or would soon 
 be found in unnumbered other drawing-rooms. Nor did 
 she mind that the price was notorious. And in the mat- 
 ter of the price the phrase "hire-purchase" flitted 
 about in Hilda's brain. She felt sure that Albert Ben- 
 bow had not paid cash to Nixon. She regarded the 
 hire-purchase system as unrespectable, if not immoral, 
 and this opinion was one of the very few she shared 
 with Auntie Hamps. Both ladies in their hearts, and 
 in the security of their financial positions, blamed the 
 Benbows for imprudence. Nobody, not even his wife, 
 knew just how Albert "stood," but many took leave 
 to guess and guessed unfavourably. 
 
 "Do sit down," said Clara, too urgently. She was so 
 preoccupied that Hilda's indifference to her new furni- 
 ture did not affect her. 
 
 They all sat down, primly, in the pretty primness of 
 the drawing-room, and Rupert leaned as if tired against 
 his mother's fine skirt. 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 109 
 
 Hilda, expectant, glanced vaguely about her. Auntie 
 Hamps did the same. On the central table lay a dic- 
 tionary of the English language, open and leaves 
 downwards ; and near it a piece of paper containing a 
 long list of missing words in pencil. Auntie Hamps, as 
 soon as her gaze fell on these objects, looked quickly 
 away, as though she had by accident met the obscene. 
 Clara caught the movement, flushed somewhat, and re- 
 covered herself. 
 
 "I'm so glad you've come," she repeated yet again to 
 Hilda, with a sickly-sweet smile. "I did so want to ex- 
 plain to you how it was we didn't ask George I was 
 afraid you might be vexed." 
 
 "What an idea!" Hilda murmured as naturally as 
 she could, her nostrils twitching uneasily in the at- 
 mosphere of small feuds and misunderstandings which' 
 Clara breathed with such pleasure. She laughed, to 
 reassure Clara, and also in enjoyment of the thought 
 that for days Clara had pictured her as wondering 
 sensitively why no invitation to the party had come 
 for George, while in fact the party had never crossed 
 her mind. She regretted that she had no gift for Bert, 
 but decided to give him half-a-crown for his savings- 
 bank account, of which she had heard a lot. 
 
 "To tell ye the truth," said Clara, launching her- 
 self, "we've had a lot of trouble with Bert. Albert's 
 been quite put about. It was only the day before yes- 
 terday Albert got out of him the truth about the night 
 of your At Home, Hilda, when he ran away after he'd 
 gone to bed. Albert said to him : 'I shan't whip you, 
 and I shan't put you on bread and water. Only if you 
 don't tell me what you were doing that night there'll 
 be no birthday and no birthday party that's all.' 
 So at last Bert gave in. And d'you know what he was 
 doing? Holding a prayer-meeting with your George 
 
110 THESE TWAIN 
 
 and that boy of Clowes's next door to your house down 
 Hulton Street. Did you know?" 
 
 Hilda shook her head bravely. Officially she did not 
 know. 
 
 "Did you ever hear of such a thing?" exclaimed 
 Auntie Hamps. 
 
 "Yes," proceeded Clara, taking breath for a new 
 start. "And Bert's story is that they prayed for a 
 penknife for your George, and it came. And then they 
 prayed for a bicycle for our Bert, but the bicycle didn't 
 come, and then Bert and George had a fearful quar- 
 rel, and George gave him the penknife made him have 
 it and then said he'd never speak to him any more as 
 long as he lived. At first Albert was inclined to thrash 
 Bert for telling lies and being irreverent, but in the 
 end he came to the conclusion that at any rate Bert 
 was telling what he thought to be the truth. . . . And 
 that Clowes boy is so little! . . . Bert wanted his 
 birthday party of course, but he begged and prayed 
 us not to ask George. So in the end we decided we'd 
 better not, and we let him have his own way. That's 
 all there is to it. ... So George has said nothing?" 
 
 "Not a word," replied Hilda. 
 
 "And the Clowes boy is so little!" said Clara again. 
 She went suddenly to the mantelpiece and picked up a 
 penknife and offered it to Hilda. 
 
 "Here's the penknife. Of course Albert took it off 
 him." 
 
 "Why?" said Hilda ingenuously. 
 
 But Clara detected satire and repelled it with a 
 glance. 
 
 "It's not Edwin's penknife, I suppose?" she queried, 
 in a severe tone. 
 
 "No, it isn't. I've never seen it before. Why ?" 
 
 "We were only thinking Edwin might have over- 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 111 
 
 heard the boys and thrown a knife over the wall. It 
 would be just like Edwin, that would." 
 
 "Oh, no!" The deceitful Hilda blew away such a 
 possibility. 
 
 "I'm quite sure he didn't," said she, and added mis- 
 chievously as she held out the penknife: "I thought 
 all you folks believed in the efficacy of prayer." 
 
 These simple words were never forgiven by Clara. 
 
 The next moment, having restored the magic pen- 
 knife to the mantelpiece, and gathered up her infant, 
 she was leading the way to the dining-room. 
 
 "Come along, Rupy, my darling," said she. 
 
 " 'Rupy !' ' Hilda privately imitated her, deriding 
 the absurdity of the diminutive. 
 
 "If you ask me," said Auntie Hamps, determined to 
 save the honour of the family, "it's that little Clowes 
 monkey that is responsible. I've been thinking it over 
 since you told me about it last night, Clara, and I feel 
 almost sure it must have been that little Clowes mon- 
 key." 
 
 She was magnificent. She was no longer a house- 
 keeper worried about the processes of jam-making, but 
 a grandiose figure out in the world, a figure symbolic, 
 upon whom had devolved the duty of keeping up ap- 
 pearances on behalf of all mankind. 
 
 m 
 
 The dining-room had not yet begun to move with 
 the times. It was rather a shabby apartment, accus- 
 tomed to daily ill-treatment, and its contents dated 
 from different periods, the most ancient object of all 
 stretching backwards in family history to the epoch 
 of Albert's great-grandfather. This was an oak arm- 
 chair, occupied usually by Albert, but on the present 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 occasion by his son and heir, Bert. Bert, spectacled, 
 was at the head of the table; and at the foot was his 
 auntie Maggie in front of a tea-tray. Down the sides 
 of the table were his sisters, thin Clara, fat Amy, and 
 little Lucy the first nearly as old as Bert and his 
 father; two crumb-strewn plates showed that the 
 mother and Rupert had left the meal to greet the vis- 
 itors. And there were two other empty places. In a 
 tiny vase in front of Amy was a solitary flower. The 
 room was nearly full ; it had an odour of cake, tea, and 
 children. 
 
 "Well, here we are," said Clara, entering with the 
 guests and Rupert, very cheerfully. "Getting on all 
 right?" (She gave Albert a glance which said: "I 
 have explained everything, but Hilda is a very pe- 
 culiar creature.") 
 
 "Al," Albert answered. "Hello, all you aunties!" 
 
 "Albert left the works early on purpose," Clara ex- 
 plained her husband's presence. 
 
 He was a happy man. In early adolescence he had 
 taken to Sunday Schools as some youths take to vice. 
 He loved to exert authority over children, and experi- 
 ence had taught him all the principal dodges. Under 
 the forms of benevolent autocracy, he could exercise a 
 ruthless discipline upon youngsters. He was not at 
 all ashamed at being left in charge of a tableful of 
 children while his wife went forth to conduct diplo- 
 matic interviews. At the same time he had his pride. 
 Thus he would express no surprise, nor even pleasure, 
 at the presence of Hilda, his theory being that it ought 
 to be taken as a matter of course. Indeed he was pre- 
 occupied by the management of the meal, and he did 
 not conceal the fact. He shook hands with the ladies 
 in a perfunctory style, which seemed to say: "Now 
 the supreme matter is this birthday repast. I am run- 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 113 
 
 ning it, and I am running it very well. Slip inobtru- 
 sively into your places in the machine, and let me con- 
 tinue my work of direction." 
 
 Nevertheless, he saw to it that all the children rose 
 politely and saluted according to approved precedents. 
 His eye was upon them. He attached importance to 
 every little act in any series of little acts. If he cut 
 the cake, he had the air of announcing to the world: 
 "This is a beautiful cake. I have carefully estimated 
 the merits of this cake, and mother has carefully esti- 
 mated them; we have in fact all come to a definite and 
 favourable conclusion about this cake, namely that 
 it is a beautiful cake. I will now cut it. The opera- 
 tion of cutting it is a major operation. Watch me cut 
 it, and then watch me distribute it. Wisdom and jus- 
 tice shall preside over the distribution." Even if he 
 only passed the salt, he passed it as though he were 
 passing extreme unction. 
 
 Auntie Hamps with apparent delight adapted her- 
 self to his humour. She said she would "squeeze in" 
 anywhere, and was soon engaged in finding perfection 
 in everything that appertained to the Benbow family. 
 Hilda, not being quite so intimate with the household, 
 was installed with more ceremony. She could not keep 
 out of her eye the idea that it was droll to see a stout- 
 ish, somewhat clay-dusted man neglecting his business 
 in order to take charge of a birthday-party of small 
 children; and Albert, observing this, could not keep 
 out of his eye the rebutting assertion that it was not 
 in the least droll, but entirely proper and laudable. 
 
 The first mention of birthday presents came from 
 Auntie Hamps, who remarked with enthusiasm that 
 Bert looked a regular little man in his beautiful new 
 spectacles. Bert, glowering, gloomy and yet proud, 
 and above all self-conscious, grew even more self-con- 
 
114* THESE TWAIN 
 
 scious at this statement. Spectacles had been ordained 
 for him by the oculist, and his parents had had the 
 hardihood to offer him his first pair for a birthday 
 present. They had so insisted on the beauty and origi- 
 nality of the scheme that Bert himself had almost come 
 to believe that to get a pair of spectacles for a birth- 
 day present was a great thing in a boy's life. He was 
 now wearing the spectacles for the first time. On the 
 whole, gloom outbalanced pride in his demeanour, and 
 Bert's mysterious soul, which had flabbergasted his 
 father for about a week, peeped out sidelong occa- 
 sionally through those spectacles in bitter criticism of 
 the institution of parents. He ate industriously. Soon 
 Auntie Hamps, leaning over, rapped half-a-sovereign 
 down on his sticky plate. Everybody pretended to be 
 overwhelmed, though nobody entitled to prophesy had 
 expected less. Almost simultaneously with the ring of 
 the gold on the plate, Clara said: 
 
 "Now what do you say?" 
 
 But Albert was judiciously benevolent: 
 
 "Leave him alone, mother he'll say it all right." 
 
 "I'm sure he will," his mother agreed. 
 
 And Bert said it, blushing, and fingering the coin 
 nervously. And Auntie Hamps sat like an antique god- 
 dess, bland, superb, morally immense. And even her 
 dirty and broken finger-nails detracted naught from her 
 grandiosity. She might feed servants on dripping, but 
 when the proper moment came she could fling half-sov- 
 ereigns about with anybody. 
 
 And then, opening her purse, Hilda added five shill- 
 ings to the half-sovereign, amid admiring exclamations 
 sincere and insincere. Beside Auntie Hamps's gold the 
 two half-crowns cut a poor figure, and therefore Hilda, 
 almost without discontinuing the gesture of largesse, 
 said: 
 
 ' 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 115 
 
 "That is from Uncle Edwin. And this," putting a 
 florin and three shillings more to the treasure, "is from 
 Auntie Hilda." 
 
 Somehow she was talking as the others talked, and 
 she disliked herself for yielding to the spirit of the Ben- 
 bow home, but she could not help it; the pervading 
 spirit conquered everybody. She felt self-conscious; 
 and Bert's self-consciousness was still further increased 
 as the exclamations grew in power and sincerity. 
 Though he experienced the mournful pride of rich pos- 
 sessions, he knew well that the money would be of no 
 real value. His presents, all useful (save a bouquet of 
 flowers from Rupert), were all useless to him. Thus the 
 prim young Clara had been parentally guided to give 
 him a comb. If all the combs in the world had been 
 suddenly annihilated Bert would not have cared, 
 would indeed have rejoiced. And as to the spectacles, 
 he would have preferred the prospect of total blind- 
 ness in middle age to the compulsion of wearing them. 
 Who can wonder that his father had not fathomed the 
 mind of the strange creature? 
 
 Albert gazed rapt at the beautiful sight of the plate. 
 It reminded him pleasantly of a collection-plate at the 
 Sunday School Anniversary sermons. In a moment the 
 conversation ran upon savings-bank accounts. Each 
 child had a savings-bank account, and their riches were 
 astounding. Rupert had an account and was getting 
 interest at the rate of two and a half per cent on six 
 pounds ten shillings. The thriftiness of the elder chil- 
 dren had reached amounts which might be mentioned 
 with satisfaction even to the luxurious wife of the rich- 
 est member of the family. Young Clara was the 
 wealthiest of the band. "I've got the most, haven't I, 
 fardy?" she said with complacency. "I've got more 
 than Bert, haven't I?" Nobody seemed to know how 
 
116 THESE TWAIN 
 
 it was that she had surpassed Bert, who had had more 
 birthdays and more Christmases. The inferiority of 
 the eldest could not be attributed to dissipation or im- 
 providence, for none of the children was allowed to 
 spend a cent. The savings-bank devoured all, and 
 never rendered back. However, Bert was now creeping 
 up, and his mother exhorted him to do his best in fu- 
 ture. She then took the money from the plate, and 
 promised Bert for the morrow the treat of accompany- 
 ing her to the Post Office in order to bury it. 
 
 A bell rang within the house, and at once young 
 Clara exclaimed: 
 
 "Oh! There's Flossie! Oh, my word, she is late, 
 isn't she, fardy? What a good thing we didn't wait 
 tea for her ! . . . Move up, miss." This to Lucy. 
 
 "People who are late must take the consequences, 
 especially little girls," said Albert in reply. 
 
 And presently Flossie entered, tripping, shrugging 
 up her shoulders and throwing back her mane, and 
 wonderfully innocent. 
 
 "This is Flossie, who is always late," Albert intro- 
 duced her to Hilda. 
 
 "Am I really?" said Flossie, in a very low, soft voice, 
 with a bright and apparently frightened smile. 
 
 Dark Flossie was of Amy's age and supposed to be 
 Amy's particular friend. She was the daughter of 
 young Clara's music mistress. The little girl's prestige 
 in the Benbow house was due to two causes. First she 
 was graceful and rather stylish in movement quali- 
 ties which none of the Benbow children had, though 
 young Clara was pretty enough ; and second her mother 
 had rather more pupils than she could comfortably 
 handle, and indeed sometimes refused a pupil. 
 
 Flossie with her physical elegance was like a for- 
 eigner among the Benbows. She had a precocious de- 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 117 
 
 meanour. She shook hands and embraced like a woman, 
 and she gave her birthday gift to Bert as if she were 
 distributing a prize. It was a lead-pencil, with a 
 patent sharpener. Bert would have preferred a bi- 
 cycle, but the patent sharpener made an oasis in his 
 c y. His father pointed out to him that as the pencil 
 was already sharpened he could not at present use the 
 sharpener. Amy thereupon furtively passed him the 
 stump of a pencil to operate upon, and then his mother 
 told him that he had better postpone his first sharpen- 
 ing until he got into the garden, where bits of wood 
 would not be untidy. Flossie carefully settled her very 
 short white skirts on a chair, smiling all the time, and 
 enquired about two brothers whom she had been told 
 were to be among the guests. Albert informed her with 
 solemnity that these two brothers were both down with 
 measles, and that Auntie Hamps and Auntie Hilda had 
 come to make up for their absence. 
 
 "Poor things !" murmured Flossie sympathetically. 
 
 Hilda laughed, and Flossie screwing up her eyes and 
 shrugging up her shoulders laughed too, as if saying: 
 "You and I alone understand me." 
 
 "What a pretty flower !" Flossie exclaimed, in her 
 low soft voice, indicating the flower in the vase in front 
 of Amy. 
 
 "There's half a crumb left," said Albert, passing the 
 cake-plate to Flossie carefully. "We thought we'd bet- 
 ter keep it for you, though we don't reckon to keep any- 
 thing for little girls that come late." 
 
 "Amy," whispered her mother, leaning towards the 
 fat girl. "Wouldn't it be nice of you to give your 
 flower to Flossie?" Amy started. 
 
 "I don't want to," she whispered back, flushing. 
 
 The flower was a gift to Amy from Bert, out of the 
 birthday bunch presented to him by Rupert. Mys- 
 
118 THESE TWAIN 
 
 terious relations existed between Bert and tne be- 
 nignant, acquiescent Amy. 
 
 "Oh ! Amy !" her mother protested, still whispering, 
 but shocked. 
 
 Tears came into Amy's eyes. These tears Amy at 
 length wiped away, and, straightening her face, offer : "* 
 the flower with stiff outstretched arm to her friend 
 Flossie. And Flossie smilingly accepted it. 
 
 "It is kind of you, you darling!" said Flossie, and 
 stuck the flower in an interstice of her embroidered 
 pinafore. 
 
 Amy, gravely lacking in self-control, began to whim- 
 per again. 
 
 "That's my good little girl !" muttered Clara to her, 
 exhibiting pride in her daughter's victory over self, 
 and rubbed the child's eyes with her handkerchief. The 
 parents were continually thus "bringing up" their chil- 
 dren. Hilda pressed her lips together. 
 
 Immediately afterwards it was noticed that Flossie 
 was no longer eating. 
 
 "I've had quite enough, thank you," said she in an- 
 swer to expostulations. 
 
 "No jam, even? And you've not finished your tea!" 
 
 "I've had quite enough, thank you," said she, and 
 folded up her napkin. 
 
 "Please, father, can we go and play in the garden 
 now?" Bert asked. 
 
 Albert looked at his wife. 
 
 "Yes, I think they might," said Clara. "Go and 
 play nicely." They all rose. 
 
 "Now quietly, qui-etly!" Albert warned them. 
 
 And they went from the room quietly, each in his 
 own fashion, Flossie like a modest tsarina, young 
 Clara full of virtue and holding Rupert by the hand, 
 Amy lumpily, tiny Lucy as one who had too soon been 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 119 
 
 robbed of the privilege of being the youngest, and Bert 
 in the rear like a criminal who is observed in a sus- 
 picious act. And Albert blew out wind, as if getting 
 rid of a great weight. 
 
 rv 
 
 "Finished your greengage, auntie?" asked Clara, 
 after the pause which ensued while the adults were ac- 
 customing themselves to the absence of the children. 
 
 And it was Maggie who answered, rather eagerly : 
 
 "No, she hasn't. She's left it to the tender mercies 
 of that Maria. She wouldn't let me stay, and she 
 wouldn't stay herself." 
 
 These were almost the first words, save murmurings 
 as to cups of tea, quantities of sugar and of milk, etc., 
 that the taciturn Maggie had uttered since Hilda's ar- 
 rival. She was not sulky, she had merely been devot- 
 ing herself and allowing herself to be exploited, in the 
 vacuous manner customary to her, and listening re- 
 ceptively or perhaps not even receptively offering 
 no remark. Save that the smooth-working mechanism 
 of the repast would have creaked and stopped at her 
 departure, she might have slipped from the room un- 
 noticed as a cat. But -now she spoke as one capable 
 of enthusiasm and resentment on behalf of an ideal. 
 To her it was scandalous that greengage jam should be 
 jeopardised for the sake of social pleasures, and sud- 
 denly it became evident she and her auntie had had a 
 difference on the matter. 
 
 Mrs. Hamps said stoutly and defiantly, with 
 grandeur : 
 
 "Well, I wasn't going to have my eldest grand- 
 nephew's twelfth birthday party interfered with for 
 any jam." 
 
120 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Hear, hear!" said Hilda, liking the terrific woman 
 for an instant. 
 
 But mild Maggie was inflexible. 
 
 Clara, knowing that in Maggie very slight symptoms 
 had enormous significance, at once changed the sub- 
 ject. Albert went to the back window, whence by 
 twisting his neck he could descry a corner of the gar- 
 den. 
 
 Said Clara, smiling: 
 
 "I hear you're going to have some musical evenings, 
 Hilda ... on Sunday nights." 
 
 Malice and ridicule were in Clara's tone. On the 
 phrase "musical evenings" she put a strange disdainful 
 emphasis, as though a musical evening denoted some- 
 thing not only unrighteous but snobbish, new-fangled, 
 and absurd. Yet envy also was in her tone. 
 
 Hilda was startled. 
 
 "Ah! Who told you that?" 
 
 "Never mind ! I heard," said Clara darkly. 
 
 Hilda wondered where the Benbows, from whom seem- 
 ingly naught could be concealed, had in fact got this 
 tit-bit of news. By tacit consent she and Edwin had 
 as yet said nothing to anybody except the Orgreaves, 
 who alone, with Tertius Ingpen and one or two more 
 intimates, were invited, or were to be invited, to the 
 first evening. Relations between the Orgreaves and the 
 Benbows scarcely existed. 
 
 "We're having a little music on Sunday night," said 
 Hilda, as it were apologetically, and scorning herself 
 for being apologetic. Why should she be apologetic to 
 these base creatures? But she couldn't help it; the 
 public opinion of the room was too much for her. She 
 even added: "We're hoping that old Mrs. Orgreave 
 will come. It will be the first time she's been out in 
 the evening for ever so long." The name of Mrs. Or- 
 
THE FAMILY AT J : >J 
 
 their mootfe, 
 
 No name, however, could 0r*r*ve Mr*, Hfiu 
 Muled loudly? tuna with iwpect for tlie iMjyncttif of 
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 Tbe ddireMacr WM iML Aortic 
 
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 IMHU Is 
 
 HMW joft M in 
 
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 with dfffitifttf yp<Mi tlW" ffftQttftf ff Iw 
 Moral dfcortfttHM* to liMirlf? but Am& H*wp* 
 
 t&TTj WttttA flHMll frOV JKf* 
 
 wbidi *p*fted brr Md Edwi. f ro tibe mi 
 
 fett tfet ft*? l*d fterer for * 
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122 THESE TWAIN 
 
 mistake. Why was she there? Was she not tied by 
 intimate experience to a man at that very instant in 
 prison? (She had a fearful vision of him in prison, 
 she, sitting there in the midst of Maggie, Clara, and 
 Auntie Hamps!) Was she not the mother of an il- 
 legitimate boy ? Victimised or not, innocent or not, she, 
 a guest at Bert's intensely legitimate birthday fete, 
 was the mother of an illegitimate boy. Incredible 1 She 
 ought never to have married into the Clayhangers, 
 never to have come back to this cackling provincial dis- 
 trict. All these people were inimical towards her, 
 because she represented the luxury and riches and 
 worldly splendour of the family, and because her il- 
 legitimate boy had tempted the heir of the Benbows 
 to blasphemous wickedness, and because she herself had 
 tempted a weak Edwin to abandon chapel and to dese- 
 crate the Sabbath, and again because she, without a 
 penny of her own, had stepped in and now represented 
 the luxury and riches and worldly splendour of the 
 family. And all the family's grievances against Ed- 
 win were also grievances against her. Once, long ago, 
 when he was yet a bachelor, and had no hope of Hilda, 
 Edwin had prevented his father, in dotage, from lend- 
 ing a thousand pounds to Albert upon no security. 
 The interference was unpardonable, and Hilda would 
 not be pardoned for it. 
 
 Such was marriage into a family. Such was family 
 life. . . . Yes, she felt unreal there, and also unsafe. 
 She had prevaricated about George and the penknife; 
 and she had allowed Clara to remain under the impres- 
 sion that her visit to the house was a birthday visit. 
 Auntie Hamps and destiny, between them, would lay 
 bare all this lying. The antipathy against her would 
 increase. But let it increase never so much, it still 
 would not equal Hilda's against the family, as she 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 
 
 thrilled to it then. Their narrow ignorance, their nar- 
 row self-conceit, their detestation of beauty, their pie- 
 tism, their bigotry revolted her. In what century had 
 they been living all those years? Was this married 
 life? Had Albert and Clara ever felt a moment of 
 mutual passion? They were nothing but parents, eter- 
 nally preoccupied with "oughts" and "ought nots" and 
 forbiddances and horrid reluctant permissions. They 
 did not know what j oy was, and they did not want any- 
 body else to know what j oy was. Even on the outskirts 
 of such a family, a musical evening on a Sunday night 
 appeared a forlorn enterprise. And all the families in 
 all the streets were the same. Hilda was hard enough 
 on George sometimes, but in that moment she would 
 have preferred George to be a thoroughly bad rude 
 boy and to go to the devil, and herself to be a woman 
 abandoned to every licence, rather than that he and 
 she should resemble Clara and her offspring. All her 
 wrath centred upon Clara as the very symbol of what 
 she loathed. 
 
 "Hello!" cried the watchful Albert from the win- 
 r dow. "What's happening, I wonder?" 
 
 In a moment Rupert ran into the room, and without 
 a word scrambled on his mother's lap, absolutely con- 
 fident in her goodness and power. 
 
 "What's amiss, tuppenny?" asked his father. 
 
 "Tired," answered Rupert, with a faint, endearing 
 smile. 
 
 He laid himself close against his mother's breast, 
 and drew up his knees, and Clara held his body in her 
 arms, and whispered to him. 
 
 "Amy 'udn't play with me," he murmured. 
 
 "Wouldn't she? Naughty Amy!" 
 
 "Mammy tired too," he glanced upwards at his 
 mother's eyes in sympathy. 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 And immediately he was asleep. Clara kissed him, 
 bending her head down and with difficulty reaching his 
 cheek with her lips. 
 
 Auntie Hamps enquired fondly: 
 
 "What does he mean 'mother tired too' ?" 
 
 "Well," said Clara, "the fact is some of 'em were 
 so excited they stopped my afternoon sleep this after- 
 noon. I always do have my nap, you know," she 
 looked at Hilda. "In here! When this door's closed 
 they know mother mustn't be disturbed. Only this aft- 
 ernoon Lucy or Amy I don't know which, and I didn't 
 enquire too closely forgot. . . . He's remembered it, 
 the little Turk." 
 
 "Is he asleep ?" Hilda demanded in a low voice. 
 
 "Fast. He's been like that lately. He'll play a bit, 
 and then he'll stop, and say he's tired, and sometimes 
 cry, and he'll come to me and be asleep in two jiffs. 
 I think he's been a bit run down. He said he had tooth- 
 ache yesterday. It was nothing but a little cold; 
 they've all had colds; but I wrapped his face up to 
 please him. He looked so sweet in his bandage, I 
 assure you I didn't want to take it off again. No, I 
 didn't. . , . I wonder why Amy wouldn't play with 
 him? She's such a splendid playmate when she likes. 
 Full of imagination! Simply full of it!" 
 
 Albert had approached from the window. 
 
 With an air of important conviction, he said to 
 Hilda: 
 
 "Yes, Amy's imagination is really remarkable.'* As 
 no one responded to this statement, he drummed on 
 the table to ease the silence, and then suddenly added: 
 "Well, I suppose I must be getting on with my dic- 
 tionary reading! I'm only at S; and there's bound 
 to be a lot of words under U beginning with un, 
 you know. I saw at once there would be." He spoke. 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 125 
 
 rather defiantly, as though challenging public opinion 
 to condemn his new dubious activity. 
 
 "Oh!" said Clara. "Albert's quite taken up with 
 missing words nowadays." 
 
 But instead of conning his dictionary, Albert re- 
 turned to the window, drawn by his inexhaustible pater- 
 nal curiosity, and he even opened the window and 
 leaned out, so that he might more effectively watch 
 the garden. And with the fresh air there entered 
 the high, gay, inspiriting voices of the children. 
 
 Clara smiled down at the boy sleeping in her lap. 
 She was happy. The child was happy. His flushed face, 
 with its expression of loving innocence, was exquisitely 
 touching. Clara's face was full of proud tenderness. 
 Everybody gazed at the picture with secret and pro- 
 found pleasure. Hilda wished once more that George 
 was only two and a half years old again. George's 
 infancy, and her early motherhood, had been very dif- 
 ferent from all this. She had never been able to shut 
 a dining-room door, or any other door, as a sign that 
 she must not be disturbed. And certainly George 
 had never sympathetically remarked that she was tired. 
 . . . She was envious. . . . And yet a minute ago she 
 had been execrating the family life of the Benbows. 
 The complexity of the tissue of existence was puzzling. 
 
 When Albert brought his head once more into the 
 room he suddenly discovered the stuffiness of the atmos- 
 phere, and with the large, free gestures of a moun- 
 taineer and a sanitarian threw open both windows as 
 wide as possible. The bleak wind from the moorlands 
 surged in, fluttering curtains, and lowering the tem- 
 perature at a run. 
 
126 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Won't Rupert catch cold?" Hilda suggested, 
 chilled. 
 
 "He's got to be hardened, Rupert has!" Albert 
 replied easily. "Fresh air! Nothing like it! Does 
 'em good to feel it!" 
 
 Hilda thought: 
 
 "Pity you didn't think so a bit earlier !" 
 
 Her countenance was too expressive. Albert divined 
 some ironic thought in her brain, and turned on her 
 with a sort of parrying jeer: 
 
 "And how's the great man getting along?" 
 
 In this phrase, which both he and Clara employed 
 with increasing frequency, Albert let out not only his 
 jealousy of, but his respect for, the head of the family. 
 Hilda did not like it, but it flattered her on Edwin's 
 behalf, and she never showed her resentment of the 
 attitude which prompted it. 
 
 "Edwin? Oh, he's all right. He's working." She 
 put a slight emphasis on the last pronoun, in order 
 revengefully to contrast Edwin's industry with Albert's 
 presence during business hours at a children's birthday 
 party. "He said to me as he went out that he must 
 go and earn something towards Maggie's rent." She 
 laughed softly. 
 
 Clara smiled cautiously; Maggie smiled and blushed 
 a little; Albert did not commit himself; only Auntie 
 Hamps laughed without reserve. 
 
 "Edwin will have his joke," said she. 
 
 Although Hilda had audaciously gone forth that 
 afternoon with the express intention of opening ne- 
 gotiations, on her own initiative, with Maggie for 
 the purchase of the house, she had certainly not 
 meant to discuss the matter in the presence of the 
 entire family. But she was seized by one of her 
 characteristic impulses, and she gave herself up ta 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 
 
 it with the usual mixture of glee and apprehension. 
 She said: 
 
 "I suppose you wouldn't care to sell u* the house, 
 would you, Maggie?" 
 
 Everybody became alert, and as it grew apparent 
 that the company was assisting at the actual birth of 
 a family episode or incident, a peculiar feeling of 
 eager pleasure spread through the room, and the appe- 
 tite for history-making leapt up. 
 
 "Indeed I should!" Maggie answered, with a deep- 
 ening flush, and all were astonished at her decisiveness, 
 and at the warmth of her tone. "I never wanted the 
 house. Only it was arranged that I should have it, so 
 of course I took it." The long-silent victim was speak- 
 ing. Money was useless to her, for she was incapable 
 of turning it into happiness; but she had her views 
 on finance and property, nevertheless; and though in 
 all such matters she did as she was told, submissively 
 accepting the decisions of brother or brother-in-law 
 as decrees of fate, yet she was quite aware of the 
 victimhood. The assemblage was surprised and even 
 a little intimidated by her mild outburst. 
 
 "But you've got a very good tenant, Maggie," said 
 Auntie Hamps enthusiastically. 
 
 "She's got a very good tenant, admitted!" Albert 
 said judicially and almost sternly. "But she'd never 
 have any difficulty in finding a very good tenant for 
 that house. That's not the point. The point is that 
 the investment really isn't remunerative. Maggie could 
 do much better for herself than that. Very much 
 better. Why, if she went the right way about it she 
 could get ten per cent on her money! I know of 
 things. . . . And I bet she doesn't get three and a 
 half per cent clear from the house. Not three and 
 a half." He glanced reproachfully at Hilda. 
 
128 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Do you mean the rent's too low?" Hilda questioned 
 boldly. 
 
 He hesitated, losing courage. 
 
 "I don't say it's too low. But Maggie perhaps took 
 the house over at too big a figure." 
 
 Maggie looked up at her brother-in-law. 
 
 "And whose fault was that?" she asked sharply. 
 The general surprise was intensified. No one could 
 understand Maggie. No one had the wit to perceive 
 that she had been truly annoyed by Auntie Hamps's 
 negligence in regard to jam, and was momentarily 
 capable of bitterness. "Whose fault was that?" she 
 repeated. "You and Clara and Edwin settled it be- 
 tween you. You yourself said over and over again it 
 was a fair figure." 
 
 "I thought so at the time! I thought so at the 
 time!" said Albert quickly. "We aU acted for the 
 best." 
 
 "I'm sure you did," murmured Auntie Hamps. 
 
 "I should think so, indeed!" murmured Clara, seek- 
 ing to disguise her constraint by attentions to the 
 sleeping Rupert. 
 
 "Is Edwin thinking of buying, then?" Albert asked 
 Hilda in a quiet, studiously careless voice. 
 
 "We've discussed it," responded Hilda. 
 
 "Because if he is, he ought to take it over at the 
 price Mag took it at. She oughtn't to lose on it. 
 That's only fair." 
 
 "I'm sure Edwin would never do anything unfair," 
 said Auntie Hamps. 
 
 Hilda made no reply. She had already heard the ar- 
 gument from Edwin, and Albert now seemed to her 
 more tedious and unprincipled than usual. Her rea- 
 son admitted the force of the argument as regards 
 Maggie, but instinct opposed it. 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 129 
 
 Nevertheless she was conscious of sudden sympathy 
 for Maggie, and of a weakening of her prejudice against 
 her. 
 
 "Hadn't we better be going, Auntie?" Maggie curtly 
 and reproachfully suggested. "You know quite well 
 that jam stands a good chance of being ruined." 
 
 "I suppose we had," Auntie Hamps concurred with 
 a sigh, and rose. 
 
 "I shall be able to carry out my plan," thought 
 Hilda, full of wisdom and triumph. And she saw 
 Edwin, owner of the house, with his wild lithographic 
 project scotched. And the realisation of her own 
 sagacity thus exercised on behalf of those she loved, 
 made her glad. 
 
 At the same moment, just as Albert was recommenc- 
 ing his flow, the door opened and Edwin entered. He 
 had glimpsed the children in the garden and had come 
 into the house by the back way. There were 'cries of 
 stupefaction and bliss. Both Albert and Clara were 
 unmistakably startled and flattered. Indeed, several 
 seconds elapsed before Albert could assume the proper 
 grim, casual air. Auntie Hamps rejoiced and sat down 
 again. Maggie disclosed no feeling, and she would not- 
 sit down again. Hilda had a serious qualm. She was 
 obliged to persuade herself that in opening the nego- 
 tiations for the house she had not committed an enor- 
 mity. She felt less sagacious and less dominant. Who* 
 could have dreamt that Edwin would pop in just then? 
 It was notorious, it was even a subject of complaint^ 
 that he never popped in. In reply to enquiries he 
 stammered in his customary hesitating way that he 
 happened to be in the neighbourhood on business and 
 that it had occurred to him, etc., etc. In short, there 
 he was. 
 
 "Aren't you coming, Auntie?" Maggie demanded. 
 
 
130 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Let me have a look at Edwin, child," said Auntie 
 Hamps, somewhat nettled. "How set you are!" 
 
 "Then I shall go alone," said Maggie. 
 
 "Yes. But what about this house business?" Albert 
 tried to stop her. 
 
 He could not stop her. Finance, houses, rents, were 
 not real to her. She owned but did not possess such 
 things. But the endangered jam was real to her. She 
 did not own it, but she possessed it. She departed. 
 
 "What's amiss with her to-day?" murmured Mrs. 
 Hamps. "I must go too, or I shall be catching it; 
 my word I shall!" 
 
 "What house business?" Edwin asked. 
 
 "Well," said Albert. "I like that! Aren't you 
 trying to buy her house from her? We've just been 
 talking it over.'' 
 
 Edwin glanced swiftly at Hilda, and Hilda knew 
 from the peculiar constrained, almost shamefaced, 
 expression on his features, that he was extremely an- 
 noyed. He gave a little nervous laugh. 
 
 "Oh! Have ye?" he muttered. 
 
 VI 
 
 Although Edwin discussed the purchase of the house 
 quite calmly with Albert, and appeared to regard it as 
 an affair practically settled, Hilda could perceive from 
 a single gesture of his in the lobby as they were leav- 
 ing, that his resentment against herself had not been 
 diminished by the smooth course of talking. Never- 
 theless she was considerably startled by his outburst in 
 the street. 
 
 "It's a pity Maggie went off like that," she said 
 quietly. "You might have fixed everything up imme- 
 diately." 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 131 
 
 Then it was that he turned on her, glowering an- 
 grily. 
 
 "Why on earth did you go talking about it, without 
 telling me first?" he demanded, furious. 
 
 "But it was understood, dear " She smiled, 
 
 affecting not to perceive his temper, and thereby ag- 
 gravating it. 
 
 He almost shouted: 
 
 "Nothing of the kind! Nothing of the kind!" 
 
 "Maggie was there. I just happened to mention 
 it." Hilda was still quite placid. 
 
 "You went down on purpose to tell her, so you 
 needn't deny it. Do you take me for a fool?" 
 
 Her placidity was undiminished. 
 
 "Of course I don't take you for a fool, dear. I 
 assure you I hadn't the slightest idea you'd be an- 
 noyed." 
 
 "Yes, you had. I could see it on your face when I 
 came in. Don't try to stuff me up. You go blunder- 
 ing into a thing, without the least notion without 
 the least notion! I've told you before, and I tell you 
 again I won't have you interfering in my business 
 affairs. You know nothing of business. You'll make 
 my life impossible. All you women are the same. You 
 will poke your noses in. There'll have to be a clear 
 understanding between you and me on one or two 
 points, before we go much further." 
 
 "But you told me I could mention it to her." 
 
 "No, I didn't." 
 
 "You did, Edwin. Do be just." 
 
 "I didn't say you could go and plunge right into it 
 at once. These things have to be thought out. Houses 
 aren't bought like that. A house isn't a pound of tea, 
 and it isn't a hat." 
 
 "I'm very sorry." 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 "No, you aren't. And you know jolly well you 
 aren't. Your scheme was simply to tie my hands." 
 
 She knew the truth of this, and her smile became 
 queer. Nevertheless the amiable calm which she main- 
 tained astonished even herself. She was not happy, 
 but certainly she was not unhappy. She had got, or 
 she was going to get, what she wanted; and here was 
 the only fact important to her; the means by which 
 she had got it, or was going to get it, were negligible 
 now. It cost her very little to be magnanimous. She 
 wondered at Edwin. Was this furious brute the timid, 
 worshipping boy who had so marvellously kissed her 
 a dozen years earlier before she had fallen into the 
 hands of a scoundrel? Were these scenes what the 
 exquisite romance of marriage had come to ? . . . Well, 
 and if it was so, what then? If she was not happy 
 she was elated, and she was philosophic, and she had 
 the terrific sense of realities of some of her sex. She 
 was out of the Benbow house; she breathed free, she 
 had triumphed, and she had her man to herself. He 
 might be a brute the Five Towns (she had noticed 
 as a returned exile) were full of brutes whose passions 
 surged and boiled beneath the phlegmatic surface 
 but he existed, and their love existed. And a peep 
 into the depth of the cauldron was exciting. . . . The 
 injustice or the justice of his behaviour did not make 
 a live question. 
 
 Moreover, she did not in truth seriously regard him 
 as a brute. She regarded him as an unreasonable crea- 
 ture, something like a baby, to be humoured in the 
 inessentials of a matter of which the essentials were 
 now definitely in her favour. His taunt that she went 
 blundering into a thing, and that she knew naught of 
 business, amused her. She knew her own business, 
 and knew it profoundly. The actual situation was a 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 133 
 
 proof of that. As for abstract principles of business, 
 the conventions and etiquette of it her lips conde- 
 scendingly curled. After all, what had she done to 
 merit this fury? Nothing! Nothing! What could it 
 matter whether the negotiations were begun instantly 
 or in a week's or a month's time? (Edwin would have 
 dilly-dallied probably for three months, or six). She 
 had merely said a few harmless words, offered a sug- 
 gestion. And now he desired to tear her limb from 
 h'mb and eat her alive. It was comical! Impossible 
 for her to be angry, in her triumph! It was too 
 comical! She had married an astounding personage. 
 . . . But she had married him. He was hers. She 
 exulted in the possession of him. His absurd peculiari- 
 ties did not lower him in her esteem. She had a per- 
 fect appreciation of his points, including his general 
 wisdom. But she was convinced that she had a special 
 and different and superior kind of wisdom. 
 
 "And a nice thing you've let Maggie in for !" Edwin 
 broke out afresh after a spell of silent walking. 
 
 "Let Maggie in for?" she exclaimed lightly. 
 
 "Albert ought never to have known anything of it 
 until it was all settled. He will be yarning away to her 
 about how he can use her money for her, and what he 
 gets hold of she'll never see again, you may bet your 
 boots on that. If you'd left it to me I could have fixed 
 things up for her in advance. But no ! In you must 
 go ! Up to the neck ! And ruin everything !" 
 
 "Oh !" she said reassuringly. "You'll be able to look 
 after Maggie all right." 
 
 He sniffed, and settled down into embittered disgust, 
 quickening somewhat his speed up the slope of Acre 
 Lane. 
 
 "Please don't walk so fast, Edwin," she breathed, 
 just like a nice little girl. "I can't keep up with you.'' 
 
134 THESE TWAIN 
 
 In spite of his enormous anger he could not refuse 
 such a request. She was getting the better of him 
 again. He knew it; he could see through the devices. 
 With an irritated swing of his body he slowed down to 
 suit her. 
 
 She had a glimpse of his set, gloomy, savage, ruth- 
 less face, the lower lip bulging out. Really it was gro- 
 tesque ! Were they grown up, he and she ? She smiled 
 almost self-consciously, fearing that passers-by might 
 notice his preposterous condition. All the way up Acre 
 Lane and across by St. Luke's Churchyard into Traf- 
 algar Road they walked thus side by side in silence. 
 By strange good luck they did not meet a single ac- 
 quaintance, and as Edwin had a latchkey, no servant 
 had to come and open the door and behold them. 
 
 Edwin, throwing his hat on the stand, ran imme- 
 diately upstairs. Hilda passed idly into the drawing- 
 room. She was glad to be in her own drawing-room 
 again. It was a distinguished apartment, after 
 Clara's. There lay the Dvorak music on the piano. 
 . . . The atmosphere seemed full of ozone. She rang 
 for Ada and spoke to her with charming friendliness 
 about Master George. Master George had returned 
 from an informal cricket match in the Manor Fields, 
 and was in the garden. Yes, Ada had seen to his 
 school-clothes. Everything was in order for the new 
 term shortly to commence. But Master George had 
 received a blow from the cricket-ball on his shin, which 
 was black and blue. . . . Had Ada done anything to 
 the shin? No, Master George would not let her touch 
 it, but she had been allowed to see it. ... Very well, 
 Ada. . . . There was something beatific about the 
 state of being mistress of a house. Without the mis- 
 tress, the house would simply crumble to pieces. 
 
 Hilda went upstairs; she was apprehensive, but her 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 135 
 
 apprehensiveness was agreeable to her. . . . No, Ed- 
 win was not in the bedroom. . . . She could hear him 
 in the bathroom. She tried the door. It was bolted. 
 He always bolted it. 
 
 "Edwin !" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 He opened the door. He was in his shirt sleeves 
 and had just finished with the towel. She entered, and 
 shut the door and bolted it. And then she began 
 to kiss him. She kissed him time after time, on his 
 cheek so damp and fresh. 
 
 "Poor dear!" she murmured. 
 
 She knew that he could not altogether resist those 
 repeated kisses. They were more effective than the 
 best arguments or the most graceful articulate sur- 
 renders. Thus she completed her triumph. But 
 whether the virtue of the kisses lay in their sensuous- 
 ness or in their sentiment, neither he nor she knew. 
 And she did not care. . . . She did not kiss him with 
 abandonment. There was a reserve in her kisses, and 
 in her smile. Indeed she went on kissing him rather 
 sternly. Her glance, when their eyes were very close 
 together, was curious. It seemed to imply: "We are 
 in love. And we love. I am yours. You are mine. 
 Life is very fine after all. I am a happy woman. But 
 still each is for himself in this world, and that's the 
 bedrock of marriage as of all other institutions." Her 
 sense of realities again ! And she went on kissing, irre- 
 sistibly. 
 
 "Kiss me." 
 
 And he had to kiss her. 
 
 Whereupon she softened to him, and abandoned her- 
 self to the emanations of his charm, and her lips be- 
 came almost liquid as she kissed him again; neverthe- 
 less there was still a slight reserve in her kisses. 
 
136 THESE TWAIN 
 
 At tea she chattered like a magpie, as the saying is. 
 Between her and George there seemed to be a secret 
 instinctive understanding that Edwin had to be hu- 
 moured, enlivened, drawn into talk, for although he 
 had kissed her, his mood was yet by no means restored 
 to the normal. He would have liked to remain, majes- 
 tic, within the tent of his soul. But they were too 
 clever for him. Then, to achieve his discomfiture, en- 
 tered Johnnie Orgreave, with a suggestion that they 
 should all four Edwin, Hilda, Janet, and himself 
 go to the theatre at Hanbridge that night. Hilda ac- 
 cepted the idea instantly. Since her marriage, her 
 appetite for pleasure had developed enormously. At 
 moments she was positively greedy for pleasure. She 
 was incapable of being bored at the theatre, she would 
 sooner be in the theatre of a night than out of it. 
 
 "Oh ! Do let's go !" she cried. 
 
 Edwin did not want to go, but he had to concur. He 
 did not want to be pleasant to Johnnie Orgreave or to 
 anybody, but he had to be pleasant. 
 
 "Be on the first car that goes up after seven fifteen," 
 said Johnnie as he was departing. 
 
 Edwin grunted. 
 
 "You understand, Teddy? The first car that goes 
 up after seven fifteen." 
 
 "All right! All right!" 
 
 Blithely Hilda went to beautify herself. And when 
 she had beautified herself and made herself into a queen 
 of whom the haughtiest master-printer might be proud, 
 she despatched Ada for Master George. And Master 
 George had to come to her bedroom. 
 
 "Let me look at that leg," she said. "Sit down." 
 
 Devious creature! During tea she had not even 
 divulged that she had heard of the damaged shin. Mas- 
 ter George was taken by surprise. He sat down. She 
 
THE FAMILY AT HOME 137 
 
 knelt, and herself unloosed the stocking and exposed 
 the little calf. The place was black and blue, but it 
 had a healthy look. 
 
 "It's nothing," she said. 
 
 And then, all in her splendid finery, she kissed the 
 dirty discoloured shin. Strange! He was only two 
 years old and just learning to talk. 
 
 "Now then, missis ! Here's the tram !" Edwin yelled 
 out loudly, roughly, from below. He would have given 
 a sovereign to see her miss the car, but his incon- 
 venient sense of justice forced him to warn her. 
 
 "Coming! Coming!" 
 
 She kissed Master George on the mouth eagerly, and 
 George seemed, unusually, to return the eagerness. She 
 ran down the darkening stairs, ecstatic. 
 
 In the dusky road, Edwin curtly signalled to the vast 
 ascending steam-car, and it stopped. Those were in 
 the old days, when people did what they liked with the 
 cars, stopping them here and stopping them there ac- 
 cording to their fancy. The era of electricity and fixed 
 stopping-places, and soulless, conscienceless control 
 from London had not set in. Edwin and Hilda 
 mounted. Two hundred yards further on the steam- 
 tram was once more arrested, and Johnnie and Janet 
 joined them. Hilda was in the highest spirits. The 
 great affair of the afternoon had not been a quarrel, 
 but an animating experience which, though dangerous, 
 intensified her self-confidence and her zest. 
 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE WEEK-END 
 
 THE events of the portentous week-end which in- 
 cluded the musical evening began early on the Satur- 
 day, and the first one was a chance word uttered by 
 George. 
 
 Breakfast was nearly over in the Clayhanger dining- 
 room. Hilda sat opposite to Edwin, and George be- 
 tween them. They had all eaten with appetite, and the 
 disillusion which usually accompanies the satisfaction 
 of desire was upon them. They had looked forward to 
 breakfast, scenting with zest its pleasing odours, and 
 breakfast was over, save perhaps for a final unneces- 
 sary piece of toast or half a cup of chilled coffee. 
 
 Hilda did not want to move, because she did not 
 care for the Saturday morning task of shopping and 
 re-victualling and being bland with fellow-shoppers in 
 the emporiums. The house-doors were too frequently 
 open on Saturday mornings, and errand-boys thereat, 
 and a wind blowing through the house, and it was the 
 morning for specially cleaning the hall detestable 
 and damp operation and servants seemed loose on 
 Saturday morning, and dinner was apt to be late. But 
 Hilda knew she would have to move. To postpone was 
 only to aggravate. Destiny grasped her firm. George 
 was not keen about moving, because he had no plan of 
 campaign ; the desolating prospect of resuming school 
 on Monday had withered his energy; he was in a -mood 
 
 138 
 
THE WEEK-END 139 
 
 to be either a martyr or a villain. Edwin was lazily 
 sardonic, partly because the leisure of breakfast was 
 at an end, partly because he hated the wage-paying 
 slackness of Saturday morning at the shop, and partly 
 because his relations with Hilda had remained indefi- 
 nite and disquieting, despite a thousand mutual ur- 
 banities and thoughtful refinements, and even some 
 caresses. A sense of aimlessness dejected him; and in 
 the central caves of his brain the question was mys- 
 teriously stirring: What is the use of all these things, 
 success, dignity, importance, luxury, love, sensu- 
 ality, order, moral superiority? He foresaw thirty 
 years of breakfasts, with plenty of the finest home- 
 cured bacon and fresh eggs, but no romance. 
 
 Before his marriage he used to read the paper hon- 
 estly and rudely at breakfast. That is to say, he would 
 prop it up squarely in front of him, hiding his sister 
 Maggie, and anyhow ignoring her ; and Maggie had to 
 "like it or lump it" ; she probably lumped it. But upon 
 marriage he had become a chevalier; he had nobly de- 
 cided that it was not correct to put a newspaper be- 
 tween yourself and a woman who had denied you noth- 
 ing. Nevertheless, his appetite for newspapers being 
 almost equal to his appetite for bacon, he would still 
 take nips at the newspaper during breakfast, hold it 
 in one hand, glance at it, drop it, pick it up, talk 
 amiably while glancing at it, drop it, pick it up again. 
 So long as the newspaper was held aside and did not 
 touch the table, so long as he did not read more than 
 ten lines at a time, he considered that punctilio was 
 satisfied, and that he was not in fact reading the news- 
 paper at all. But towards the end of breakfast, when 
 the last food was disappearing, and he had lapped the 
 cream off the news, he would hold the newspaper in both 
 hands and brazenly and conscientiously read. His 
 
140 THESE TWAIN 
 
 chief interest, just then, was political. Like most mem- 
 bers of his party, he was endeavouring to decipher the 
 party programme and not succeeding, and he feared for 
 his party and was a little ashamed for it. Grave events 
 had occurred. The substructure of the state was rock- 
 ing. A newly elected supporter of the Government, 
 unaware that he was being admitted to the best club 
 in London, had gone to the House of Commons in a 
 tweed cap and preceded by a brass-band. Serious pil- 
 lars of society knew that the time had come to invest 
 their savings abroad. Edwin, with many another ar- 
 dent liberal, was seeking to persuade himself that every- 
 thing was all right after all. The domestic atmosphere 
 Hilda's baffling face, the emptied table, the shadow 
 of business, repletion, early symptoms of indigestion, 
 the sound of a slop-pail in the hall did not aid him to 
 optimism. In brief the morning was a fair specimen 
 of a kind of morning that seemed likely to be for him 
 an average morning. 
 
 "Can't I leave the table, mother?" asked George dis- 
 contentedly. 
 
 Hilda nodded. 
 
 George gave a coarse sound of glee. 
 
 "George! . . . That's so unlike you!" his mother 
 frowned. 
 
 Instead of going directly towards the door, he must 
 needs pass right round the table, behind the chair of 
 his occupied uncle. As he did so, he scanned the news- 
 paper and read out loudly in passing for the benefit 
 of the room : 
 
 " 'Local Divorce Case. Etches v. Etches. Painful 
 'details.' " 
 
 The words meant nothing to George. They had hap- 
 pened to catch his eye. He read them as he might have 
 read an extract from the books of Euclid, and noisily 
 
THE WEEK-END 
 
 and ostentatiously departed, not without a further pro- 
 test from Hilda. 
 
 And Edwin and Hilda, left alone together, were self- 
 conscious. 
 
 "Lively kid!" murmured Edwin self-consciously. 
 
 And Hilda, self-consciously: 
 
 "You never told me that case was on." 
 
 "I didn't know till I saw it here." 
 
 "What's the result?" 
 
 "Not finished. . . . Here you are, if you want to 
 read it." 
 
 He handed the sheet across the table. Despite his 
 serious interest in politics he had read the report be- 
 fore anything else. Etches v. Etches, indeed, sur- 
 passed Gladstonian politics as an aid to the dubious 
 prosperity of the very young morning newspaper, 
 which represented the latest and most original attempt 
 to challenge the journalistic monopoly of the after- 
 noon Staffordshire Signal. It lived scarcely longer 
 than the divorce case, for the proprietors, though Non- 
 conformists and therefore astute, had failed to foresee 
 that the Five Towns public would not wait for racing 
 results until the next morning. 
 
 "Thanks," Hilda amiably and negligently murmured. 
 
 Edwin hummed. 
 
 Useless for Hilda to take that casual tone ! Useless 
 for Edwin to hum ! The unconcealable thought in both 
 their minds was and each could divine the other's 
 thought and almost hear its vibration : 
 
 "We might end in the divorce court, too." 
 
 Hence their self-consciousness. 
 
 The thought was absurd, irrational, indefensible, 
 shocking, it had no father and no mother, it sprang 
 out of naught ; but it existed, and it had force enough 
 to make them uncomfortable. 
 
142 THESE TWAIN 
 
 The Etches couple, belonging to the great, numer- 
 ous, wealthy, and respectable family of Etches, had 
 been marrried barely a year. 
 
 Edwin rose and glanced at his well-tended finger- 
 nails. The pleasant animation of his skin caused by 
 the bath was still perceptible. He could feel it in his 
 back, and it helped his conviction of virtue. He chose 
 a cigarette out of his silver case, a good cigarette, a 
 good case and lit it, and waved the match into ex- 
 tinction, and puffed out much smoke, and regarded 
 the correctness of the crease in his trousers (the ver- 
 tical trouser-crease having recently been introduced 
 into the district and insisted on by that tailor and 
 artist and seeker after perfection, Shillitoe), and 
 walked firmly to the door. But the self-consciousness 
 remained. 
 
 Just as he reached the door, his wife, gazing at the 
 newspaper, stopped him: 
 
 "Edwin." 
 
 "What's up?" 
 
 He did not move from the door, and she did not look 
 up from the newspaper. 
 
 "Seen your friend Big James this morning?" 
 
 Edwin usually went down to business before break- 
 fast, so that his conscience might be free for a leisurely 
 meal at nine o'clock. Big James was the oldest em- 
 ployee in the business. Originally he had been fore- 
 man compositor, and was still technically so described, 
 but in fact he was general manager and Edwin's ma- 
 jestic vicegerent in all the printing-shops. "Ask Big 
 James," was the watchword of the whole organism. 
 
 "No," said Edwin. "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing! It doesn't matter." 
 
 Edwin had made certain resolutions about his tem- 
 per, but it seemed to him that such a reply justified 
 
THE WEEK-END 
 
 annoyance, and he therefore permitted himself to be 
 annoyed, failing to see that serenity is a positive vir- 
 tue only when there is justification for annoyance. 
 The nincompoop had not even begun to perceive that 
 what is called "right-living" means the acceptance of 
 injustice and the excusing of the inexcusable. 
 
 "Now then," he said, brusquely. "Out with it." But 
 there was still a trace of rough tolerance in his voice. 
 
 "No. It's all right. I was wrong to mention it." 
 
 Her admission of sin did not in the least placate 
 him. 
 
 He advanced towards the table. 
 
 "You haven't mentioned it," he said stiffly. 
 
 Their eyes met, as Hilda's quitted the newspaper. 
 He could not read hers. She seemed very calm. He 
 thought as he looked at her: "How strange it is that 
 I should be living with this woman ! What is she to 
 me? What do I know of her?" 
 
 She said with tranquillity : 
 
 "If you do see Big James you might tell him not 
 to trouble himself about that programme." 
 
 "Programme? What programme?" He asked, 
 startled. 
 
 "Oh! Edwin!" She gave a little laugh. "The musi- 
 cal evening programme, of course. Aren't we having 
 a musical evening to-morrow night?" 
 
 More justification for annoyance ! Why should she 
 confuse the situation by pretending that he had forgot- 
 ten the musical evening? The pretence was idiotic, de- 
 ceiving no one. The musical evening was constantly 
 being mentioned. 
 
 Reports of assiduous practising had reached them; 
 and on the previous night they had had quite a sub- 
 dued altercation over a proposal of Hilda's for alter- 
 ing the furniture in the drawing-room. 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 "This is the first I've heard of any programme," said 
 Edwin. "Do you mean a printed programme?" 
 
 Of course she could mean nothing else. He was ab- 
 solutely staggered at the idea that she had been down 
 to his works, without a word to him, and given orders 
 to Big James, or even talked to Big James, about a pro- 
 gramme. She had no remorse. She had no sense of 
 danger. Had she the slightest conception of what busi- 
 ness was? Imagine Maggie attempting such a thing! 
 It was simply not conceivable. A wife going to her 
 husband's works, and behind his back giving or- 
 ders ! It was as though a natural law had sus- 
 pended its force. 
 
 "Why, Edwin," she said in extremely clear, some- 
 what surprised, and gently benevolent accents. "What 
 ever's the matter with you? There is a programme of 
 music, I suppose?" (There she was, ridiculously 
 changing the meaning of the word programme ! What 
 infantile tactics!) "It occurred to me all of a sudden 
 yesterday afternoon how nice it would be to have it 
 printed on gilt-edged cards, so I ran down to the shop, 
 but you weren't there. So I saw Big James." 
 
 "You never said anything to me about it last night. 
 Nor this morning." 
 
 "Didn't I? ... Well, I forgot." 
 
 Grotesque creature! 
 
 "Well, what did Big James say?" 
 
 "Oh ! Don't ask me. But if he treats all your cus- 
 tomers as he treated me ... However, it doesn't mat- 
 ter now. I shall write the programme out myself." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "It wasn't what he said. . . . But he's very rude, 
 you know. Other people think so too." 
 
 "What other people?" 
 
 "Oh ! Never mind who ! Of course, / know how to 
 
THE WEEK-END 145 
 
 take it. And I know you believe in him blindly. But 
 his airs are preposterous. And he's a dirty old man. 
 And I say, Edwin, seeing how very particular you are 
 about things at home, you really ought to see that the 
 front shop is kept cleaner. It's no affair of mine, and 
 I never interfere, but really ... !" 
 
 Not a phrase of this speech but what was highly and 
 deliberately provocative. Assuredly no other person 
 had ever said that Big James was rude. (But had 
 someone else said so, after all? Suppose, challenged, 
 she gave a name!) Big James's airs were not prepos- 
 terous ; he was merely old and dignified. His apron and 
 hands were dirty, naturally. . . . And then the im- 
 plication that Big James was a fraud, and that he, Ed- 
 win, was simpleton enough to be victimised by the 
 fraud, while the great all-seeing Hilda exposed it at a 
 single glance! And the implication that he, Edwin, 
 was fussy at home, and negligent at the shop! And 
 the astounding assertion that she never interfered! 
 
 He smothered up all his feelings, with difficulty, as 
 a sailor smothers up a lowered sail in a high wind, and 
 merely demanded, for the third time: 
 
 "What did Big James say?" 
 
 "I was given to understand," said Hilda roguishly, 
 "that it was quite, quite, quite impossible. But his 
 majesty would see! ... Well, he needn't 'see.' I sec 
 how wrong I was to suggest it at all." 
 
 Edwin moved away in silence. 
 
 "Are you going, Edwin?" she asked innocently. 
 
 "Yes," glumly. 
 
 "You haven't kissed me." 
 
 She did not put him to the shame of returning to 
 her. No, she jumped up blithely, radiant. Her make- 
 believe that nothing had happened was maddening. She 
 kissed him lovingly, with a smile, more than once. He 
 
146 THESE TWAIN 
 
 did not kiss ; he was kissed. Nevertheless somehow the 
 kissing modified his mental position and he felt better 
 after it. 
 
 "Don't work yourself up, darling," she counselled 
 him, with kindness and concern, as he went out of the 
 room. "You know how sensitive you are." It was a 
 calculated insult, but an insult which had to be ignored. 
 To notice it would have been a grave tactical error. 
 
 n 
 
 When he reached the shop, he sat down at his old 
 desk in the black-stained cubicle, and spied forth and 
 around for the alleged dust which he would tolerate in 
 business but would not tolerate at home. It was there. 
 He could see places that had obviously not been touched 
 for weeks, withdrawn places where the undisturbed 
 mounds of stock and litter had the eternal character of 
 Roman remains or vestiges of creation. The senior 
 errand-boy was in the shop, snuffling over a blue-paper 
 parcel. 
 
 "Boy," said Edwin. "What time do you come here 
 in the morning?" 
 
 " 'A' past seven, sir." 
 
 "Well, on Monday morning you'll be here at seven 
 and you'll move everything there and there and there 
 and sweep and dust properly. This shop's like a 
 pigstye. I believe you never dust anything but the 
 counters." 
 
 He was mild but firm. He knew himself for a just 
 man ; yet the fact that he was robbing this boy of half- 
 an-hour's sleep and probably the boy's mother also, 
 and upsetting the ancient order of the boy's household, 
 did not trouble him, did not even occur to him. For 
 him the boy had no mother and no household, but was a 
 
THE WEEK-END 147 
 
 patent self-causing boy that came miraculously into ex- 
 istence on the shop doorstep every morning and 
 achieved annihilation thereon every night. 
 
 The boy was a fatalist, but his fatalism had limits, 
 because he well knew that the demand for errand-boys 
 was greater than the supply. Though the limits of his 
 fatalism had not yet been reached, he was scarcely 
 pleased. 
 
 "If I come at seven who'll gi' me th' kays, sir?" he 
 demanded rather surlily, wiping his nose on his sleeve. 
 
 "I'll see that you have the keys," said Edwin, with 
 divine assurance, though he had not thought of the 
 difficulty of the keys. 
 
 The boy left the shop, his body thrown out of the 
 perpendicular by the weight of the blue-paper parcel. 
 
 "You ought to keep an eye on this place," said Ed- 
 win quietly to the young man who combined the func- 
 tion of clerk with .that of salesman to the rare retail 
 customers. "I can't see to everything. Here, check 
 these wages for me." He indicated small piles of 
 money. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the clerk with self-respect, but ad- 
 mitting the justice of the animadversion. 
 
 Edwin seldom had difficulty with his employees. 
 Serious friction was unknown in the establishment. 
 
 He went out by the back-entrance, thinking : 
 
 "It's no affair whatever of hers. Moreover the shop's 
 as clean as shops are, and a damned sight cleaner than 
 most. A shop isn't a drawing-room. . . . And now 
 there's the infernal programme." 
 
 He would have liked to bury and forget the matter 
 of the programme. But he could not. His conscience, 
 or her fussiness, would force him to examine into it. 
 There was no doubt that Big James was getting an old 
 man, with peculiar pompous mannerisms and a disposi- 
 
148 THESE TWAIN 
 
 tion towards impossibilism. Big James ought to have 
 remembered, in speaking to Hilda, that he was speak- 
 ing to the wife of his employer. That Hilda should 
 give an order, or even make a request, direct was per- 
 haps unusual, but dash it! you knew what women 
 were, and if that old josser of a bachelor, Big James, 
 didn't know what women were, so much the worse for 
 him. He should just give Big James a hint. He could 
 not have Big James making mischief between himself 
 and Hilda. 
 
 But the coward would not go straight to Big James. 
 He went first up to what had come to be called "the 
 litho room," partly in order to postpone Big James, 
 but partly also because he had quite an affectionate 
 proud interest in the litho room. In Edwin's childhood 
 this room, now stripped and soiled into a workshop, 
 had been the drawing-room of the Clayhanger family; 
 and it still showed the defect which it had always 
 shown; the window was too small and too near the 
 corner of the room. No transformation could render 
 it satisfactory save a change in the window. Old Dari- 
 us Clayhanger had vaguely talked of altering the win- 
 dow. Edwin had thought seriously of it. But nothing 
 had been done. Edwin was continuing the very policy 
 of his father which had so roused his disdain when he 
 was young: the policy of "making things do." Instead 
 of entering upon lithography in a manner bold, logical, 
 and decisive, he had nervously and half-heartedly 
 slithered into it. Thus at the back of the yard was a 
 second-hand "Newsom" machine in quarters too small 
 for it, and the apparatus for the preliminary polishing 
 of the stones; while up here in the ex-drawing-room 
 were grotesquely mingled the final polishing process 
 and the artistic department. 
 
 The artist who drew the designs on the stone was a 
 
THE WEEK-END 149 
 
 German, with short fair hair and moustache, a thick 
 neck and a changeless expression. Edwin had surpris- 
 ingly found him in Hanbridge. He was very skilled i* 
 judging the amount of "work" necessary on the stone 
 to produce a desired result on the paper, and verj 
 laborious. Without him the nascent lithographic trade 
 could not have prospered. His wages were extremelj 
 moderate, but they were what he had asked, and in ex- 
 change for them he gave his existence. Edwin liked 
 to watch him drawing, slavishly, meticulously, end- 
 lessly. He was absolutely without imagination, artistic 
 feeling, charm, urbanity, or elasticity of any sort, a 
 miracle of sheer gruff positiveness. He lived some- 
 where in Hanbridge, and had once been seen by Edwin 
 on a Sunday afternoon, wheeling a perambulator and 
 smiling at a young enceinte woman who held his free 
 arm. An astounding sight, which forced Edwin to ad- 
 just his estimates! He grimly called himself an Eng- 
 lishman, and was legally entitled to do so. On thii 
 morning he was drawing a ewer and basin, for the illus- 
 trated catalogue of an earthenware manufacturer. 
 
 "Not a very good light to-day," murmured Edwin. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Not a very good light." 
 
 "No," said Karl sourly and indifferently, bent over 
 the stone, and breathing with calm regularity. "My 
 eyesight is being de-stroit." 
 
 Behind, a young man in a smock was industriouslj 
 polishing a stone. 
 
 Edwin beheld with pleasure. It was a joy to think 
 that here was the sole lithography in Bursley, and 
 that his own enterprise had started it. Nevertheless 
 he was ashamed too, ashamed of his hesitations, his 
 half-measures, his timidity, and of Karl's impaired 
 eyesight. There was no reason why he should not 
 
150 THESE TWAIN 
 
 build a proper works, and every reason why he should ; 
 the operation would be remunerative; it would set an 
 example ; it would increase his prestige. He grew reso- 
 lute. On the day of the party at the Benbows' he had 
 been and carefully inspected the plot of land at Shaw- 
 port, and yesterday he had made a very low offer for 
 it. If the offer was refused, he would raise it. He 
 swore to himself he would have his works. 
 
 Then Big James came into the litho room. 
 
 "I was seeking ye, sir," said Big James majestically, 
 with a mysterious expression. 
 
 Edwin tried to look at him anew, as it were with 
 Hilda's eyes. Certainly his bigness amounted now to 
 an enormity, for proportionately his girth more than 
 matched his excessive height. His apron descended 
 from the semicircle of his paunch like a vast grey wall. 
 The apron was dirty, this being Saturday, but it was 
 at any rate intact; in old days Big James and others 
 at critical moments of machining used to tear strips 
 off their aprons for machine-rags. . . . Yes, he was 
 conceivably a grotesque figure, with his spectacles, 
 which did not suit him, his heavy breathing, his man- 
 nerisms, and his grandiose air of Atlas supporting the 
 moral world. A woman might be excused for seeing 
 the comic side of him. But surely he was honest and 
 loyal. Surely he was not the adder that Hilda with an 
 intonation had suggested! 
 
 "I'm coming," said Edwin, rather curtly. 
 
 He felt just in the humour for putting Big James 
 "straight." Still his reply had not been too curt, for 
 to his staff he was the opposite of a bully; he always 
 scorned to take a facile advantage of his power, often 
 tried even to conceal his power in the fiction that the 
 employee was one man and himself merely another. He 
 would be far more devastating to his wife and his sister 
 
THE WEEK-END 151 
 
 than to any employee. But at intervals a bad or care- 
 less workman had to meet the blaze of his eye and ac- 
 cept the lash of his speech. 
 
 "It's about that little job for the mistress, sir," said 
 Big James in a soft voice, when they were out on the 
 landing. 
 
 Edwin gave a start. The ageing man's tones were so 
 eager, so anxiously loyal ! His emphasis on the word 
 'mistress' conveyed so clearly that the mistress was a 
 high and glorious personage to serve whom was an 
 honour and a fearful honour! The ageing man had 
 almost whispered, like a boy, glancing with jealous dis- 
 trust at the shut door of the room that contained the 
 German. 
 
 "Oh !" muttered Edwin, taken aback. 
 
 "I set it up myself," said Big James, and holding his 
 head very high looked down at Edwin under his spec- 
 tacles. 
 
 "Why!" said Edwin cautiously. "I thought you'd 
 given Mrs. Clay hanger the idea it couldn't be done in 
 time." 
 
 "Bless ye, sir! Not if I know it! I intimated to 
 her the situation in which we were placed, with urgent 
 jobs on hand, as in duty bound, sir, she being the mis- 
 tress. Ye know how slow I am to give a promise, sir. 
 But not to do it such was not my intention. And as I 
 have said already, sir, I've set it up myself, and here's 
 a rough pull." 
 
 He produced a piece of paper. 
 
 Edwin's ancient affection for Big James grew indig- 
 nant. The old fellow was the very mirror of loyalty. 
 He might be somewhat grotesque and mannered upon 
 occasion, but he was the soul of the Clayhanger busi- 
 ness. He had taught Edwin most of what he knew 
 about both typesetting and machining. It seemed not 
 
152 THESE TWAIN 
 
 long since that he used to call Edwin "young sir," and 
 to enter into tacit leagues with him against the danger- 
 ous obstinacies of his decaying father. Big James had 
 genuinely admired Darius Clayhanger. Assuredly he 
 admired Darius's son not less. His fidelity to the 
 dynasty was touching ; it was wistful. The order from 
 the mistress had tremendously excited and flattered 
 him in his secret heart. . . . And yet Hilda must call 
 him names, must insinuate against his superb integrity, 
 must grossly misrepresent his attitude to herself. 
 Whatever in his pompous old way he might have said, 
 she could not possibly have mistaken his anxiety to 
 please her. No, she had given a false account of their 
 interview, and Edwin had believed it! Edwin 
 now swerved violently back to his own original view. 
 He firmly believed Big James against his wife. He re- 
 flected: "How simple I was to swallow all Hilda said 
 without confirmation ! I might have known !" And 
 that he should think such a thought shocked him tre- 
 mendously. 
 
 The programme was not satisfactorily set up. Apart 
 from several mistakes in the spelling of proper names, 
 the thing with its fancy types, curious centring, and 
 superabundance of full-stops, resembled more the 
 libretto of a Primitive Methodist Tea-meeting than a 
 programme of classical music offered to refined dilet- 
 tanti on a Sunday night. Though Edwin had en- 
 deavoured to modernise Big James, he had failed. It 
 was perhaps well that he had failed. For the majority 
 of customers preferred Big James's taste in printing to 
 Edwin's. He corrected the misspellings and removed a 
 few full-stops, and then said: 
 
 "It's all right. But I doubt if Mrs. Clayhanger'll 
 care for all these fancy founts," implying that it was 
 a pity, of course, that Big James's fancy founts would 
 
THE WEEK-END 153 
 
 not be appreciated at their true value, but women were 
 women. "I should almost be inclined to set it all again 
 in old- face. I'm sure she'd prefer it. Do you mind?" 
 
 "With the greatest of pleasure, sir," Big James 
 heartily concurred, looking at his watch. "But I must 
 be lively." 
 
 He conveyed his immense bulk neatly and impor- 
 tantly down the narrow stairs. 
 
 ra 
 
 Edwin sat in his cubicle again, his affection for Big 
 James very active. How simple and agreeable it was to 
 be a man among men only ! The printing-business was 
 an organism fifty times as large as the home, and it 
 worked fifty times more smoothly. No misunderstand- 
 ings, no secrecies (at any rate among the chief per- 
 sons concerned), and a general recognition of the prin- 
 ciples of justice ! Even the errand-boy had understood. 
 And the shop-clerk by his tone had admitted that he 
 too was worthy of blame. The blame was not over- 
 done, and common-sense had closed the episode in a 
 moment. And see with what splendid good-will Big 
 James, despite the intense conservatism of old age, 
 had accepted the wholesale condemnation of his idea of 
 a programme! The relations of men were truly won- 
 derful, when you come to think about it. And to be 
 at business was a relief and even a pleasure. Edwin 
 could not remember having ever before regarded the 
 business as a source of pleasure. A youth, he had 
 gone into it greatly against his will, and by tradition 
 he had supposed himself still to hate it. 
 
 Why had Hilda misled him as to Big James? For 
 she had misled him. Yes, she had misled him. What 
 was her motive? What did she think she could gain 
 
154 THESE TWAIN 
 
 by it? He was still profoundly disturbed by this de- 
 ception. "Why!" he thought, "I can't trust her! I 
 shall have to be on my guard! I've been in the habit 
 of opening my mouth and swallowing practically every- 
 thing she says!" His sense of justice very sharply re- 
 sented her perfidy to Big James. His heart warmed 
 to the defence of the excellent old man. What had she 
 got against Big James? Since the day when the enor- 
 mous man had first shown her over the printing shops, 
 before their original betrothal, a decade and more ago, 
 he had never treated her with anything but an elaborate 
 and sincere respect. Was she jealous of him, because 
 of his, Edwin's, expressed confidence in and ancient re- 
 gard for him, and because Edwin and he had always 
 been good companions? Or had she merely taken a 
 dislike to him, a physical dislike? Edwin had noticed 
 that some women had a malicious detestation for some 
 old men, especially when the old men had any touch of 
 the grotesque or the pompous. . . . Well, he should 
 defend Big James against her. She should keep her 
 hands off Big James. His sense of justice was so pow- 
 erful in that moment that if he had had to choose be- 
 tween his wife and Big James he would have chosen Big 
 James. 
 
 He came out of the cubicle into the shop, and ar- 
 ranged his countenance so that the clerk should sup- 
 pose him to be thinking in tremendous concentration 
 upon some complex problem of the business. And si- 
 multaneously Hilda passed up Duck Bank on the way 
 to market. She passed so close to the shop that she 
 seemed to brush it like a delicious, exciting, and ex- 
 asperating menace. If she turned her head she could 
 scarcely fail to see Edwin near the door of the shop. 
 But she did not turn her head. She glided up the slope 
 steadily and implacably. And even in the distance of 
 
THE WEEK-END 155 
 
 the street her individuality showed itself mysterious 
 and strong. He could never decide whether she was 
 beautiful or not; he felt that she was impressive, and 
 not to be scorned or ignored. Perhaps she was not 
 beautiful. Certainly she was not young. She had not 
 the insipidity of the young girl unfulfilled. Nor did 
 she inspire melancholy like the woman just beyond her 
 prime. The one was going to be; the other had been. 
 Hilda was. And she had lived. There was in her none 
 of the detestable ignorance and innocence that, for Ed- 
 win, spoilt the majority of women. She knew. She 
 was an equal, and a dangerous equal. Simultaneously 
 he felt that he could crush and kill the little thing, and 
 that he must beware of the powerful, unscrupulous, in- 
 scrutable individuality. . . . And she receded still 
 higher up Duck Bank and then turned round the cor- 
 ner to the Market Place and vanished. And there was 
 a void. 
 
 She would return. As she had receded gradually, so 
 she would gradually approach the shop again with her 
 delicious, exciting, exasperating menace. And he had 
 a scheme for running out to her and with candour in- 
 viting her in and explaining to her in just the right 
 tone of good-will that loyalty to herself simply hummed 
 and buzzed in the shop and the printing-works, and 
 that Big James worshipped her, and that though she 
 was perfect in sagacity she had really been mistaken 
 about Big James. And he had a vision of her smiling 
 kindly and frankly upon Big James, and Big James 
 twisting upon his own axis in joyous pride. Nothing 
 but good-will and candour was required to produce this 
 bliss. 
 
 But he knew that he would never run out to her and 
 invite her to enter. The enterprise was perilous to the 
 point of being foolhardy. With a tone, with a hesita- 
 
156 THESE TWAIN 
 
 tion, with an undecipherable pout, she might, she would, 
 render it absurd. . . . And then, his pride! ... At 
 that moment young Alec Batchgrew, perhaps then the 
 town's chief mooncalf, came down Duck Bank in daz- 
 zling breeches on a superb grey horse. And Edwin 
 went abruptly back to work lest the noodle should rein 
 in at the shop door and talk to him. 
 
 IV 
 
 When he returned home, a few minutes before the 
 official hour of one o'clock, he heard women's voices 
 and laughter in the drawing-room. And as he stood in 
 the hall, fingering the thin little parcel of six pro- 
 grammes which he had brought with him, the laughter 
 overcame the voices and then expended itself in shrieks 
 of quite uncontrolled mirth. The drawing-room door 
 was half open. He stepped quietly to it. . 
 
 The weather, after being thunderous, had cleared, 
 and the part of the drawing-room near the open win- 
 dow was shot with rays of sunshine. 
 
 Janet Orgreave, all dressed in white, lay back in an 
 easy chair ; she was laughing and wiping the tears from 
 her eyes. At the piano sat very upright a seemingly 
 rather pert young woman, not laughing, but smiling, 
 with arch sparkling eyes fixed on the others ; this was 
 Daisy Marrion, a cousin of Mrs. Tom Orgreave, and 
 the next to the last unmarried daughter of a large 
 family up at Hillport. Standing by the piano was a 
 young timid girl of about sixteen, whom Edwin, who 
 had not seen her before, guessed to be Janet's niece, 
 Elaine, eldest daughter of Janet's elder sister in Lon- 
 don; Elaine's approaching visit had been announced. 
 These other two, like Janet, were in white. Lastly 
 there was Hilda, in grey, with a black hat, laughing like 
 
THE WEEK-END 157 
 
 a child. "They are all children," he thought as, un- 
 noticed, he watched them in their bright fragile frocks 
 and hats, and in their excessive gaiety, and in the 
 strange abandon of their gestures. "They are a for- 
 eign race encamped among us men. Fancy women of 
 nearly forty giggling with these girls as Janet and 
 Hilda are giggling!" He felt much pleasure in the 
 sight. It could not have happened in poor old Mag- 
 gie's reign. It was delicious. It was one of the re- 
 wards of existence, for the grace of these creatures was 
 surpassing. But at the same time it was hysterical and 
 infantile. He thought: "I've been taking women too 
 seriously." And his heart lightened somewhat. 
 
 Elaine saw him first. A flush flowed from her 
 cheeks to her neck. Her body stiffened. She be- 
 came intensely self-conscious. She could not speak, 
 but she leaned forward and gazed with a passion of 
 apprehension at Janet, as if murmuring: "Look! The 
 enemy! Take care!" The imploring silent movement 
 was delightful in its gawky ingenuousness. 
 
 "Do tell us some more, Daisy," Hilda implored 
 weakly. 
 
 "There is no more," said Daisy, and then started: 
 "Oh, Mr. Clayhanger! How long have you been 
 there?" 
 
 He entered the room, yielding himself, proud, mas- 
 culine, acutely aware of his sudden effect on these girls. 
 For even Hilda was naught but a girl at the moment; 
 and Janet was really a girl, though the presence of that 
 shy niece, just awaking to her own body and to the 
 world, made Janet seem old in spite of her slimness 
 and of that smoothness of skin that was due to a tran- 
 quil, kind temperament. The shy niece was enchant- 
 ingly constrained upon being introduced to Edwin, 
 whom she was enjoined to call uncle. Only yesterday 
 
158 THESE TWAIN 
 
 she must have been a child. Her marvellously clear 
 complexion could not have been imitated by any aunt 
 or elder sister. 
 
 "And now perhaps you'll tell me what it's all about," 
 said Edwin. 
 
 Hilda replied: 
 
 "Janet's called about tennis. It seems they're sick 
 of the new Hillport Club. I knew they would be. And 
 so next year Janet's having a private club on her 
 l awn 99 
 
 "Bad as it is," said Janet. 
 
 "Where the entire conversation won't be remarks by 
 girls about other girls' frocks and remarks by men 
 about the rotten inferiority of other men." 
 
 "This is all very sound," said Edwin, rather struck 
 by Hilda's epigrammatic quality. "But what I ask is 
 * what were you laughing at?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing !" said Daisy Marrion. 
 
 "Very well then," said Edwin, going to the door and 
 shutting it. "Nobody leaves this room till I know. 
 . . . Now, niece Elaine!" 
 
 Elaine went crimson and squirmed on her only re- 
 cently hidden legs, but she did not speak. 
 
 "Tell him, Daisy," said Janet. 
 
 Daisy sat still straighter. 
 
 "It was only about Alec Batchgrew, Mr. Clay- 
 hanger; I suppose you know him." 
 
 Alec was the youngest scion of the great and detested 
 plutocratic family of Batchgrew, enormously impor- 
 tant in his nineteen years. 
 
 "Yes, I know him," said Edwin. "I saw him on his 
 new grey horse this morning." 
 
 "His 'orse," Janet corrected. They all began to 
 laugh again loudly. 
 
 "He's taken a terrific fancy to Maud, my kiddie sis- 
 
THE WEEK-END 159 
 
 ter," said Daisy. "She's sixteen. Yesterday after- 
 noon at the tennis club he said to Maud: 'Look 'ere. 
 I shall ride through the town to-morrow morning on 
 my 'orse, while you're all marketing. I shan't take 
 any notice of any of the other girls, but if you bow 
 to me I'll take my 'at off to you.' ' She imitated the 
 Batchgrew intonation. 
 
 "That's a good tale," said Edwin calmly. "What 
 a cuckoo! He ought to be put in a museum." 
 
 Daisy, made rather nervous by the success of her 
 tale, bent over the piano, and skimmed pianissimo and 
 rapidly through the "Clytie" waltz. Elaine moved her 
 shoulders to the rhythm. 
 
 Janet said they must go. 
 
 "Here! Hold on a bit!" said Edwin, through the 
 light film of music, and undoing the little parcel he 
 handed one specimen of the programme to Hilda and 
 another to Janet, simultaneously. 
 
 "Oh, so my ideas are listened to, sometimes !" mur- 
 mured Hilda, who was, however, pleased. 
 
 A malicious and unjust remark, he thought. But the 
 next instant Hilda said in a quite friendly natural 
 tone: 
 
 "Janet's going to bring Elaine. And she says Tom 
 says she is to tell you that he's coming whether he's 
 wanted or not. Daisy won't come." 
 
 "Why?" asked Edwin, but quite perfunctorily; he 
 knew that the Marrions were not interested in interest- 
 ing music, and his design had been to limit the audi- 
 ence to enthusiasts. 
 
 "Church," answered Daisy succinctly. 
 
 "Come after church." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "And how's the practising?" Edwin enquired from 
 Janet. 
 
160 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Pretty fair," said she. "But not so good as this 
 programme. What swells we are, my word !" 
 
 "Hilda's idea," said Edwin generously. "Your 
 mother coming?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I think so." 
 
 As the visitors were leaving, Hilda stopped Janet. 
 
 "Don't you think it'll be better if we have the piano 
 put over there, and all the chairs together round here, 
 Janet?" 
 
 "It might be," said Janet uncertainly. 
 
 Hilda turned sharply to Edwin : 
 
 "There ! What did I tell you ?" 
 
 "Well," he protested good-humouredly, "what on 
 earth do you expect her to say, when you ask her like 
 that? Anyhow I may announce definitely that I'm not 
 going to have the piano moved. We'll try things as 
 they are, for a start, and then see. Why, if you put all 
 the chairs together over there, the place'll look like 
 a blooming boarding-house." 
 
 The comparison was a failure in tact, which he at 
 once recognised but could not retrieve. Hilda faintly 
 reddened, and the memory of her struggles as man- 
 ageress of a boarding-house was harshly revived in her. 
 
 "Some day I shall try the piano over there," she 
 said, low. 
 
 And Edwin concurred, amiably: 
 
 "All right. Some day we'll try it together, just to 
 see what it is like." 
 
 The girls, the younger ones still giggling, slipped ele- 
 gantly out of the house, one after another. 
 
 Dinner passed without incident. 
 
 The next day, Sunday, Edwin had a headache; and 
 it was a bilious headache. Hence he insisted to himself 
 
THE WEEK-END 161 
 
 and to everyone that it was not a bilious headache, but 
 just one of those plain headaches which sometimes visit 
 the righteous without cause or excuse ; for he would 
 never accept the theory that he had inherited his fa- 
 ther's digestive weakness. A liability to colds he would 
 admit, but not on any account a feeble stomach. Hence, 
 further, he was obliged to pretend to eat as usual v 
 George was rather gnat-like that morning, and Hilda 
 was in a susceptible condition, doubtless due to nervous- 
 ness occasioned by the novel responsibilities of the mu- 
 sical evening and a Sabbath musical evening at that ! 
 After the one o'clock dinner, Edwin lay down on the 
 sofa in the dining-room and read and slept ; and when 
 he woke up he felt better, and was sincerely almost per- 
 suaded that his headache had not been and was not a 
 bilious headache. He said to himself that a short walk 
 might disperse the headache entirely. He made one or 
 two trifling adjustments in the disposition of the draw- 
 ing-room furniture his own disposition of it, and im- 
 mensely and indubitably superior to that so pertina- 
 ciously advocated by Hilda and then he went out. 
 Neither Hilda nor George was visible. Possibly dur- 
 ing his rest they had gone for a walk ; they had fits of 
 intimacy. 
 
 He walked in the faint September sunshine down 
 Trafalgar Road into the town. Except for a few girls 
 in dowdy finery and a few heavy youths with their 
 black or dark-blue trousers turned up round the ankles 
 far enough to show the white cotton lining, the street 
 was empty. The devout at that hour were either doz- 
 ing at home or engaged in Sunday school work; thou- 
 sands of children were concentrated in the hot Sunday 
 schools. As he passed the Bethesda Chapel and School 
 he heard the voices of children addressing the Lord of 
 the Universe in laudatory and intercessory song. Near 
 
162 THESE TWAIN 
 
 the Bethesda chapel, by the Duke of Cambridge Vaults, 
 two men stood waiting, their faces firm in the sure 
 knowledge that within three hours the public-houses 
 would again be open. Thick smoke rose from the 
 chimneys of several manufactories and thin smoke from 
 the chimneys of many others. The scheme of a Sunday 
 musical evening in that land presented itself to Edwin 
 as something rash, fantastic, and hopeless, and yet 
 solacing. Were it known it could excite only hostility, 
 horror, contempt, or an intense bovine indifference; 
 chiefly the last. . . . Breathe the name of Chopin in 
 that land! . . . 
 
 As he climbed Duck Bank he fumbled in his pocket 
 for his private key of the shop, which he had brought 
 with him ; for, not the desire for fresh air, but an acute 
 curiosity as to the answer to his letter to the solicitor 
 to the Hall trustees making an offer for the land at 
 Shawport, had sent him out of the house. Would the 
 offer be accepted or declined, or would a somewhat 
 higher sum be suggested? The reply would have been 
 put into the post on Saturday, and was doubtless then 
 lying in the letter-box within the shop. The whole 
 future seemed to be lying unopened in that letter-box. 
 
 He penetrated into his own shop like a thief, for it 
 was not meet for an important tradesman to be seen 
 dallying with business of a Sunday afternoon. As he 
 went into the shutter-darkened interior he thought of 
 Hilda, whom many years earlier he had kissed in that 
 very same shutter-darkened interior one Thursday aft- 
 ernoon. Life appeared incredible to him, and in his 
 wife he could see almost no trace of the girl he had 
 kissed there in the obscure shop. There was a fair 
 quantity of letters in the box. The first one he opened 
 was from a solicitor ; not the solicitor to the Hall trus- 
 tees, but Tom Orgreave, who announced to Edwin Clay- 
 
THE WEEK-END 163 
 
 hanger, Esquire, dear sir, that his clients, the Palace 
 Porcelain Company of Longshaw, felt compelled to call 
 their creditors together. The Palace Porcelain Com- 
 pany, who had believed in the efficacy of printed ad- 
 vertising matter and expensive catalogues, owed Edwin 
 a hundred and eighty pounds. It was a blow, and the 
 more so in that it was unexpected. "Did I come mess- 
 ing down here on a Sunday afternoon to receive this 
 sort of news?" he bitterly asked. A moment earlier 
 he had not doubted the solvency of the Palace Porce- 
 lain Company; but now he felt that the Company 
 wouldn't pay two shillings in the pound, perhaps not 
 even that, as there were debenture-holders. The next 
 letter was an acceptance of his offer for the Shawport 
 land. The die was cast, then. The new works would 
 have to be created ; lithography would increase ; in the 
 vast new enterprise he would be hampered by the pur- 
 chase of Maggie's house; he had just made a bad debt; 
 and he would have Hilda's capricious opposition to deal 
 with. He quitted the shop abruptly, locked the door, 
 and went back home, his mind very active but undi- 
 rected. 
 
 VI 
 
 Something unfamiliar in the aspect of the breakfast- 
 room as glimpsed through the open door from the hall, 
 drew him within. Hilda had at last begun to make it 
 into "her" room. She had brought an old writing- 
 desk from upstairs and put it between the fireplace 
 and the window. Edwin thought: "Doesn't she even 
 know the light ought to fall over the left shoulder, not 
 over the right?" Letter paper and envelopes and even 
 stamps were visible; and a miscellaneous mass of let- 
 ters and bills had been pushed into the space between 
 the flat of the desk and the small drawers about it. 
 
164 THESE TWAIN 
 
 There was also an easy-chair, with a freshly-covered 
 cushion on it ; a new hearthrug that Edwin neither rec- 
 ognised nor approved of; several framed prints, and 
 other oddments. His own portrait still dominated the 
 mantelpiece, but it was now flanked by two brass can- 
 dle-sticks. He thought: "If she'd ask me, I could 
 have arranged it for her much better than that." Nev- 
 ertheless the idea of her being absolute monarch of the 
 little room, and expressing her individuality in it and 
 by it, both pleased and touched him. Nor did he at all 
 resent the fact that she had executed her plan in se- 
 cret. She must have been anxious to get the room fin- 
 ished for the musical evening. 
 
 Thence he passed into the drawing-room, and was 
 thunderstruck. The arrangement of the furniture was 
 utterly changed, and the resemblance to a boarding- 
 house parlour after all achieved. The piano had 
 crossed the room; the chairs were massed together in 
 the most ridiculous way; the sofa was so placed as to 
 be almost useless. His anger was furious but cold. The 
 woman had considerable taste in certain directions, but 
 she simply did not understand the art of fixing up a 
 room. Whereas he did. Each room in the house 
 (save her poor little amateurish breakfast-room or 
 "boudoir") had been arranged by himself, even to small 
 details, and well arranged. Everyone admitted that 
 he had a talent for interiors. The house was complete 
 before she ever saw it, and he had been responsible for 
 it. He was not the ordinary inexperienced ignorant 
 husband who "leaves all that sort of thing to the 
 missis." Interiors mattered to him ; they influenced his 
 daily happiness. The woman had clearly failed to ap- 
 preciate the sacredness of the status quo. He appre- 
 ciated it himself, and never altered anything without 
 consulting her and definitely announcing his intention 
 
THE WEEK-END 165 
 
 to alter. She probably didn't care a fig for the status 
 quo. Her conduct was inexcusable. It was an attack 
 on vital principles. It was an outrage. Doubtless, in 
 her scorn for the status quo, she imagined that he 
 would accept the fait accompli. She was mistaken. 
 With astounding energy he set to work to restore the 
 status quo ante. The vigour with which he dragged 
 and pushed an innocent elephantine piano was mar- 
 vellous. In less than five minutes not a trace remained 
 of the fait accompli. He thought: "This is a queer 
 start for a musical evening!" But he was triumphant, 
 resolute, and remorseless. He would show her a thing 
 or two. In particular he would show that fair play 
 had to be practised in his house. Then, perceiving that 
 his hands were dirty, and one finger bleeding, he went 
 majestically, if somewhat breathless, upstairs to the 
 bathroom, and washed with care. In the glass he saw 
 that, despite his exertions, he was pale. At length he 
 descended, wondering where she was, where she had 
 hidden herself, who had helped her to move the furni- 
 ture, and what exactly the upshot would be. There 
 could be no doubt that he was in a state of high emo- 
 tion, in which unflinching obstinacy was shot through 
 with qualms about disaster. 
 
 He revisited the drawing-room to survey his labours. 
 She was there. Whence she had sprung, he knew 
 not. But she was there. He caught sight of her 
 standing by the window before entering the room. 
 
 When he got into the room he saw that her emotional 
 excitement far surpassed his own. Her lips and her 
 hands were twitching; her nostrils dilated and con- 
 tracted; tears were in her eyes. 
 
 "Edwin," she exclaimed very passionately, in a thick 
 voice, quite unlike her usual clear tones, as she sur- 
 veyed the furniture, "this is really too much !" 
 
 
166 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Evidently she thought of nothing but her resent- 
 ment. No consideration other than her outraged dig' 
 nity would have affected .her demeanour. If a whole 
 regiment of their friends had been watching at the 
 door, her demeanour would not have altered. The bed- 
 rock of her nature had been reached. 
 
 "It's war, this is !" thought Edwin. 
 
 He was afraid ; he was even intimidated by her anger ; 
 but he did not lose his courage. The determination to 
 fight for himself, and to see the thing through no mat- 
 ter what happened, was not a bit weakened. An in- 
 wardly feverish but outwardly calm vindictive despera- 
 tion possessed him. He and she would soon know who 
 was the stronger. 
 
 At the same time he said to himself: 
 
 "I was hasty. I ought not to have acted in such a 
 hurry. Before doing anything I ought to have told 
 her quietly that I intended to have the last word as re- 
 gards furniture in this house. I was within my rights 
 in acting at once, but it wasn't very clever of me, 
 clumsy fool!" 
 
 Aloud he said, with a kind of self-conscious snigger: 
 
 "What's too much?" 
 
 Hilda went on : 
 
 "You simply make me look a fool in my own house, 
 before my own son and the servants." 
 
 "You've brought it on yourself," said he fiercely. 
 "If you will do these idiotic things you must take the 
 consequences. I told you I didn't want the furniture 
 moved, and immediately my back's turned you go and 
 move it. I won't have it, and so I tell you straight." 
 
 "You're a brute," she continued, not heeding him, 
 obsessed by her own wound. "You're a brute!" She 
 said it with terrifying conviction. "Everybody knows 
 it. Didn't Maggie warn me? You're a brute and a 
 
THE WEEK-END 167 
 
 bully. And you do all you can to shame me in my 
 own house. Who'd think I was supposed to be the mis- 
 tress here? Even in front of my friends you insult 
 me." 
 
 "Don't act like a baby. How do I insult you?" 
 
 "Talking about boarding-houses. Do you think 
 Janet and all of them didn't notice it?" 
 
 "Well," he said. "Let this be a lesson to you." 
 
 She hid her face in her hands and sobbed, moving 
 towards the door. 
 
 He thought: 
 
 "She's beaten. She knows she's got to take it." 
 
 Then he said : 
 
 "Do 1 go altering furniture without consulting you? 
 Do 7 do things behind your back? Never!" 
 
 "That's no reason why you should try to make me 
 look a fool in my own house. I told Ada how I wanted 
 the furniture, and George and I helped her. And then 
 a moment afterwards you give them contrary orders. 
 What will they think of me? Naturally they'll think 
 I'm not your wife, but your slave. You're a brute." 
 Her voice rose. 
 
 "I didn't give any orders. I haven't seen the damned 
 servants and I haven't seen George." 
 
 She looked up suddenly : 
 
 "Then who moved the furniture?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Who helped you?" 
 
 "Nobody helped me." 
 
 "But I was here only a minute or two since." 
 
 "Well, do you suppose it takes me half a day to 
 move a few sticks of furniture?" 
 
 She was impressed by his strength and his swiftness, 
 and apparently silenced; she had thought that the 
 servants had been brought into the affair. 
 
168 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "You ought to know perfectly well," he proceeded, 
 "I should never dream of insulting you before the 
 servants. Nobody's more careful of your dignity than 
 I am. I should like to see anybody do anything against 
 your dignity while I'm here." 
 
 She was still sobbing. 
 
 "I think you ought to apologise to me," she blub- 
 bered. "Yes, I really do." 
 
 "Why should I apologise to you? You moved the 
 furniture against my wish. I moved it against yours. 
 That's all. You began. I didn't begin. You want 
 everything your own way. Well, you won't have it." 
 
 She blubbered once more: 
 
 "You ought to apologise to me." 
 
 And then she wept hysterically. 
 
 He meditated sourly, harshly. He had conquered. 
 The furniture was as he wished, and it would remain 
 so. The enemy was in tears, shamed, humiliated. He 
 had a desire to restore her dignity, partly because she 
 was his wife and partly because he hated to see any 
 human being beaten. Moreover, at the bottom of his 
 heart he had a tremendous regard for appearances, and 
 he felt fears for the musical evening. He could not 
 contemplate the possibility of visitors perceiving that 
 the host and hostess had violently quarrelled. He 
 would have sacrificed almost anything to the social pro- 
 prieties. And he knew that Hilda would not think of 
 them, or at any rate would not think of them effec- 
 tively. He did not mind apologising to her, if an apol- 
 ogy would give her satisfaction. He was her superior 
 in moral force, and naught else mattered. 
 
 "I don't think I ought to apologise," he said, with a 
 slight laugh. "But if you think so I don't mind apolo- 
 gising. I apologise. There!" He dropped into an 
 easy-chair. 
 
k THE WEEK-END 169 
 
 To him it was as if he had said : 
 
 "You see what a magnanimous chap I am." 
 
 She tried to conceal her feelings, but she was pleased, 
 flattered, astonished. Her self-respect returned to her 
 rapidly. 
 
 "Thank you," she murmured, and added: "It was 
 the least you could do." 
 
 At her last words he thought: 
 
 "Women are incapable of being magnanimous." 
 
 She moved towards the door. 
 
 "Hilda," he said. 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 "Come here," he commanded with gentle bluffness. 
 
 She wavered towards him. 
 
 "Come here, I tell you," he said again. 
 
 He drew her down to him, all fluttering and sobbing 
 and wet, and kissed her, kissed her several times ; and 
 then, sitting on his knees, she kissed him. But, though 
 she mysteriously signified forgiveness, she could not 
 smile ; she was still far too agitated and out of control 
 to be able to smile. 
 
 The scene was over. The proprieties of the musical 
 evening were saved. Her broken body and soul huddled 
 against him were agreeably wistful to his triumphant 
 manliness. 
 
 But he had had a terrible fright. And even now 
 there was a certain mere bravado in his attitude. In 
 his heart he was thinking : 
 
 "By Jove ! Has it come to this ?" 
 
 The responsibilities of the future seemed too com- 
 plicated, wearisome and overwhelming. The earthly 
 career of a bachelor seemed almost heavenly in its 
 wondrous freedom. . . . Etches v. Etches. . . . The 
 unexampled creature, so recently the source of ineffable 
 romance, still sat on his knees, weighing them down. 
 
170 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Suddenly he noticed that his head ached very badly 
 worse than it had ached all day. 
 
 vn 
 
 The Sunday musical evening, beyond its artistic 
 thrills and emotional quality, proved to be exciting as 
 a social manifestation. Those present at it felt as must 
 feel Russian conspirators in a back room of some 
 big grey house of a Petrograd suburb when the 
 secret printing-press begins to function before their 
 eyes. This concert of profane harmonies, deliberately 
 planned and pouring out through open windows to 
 affront the ears of returners from church and chapel, 
 was considered by its organisers as a remarkable event ; 
 and rightly so. The Clayhanger house might have 
 been a fortress, with the blood-red standard of art and 
 freedom floating from a pole lashed to its chimney. Of 
 course everybody pretended to everybody else that the 
 musical evening was a quite ordinary phenomenon. 
 
 It was a success, and a flashing success, yet not un- 
 qualified. The performers Tertius, Ingpen on the 
 piano, on the fiddle, and on the clarinet, Janet 
 Orgreave on the piano, and very timidly in a 
 little song by Grieg, Tom Orgreave on the piano 
 and his contralto wife in two famous and affect- 
 ing songs by Schumann and also on the piano, and Ed- 
 win sick but obstinate as turner-over of pages all did 
 most creditably. The music was given with ardent 
 sympathy, and in none of it did any marked pause 
 occur which had not been contemplated by the com- 
 poser himself. But abstentions had thinned the women 
 among the audience. Elaine Hill did not come, and, 
 far more important, Mrs. Orgreave did not come. Her 
 husband, old Osmond Orgreave, had not been expected, 
 
THE WEEK-JEND 1713 
 
 as of late (owing to the swift onset of renal disease, 
 hitherto treated by him with some contempt) he had 
 declined absolutely to go out at night ; but Edwin had 
 counted on Mrs. Orgreave. She simply sent word that 
 she did not care to leave her husband, and that Elaine 
 was keeping her company. Disappointment, keen but 
 brief, resulted. Edwin's severe sick headache was also 
 a drawback. It did, however, lessen the bad social ef- 
 fect of an altercation between him and Hilda, in which 
 Edwin's part was attributed to his indisposition. This 
 altercation arose out of an irresponsible suggestion 
 from somebody that something else should be played 
 instead of something else. Now, for Edwin, a pro- 
 gramme was a programme, sacred, to be executed re- 
 gardless of every extrinsic consideration. And seeing 
 that the programme was printed . . . ! Edwin nega- 
 tived the suggestion instantly, and the most weighty 
 opinion in the room agreed with him, but Hilda must 
 needs fly out: "Why not change it? I'm sure it will 
 be better," etc. Whereas she could be sure of nothing 
 of the sort, and was incompetent to offer an opinion. 
 And she unreasonably and unnecessarily insisted, 
 despite Tertius Ingpen, and the change was made. It 
 was astounding to Edwin that, after the shattering 
 scene of the afternoon, she should be so foolhardy, so 
 careless, so obstinate. But she was. He kept his re- 
 sentment neatly in a little drawer in his mind, and 
 glanced at it now and then. And he thought of Tertius 
 Ingpen's terrible remark about women at Ingpen's first 
 visit. He said to himself: "There's a lot in it, no 
 doubt about that." 
 
 At the close of the last item, two of Brahms's Hun- 
 garian Dances for pianoforte duet (played with truly 
 electrifying brio by little wizening Tom Orgreave and 
 his wife), both Tertius Ingpen and Tom fussed self- 
 
172 THESE TWAIN 
 
 consciously about the piano, triumphant, not knowing 
 quite what to do next, and each looking rather like a 
 man who has told a good story, and in the midst of 
 the applause tries to make out by an affectation of 
 casualness that the story is nothing at all. 
 
 "Of course," said Tom Orgreave carelessly, and 
 glancing at the ground as he usually did when speak- 
 ing, "Fine as those dances are on the piano, I should 
 prefer to hear them with the fiddle." 
 
 "Why?" demanded Ingpen challengingly. 
 
 "Because they were written for the fiddle," said Tom 
 Orgreave with finality. 
 
 "Written for the fiddle? Not a bit of it !" 
 
 With superiority outwardly unruffled, Tom said: 
 
 "Pardon me. Brahms wrote them for Joachim. I've 
 heard him play them." 
 
 "So have I," said Tertius Ingpen, lightly but scorn- 
 fully. "But they were written originally for piano- 
 forte duet, as you played them to-night. Brahms ar- 
 ranged them afterwards for Joachim." 
 
 Tom Orgreave shook under the blow, for in musical 
 knowledge his supremacy had never been challenged in 
 Bleakridge. 
 
 "Surely !" he began weakly. 
 
 "My dear fellow, it is so," said Ingpen impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 "Look it up," said Edwin, with false animation, for 
 his head was thudding. "George, fetch the encyclo- 
 paedia B and J too." 
 
 Delighted, George ran off. He had been examining 
 Johnnie Orgreave's watch, and it was to Johnnie he 
 delivered the encyclopaedia, amid mock protests from 
 his uncle Edwin. More than one person had remarked 
 the growing alliance between Johnnie and young 
 George. 
 
THE WEEK-END 173 
 
 But the encyclopaedia gave no light. 
 
 Then the eldest Swetnam (who had come by invita- 
 tion at the last moment) said: 
 
 "I'm sure Ingpen is right." 
 
 He was not sure, but from the demeanour of the two 
 men he could guess, and he thought he might as well 
 share the glory of Ingpen's triumph. 
 
 The next instant Tertius Ingpen was sketching out 
 future musical evenings at which quartets and quin- 
 tets should be performed. He knew men in the orches- 
 tra at the Theatre Royal, Hanbridge ; he knew girl-vio- 
 linists who could be drilled, and he was quite certain 
 that he could get a 'cello. From this he went on to 
 part-songs, and in answer to scepticism about local 
 gift for music, he said that during his visits of inspec- 
 tion to factories he had heard spontaneous part-singing 
 "that would knock spots off the Savoy chorus." In- 
 deed, since his return to it, Ingpen had developed some 
 appreciation of certain aspects of his native district. 
 He said that the kindly commonsense with which as an 
 inspector he was received on pot-banks, surpassed any- 
 thing in the whole country. 
 
 "Talking of pot-banks, you'll get a letter from me 
 about the Palace Porcelain Company," Tom Orgreave 
 lifting his eyebrows muttered to Edwin with a strange 
 gloomy constraint. 
 
 "I've had it," said Edwin. "You've got some nice 
 clients, I must say." 
 
 In a moment, though Tom said not a word more, the 
 Palace Porcelain Company was on the carpet, to Ed- 
 win's disgust. He hated to talk about a misfortune. 
 But others beside himself were interested in the Palace 
 Porcelain Company, and the news of its failure had 
 boomed mysteriously through the Sabbath air of the 
 district. 
 
174 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Hilda and Janet were whispering together. And 
 Edwin, gazing at them, saw in them the giggling tennis- 
 playing children of the previous day, specimens of a 
 foreign race encamped among the men. 
 
 Suddenly Hilda turned her head towards the men, 
 and said: 
 
 "Of course Edwin's been let in !" 
 
 It was a reference to the Palace Porcelain Company. 
 How ungracious! How unnecessary! How unjust! 
 And somehow Edwin had been fearing it. And that was 
 really why he had not liked the turn of the conversa- 
 tion, he had been afraid of one of her darts ! 
 
 Useless for Tom Swetnam to say that a number of 
 business men quite as keen as Edwin had been "let in" ! 
 From her disdainful silence it appeared that Hilda's 
 conviction of the unusual simplicity of her husband 
 was impregnable. 
 
 "I hear you've got that Shawport land," said John- 
 nie Orgreave. 
 
 The mystic influences of music seemed to have been 
 overpowered. 
 
 "Who told ye?" asked Edwin in a low voice, once 
 more frightened of Hilda. 
 
 "Young Toby Hall. Met him at the Conservative 
 Club last night." 
 
 But Hilda had heard. 
 
 "What land is that?" she demanded curtly. 
 
 " 'What land is that?' " Johnnie mimicked her. "It's 
 the land for the new works, missis." 
 
 Hilda threw her shoulders back, glaring at Edwin 
 with a sort of outraged fury. Happily most of the 
 people present were talking among themselves. 
 
 "You never told me," she muttered. 
 
 He said: 
 
 "I only knew this afternoon." 
 
THE WEEK-END 175 
 
 Her anger was unmistakable. She was no longer a 
 fluttering feminine wreck on his manly knee. 
 
 "Well, good-bye," said Janet Orgreave startlingly 
 to him. "Sorry I have to go so soon." 
 
 "You aren't going !" Edwin protested with unnatural 
 loudness. "What about the victuals? I shan't touch 
 'em myself. But they must be consumed. Here ! You 
 and I'll lead the way." 
 
 Half playfully he seized her arm. She glanced at 
 Hilda uncertainly. 
 
 "Edwin," said Hilda very curtly and severely, "don't 
 be so clumsy. Janet has to go at once. Mr. Orgreave 
 is very ill very ill indeed. She only came to oblige 
 us." Then she passionately kissed Janet. 
 
 It was like a thunderclap in the room. Johnnie and 
 Tom confirmed the news. Of the rest only Tom's wife 
 and Hilda knew. Janet had told Hilda before the mu- 
 sic began. Osmond Orgreave had been taken ill be- 
 tween five and six in the afternoon. Dr. Stirling had 
 gone in at once, and pronounced the attack serious. 
 Everything possible was done; even a nurse was ob- 
 tained instantly, from the Clowes Hospital by the sta- 
 tion. From reasons of sentiment, if from no other, 
 Janet would have stayed at home and foregone the 
 musical evening. But those Orgreaves at home had 
 put their heads together and decided that Janet should 
 still go, because without her the entire musical evening 
 would crumble to naught. Here was the true reason 
 of the absence of Mrs. Orgreave and Elaine both un- 
 necessary to the musical evening. The boys had come, 
 and Tom's wife had come, because, even considered 
 only as an audience, the Orgreave contingent was al- 
 most essential to the musical evening. And so Janet, 
 her father's especial favourite and standby, had come, 
 and she had played, and not a word whispered except 
 
176 THESE TWAIN 
 
 to Hilda. It was wondrous. It was impressive. All 
 the Orgreaves departed, and the remnant of guests 
 meditated in proud, gratified silence upon the singular 
 fortitude and heroic commonsense that distinguished 
 their part of the world. The musical evening was 
 dramatically over, the refreshments being almost 
 wasted. 
 
 vm 
 
 Hilda was climbing on to the wooden-seated chair in 
 the hall to put out the light there when she heard a 
 noise behind the closed door of the kitchen, which she 
 had thought to be empty. She went to the door and 
 pushed it violently open. Not only was the gas flaring 
 away in an unauthorised manner, not only were both 
 servants (theoretically in bed) still up, capless and 
 apronless and looking most curious in unrelieved black, 
 but the adventurous and wicked George was surrepti- 
 tiously with them, flattering them with his aristocratic 
 companionship, and eating blanc-mange out of a cut- 
 glass dish with a tablespoon. Twice George had been 
 sent to bed. Once the servants had been told to go to 
 bed. The worst of carnivals is that the dregs of the 
 population, such as George, will take advantage of 
 them to rise to the surface and, conscienceless and mis- 
 chievous, set at defiance the conventions by which so- 
 ciety protects itself.- 
 
 She merely glanced at George ; the menace of her 
 eyes was alarming. His lower lip fell ; he put down the 
 dish and spoon, and slunk timorously past her on his 
 way upstairs. 
 
 Then she said to the servants: 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, encourag- 
 ing him! Go to bed at once." And as they began 
 nervously to handle the things on the table, she added, 
 
THE WEEK-END 177 
 
 more imperiously: "At once! Don't keep me wait- 
 ing. I'll see to all this." 
 
 And they followed George meekly. 
 
 She gazed in disgust at the general litter of broken 
 refreshments, symbolising the traditional inefficiency of 
 servants, and extinguished the gas. 
 
 The three criminals were somewhat the victims of 
 her secret resentment against Edwin, who, a mere mar- 
 tyrised perambulating stomach, had retired. Edwin 
 had defeated her in the afternoon ; and all the evening, 
 in the disposition of the furniture, the evidence of his 
 victory had confronted her. By prompt and brutal ac- 
 tion, uncharacteristic of him and therefore mean, he 
 had defeated her. True he had embraced and com- 
 forted her tears, but it was the kiss of a conqueror. 
 And then, on the top of that, he had proved his com- 
 mercial incompetence by making a large bad debt, and 
 his commercial rashness by definitely adopting a scheme 
 of whose extreme danger she was convinced. One part 
 of her mind intellectually knew that he had not wil- 
 fully synchronised these events in order to wound her, 
 but another part of her mind felt deeply that he had. 
 She had been staggered by the revelation that he was 
 definitely committed to the project of lithography and 
 the new works. Not one word about the matter had 
 he said to her since their altercation on the night of the 
 reception; and she had imagined that, with his usual 
 indecision, he was allowing it to slide. She scarcely 
 recognised her Edwin. Now she accused him of a 
 malicious obstinacy, not understanding that he was in- 
 volved in the great machine of circumstance and per- 
 haps almost as much surprised as herself at the move- 
 ment of events. At any rate she was being beaten once 
 more, and her spirit rebelled. Through all the misfor- 
 tunes previous to her marriage that spirit, if occa- 
 
CL78 THESE TWAIN 
 
 sionally cowed, had never been broken. She had sat 
 grim and fierce against even bum-bailiffs in her time. 
 Yes, her spirit rebelled, and the fact that others had 
 known about the Shawport land before she knew made 
 her still more mutinous against destiny. She looked 
 round dazed at the situation. What? The mild Ed- 
 win defying and crushing her? It was scarcely con- 
 ceivable. The tension of her nerves from this cause 
 only was extreme. Add to it the strain of the musical 
 evening, intensified by the calamity at the OrgreavesM 
 
 A bell rang in the kitchen, and all the ganglions of 
 her spinal column answered it. Had Edwin rung? No. 
 It was the front-door. 
 
 "Pardon me," said Tertius Ingpen, when she 
 opened. "But all my friends soon learn how difficult 
 it is to get rid of me." 
 
 "Come in," she said, liking his tone, which flattered 
 her by assuming her sense of humour. 
 
 "As I'm sleeping at the office to-night, I thought I 
 might as well take one or two of my musical instru- 
 ments after all. So I came back." 
 
 "You've been round?" she asked, meaning round to 
 the Orgreaves*. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What is it, really?" 
 
 "Well, it appears to be pericarditis supervening on 
 renal disease. He lost consciousness, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know. But what is pericarditis?" 
 
 "Pericarditis is inflammation of the pericardium." 
 
 "And what's the pericardium?" 
 
 They both smiled faintly. 
 
 "The pericardium is the membrane that encloses the 
 heart. I don't mind telling you that I've only just 
 acquired this encyclopaedic knowledge from Stirling, 
 he was there." 
 
THE WEEK-END 179 
 
 "And is it supposed to be very dangerous?" 
 
 "I don't know. Doctors never want to tell you 
 anything except what you can find out for your- 
 self." 
 
 After a little hesitating pause they went into the 
 drawing-room, where the lights were still burning, and 
 the full disorder of the musical evening persisted, in- 
 cluding the cigarette-ash on the carpet. Tertius Ing- 
 pen picked up his clarinet case, took out the instru- 
 ment, examined the mouthpiece lovingly, and with ten- 
 derness laid it back. 
 
 "Do sit down a moment," said Hilda, sitting limply 
 down. "It's stifling, isn't it?" 
 
 "Let me open the window," he suggested politely. 
 
 As he returned from the window, he said, pulling 
 his short beard: 
 
 "It was wonderful how those Orgreaves went through 
 the musical evening, wasn't it? Makes you proud of 
 being English. ... I suppose Janet's a great friend 
 of yours?" 
 
 His enthusiasm touched her, and her pride in Janet 
 quickened to it. She gave a deliberate, satisfied nod 
 in reply to his question. She was glad to be alone with 
 him in the silence of the house. 
 
 "Ed gone to bed?" he questioned, after another lit- 
 tle pause. 
 
 Already he was calling her husband Ed, and with an 
 affectionate intonation ! 
 
 She nodded again. 
 
 "He stuck it out jolly well," said Ingpen, still 
 standing. 
 
 "He brings these attacks on himself," said Hilda, 
 with the calm sententiousness of a good digestion dis- 
 cussing a bad one. She was becoming pleased with 
 herself with her expensive dress, her position, her 
 
180 THESE TWAIN 
 
 philosophy, and her power to hold the full attention 
 of this man. 
 
 Ingpen replied, looking steadily at her: 
 
 "We bring everything on ourselves." 
 
 Then he smiled, as a comrade to another. 
 
 She shifted her pose. A desire to discuss Edwin 
 with this man grew in her, for she needed sympathy 
 intensely. 
 
 "What do you think of this new scheme of his?" she 
 demanded somewhat self-consciously. 
 
 "The new works?- Seems all right. But I don't 
 know much about it." 
 
 "Well, I'm not so sure." And she exposed her 
 theory of the entire satisfactoriness of their present 
 situation, of the needlessness of fresh risks, and of 
 Edwin's unsuitability for enterprise. "Of course he's 
 splendid," she said. "But he'll never push. I can 
 look at him quite impartially I mean in all those 
 things." 
 
 Ingpen murmured as it were dreamily: 
 
 "Have you had much experience of business your- 
 self?" 
 
 "It depends what you call business. I suppose you 
 know I used to keep a boarding-house." She was a 
 little defiant. 
 
 "No, I didn't know. I may have heard vaguely. 
 Did you make it pay?" 
 
 "It did pay in the end." 
 
 "But not at first? . . . Any disasters?" 
 
 She could not decide whether she ought to rebuff 
 the cross-examiner or not. His manner was so objec- 
 tive, so disinterested, so innocent, so disarming, that 
 in the end she smiled uncertainly, raising her thick 
 eyebrows. 
 
 "Oh yes," she said bravely. 
 
THE WEEK-END 181 
 
 "And who came to the rescue?" Ingpen proceeded. 
 
 "Edwin did." 
 
 "I see," said Ingpen, still dreamily. 
 
 "I believe you knew all about it," she remarked, hav- 
 ing flushed. 
 
 "Pardon me! Almost nothing." 
 
 "Of course you take Edwin's side." 
 
 "Are we talking man to man?" he asked suddenly, 
 in a new tone. 
 
 "Most decidedly !" She rose to the challenge. 
 
 "Then I'll tell you my leading theory," he said in a 
 soft, polite voice. "The proper place for women is 
 the harem." 
 
 "Mr. Ingpen!" 
 
 "No, no !" he soothed her, but firmly. "We're talk- 
 ing man to man. I can whisper sweet nothings to you, 
 if you prefer it, but I thought we were trying to be 
 honest. I hold a belief. I state it. I may be wrong, 
 but I hold that belief. You can persecute me for my 
 belief if you like. That's your affair. But surely you 
 aren't afraid of an idea! If you don't like the mere 
 word, let's call it zenana. Call it the drawing-room 
 and kitchen." 
 
 "So we're to be kept to our sphere !" 
 
 "Now don't be resentful. Naturally you're to be 
 kept to your own sphere. If Edwin began dancing 
 around in the kitchen, you'd soon begin to talk about 
 his sphere. You can't have the advantages of married 
 life for nothing neither you nor he. But some of you 
 women nowadays seem to expect them gratis. Let 
 me tell you, everything has to be paid for on this 
 particular planet. I'm a bachelor. I've often thought 
 about marrying, of course. I might get married some 
 day. You never know your luck. If I do " 
 
 "You'll keep your wife in the harem, no doubt ! And 
 
182 THESE TWAIN 
 
 she'll have to accept without daring to say a word all 
 the risks you choose to take." 
 
 "There you are again!" he said. "This notion that 
 marriage ought to be the end of risks for a woman is 
 astonishingly rife, I find. Very curious ! Very curi- 
 ous !" He seemed to address the wall. "Why, it's the 
 beginning of them. Doesn't the husband take risks?" 
 
 "He chooses his own. He doesn't have business 
 risks thrust upon him by his wife." 
 
 "Doesn't he? What about the risk of finding him- 
 self tied for life to an inefficient housekeeper? That's 
 a bit of a business risk, isn't it? I've known more than 
 one man let in for it." 
 
 "And you've felt so sorry for him!" 
 
 "No, not specially. You must run risks. When 
 you've finished running risks you're dead and you 
 ought to be buried. If I was a wife I should enjoy 
 running a risk with my husband. I swear I shouldn't 
 want to shut myself up in a glass case with him out of 
 all the draughts ! Why, what are we all alive for ?" 
 
 The idea of the fineness of running risks struck her 
 as original. It challenged her courage, and she began 
 to meditate. 
 
 "Yes," she murmured. "So you sleep at the office 
 sometimes?" 
 
 "A certain elasticity in one's domestic arrange- 
 ments." He waved a hand, seeming to pooh-pooh him- 
 self lightly. Then, quickly changing his mood, he bent 
 and said good-night, but not quite with the saccharine 
 artificiality of his first visit rather with honest, 
 friendly sincerity, in which were mingled both thanks 
 and appreciation. Hilda jumped up responsively. 
 And, the clarinet-case under his left arm, and the fid- 
 dle-case in his left hand, leaving the right arm free, 
 Ingpen departed. 
 
THE WEEK-END 183 
 
 She did not immediately go to bed. Now that Ing- 
 pen was gone she perceived that though she had really 
 said little in opposition to Edwin's scheme, he had at 
 once assumed that she was a strong opponent of it. 
 Hence she must have shown her feelings far too openly 
 at the first mention of the affair before anybody had 
 left. This annoyed her. Also the immense injustice 
 of nearly all Ingpen's argument grew upon her moment 
 by moment. She was conscious of a grudge against 
 him, even while greatly liking him. But she swore that 
 she would never show the grudge, and that he should 
 never suspect it. To the end she would play a man's 
 part in the man-to-man discussion. Moreover her anger 
 against Edwin had not decreased. Nevertheless, a sort 
 of zest, perhaps an angry joy, filled her with novel 
 and intoxicating sensations. Let the scheme of the 
 new works go forward ! Let it fail ! Let it ruin them ! 
 She would stand in the breach. She would show the 
 whole world that no ordeal could lower her head. She 
 had had enough of being the odalisque and the queen, 
 reclining on the soft couch of security. Her nostrils 
 scented life on the wind. . . . Then she heard a door 
 close upstairs, and began at last rapidly, as it were 
 cruelly, to put out the lights. 
 
 The incubus and humiliations of a first-class bilious 
 attack are not eternal. Edwin had not retired very 
 long before the malignant phase of the terrible malady 
 passed inevitably, by phenomena according with all 
 clinical experience, into the next phase. And the pa- 
 tient, who from being chiefly a stomach, had now be- 
 come chiefly a throbbing head, lay on his pillow 
 exhausted but once more capable of objective thought. 
 
184 THESE TWAIN 
 
 His resentment against his wife on account of her 
 gratuitous disbelief in his business faculty, and on 
 account of her interference in a matter that did not 
 concern her, flickered up into new flame. He was abso- 
 lutely innocent. She was absolutely guilty; no excuse 
 existed or could be invented for her rude and wounding 
 attitude. He esteemed Tertius Ingpen, bachelor, the 
 most fortunate of men. . . . Women unjust, dishon- 
 ourable, unintelligent, unscrupulous, giggling, pleas- 
 ure-loving! Their appetite for pleasure was infantile 
 and tigerish. He had noticed it growing in Hilda. 
 Previous to marriage he had regarded Hilda as com- 
 bining the best feminine with the best masculine quali- 
 ties. In many ways she had exhibited the comforting 
 straightforward characteristics of the male. But 
 since marriage her mental resemblance to a man had 
 diminished daily, and now she was the most feminine 
 woman he had ever met, in the unsatisfactory sense 
 of the word. Women . . . Still, the behaviour of Ja- 
 net and Hilda during the musical evening had been 
 rather heroic. Impossible to dismiss them as being 
 exclusively of the giggling race! They had decided to 
 play a part, and they had played it with impressive 
 fortitude. . . . And the house of the Orgreaves was 
 it about to fall? He divined that it was about to fall. 
 No death had so far occurred in the family, which had 
 seemed to be immune through decades and forever. 
 He wondered what would have happened to the house 
 of Orgreave in six months' time. . . . Then he went 
 back into the dark origins of his bilious attack. ... 
 And then he was at inexcusable Hilda again. 
 
 At length he heard her on the landing. 
 
 She entered the bedroom, and quickly he shut his 
 eyes. He felt unpleasantly through his eyelids that 
 she had turned up the gas. Then she was close to him, 
 
THE WEEK-END 185 
 
 and sat down on the edge of the bed. She asked him 
 a question, calmly, as to occurrences since his retire- 
 ment. He nodded an affirmative. 
 
 "Your forehead's all broken out," she said, moving 
 away. 
 
 In a few moments he was aware of the delicious, 
 soothing, heavenly application to his forehead of a 
 handkerchief drenched in eau de cologne and water. 
 The compress descended upon his forehead with the 
 infinite gentleness of an endearment and the sudden 
 solace of a reprieve. He made faint, inarticulate 
 noises. 
 
 The light was extinguished for his ease. 
 
 He murmured weakly: 
 
 "Are you undressed already?" 
 
 "No," she said quietly. "I can undress all right in 
 the dark." 
 
 He opened his eyes, and could dimly see her moving 
 darkly about, brushing her hair, casting garments. 
 Then she came towards him, a vague whiteness against 
 the gloom, and, bending, felt for his face, and kissed 
 him. She kissed him with superb and passionate vio- 
 lence; she drew his life out of him, and poured in her 
 own. The tremendous kiss seemed to prove that there 
 is no difference between love and hate. It contained 
 everything surrender, defiance, anger and tenderness. 
 
 Neither of them spoke. The kiss dominated and as- 
 suaged him. Its illogicalness overthrew him. He could 
 never have kissed like that under such circumstances. 
 It was a high and bold gesture. It expressed and 
 transmitted confidence. She had explained nothing, 
 justified nothing, made no charge, asked no forgive- 
 ness. She had just confronted him with one unargu- 
 able fact. And it was the only fact that mattered. 
 His pessimism about marriage lifted. If his spirit 
 
186 THESE TWAIN 
 
 was splendidly romantic enough to match hers, mar- 
 riage remained a feasible state. And he threw away 
 logic and the past, and in a magic vision saw that suc- 
 cess in marriage was an affair of goodwill and the 
 right tone. With the whole force of his heart he de- 
 termined to succeed in marriage. And in the mighty 
 resolve marriage presented itself to him as really 
 rather easy after all. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE OEGEEAVE CALAMITY 
 
 ON the following Saturday afternoon that is, six 
 days later Edwin had unusually been down to the 
 shop after dinner, and he returned home about four 
 o'clock. Ada, hearing his entrance, came into the 
 hall and said: 
 
 "Please, sir, missis is over at Miss Orgreave's and 
 will ye please go over?" 
 
 "Where's Master George?" 
 
 "In missis's own room, sir." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 The "mistress's own room" was the new nomencla- 
 ture adopted by the kitchen, doubtless under sug- 
 gestion, for the breakfast-room or boudoir. Edwin 
 opened the door and glanced in. George, apparently 
 sketching, sat at his mother's desk, with the light fall- 
 ing over his right shoulder. 
 
 He looked up quickly in self-excuse: 
 
 "Mother said I could! Mother said I could!" 
 
 For the theory of the special sanctity of the bou- 
 doir had mysteriously established itself in the 
 house during the previous eight or ten days. George 
 was well aware that even Edwin was not entitled to 
 go in and out as he chose. 
 
 "Keep calm, sonny," said Edwin, teasing him. 
 
 With permissible and discreet curiosity he glanced 
 from afar at the desk, its upper drawers and its 
 
 187 
 
188 THESE TWAIN 
 
 pigeon-holes. Obviously it was very untidy. Its unti- 
 diness gave him sardonic pleasure, because Hilda was 
 ever implying, or even stating, that she was a very 
 tidy woman. He remembered that many years ago 
 Janet had mentioned orderliness as a trait of the won- 
 derful girl, Hilda Lessways. But he did not person- 
 ally consider that she was tidy; assuredly she by no 
 means reached his standard of tidiness, which standard 
 indeed she now and then dismissed as old-maidish. 
 Also, he was sardonically amused by the air of im- 
 portance and busyness which she put on when using 
 the desk and the room; her household accounts, be- 
 held at a distance, were his wicked joy. He saw a 
 bluish envelope lying untidily on the floor between the 
 desk and the fireplace, and he picked it up. It had 
 been addressed to "Mrs. George Cannon, 59 Preston 
 Street, Brighton," and readdressed in a woman's 
 hand to "Mrs. Clayhanger, Trafalgar Road, Burs- 
 ley." Whether the handwriting of the original 
 address was masculine or feminine he could not decide. 
 The envelope had probably contained only a bill or 
 a circular. Nevertheless he felt at once inimically 
 inquisitive towards the envelope. Without quite 
 knowing it he was jealous of all Hilda's past life up 
 to her marriage with him. After a moment, reflect- 
 ing that she had made no mention of a letter, he 
 dropped the envelope superciliously, and it floated to 
 the ground. 
 
 "I'm going to Lane End House," he said. 
 
 "Can I come?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 The same overhanging spirit of a great event which 
 had somehow justified him in being curt to the boy, 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 189 
 
 rendered him self-conscious and furtive as he stood in 
 the porch of the Orgreaves, waiting for the door to 
 open. Along the drive that curved round the oval 
 lawn under the high trees were wheel-marks still sur- 
 viving from the previous day. The house also sur- 
 vived; the curtains in all the windows, and the plants 
 or the pieces of furniture between the curtains, were 
 exactly as usual. Yet the solid building and its 
 contents had the air of an illusion. 
 
 A servant appeared. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Selina." 
 
 - He had probably never before called her by name, 
 but to-day his self-consciousness impelled him to do un- 
 customary things. 
 
 "Good afternoon, sir," said Selina, whose change- 
 less attire ignored even the greatest events. And it 
 was as if she had said : 
 
 "Ah, sir ! To what have we come !" 
 
 She too was self-conscious and furtive. 
 
 Aloud she said: 
 
 "Miss Orgreave and Mrs. Clayhanger are upstairs, 
 sir. I'll tell Miss Orgreave." 
 
 Coughing nervously, he went into the drawing-room, 
 the large obscure room, crowded with old furniture 
 and expensive new furniture, with books, knickknacks, 
 embroidery, and human history, in which he had first 
 set eyes on Hilda. It was precisely the same as it 
 had been a few days earlier; absolutely nothing had 
 been changed, and yet now it had the archaeological 
 and forlorn aspect of a museum. 
 
 He dreaded the appearance of Janet and Hilda. 
 What could he say to Janet, or she to him? But he 
 was a little comforted by the fact that Hilda had 
 left a message for him to join them. 
 
 On the previous Tuesday Osmond Orgreave had 
 
 
190 THESE TWAIN 
 
 died, and within twenty-four hours Mrs. Orgreave 
 was dead also. On the Friday they were buried to- 
 gether. To-day the blinds were up again ; the funereal 
 horses with their artificially curved necks had already 
 dragged other corpses to the cemetery; the town ex- 
 isted as usual; and the family of Orgreave was scat- 
 tered once more. Marian, the eldest daughter, had 
 not been able to come at all, because her husband 
 was seriously ill. Alicia Hesketh, the youngest daugh- 
 ter, far away in her large house in Devonshire, had 
 not been able to come at all, because she was hourly 
 expecting her third child; nor would Harry, her hus- 
 band, leave her. Charlie, the doctor at Baling, had 
 only been able to run down for the funeral, because, 
 his partner having broken his leg, the whole work of 
 the practice was on his shoulders. And to-day Tom, 
 the solicitor, was in his office exploring the financial 
 side of his father's affairs; Johnnie was in the office 
 of Orgreave and Sons, busy with the professional 
 side of his father's affairs; Jimmie, who had made a 
 sinister marriage, was nobody knew precisely where; 
 Tom's wife had done what she could and gone home; 
 Jimmie's wife had never appeared; Elaine, Marian's 
 child, was shopping at Hanbridge for Janet; and 
 Janet remained among her souvenirs. An epoch was 
 finished, and the episode that concluded it, in its 
 strange features and its swiftness, resembled a vast 
 hallucination. 
 
 Certain funerals will obsess a whole town. And 
 the funeral of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond Orgreave might 
 have been expected to do so. Not only had their 
 deaths been almost simultaneous, but they had been 
 preceded by superficially similar symptoms, though 
 the husband had died of pericarditis following renal 
 disease, and the wife of hyperaemia of the lungs follow- 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 191 
 
 ing; increasingly frequent attacks of bronchial ca- 
 tarrh. The phenomena had been impressive, and ru- 
 mour had heightened them. Also Osmond Orgreave 
 for half a century had been an important and cele- 
 brated figure in the town; architecturally a large por- 
 tion of the new parts of it were his creation. Yet the 
 funeral had not been one of the town's great feverish 
 funerals. True, the children would have opposed any- 
 thing spectacular; but had municipal opinion decided 
 against the children, they would have been compelled 
 to yield. Again and again prominent men in the 
 town had as it were bought their funeral processions 
 in advance by the yard processions in which their 
 families, willing or not, were reduced to the role of 
 stewards. 
 
 Tom and Janet, however, had ordained that nobody 
 whatever beyond the family should be invited to the 
 funeral, and there had been no sincere protest from 
 outside. 
 
 The fact was that Osmond Orgreave had never re- 
 lated himself to the crowd. He was not a Freemason; 
 he had never been President of the Society for the 
 Prosecution of Felons; he had never held municipal 
 office; he had never pursued any object but the good 
 of his family. He was a particularist. His charm 
 was kept chiefly for his own home. And beneath the 
 cordiality of his more general connections, there had 
 always been a subtle reservation on both sides. He 
 was admired for his cleverness and his distinction, 
 liked where he chose to be liked, but never loved save 
 by his own kin. Further, he had a name for being 
 "pretty sharp" in business. Clients had had pro- 
 longed difficulties with him Edwin himself among 
 them. The town had made up its mind about Osmond 
 Orgreave, and the verdict, as with most popular ver- 
 
192 THESE TWAIN 
 
 (diets, was roughly just so far as it went, but unjust 
 in its narrowness. The laudatory three-quarters of 
 a column in the Signal and the briefer effusive no- 
 tice in the new half-penny morning paper, both re- 
 flected, for those with perceptions delicate enough to 
 understand, the popular verdict. And though Edwin 
 hated long funerals and the hysteria of a public woe, 
 he had nevertheless a sense of disappointment in the 
 circumstances of the final disappearance of Osmond 
 Orgreave. 
 
 The two women entered the room, silently. Hilda 
 looked fierce and protective. Janet Orgreave, pale 
 and in black, seemed very thin. She did not speak. 
 She gave a little nod of greeting. 
 
 Edwin, scarcely controlling his voice and his eyes, 
 murmured : 
 
 "Good afternoon." 
 
 They would not shake hands; the effort would have 
 broken them. All remained standing, uncertainly. 
 Edwin saw before him two girls aged by the accumu- 
 lation of experience. Janet, though apparently 
 healthy, with her smooth fair skin, was like an old 
 woman in the shell of a young one. Her eyes were 
 dulled, her glance plaintive, her carriage slack. The 
 conscious wish to please had left her, together with 
 her main excuse for being alive. She was over thirty- 
 seven, and more and more during the last ten years 
 she had lived for her parents. She alone among all 
 the children had remained absolutely faithful to them. 
 To them, and to nobody else, she had been essential a 
 fountain of vigour and brightness and kindliness from 
 which they drew. To see her in the familiar and his- 
 toric room which she had humanised and illuminated 
 with her very spirit, was heartrending. In a day she 
 had become unnecessary, and shrunk to the unneeded, 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY QL93 
 
 undesired virgin which in truth she was. She knew 
 it. Everybody knew it. All the waves of passionate 
 sympathy which Hilda and Edwin in their different 
 ways ardently directed towards her broke in vain 
 upon that fact. 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "And only the other day she was keen on tennis!" 
 
 "Edwin," said Hilda. "Don't you think she ought 
 to come across to our place for a bit? I'm sure it 
 would be better for her not to sleep here." 
 
 "Most decidedly," Edwin answered, only too glad 
 to agree heartily with his wife. 
 
 "But Johnnie?" Janet objected. 
 
 "Pooh ! Surely he can stay at Tom's." 
 
 "And Elaine?" 
 
 "She can come with you. Heaps of room for two." 
 
 "I couldn't leave the servants all alone. I reallyr 
 couldn't. They wouldn't like it," Janet persisted.. 
 "Moreover, I've got to give them notice." 
 
 Edwin had to make the motion of swallowing. 
 
 "Well," said Hilda obstinately. "Come along now 
 for the evening, anyhow. We shall be by ourselves..'* 
 
 "Yes, you must," said Edwin, curtly. 
 
 "I I don't like walking down the street," Janet 
 faltered, blushing. 
 
 "You needn't. You can get over the wall," said 
 Edwin. 
 
 "Of course you can," Hilda concurred. "Just as 
 you are now. I'll tell Selina." 
 
 She left the room with decision, and the next in- 
 stant returned with a telegram in her hand. 
 
 "Open it, please. I can't," said Janet. 
 
 Hilda read : 
 
 "Mother and boy both doing splendidly. Harry. 9 * 
 
 Janet dropped onto a chair and burst into tears. 
 
194 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "I'm so glad. I'm so glad," she spluttered. "I can't 
 help it." 
 
 Then she jumped up, wiped her eyes, and smiled. 
 
 For a few yards the Clayhanger and the Orgreave 
 properties were contiguous, and separated by a fairly 
 new wall, which, after much procrastination on the 
 part of owners, had at last replaced an unsatisfactory 
 thorn-hedge. While Selina put a chair in position for 
 the ladies to stand on as a preliminary to climbing 
 the wall, Edwin suddenly remembered that in the days 
 of the untidy thorn-hedge Janet had climbed a pair of 
 steps in order to surmount the hedge and visit his 
 garden. He saw her balanced on the steps, and smiling 
 and then jumping, like a child. Now, he preceded her 
 and Hilda on to the wall, and they climbed carefully, 
 and when they were all up Selina handed him the chair 
 and he dropped it on his own side of the wall so that 
 they might descend more easily. 
 
 "Be careful, Edwin. Be careful," cried Hilda, 
 neither pleasantly nor unpleasantly. 
 
 And as he tried to read her mood in her voice, the 
 mysterious and changeful ever-flowing undercurrent of 
 their joint life bore rushingly away his sense of Janet's 
 tragedy; and he knew that no events exterior to his 
 marriage could ever overcome for long that constant 
 secret preoccupation of his concerning Hilda's mood. 
 
 in 
 
 When they came into the house, Ada met them with 
 zest and calamity in her whispering voice: 
 
 "Please 'm, Mr. and Mrs. Benbow are here. They're 
 in the drawing-room. They said they'd wait a bit to 
 see if you came back." 
 
 Ada had foreseen that, whatever their superficially 
 indifferent demeanour as members of the powerful rul- 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 195 
 
 ing caste, her master and mistress would be struck 
 all of a heap by this piece of news. And they were. 
 For the Benbows did not pay chance calls; in the ar- 
 rangement of their lives every act was neatly planned 
 and foreordained. Therefore this call was formal, and 
 behind it was an intention. 
 
 "/ can't see them. I can't possibly, dear," Janet 
 murmured, as it were intimidated. "I'll run back 
 home." 
 
 Hilda replied with benevolent firmness : 
 
 "No you won't. Come upstairs with me till they're 
 gone. Edwin, you go and see what they're after." 
 
 Janet faltered and obeyed, and the two women crept 
 swiftly upstairs. They might have been executing a 
 strategic retirement from a bad smell. The instinct- 
 ive movement, and the manner, were a judgment on 
 the ideals of the Benbows so terrible and final that 
 even the Benbows, could they have seen it, must have 
 winced and doubted for a moment their own moral 
 perfection. It came to this, that the stricken fled from 
 their presence. 
 
 " 'What they're after' !" Edwin muttered to himself, 
 half resenting the phrase ; because Clara was his sis- 
 ter; and though she bored and exasperated him, he 
 could not class her with exactly similar boring and 
 exasperating women. 
 
 And, throwing down his cap, he went with false 
 casual welcoming into the drawing-room. 
 
 Young Bert Benbow, prodigiously solemn and un- 
 comfortable in his birthday spectacles, was with his 
 father and mother. Immense satisfaction, tempered 
 by a slight nervousness, gleamed in the eyes of the 
 parents. And the demeanour of all three showed in- 
 stantly that the occasion was ceremonious. Albert and 
 Clara could not have been more pleased and uplifted 
 
196 THESE TWAIN 
 
 had the occasion been a mourning visit of commiser- 
 ation or even a funeral. 
 
 The washed and brushed schoolboy, preoccupied, 
 did not take his share in the greetings with sufficient 
 spontaneity and promptitude. 
 
 Clara said, gently shocked: 
 
 "Bert, what do you say to your uncle?" 
 
 "Good afternoon, uncle." 
 
 "I should think so indeed!" 
 
 Clara of course sprang at once to the luscious first 
 topic, as to a fruit: 
 
 "How is poor Janet bearing up?" 
 
 Edwin was very characteristically of the Five Towns 
 in this, he hated to admit, in the crisis itself, that 
 anything unusual was happening or had just hap- 
 pened. Thus he replied negligently: 
 
 "Oh! All right!" 
 
 As though his opinion was that Janet had nothing 
 to bear up against. 
 
 "I hear it was a very quiet funeral," said Clara, 
 suggesting somehow that there must be something sin- 
 ister behind the quietness of the funeral. 
 
 "Yes," said Edwin. 
 
 "Didn't they ask you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well my word!" 
 
 There was a silence, save for faint humming from 
 Albert. And then, just as Clara was mentioning her 
 name, in rushed Hilda. 
 
 "What's the matter?" the impulsive Hilda demanded 
 bluntly. 
 
 This gambit did not please Edwin, whose instinct 
 was always to pretend that nothing was the matter. 
 He would have maintained as long as anybody that 
 the call was a chance call. 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 197 
 
 After a few vague exchanges, Clara coughed and 
 said: 
 
 "It's really about your George and our Bert. . . . 
 Haven't you heard? . . . Hasn't George said any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "No. . . . What?" 
 
 Clara looked at her husband expectantly, and Al- 
 bert took the grand male role. 
 
 "I gather they had a fight yesterday at school," 
 said he. 
 
 The two boys went to the same school, the new- 
 fangled Higher Grade School at Hanbridge, which 
 had dealt such a blow at the ancient educational foun- 
 dations at Oldcastle. That their Bert should attend 
 the same school as George was secretly a matter of 
 pride to the Benbows. 
 
 "Oh," said Edwin. "We've seen no gaping wounds, 
 have we, Hilda?" 
 
 Albert's face did not relax. 
 
 "You've only got to look at Bert's chin," said Clara. 
 
 Bert shuffled under the world's sudden gaze. Un- 
 deniably there was a small discoloured lump on his 
 chin. 
 
 "I've had it out with Bert," Albert continued se- 
 verely. "I don't know who was in the wrong it was 
 about that penknife business, you know but I'm 
 quite sure that Bert was not in the right. And as he's 
 the older we've decided that he must ask George's 
 forgiveness." 
 
 "Yes," eagerly added Clara, tired of listening. 
 "Albert says we can't have quarrels going on like 
 this in the family they haven't spoken friendly to 
 each other since that night we were here and it's the 
 manly thing for Bert to ask George's forgiveness, and 
 then they can shake hands." 
 
198 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "That's what I say." Albert massively corrobo- 
 rated her. 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "I suppose these people imagine they're doing some- 
 thing rather fine." * 
 
 Whatever they imagined they were doing, they 
 had made both Edwin and Hilda sheepish. Either of 
 them would have sacrificed a vast fortune and the 
 lives of thousands of Sunday school officers in order 
 to find a dignified way of ridiculing and crushing the 
 expedition of Albert and Clara; but they could think 
 of naught that was effective. 
 
 Hilda asked, somewhat curtly, but lamely: 
 
 "Where is George?" 
 
 "He was in your boudoir a two-three minutes ago, 
 drawing," said Edwin. 
 
 Clara's neck was elongated at the sound of the word 
 "boudoir." 
 
 "Boudoir?" said she. And Edwin could in fancy 
 hear her going down Trafalgar Road and giggling at 
 every house-door: "Did ye know Mrs. Clayhanger 
 has a boudoir? That's the latest." Still he had em- 
 ployed the word with intention, out of deliberate bra- 
 vado. 
 
 "Breakfast-room," he added, explanatory. 
 
 "I should suggest," said Albert, "That Bert goes 
 to him in the breakfast-room. They'll settle it much 
 better by themselves." He was very pleased by this 
 last phrase, which proved him a man of , the world 
 after all. 
 
 "So long as they don't smash too much furniture 
 while they're about it," murmured Edwin. 
 
 "Now, Bert, my boy," said Albert, in the tone of a 
 father who is also a brother. 
 
 And, as Hilda was inactive, Bert stalked forth upon 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 199 
 
 his mission of manliness, smiling awkwardly and blush- 
 ing. He closed the door after him, and not one of the 
 adults dared to rise and open it. 
 
 "Had any luck with missing words lately?" Albert 
 asked, in a detached airy manner, showing that the 
 Bert-George affair was a trifle to him, to be dismissed 
 from the mind at will. 
 
 "No," said Edwin. "I've been off missing words 
 lately." 
 
 "Of course you have," Clara agreed with gravity. 
 "All this must have been very trying to you all. . . . 
 Albert's done very well of course." 
 
 "I was on 'politeness,' my boy," said Albert. 
 
 "Didn't you know?" Clara expressed surprise. 
 
 "'Politeness'?" 
 
 "Sixty-four pounds nineteen shillings per share," 
 said Albert tremendously. 
 
 Edwin appreciatively whistled. 
 
 "Had the money?" " 
 
 "No. Cheques go out on Monday, I believe. Of 
 course," he added, "I go in for it scientifically. I 
 leave no chances, I don't. I'm making a capital out- 
 lay of over five pounds ten on next week's competition, 
 and I may tell you I shall get it back again, with in- 
 terest." 
 
 At the same moment, Bert re-entered the room. 
 
 "He's not there," said Bert. "His drawing's there, 
 but he isn't." 
 
 This news was adverse to the cause of manly peace. 
 
 "Are you sure?" asked Clara, implying that Bert 
 might not have made a thorough search for George in 
 the boudoir. 
 
 Hilda sat grim and silent. 
 
 "He may be upstairs," said the weakly amiable Ed- 
 win. 
 
200 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Hilda rang the bell with cold anger. 
 
 "Is Master George in the house?" she harshly ques- 
 tioned Ada. 
 
 "No'm. He went out a bit since." 
 
 The fact was that George, on hearing from the 
 faithful Ada of the arrival of the Benbows, had re- 
 tired through the kitchen and through the back-door, 
 into the mountainous country towards Bleakridge 
 railway-station, where kite-flying was practised on im- 
 mense cinder-heaps. 
 
 "Ah! Well," said Albert, undefeated, to Edwin. 
 "You might tell him Bert's been up specially to apolo- 
 gise to him. Oh! And here's that penknife!" He 
 looked now at Hilda, and, producing Tertius Ingpen's 
 knife, he put it with a flourish on the mantelpiece. "I 
 prefer it to be on your mantelpiece than on ours," he 
 added, smiling rather grandiosely. His manner as a 
 whole, though compound, indicated with some clearness 
 that while he adhered to his belief in the efficacy of 
 prayer, he could not allow his son to accept from 
 George earthly penknives alleged to have descended 
 from heaven. It was a triumphant hour for Albert 
 Benbow, as he stood there dominating the drawing- 
 room. He perceived that, in addition to silencing and 
 sneaping the elder and richer branch of the family, he 
 was cutting a majestic figure in the eyes of his own 
 son. 
 
 In an awful interval, Clara said with a sweet bright 
 smile : 
 
 "By the way, Albert, don't forget about what 
 Maggie asked you to ask." 
 
 "Oh, yes ! By the way," said Albert, "Maggie wants 
 to know how soon you can complete the purchase of 
 this house of yours." 
 
 Edwin moved uneasily. 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 301 
 
 "I don't know," he mumbled. 
 
 "Can you stump up in a month? Say the end of 
 October anyway, at latest." Albert persisted, and 
 grew caustic. "You've only got to sell a few of your 
 famous securities." 
 
 "Certainly. Before the end of October," Hilda re- 
 plied, with impulsive and fierce assurance. 
 
 Edwin was amazed by this interference on her part. 
 Was she incapable of learning from experience? Let 
 him employ the right tone with absolutely perfect skill, 
 marriage would still be impossible if she meant to carry 
 on in this way! What did she know about the diffi- 
 culties of completing the purchase? What right had 
 she to put in a word apparently so decisive? Such 
 behaviour was unheard of. She must be mad. Never- 
 theless he did not yield to anger. He merely said 
 feebly and querulously: 
 
 "That's all very well! That's all very well! But 
 I'm not quite so sure as all that. Will she let some 
 of it be on mortgage?" 
 
 "No, she won't," said Albert. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because I've got a new security for the whole 
 amount myself." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Edwin glanced at his wife and his resentful eyes 
 said: "There you are! All through your infernal 
 hurry and cheek Maggie's going to lose eighteen hun- 
 dred pounds in a rotten investment. I told you Al- 
 bert would get hold of that money if he heard of it. 
 And just look!" 
 
 At this point Albert, who knew fairly well how to 
 draw an advantage from his brother-in-law's charac- 
 teristic weaknesses, perceived suddenly the value of an 
 immediate departure. And amid loud enquiries of all 
 
202 THESE TWAIN 
 
 sorts from Clara, and magnificent generalities from 
 Albert, and gloomy, stiff salutations from uncomfort- 
 able Bert, the visit closed. 
 
 JBut destiny lay in wait at the corner of the street 
 for Albert Benbow's pride. Precisely as the Ben- 
 bows were issuing from the portico, the front-door 
 being already closed upon them, the second Swetnam 
 son came swinging down Trafalgar Road. He stopped, 
 raising his hat. 
 
 "Hallo, Mr. Benbow," he said. "You've heard 
 the news, I suppose?" 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Missing word competitions." 
 
 It is a fact that Albert paled. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Injunction in the High Court this morning. All 
 the money's impounded, pending a hearing as to 
 whether the competitions are illegal or not. At the 
 very least half of it will go in costs. It's all over with 
 missing words." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 "I've had a wire to stop me from sending in for 
 next week's." 
 
 Albert Benbow gave an oath. His wife ought surely 
 to have been horrorstruck by the word; but she did 
 not blench. Flushing and scowling she said: 
 
 "What a shame! We've sent ours in." 
 
 The faithful creature had for days past at odd 
 moments been assisting her husband in the dictionary 
 and as a clerk. . . . And lo! at last, confirmation of 
 those absurd but persistent rumours to the effect that 
 certain busybodies meant if they could to stop missing 
 word competitions on the ground that they were 
 simply a crude appeal to the famous "gambling in- 
 stincts" of mankind and especially of Englishmen! 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 203 
 
 Albert had rebutted the charge with virtuous warmth, 
 insisting on the skill involved in word-choosing, and 
 insisting also on the historical freedom of the institu- 
 tions of his country. He maintained that it was in- 
 conceivable that any English court of justice should 
 ever interfere with a pastime so innocent and so tonic 
 for the tired brain. And though he had had secret 
 fears, and had been disturbed and even hurt by the 
 comments of a religious paper to which he subscribed, 
 he would not waver from his courageous and sensible 
 English attitude. Now the fearful blow had fallen, 
 and Albert knew in his heart that it was heaven's pun- 
 ishment for him. He turned to shut the gate after 
 him, and noticed Bert. It appeared to him that in 
 hearing the paternal oath, Bert had been guilty of a 
 crime, or at least an indiscretion, and he at once began 
 to make Bert suffer. 
 
 Meanwhile Swetnam had gone on, to spread the tale 
 which was to bring indignation and affliction into tens 
 of thousands of respectable homes. 
 
 IT 
 
 Janet came softly and timidly into the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 "They are gone?" she questioned. "I thought I 
 heard the front-door." 
 
 "Yes, thank goodness !" Hilda exclaimed candidly, 
 disdaining the convention (which Edwin still had in 
 respect) that a weakness in family ties should never 
 be referred to, beyond the confines of the family, save 
 in urbane terms of dignity and regret excusing so far 
 as possible the sinner. But in this instance the im- 
 mense ineptitude of the Benbows had so affected Ed- 
 win that, while objecting to his wife's outbreak, he 
 
204 THESE TWAIN 
 
 could not help giving a guffaw which supported it. 
 And all the time he kept thinking to himself: 
 
 "Imagine that d d pietistic rascal dragging the 
 
 miserable shrimp up here to apologise to George!" 
 
 He was ashamed, not merely of his relatives, but 
 somehow of all humanity. He could scarcely look even 
 a chair in the face. The Benbows had left behind 
 them desolation, and this desolation affected every- 
 thing, and could be tasted on the tongue. Janet of 
 course instantly noticed it, and felt that she ought not 
 to witness the shaming of her friends. Moreover, her 
 existence now was chiefly an apology for itself. 
 
 She said: 
 
 "I really think I ought to go back and see about a 
 meal for Johnnie in case he turns up." 
 
 "Nonsense !" said Hilda, sharply. "With three ser- 
 vants in the house, I suppose Johnnie won't starve! 
 Now just sit down. Sit down!" Her tone softened. 
 "My dear, you're worse than a child. . . . Tell Ed- 
 win." She put a cushion behind Janet in the easy 
 chair. And the gesture made Janet's eyes humid once 
 more. 
 
 Edwin had the exciting, disquieting, vitalising sen- 
 sation of being shut up in an atmosphere of women. 
 Not two women, but two thousand, seemed to hem him 
 in with their incalculable impulses, standards, inspi- 
 rations. 
 
 "Janet wants to consult you," Hilda added; and 
 even Hilda appeared to regard him as a strong sav- 
 iour. 
 
 He thought: 
 
 "After all, then, I'm not the born idiot she'd like 
 to make out. Now we're getting at her real opinion 
 of me!" 
 
 "It's only about father's estate," said Janet. 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 205 
 
 "Why? Hasn't he made a will?" 
 
 "Oh yes! He made a will over thirty years ago. 
 He left everything to mother and made her sole ex- 
 ecutor or whatever you call it. Just like him, wasn't 
 it? . . . D'you know that he and mother never had a 
 quarrel, nor anything near a quarrel?" 
 
 "Well," Edwin, nodding appreciatively, answered 
 with an informed masculine air. "The law provides 
 for all that. Tom will know. Did your mother make 
 a will?" 
 
 "No. Dear thing! She would never have dreamt 
 of it." 
 
 "Then letters of administration will have to be 
 taken out," said Edwin. 
 
 Janet began afresh: 
 
 "Father was talking of making a new will two or 
 three months ago. He mentioned it to Tom. He said 
 he should like you to be one of the executors. He 
 said he would sooner have you for an executor than 
 anybody." 
 
 An intense satisfaction permeated Edwin, that he 
 should have been desired as an executor by such an 
 important man as Osmond Orgreave. He felt as 
 though he were receiving compensation for uncounted 
 detractions. 
 
 "Really?" said he. "I expect Tom will take out 
 letters of administration, or Tom and Johnnie to- 
 gether; they'll make better executors than I 
 should." 
 
 "It doesn't seem to make much difference who looks 
 after it and who doesn't," Hilda sharply interrupted. 
 "When there's nothing to look after." 
 
 "Nothing to look after?" Edwin repeated. 
 
 "Nothing to look after!" said Hilda in a firm and 
 clear tone. "According to what Janet says." 
 
206 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "But surely there must be something!" 
 
 Janet answered mildly: 
 
 "I'm afraid there isn't much." 
 
 It was Hilda who told the tale. The freehold of 
 Lane End House belonged to the estate, but there 
 were first and second mortgages on it, and had been 
 for years. Debts had always beleaguered the Or- 
 greave family. A year ago money had apparently 
 been fairly plentiful, but a great deal had been spent 
 on re-furnishing. Jimmie had had money, in connec- 
 tion with his sinister marriage ; Charlie had had money 
 in connection with his practice, and Tom had enticed 
 Mr. Orgreave into the Palace Porcelain Company. 
 Mr. Orgreave had given a guarantee to the Bank for 
 an overdraft, in exchange for debentures and shares 
 in that company. The debentures were worthless, and 
 therefore the shares also, and the bank had already 
 given notice under the guarantee. There was an in- 
 surance policy one poor little insurance policy for 
 a thousand pounds whosle capital well invested 
 might produce an income of twelve or fifteen shillings 
 a week; but even that policy was lodged as security 
 for an overdraft on one of Osmond's several private 
 banking accounts. There were many debts, small to 
 middling. The value of the Orgreave architectural 
 connection was excessively dubious so much of it had 
 depended upon Osmond Orgreave himself. The estate 
 might prove barely solvent ; on the other hand it might 
 prove insolvent; so Johnnie, who had had it from 
 Tom, had told Janet that day, and Janet had told 
 Hilda. 
 
 "Your father was let in for the Palace Porcelain 
 Company?" Edwin breathed, with incredulous emphasis 
 on the initial p's. "What on earth was Tom think- 
 ing of?" 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 207 
 
 "That's what Johnnie wants to know," said Janet. 
 "Johnnie was very angry. They've had some words 
 about it." 
 
 Except for the matter of the Palace Porcelain Com- 
 pany, Edwin was not surprised at the revelations, 
 though he tried to be. The more closely he examined 
 his attitude for years past to the Orgreave household 
 structure, the more clearly he had to admit that a 
 suspicion of secret financial rottenness had never long 
 been absent from his mind not even at the period of 
 renewed profuseness, a year or two ago, when furni- 
 ture-dealers, painters, and paperhangers had been en- 
 riched. His resentment against the deceased charm- 
 ing Osmond and also against the affectionate and 
 blandly confident mother, was keen and cold. They 
 had existed, morally, on Janet for many years ; mo- 
 nopolised her, absorbed her, aged her, worn her out, 
 done everything but finish her, and they had made no 
 provision for her survival. In addition to being use- 
 less, she was defenceless, helpless, penniless, and old; 
 and she shivered now that the warmth of her par- 
 ents' affection was withdrawn by death. 
 
 "You see," said Janet. "Father was so transpar- 
 ently honest and generous." 
 
 Edwin said nothing to this sincere outburst. 
 
 "Have you got any money at all, Janet?" asked 
 Hilda. 
 
 "There's a little household money, and by a miracle 
 I've never spent the ten-pound note poor dad gave 
 me on my last birthday." 
 
 "Well," said Edwin, sardonically imaging that ten- 
 pound note as a sole defence for Janet against the 
 world. "Of course Johnnie will have to allow you 
 something out of the business for one thing." 
 
 "I'm sure he will, if he can," Janet agreed. "But 
 
208 THESE TWAIN 
 
 he says it's going to be rather tight. He wants us to 
 clear out of the house at once." 
 
 "Take my advice and don't do it," said Edwin. 
 "Until the house is let or sold it may as well be occu- 
 pied by you as stand empty better in fact, because 
 you'll look after it." 
 
 "That's right enough, anyway," said Hilda, as if to 
 imply that by a marvellous exception a man had for 
 once in a while said something sensible. 
 
 "You needn't use all the house," Edwin proceeded. 
 "You won't want all the servants." 
 
 "I wish you'd say a word to Johnnie," breathed 
 Janet. 
 
 "I'll say a word to Johnnie, all right," Edwin an- 
 swered loudly. "But it seems to me it's Tom that 
 wants talking to. I can't imagine what he was doing 
 to let your father in for that Palace Porcelain busi- 
 ness. It beats me." 
 
 Janet quietly protested: 
 
 "I feel sure he thought it was all right." 
 
 "Oh, of course!" said Hilda, bitterly. "Of course! 
 They always do think it's all right. And here's my 
 husband just going into one of those big dangerous 
 affairs, and he thinks it's all right, and nothing I can 
 say will stop him from going into it. And he'll keep 
 on thinking it's all right until it's all wrong and we're 
 ruined, and perhaps me left a widow with George." 
 Her lowered eyes blazed at the carpet. 
 
 Janet, troubled, glanced from one to the other, and 
 then, with all the tremendous unconscious persuasive 
 force of her victimhood and her mourning, murmured 
 gently to Edwin: 
 
 "Oh! Don't run any risks! Don't run any risks!" 
 
 Edwin was staggered by the swift turn of the con- 
 versation. Two thousand women hemmed him in more 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 209 
 
 closely than ever. He could do nothing against them 
 except exercise an obstinacy which might be esteemed 
 as merely brutal. They were not accessible to argu- 
 ment Hilda especially. Argument would be received 
 as an outrage. It would be impossible to convince 
 Hilda that she had taken a mean and disgraceful ad- 
 vantage of him, and that he had every right to resent 
 her behaviour. She was righteousness and injured- 
 ness personified. She partook, in that moment, of 
 the victimhood of Janet. And she baffled him. 
 
 He bit his lower lip. 
 
 "All that's not the business before the meeting," he 
 said as lightly as he could. "D'you think if I stepped 
 down now I should catch Johnnie at the office?" 
 
 And all the time, while his heart hardened against 
 Hilda, he kept thinking: 
 
 "Suppose I did come to smash!" 
 
 Janet had put a fear in his mind, Janet who in 
 her wistfulness and her desolating ruin seemed to be 
 like only a little pile of dust all that remained of 
 the magnificent social structure of a united and numer- 
 ous Orgreave family. 
 
 Edwin met Tertius Ingpen in the centre of the 
 town outside the offices of Orgreave and Sons, amid 
 the commotion caused by the return of uplifted specta- 
 tors from a football match in which the team curiously 
 known to the sporting world as "Bursley Moorthorne" 
 had scored a broken leg and two goals to nil. 
 
 "Hello !" Ingpen greeted him. "I was thinking of 
 looking in at your place to-night." 
 
 "Do !" said Edwin. "Come up with me now." 
 
 "Can't! . . . Why do these ghastly louts try to 
 
210 THESE TWAIN 
 
 walk over you as if they didn't see you?" Then in 
 another tone, very quietly, and nodding in the direc- 
 tion of the Orgreave offices: "Been in there? . . . 
 What a week, eh ! . . . How are things ?" 
 
 "Bad," Edwin answered. "In a word, bad!" 
 
 Ingpen lifted his eyebrows. 
 
 They turned away out of the crowd, up towards the 
 tranquillity of the Turnhill Road. They were mani- 
 festly glad to see each other. Edwin had had a satis- 
 factory interview with Johnnie Orgreave, satisfac- 
 tory in the sense that Johnnie had admitted the wisdom 
 of all that Edwin said and promised to act on it. 
 
 "I've just been talking to young Johnnie for his 
 own good," said Edwin. 
 
 And in a moment, with eagerness, with that strange 
 deep satisfaction felt by the carrier of disastrous tid- 
 ings, he told Ingpen all that he knew of the plight of 
 Janet Orgreave. 
 
 "If you ask me," said he, "I think it's infamous." 
 
 "Infamous," Ingpen repeated the word savagely. 
 "There's no word for it. What'll she do?" 
 
 "Well, I suppose she'll have to live with Johnnie." 
 
 "And where will Mrs. Chris come in, then?" Ingpen 
 asked in a murmur. 
 
 "Mrs. Chris Hamson?" exclaimed Edwin startled. 
 "Oh! Is that affair still on the carpet? . . . Cheer- 
 ful outlook!" 
 
 Ingpen pulled his beard. 
 
 "Anyhow," said he, "Johnnie's the most reliable of 
 the crew. Charlie's the most agreeable, but Johnnie's 
 the most reliable. I wouldn't like to count much on 
 Tom, and as for Jimmie, well of course !" 
 
 "I always look on Johnnie as a kid. Can't help it." 
 
 "There's no law against that, so long as you don't 
 go and blub it out to Mrs. Chris," Ingpen laughed. 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 
 
 "I don't know her." 
 
 "You ought to know her. She's an education, my 
 boy." 
 
 "I've been having a fair amount of education 
 lately," said Edwin. "Only this afternoon I was prac- 
 tically told that I ought to give up the idea of my new 
 works because it has risks and the Palace Porcelain 
 Co. was risky and Janet hasn't a cent. See the point?" 
 
 He was obliged to talk about the affair, because it 
 was heavily on his mind. A week earlier he had per- 
 suaded himself that the success of a marriage depended 
 chiefly on the tone employed to each other by the con- 
 tracting parties. But in the disturbing scene of the 
 afternoon, his tone had come near perfection, and yet 
 marriage presented itself as even more stupendously 
 difficult than ever. Ingpen's answering words salved 
 and strengthened him. The sensation of being com- 
 prehended was delicious. Intimacy progressed. 
 
 "I say," said Edwin, as they parted. "You'd better 
 not know anything about all this when you come to- 
 night." 
 
 "Right you are, my boy." 
 
 Their friendship seemed once more to be suddenly 
 and surprisingly intensified. 
 
 When Edwin returned, Janet had vanished again. 
 Like an animal which fears the hunt and whose shy- 
 ness nothing can cure, she had fled to cover at the 
 first chance. According to Hilda she had run home 
 because it had occurred to her that she must go 
 through her mother's wardrobe and chest of drawers 
 without a moment's delay. 
 
 Edwin's account to his wife of the interview with 
 Johnnie Orgreave was given on a note justifiably tri- 
 umphant. In brief he had "talked sense" to Johnnie, 
 and Johnnie had been convicted and convinced. Hilda 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 listened with respectful propriety. Edwin said noth- 
 ing as to his encounter with Tertius Ingpen, partly 
 from prudence and partly from timidity. When Ing- 
 pen arrrived at the house, much earlier than he might 
 have been expected to arrive, Edwin was upstairs, and 
 on descending he found his wife and his friend chat- 
 ting in low and intimate voices close together in the 
 drawing-room. The gas had been lighted. 
 
 "Here's Mr. Ingpen," said Hilda, announcing a sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "How do, Ingpen?" 
 
 "How do, Ed?" 
 
 Ingpen did not rise. Nor did they shake hands, but 
 in the Five Towns friends who have reached a certain 
 degree of intimacy proudly omit the ceremony of hand- 
 shaking when they meet. It was therefore impossible 
 for Hilda to divine that Edwin and Tertius had pre- 
 viously met that day, and apparently Ingpen had not 
 divulged the fact. Edwin felt like a plotter. 
 
 The conversation of course never went far away 
 from the subject of the Orgreaves and Janet in par- 
 ticular. Ingpen's indignation at the negligence which 
 had left Janet in the lurch was more than warm enough 
 to satisfy Hilda, whose grievance against the wicked 
 carelessness of heads of families in general seemed 
 to be approaching expression again. At length she 
 said: 
 
 "It's enough to make every woman think seriously of 
 where she'd be if anything happened." 
 
 Ingpen smiled teasingly. 
 
 "Now you ? re getting personal." 
 
 "And what if I am? With my headstrong husband 
 going in for all sorts of schemes!" Hilda's voice was 
 extraordinarily clear and defiant. 
 
 Edwin nervously rose. 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 213 
 
 "I'll just get some cigarettes," he mumbled. 
 
 Hilda and Ingpen scarcely gave him any attention. 
 Already they were exciting themselves. Although he 
 knew that the supply of cigarettes was in the dining- 
 room, he toured half the house before going there; 
 and then lit the gas and with strange deliberation drew 
 the blinds; next he rang the bell for matches, and, 
 having obtained them, lit a cigarette. 
 
 When he re-entered the drawing-room, Ingpen was 
 saying with terrific conviction: 
 
 "You're quite wrong, as I've told you before. It's 
 your instinct that's wrong, not your head. Women 
 will do anything to satisfy their instincts, simply any- 
 thing. They'll ruin your life in order to satisfy their 
 instincts. Yes, even when they know jolly well their 
 instincts are wrong!" 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "Well, if these two mean to have a row, it's no 
 affair of mine." 
 
 But Hilda, seemingly over faced, used a very mod- 
 erate tone to retort: 
 
 "You're very outspoken." 
 
 Tertius Ingpen answered firmly: 
 
 "I'm only saying aloud what every man thinks. . . . 
 Mind every man." 
 
 "And how comes it that you know so much about 
 women?" 
 
 "I'll tell you sometime," said Ingpen, shortly, and 
 then smiled again. 
 
 Edwin, advancing, murmured : 
 
 "Here. Have a cigarette." 
 
 A few moments later Ingpen was sketching out a 
 Beethoven symphony unaided on the piano, and hold- 
 ing his head back to keep the cigarette-smoke out of 
 his eyes. 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 VI 
 
 When the hour struck for which Hilda had prom- 
 ised a sandwich supper Edwin and Tertius Ingpen 
 were alone in the drawing-room, and Ingpen was again 
 at the piano, apparently absorbed in harmonic inven- 
 tions of his own. No further word had been said 
 upon the subject of the discussion between Ingpen 
 and Hilda. On the whole, despite the reserve of Hilda's 
 demeanour, Edwin considered that marriage at the 
 moment was fairly successful, and the stream of ex- 
 istence running in his favour. At five minutes after 
 the hour, restless, he got up and said : 
 
 "I'd better be seeing what's happened to that sup- 
 per." 
 
 Ingpen nodded, as in a dream. 
 
 Edwin glanced into the dining-room, where the com- 
 plete supper was waiting in illuminated silence and 
 solitude. Then he went to the boudoir. There, the 
 two candlesticks from the mantelpiece had been put 
 side by side on the desk, and the candles lit the figures 
 of Hilda and her son. Hilda, kneeling, held a stamped 
 and addressed letter in her hand, the boy was bent 
 over the desk at his drawing, which his mother re- 
 garded. Edwin in his heart affectionately derided 
 them for employing candles when the gas would have 
 been so much more effective; he thought that the use 
 of candles was "just like" one of Hilda's unforeseeable 
 caprices. But in spite of his secret derision he was 
 strangely affected by the group as revealed by the 
 wavering candle-flames in the general darkness of the 
 room. He seldom saw Hilda and George together; 
 neither of them was very expansive; and certainly he 
 had never seen Hilda kneeling by her son's side since 
 a night at the Orgreaves' before her marriage, when 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 
 
 George lay in bed unconscious and his spirit hesitated 
 between earth and heaven. He knew that Hilda's love 
 for George had in it something of the savage, but, lack- 
 ing demonstrations of it, he had been apt to forget 
 its importance in the phenomena of their united ex- 
 istence. Kneeling by her son, Hilda had the look of a 
 girl, and the ingenuousness of her posture touched 
 Edwin. The idea shot through his brain like a star, 
 that life was a marvellous thing. 
 
 As the door had been ajar, they scarcely heard 
 him come in. George turned first. 
 
 And then Ada was standing at the door. 
 
 "Yes'm?" 
 
 "Oh! Ada! Just run across with this letter to 
 the pillar, will you?" 
 
 "Yes'm." 
 
 "You've missed the post, you know," said Edwin. 
 
 Hilda got up slowly. 
 
 "It doesn't matter. Only I want it to be in the 
 post." 
 
 As she gave the letter to Ada he speculated idly as 
 to the address of the letter, and why she wanted it 
 to be in the post. Anyhow, it was characteristic of 
 her to want the thing to be in the post. She would 
 delay writing a letter for days, and then, having writ- 
 ten it, be "on pins" until it was safely taken out of 
 the house; and even when the messenger returned 
 she would ask: "Did you put that letter in the post?" 
 
 Ada had gone. 
 
 "What's he drawing, this kid?" asked Edwin, gen- 
 ially. 
 
 Nobody answered. Standing between his wife and 
 the boy he looked at the paper. The first thing he 
 noticed was some lettering, achieved in an imitation 
 of architect's lettering: "Plan for proposed new 
 
216 THESE TWAIN 
 
 printing-works to be erected by Edwin Claylianger, 
 Esq., upon land at Shawport. George Edwin Clay- 
 hanger, architect." And on other parts of the paper, 
 "Ground-floor plan" and "Elevation." The plan at a 
 distance resembled the work of a real architect. Only 
 when closely examined did it reveal itself as a piece of 
 boyish mimicry. The elevation was not finished. . . . 
 It was upon this that, with intervals caused by the 
 necessity of escaping from bores, George had been la- 
 bouring all day. And here was exposed the secret and 
 the result of his chumminess with Johnnie Orgreave. 
 Yet the boy had never said a word to Edwin in 
 explanation of that chumminess ; nor had Johnnie him- 
 self. 
 
 "He's been telling me he's going to be an archi- 
 tect," said Hilda. 
 
 "Is this plan a copy of Johnnie's, or is it his own 
 scheme?" asked Edwin. 
 
 "Oh, his own!" Hilda answered, with a rapidity and 
 an earnestness which disclosed all her concealed pride 
 in the boy. 
 
 Edwin was thrilled. He pored over the plan, mak- 
 ing remarks and putting queries, in a dull matter-of- 
 fact tone; but he was so thrilled that he scarcely 
 knew what he was saying or understood the replies to 
 his questions. It seemed to him wondrous, miraculous-, 
 overwhelming, that his own disappointed ambition to 
 be an architect should have re-flowered in his wife's 
 child who was not his child. He was reconciled to 
 being a printer, and indeed rather liked being a 
 printer, but now all his career presented itself to him 
 as a martyrisation. And he passionately swore that 
 such a martyrisation should not happen to George. 
 George's .ambition should be nourished and forwarded 
 as no boyish ambition had ever been nourished and 
 
THE ORGREAVE CALAMITY 217 
 
 forwarded before. For a moment he had a genuine 
 conviction that George must be a genius. 
 
 Hilda, behind the back of proud, silent George, 
 pulled Edwin's face to hers and kissed it. And as she 
 kissed she gazed at Edwin and her eyes seemed to 
 be saying : "Have your works ; I have yielded. Per- 
 haps it is George's plan that has made me yield, but 
 anyhow I am strong enough to yield. And my 
 strength remains." 
 
 And Edwin thought: "This woman is unique. What 
 other woman could have done that in just that way?" 
 And in their embrace, intensifying and complicating 
 its significance, were mingled the sensations of their 
 passion, his triumph, her surrender, the mysterious 
 boy's promise, and their grief for Janet's tragedy. 
 
 "Old Ingpen's waiting for his supper, you know," 
 said Edwin tenderly. "George, you must show that 
 to Mr. Ingpen." 
 
BOOK H 
 THE PAST 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 UTHOGRAPHY 
 
 EDWIN, sitting behind a glazed door with the word 
 "Private" elaborately patterned on the glass, heard 
 through the open window of his own office the voices 
 of the Benbow children and their mother in the street 
 outside. 
 
 "Oh, Mother! What a big sign!" 
 
 "Yes. Isn't Uncle Edwin a proud man to have such 
 a big sign?" 
 
 "Hsh!" 
 
 "It wasn't up yesterday." 
 
 "L i t h o " 
 
 *-*J 1 5 1 5 IJ ? 5 
 
 "My word, Rupy! You are getting on!" 
 
 "They're such large letters, aren't they, mother? 
 . . . 'Lithographic' . . . 'Lithographic printing. Ed- 
 win Clayhanger'." 
 
 "Hsh ! . . . Bert, how often do you want me to tell 
 you about your shoe-lace?" 
 
 "I wonder if George has come." 
 
 "Mother, can't I ring the bell?" 
 
 All the children were there, with their screeching 
 voices. Edwin wondered that Rupert should have been 
 brought. Where was the sense of showing a three- 
 year-old infant like Rupert over a printing-works? 
 But Clara was always like that. The difficulty of 
 leaving little Rupert alone at home did not present 
 itself to the august uncle. 
 
 221 
 
222 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Edwin rose, locked a safe that was let into the wall 
 of the room, and dropped the key into his pocket. The 
 fact of the safe being let into the wall gave him as 
 much simple pleasure as any detail of the new works; 
 it was an idea of Johnnie Orgreave's. He put a grey 
 hat carelessly at the back of his head, and, hands in 
 pockets, walked into the next and larger room, which 
 was the clerks' office. 
 
 Both these rooms had walls distempered in a green 
 tint, and were fitted and desked in pitchpine. Their 
 newness was stark, and yet in the clerks' office the ir- 
 rational habituating processes of time were already 
 at work. On the painted iron mantelpiece lay a dusty 
 white tile, brought as a sample long before the room 
 was finished, and now without the slightest excuse for 
 survival. Nevertheless the perfunctory cleaner lifted 
 the tile on most mornings, dusted underneath it, and 
 replaced it; and Edwin and his staff saw it scores cf 
 times daily and never challenged it, and gradually it 
 was acquiring a prescriptive right to exist just where 
 it did. And the day was distant when some incon- 
 venient, reforming person would exclaim: 
 
 "What's this old tile doing here?" 
 
 What Edwin did notice was that the walls and desks 
 showed marks and even wounds ; it seemed to him 
 somehow wrong that the brand new could not remain 
 forever brand new. He thought he would give a 
 mild reproof or warning to the elder clerk, (once the 
 shop-clerk in the ancient establishment at the corner 
 of Duck Bank and Wedgwood Street) and then he 
 thought: "What's the use?" and only murmured: 
 
 "I'm not going off the works." 
 
 And he passed out, with his still somewhat gawky 
 gait, to the small entrance-hall of the works. On the 
 outer face of the door, which he closed, was painted 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 
 
 the word "Office." He had meant to have the words 
 "Counting-House" painted on that door, because they 
 were romantic and fine-sounding; but when the mo- 
 ment came to give the order he had quaked before 
 such romance; he was afraid as usual of being senti- 
 mental and of "showing off," and with assumed satire 
 had publicly said: "Some chaps would stick 'Count- 
 ing-house' as large as life all across the door." He 
 now regretted his poltroonery. And he regretted sun- 
 dry other failures in courage connected with the scheme 
 of the works. ~The works existed, but it looked rather 
 like other new buildings, and not very much like the 
 edifice he had dreamed. It ought to have been grander, 
 more complete, more dashingly expensive, more of an 
 exemplar to the slattern district. He had been (he 
 felt) unduly influenced by the local spirit for half- 
 measures. And his life seemed to be a life of half- 
 measures, a continual falling-short. Once he used to 
 read studiously on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 
 evenings. He seldom read now, and never with regu- 
 larity. Scarcely a year ago he had formed a beauti- 
 ful vague project of being "musical." At Hilda's in- 
 stigation he had bought a book of musical criticism by 
 Hubert Parry, and Hilda had swallowed it in three 
 days r but he had begun it and not finished it. And the 
 musical evenings, after feeble efforts to invigorate 
 them, had fainted and then died on the miserable ex- 
 cuse that circumstances were not entirely favourable 
 to them. And his marriage, so marvellous in its ro- 
 mance during the first days . . . ! 
 
 Then either his commonsense or his self-respect 
 curtly silenced these weak depreciations. He had 
 wanted the woman and he had won her, he had taken 
 her. There she was, living in his house, bearing his 
 name, spending his money! The world could not get 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 over that fact, and the carper in Edwin's secret soul 
 could not get over it either. He had said that he 
 would have a new works, and, with all its faults and 
 little cowardices, there the new works was ! And more- 
 over it had just been assessed for municipal rates at 
 a monstrous figure. He had bought his house (and 
 mortgaged it); he had been stoical to bad debts; he 
 had sold securities at rather less than they cost him; 
 he had braved his redoubtable wife; and he had got 
 his works! His will, and naught else, was the magic 
 wand that had conjured it into existence. 
 
 The black and gold sign that surmounted its blue 
 roofs could be seen from the top of Acre Lane and 
 half way along Shawport Lane, proclaiming the pro- 
 gress of lithography and steam-printing, and the name 
 of Edwin Clayhanger. Let the borough put that in 
 its pipe and smoke it! He was well aware that the 
 borough felt pride in his works. And he had orders 
 more than sufficient to keep the enterprise handsomely 
 going. Even in the Five Towns initiative seemed to 
 receive its reward.! 
 
 Life might be as profoundly unsatisfactory as you 
 pleased, but there was zest in it. 
 
 The bell had rung. He opened the main door, and 
 there stood Clara and her brood. And Edwin was the 
 magnificent, wonderful uncle. The children entered, 
 with maternal precautions and recommendations. 
 Every child was clean and spruce: Bert clumsy, 
 Clara minxlike, Amy heavy and benignant, Lucy the 
 pretty little thing, and Rupert simply adorable each 
 representing a separate and considerable effort of 
 watchful care. The mother came last, worn, still 
 pretty, with a slight dragging movement of the limbs. 
 In her glittering keen eyes were both envy and naive 
 admiration of her brother. "What a life!" thought 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 
 
 Edwin, meaning what a narrow, stuffy, struggling, 
 conventional, unlovely existence was the Benbows' ! He 
 and they lived in different worlds of intelligence. Nev- 
 ertheless he savoured the surpassing charm of Rupert, 
 the goodness of Amy, the floral elegance of Lucy, and 
 he could appreciate the unending labours of that 
 mother of theirs, malicious though she was. He was 
 bluff and jolly with all of them. The new works being 
 fairly close to the Benbow home, the family had often 
 come en masse to witness its gradual mounting, re- 
 garding the excursions as a sort of picnic. And now 
 that the imposing place was inaugurated and the signs 
 up, Uncle Edwin had been asked to show them over 
 it in a grand formal visit, and he had amiably con- 
 sented. 
 
 "Has George come, Uncle Edwin?" asked Bert. 
 
 George had not come. A reconciliation had oc- 
 curred between the cousins (though by no means at 
 the time nor in the manner desired by Albert) ; they 
 were indeed understood by the Benbows to be on the 
 most touching terms of intimacy, which was very sat- 
 isfactory to the righteousness of Albert and Clara ; and 
 George was to have been of the afternoon party; but 
 he had not arrived. Edwin, knowing the unknow- 
 ableness of George, suspected trouble. 
 
 "Machines ! Machines !" piped tiny white-f rocked 
 Rupert, to whom wondrous tales had been told. 
 
 "You'll see machines all right," said Edwin pro- 
 misingly. It was not his intention to proceed straight 
 to the machine-room. He would never have admitted 
 it, but his deliberate intention was to display the 
 works dramatically, with the machine-room as a cul- 
 mination. The truth was, the man was full of secret 
 tricks, contradicting avuncular superior indifference. 
 He was a mere boy he was almost a school-girl. 
 
226 THESE TWAIN 
 
 He led them through a longish passage, and up 
 steps and down steps steps which were not yet hol- 
 lowed, but which would be hollowed into the stone- 
 polishing shop, which was romantically obscure, with 
 a specially dark corner where a little contraption was 
 revolving all by itself in the process of smoothing a 
 stone. Young Clara stared at the two workmen, while 
 the rest stared at the contraption, and Edwin, feeling 
 ridiculously like a lecturer, mumbled words of exposi- 
 tion. And then next, after climbing some steps, they 
 were in a lofty apartment with a glass roof, sunshine- 
 drenched and tropical. Here lived two more men, in- 
 cluding Karl the German, bent in perspiration over 
 desks, and laboriously drawing. Round about were 
 coloured designs, and stones covered with pencilling, 
 and boards, and all sorts of sheets of paper and card- 
 board. 
 
 "Ooh!" murmured Bert, much impressed by the me- 
 ticulous cross-hatching of Karl's pencil on a stone. 
 
 And Edwin said: 
 
 "This is the drawing-office." 
 
 "Oh yes !" murmured Clara vaguely. "It's very 
 warm, isn't it?" 
 
 None of them except Bert was interested. They 
 gazed about dully, uncomprehendingly, absolutely in- 
 curious. 
 
 "Machines !" Rupert urged again. 
 
 "Come on, then," said Edwin going out with as- 
 sumed briskness and gaiety. 
 
 At the door stood Tertius Ingpen, preoccupied and 
 alert, with all the mien of a factory inspector in full 
 activity. 
 
 "Don't mind me," said Ingpen, "I can look after 
 myself. In fact I prefer to." 
 
 At the sight of an important stranger speaking fa- 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 
 
 miliarly to Uncle Edwin, all the children save Rupert 
 grew stiff, dismal and apprehensive, and Clara looked 
 about as though she had suddenly discovered very in- 
 teresting phenomena in the corners of the workshop. 
 
 "My sister, Mrs. Benbow Mr. Ingpen. Mr. Ing- 
 pen is Her Majesty's Inspector of Factories, so we 
 must mind what we're about," said Edwin. 
 
 Clara gave a bright, quick smile as she limply 
 shook hands. The sinister enchantment which pre- 
 cedes social introduction was broken. And Clara, 
 overcome by the extraordinary chivalry and deference 
 of Ingpen's customary greeting to women, decided that 
 he was a particularly polite man; but she reserved her 
 general judgment on him, having several times heard 
 Albert inveigh against the autocratic unreasonable- 
 ness of this very inspector, who, according to Albert, 
 forgot that even an employer had to live, and that 
 that which handicapped the employer could not pos- 
 sibly help the workman "in the long run." 
 
 "Machines !" Rupert insisted. 
 
 They all laughed; the other children laughed sud- 
 denly and imitatively, and an instant later than the 
 elders; and Tertius Ingpen, as he grasped the full 
 purport of the remark, laughed more than anyone. 
 He turned sideways and bent slightly in order to give 
 vent to his laughter, which, at first noiseless and im- 
 prisoned, gradually grew loud in freedom. When he 
 had recovered, he said thoughtfully, stroking his soft 
 beard : 
 
 "Now it would be very interesting to know exactly 
 what that child understands by 'machines' what his 
 mental picture of them is. Very interesting! Has 
 he ever seen any?" 
 
 "No," said Clara. 
 
 "Ah! That makes it all the more interesting," Ing- 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 pen added roguishly: "I suppose you think you do 
 know, Mrs. Benbow?" 
 
 Clara smiled the self-protective, non-committal smile 
 of one who is not certain of having seen the point. 
 
 "It's very hot in here, Edwin," she said, glancing 
 at the door. The family filed out, shepherded by 
 Edwin. 
 
 "I'll be back in a sec," said he to Clara, on the 
 stairs, and returned to the drawing-office. 
 
 Ingpen was in apparently close conversation with 
 Karl. 
 
 "Yes," murmured Ingpen, thoughtfully tapping his 
 teeth. "The whole process is practically a contest be- 
 tween grease and water on the stone." 
 
 "Yes," said Karl gruffly, but with respect. 
 
 And Edwin could almost see the tentacles of Ing- 
 pen's mind feeling and tightening round a new sub- 
 ject of knowledge, and greedily possessing it. What 
 a contrast to the vacuous indifference of Clara, who 
 was so narrowed by specialisation that she could never 
 apply her brain to anything except the welfare and 
 the aggrandizement of her family ! He dwelt sardon- 
 ically upon the terrible results of family life on the 
 individual, and dreamed of splendid freedoms. 
 
 "Mr. Clayhanger," said Ingpen, in his official man- 
 ner, turning. 
 
 The two withdrew to the door. Invisible, at the foot 
 of the stairs, could be heard the family, existing. 
 
 "Haven't seen much of lithography, eh?" said Ed- 
 win, in a voice discreetly restrained. 
 
 Ingpen, ignoring the question, murmured: 
 
 "I say, you know this place is much too hot." 
 
 "Well," said Edwin. "What do you expect in Au- 
 gust?" 
 
 "But what's the object of all that glass roof?" 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 
 
 "I wanted to give 'em plenty of light. At the old 
 shop they hadn't enough, and Karl, the Teuton there, 
 was always grumbling." 
 
 "Why didn't you have some ventilation in the roof?" 
 
 "We did think of it. But Johnnie Orgreave said if 
 we did we should never be able to keep it watertight." 
 
 "It certainly isn't right as it is," said Ingpen. "And 
 our experience is that these skylighted rooms that are 
 too hot in summer are too cold in winter. How should 
 you like to have your private office in here?" 
 
 "Oh!" protested Edwin. "It isn't so bad as all 
 that." 
 
 Ingpen said quietly: 
 
 "I should suggest you think it over I mean the 
 ventilation." 
 
 "But you don't mean to say that this shop here 
 doesn't comply with your confounded rules?" 
 
 Ingpen answered: 
 
 "That may or may not be. But we're entitled to 
 make recommendations in any case, and I should like 
 you to think this over, if you don't mind. I haven't 
 any thermometer with me, but I lay it's ninety de- 
 grees here, if not more." In Ingpen's urbane, reas- 
 onable tone there was just a hint of the potential 
 might of the whole organised kingdom. 
 
 "All serene," said Edwin, rather ashamed of the tem- 
 perature after all, and loyally responsive to Ingpen's 
 evident sense of duty, which somehow surprised him; 
 he had not chanced, before, to meet Ingpen at work; 
 earthenware manufactories were inspected once a quar- 
 ter, but other factories only once a year. The thought 
 of the ameliorating influence that Ingpen must obvi- 
 ously be exerting all day and every day somewhat 
 clashed with and overset his bitter scepticism concern- 
 ing the real value of departmental administrative gov- 
 
230 THESE TWAIN 
 
 eminent, a scepticism based less upon experience 
 than upon the persuasive tirades of democratic apos- 
 tles. 
 
 They walked slowly towards the stairs, and Ingpen 
 scribbled in a notebook. 
 
 "You seem to take your job seriously," said Ed- 
 win, teasing. 
 
 "While I'm at it. Did you imagine that I'd dropped 
 into a sinecure? Considering that I have to keep an 
 eye on three hundred and fifty potbanks, over a thous- 
 and other factories, and over two thousand workshops 
 of sorts, my boy . . . ! And you should see some 
 of 'em. And you should listen to the excuses." 
 
 "No wonder," thought Edwin, "he hasn't told me 
 what a fine and large factory mine is ! . . . Still, he 
 might have said something, all the same. Perhaps he 
 will." 
 
 When, after visiting the composing-room, and 
 glancing from afar at the engine-house, the sight-see- 
 ing party reached the machine-room, Rupert was so 
 affected by the tremendous din and the confusing whir 
 of huge machinery in motion that he began to cry, 
 and, seizing his mother's hand, pressed himself hard 
 against her skirt. The realisation of his ambition had 
 overwhelmed him. Amy protectingly took Lucy's hand. 
 Bert and Clara succeeded in being very casual. 
 
 In the great lofty room there were five large or fairly 
 large machines, and a number of small ones. The 
 latter had chiefly to do with envelope and bill-head 
 printing and with bookbinding, and only two of them 
 were in use. Of the large machines, three were func- 
 tioning the cylinder printing-machine which had been 
 the pride of Edwin's father, the historic "old machine," 
 also his father's, which had been so called ever since 
 Edwin could remember and which was ageless, and 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 
 
 Edwin's latest and most expensive purchase, the 
 "Smithers" litho-printer. It was on the guarded 
 flank of the Smithers, close to the roller-racks, that 
 Edwin halted his convoy. The rest of the immense 
 shop with its complex masses of metal revolving, slid- 
 ing, or paralysed, its shabby figures of men, boys, 
 and girls shifting mysteriously about, its smell of 
 iron, grease, and humanity, and its fearful racket, 
 was a mere background for the Smithers in its moving 
 might. 
 
 The Smithers rose high above the spectators, and 
 at one end of it, higher even than the top parts of the 
 machine, was perched a dirty, frowsy, pretty girl. 
 With a sweeping gesture of her bare arms this girl 
 took a wide sheet of blank paper from a pile of sheets, 
 and lodged it on the receiving rack, whereupon it was 
 whirled off, caught into the clutches of the machine, 
 turned, reversed, hidden away from sight among re- 
 volving rollers red and black, and finally thrust out 
 at the other end of the machine, where it was picked 
 up by a dirty, frowsy girl, not pretty, smaller and 
 younger than the high-perched creature, indeed 
 scarcely bigger than Amy. And now on the sheet 
 was printed four times in red the words "Knype 
 Mineral Water Mnfg. Co. Best and cheapest. Trade- 
 mark." Clara screeched a question about the trade- 
 mark, which was so far invisible. Edwin made a sign 
 to the lower dirty, frowsy girl, who respectfully 
 but with extreme rapidity handed him a sheet as it came 
 off the machine, and he shouted through the roar in ex- 
 planation that the trademark, a soda-water syphon in 
 blue, would be printed on the same sheet later from an- 
 other stone, and the sheets cut into fours, each quarter 
 making a complete poster. "I thought it must be like 
 that," replied Clara superiorly. From childhood she 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 had been well accustomed to printing processes, and it 
 was not her intention to be perplexed by "this lithog- 
 raphy." Edwin made a gesture to hand back the sheet 
 to the machine-girl, but the machine would not pause 
 to allow her to take it. She was the slave of the 
 machine; so long as it functioned, every second of 
 her existence was monopolised, and no variation of 
 conduct permissible. The same law applied to the 
 older girl up near the ceiling. He put the sheet in its 
 place himself, and noticed that to do so required ap- 
 preciable care and application of the manipulative 
 faculty. 
 
 These girls, and the other girls at their greasy 
 task in the great shaking interior which he had created, 
 vaguely worried him. Exactly similar girls were em- 
 ployed in thousands on the pot-banks, and had once 
 been employed also at the pit-heads and even in the 
 pits; but until lately he had not employed girls, nor 
 had his father ever employed girls; and these girls 
 so close to him, so dependent on him, so submissive, 
 so subjugated, so soiled, so vulgar, whose wages would 
 scarcely have kept his wife in boots and gloves, gave 
 rise to strange and disturbing sensations in his heart 
 not merely in regard to themselves, but in regard to 
 the whole of the workpeople. A question obscure and 
 lancinating struck upwards through his industrial 
 triumph and through his importance in the world, a 
 question scarcely articulate, but which seemed to form 
 itself into the words: Is it right? 
 
 "Is what right?" his father would have snapped at 
 him. "Is what right?" would have respectfully de- 
 manded Big James, who had now sidled grandiosely 
 to the Smithers, and was fussing among the rollers 
 in the rack. Neither of them would have been capable 
 of comprehending his trouble. To his father an 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 
 
 employee was an employee, to be hired as cheaply as 
 possible, and to be exploited as completely as possible. 
 And the attitude of Big James towards the under- 
 lings was precisely that of his deceased master. They 
 would not be unduly harsh, they would often be 
 benevolent, but the existence of any problem, and es- 
 pecially any fundamental problem, beyond the direct 
 inter-relation of wages and work could not conceivably 
 have occurred to them. After about three quarters of 
 a century of taboo trade-unions had now for a dozen 
 years ceased to be regarded as associations of anarch- 
 istic criminals. Big James was cautiously in favor 
 of trade-unions, and old Darius Clayhanger in late 
 life had not been a quite uncompromising opponent of 
 them. As for Edwin, he had always in secret sym- 
 pathised with them, and the trade-unionists whom 
 he employed had no grievance against him. Yet this 
 unanswerable, persistent question would pierce the 
 complacency of Edwin's prosperity. It seemed to 
 operate in a sort of fourth dimension ; few even amongst 
 trade-unionists themselves would have reacted to it. 
 But Edwin lived with it more and more. He was indeed 
 getting used to it. Though he could not answer it, 
 he could parry it, thanks to scientific ideas obtained 
 from Darwin and Spencer, by the reflection that both 
 he and his serfs, whatever their sex, were the almost 
 blind agencies of a vast process of evolution. And 
 this he did, exulting with pride sometimes in the sheer 
 adventure of the affair, and sharing his thoughts with 
 none. . . . Strange that once, and not so many years 
 ago either, he had been tempted to sell the business 
 and live inert and ignobly secure on the interest of 
 invested moneys! But even to-day he felt sudden 
 fears of responsibility ; they came and went. 
 
 The visitors, having wandered to and fro, staring, 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 trailed out of the machine-room, led by Edwin. A 
 wide door swung behind them, and they were in the 
 abrupt, startling peace of another corridor. Clara 
 wiped Rupert's eyes, and he smiled, like a blossom 
 after a storm. The mother and the uncle exchanged 
 awkward glances. They had nothing whatever to say 
 to each other. Edwin could seldom think of anything 
 that he really wanted to say to Clara. The children 
 were very hot and weary of wonders. 
 
 "Well," said Clara, "I suppose we'd better be mov- 
 ing on now." She had somewhat the air of a draught- 
 animal about to resume the immense labour of drag- 
 ging a train. "It's very queer about George. He was 
 to have come with us for tea." 
 
 "Oh! Was he?" 
 
 "Of course he was," Clara replied sharply. "It 
 was most distinctly arranged." 
 
 At this moment Tertius Ingpen and Hilda appeared 
 together at the other end of the corridor. Hilda's 
 unsmiling face seemed enigmatic. Ingpen was talking 
 with vivacity. 
 
 Edwin thought apprehensively: 
 
 "What's up now? What's she doing here, and not 
 George?" 
 
 And when the sisters-in-law, so strangely contrast- 
 ing, shook hands, he thought: 
 
 "Is it possible that Albert looks on his wife as 
 something unpredictable? Do those two also have 
 moods, and altercations and antagonisms? Are they 
 always preoccupied about what they are thinking of 
 each other? No! It's impossible. Their life must 
 be simply fiendishly monotonous." And Clara's in- 
 feriority before the erect, flashing individuality of 
 Hilda appeared to him despicable. Hilda bent and 
 kissed Rupert, Lucy, Amy and young Clara, as it 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 235 
 
 were with passion. She was marvellous as she bent 
 over Rupert. She scarcely looked at Edwin. Ingpen 
 stood aside. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," said Hilda perfunctorily. "I had 
 to send George on an errand to Hanbridge at the last 
 moment." 
 
 Nothing more ! No genuine sign of regret ! Edwin 
 blamed her severely. "Send George on an errand to 
 Hanbridge!" That was Hilda all over! Why the 
 devil should she go out of her way to make unpleasant- 
 ness with Clara? She knew quite well what kind of a 
 woman Clara was, and that the whole of Clara's exist- 
 ence was made up of domestic trifles, each of which 
 was enormous for her. 
 
 "Will he be down to tea?" asked Clara. 
 
 "I doubt it." 
 
 "Well . . . another day, then." 
 
 Clara, gathering her offspring, took leave at a door 
 in the corridor which gave on to the yard. Mindful 
 to the last of Mr. Ingpen's presence (which Hilda 
 apparently now ignored), she smiled sweetly as she 
 went. But behind the smile, Edwin with regret, and 
 Hilda with satisfaction, could perceive her everlasting 
 grudge against their superior splendour. Even had 
 they sunk to indigence Clara could never have for- 
 given Edwin for having towards the end of their 
 father's life prevented Albert from wheedling a thou- 
 sand pounds out of old Darius, nor Hilda for her occa- 
 sional pricking, unanswerable sarcasms. . . . Still, 
 Rupert, descending two titanic steps into the yard, 
 clung to his mother as to an angel. 
 
 "And what errand to Hanbridge?" Edwin asked him- 
 self mistrustfully. 
 
236 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Scarcely a minute later, when Edwin, with Hilda and 
 Ingpen, was back at the door of the machine-room, 
 the office boy could be seen voyaging between roaring 
 machines across the room towards his employer. The 
 office boy made a sign of appeal, and Edwin answered 
 with a curt sign that the office boy was to wait. 
 
 "What's that ye say ?" Edwin yelled in Ingpen's ear. 
 
 Ingpen laughed, and made a trumpet with his hands : 
 
 "I was only wondering what your weekly running 
 expenses are." 
 
 Even Ingpen was surprised and impressed by the 
 scene, and Edwin was pleased now, after the flatness 
 of Clara's inspection, that he had specially arranged 
 for two of the machines to be running which strictly 
 need not have been running that afternoon. He had 
 planned a spectacular effect, and it had found a good 
 public. 
 
 "Ah!" He hesitated, in reply to Ingpen. Then 
 he saw Hilda's face, and his face showed confusion and 
 he smiled awkwardly. 
 
 Hilda had caught Ingpen's question. She said 
 nothing. Her expressive, sarcastic, unappeasable 
 features seemed to say : "Running expenses ! Don't 
 mention them. Can't you see they must be enormous? 
 How can he possibly make this place pay? It's a 
 gigantic folly and what will be the end of it?" 
 
 After all, her secret attitude towards the new enter- 
 prise was unchanged. Arguments, facts, figures, per- 
 suasions, brutalities had been equally and totally in- 
 effective. And Edwin thought: 
 
 "She is the bitterest enemy I have." 
 
 Said Ingpen: 
 
 *'I like that girl up there on the top of that machine. 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 237 
 
 And doesn't she just know where she is! What a 
 movement of the arms, eh?" 
 
 Edwin nodded, appreciative, and then beckoned to 
 the office boy. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Please, Sir, Mrs. 'Amps in the office to see you." 
 
 "All right," he bawled, casually. But in reality he 
 was taken aback. "It's Auntie Hamps now!" he said 
 to the other two. "We shall soon have all Bursley 
 here this afternoon." 
 
 Hilda raised her eyebrows. 
 
 "D'you know 'Auntie Hamps'?" she grimly asked 
 Ingpen. Her voice, though she scarcely raised it, was 
 plainer than the men's when they shouted. As Ingpen 
 shook his head, she added: "You ought to." 
 
 Edwin did not altogether care for this public ridicule 
 of a member of the family. Auntie Hamps, though 
 possibly a monster, had her qualities. Hilda, assum- 
 ing the lead, beckoned with a lift of the head. And 
 Edwin did not care for that either, on his works. Ing- 
 pen followed Hilda as though to a menagerie. 
 
 Auntie Hamps, in her black attire, which by virtue 
 of its changeless style amounted to a historic uniform, 
 was magnificent in the private office. The three found 
 her standing in wait, tingling with vitality and im- 
 portance and eagerness. She watched carefully that 
 Edwin shut the door, and kept her eye not only on the 
 door but also on the open window. She received the 
 presentation of Mr. Tertius Ingpen with grandeur and 
 with high cordiality, and she could appreciate even bet- 
 ter than Clara the polished fealty of his greeting. 
 
 "Sit down, Auntie." 
 
 "No, I won't sit down. I thought Clara was here. 
 I told her I might come if I could spare a moment. 
 I must say, Edwin" she looked around the small office, 
 
238 THESE TWAIN ^^. 
 
 and seemed to be looking round the whole works in a 
 superb glance "you make me proud of you. You 
 make me proud to be your Auntie." 
 
 "Well," said Edwin, "you can be proud sitting 
 down." 
 
 She smiled. "No, I won't sit down. I only just 
 popped in to catch Clara. I was going to tea with her 
 and the chicks." Then she lowered her voice : "I sup- 
 pose you've heard about Mr. John Orgreave?" Her 
 tone proved, however, that she r jpposed nothing of 
 the kind. 
 
 "No. What about Johnnie?'' 
 "He's run away with Mrs. 'Jhris Hamson." 
 Her triumph was complete. It was perhaps one of 
 her last triumphs, but it counted among the greatest 
 of her career as a watchdog of society. 
 
 The thing was a major event, and the report was 
 convincing. Useless to protest "Never !" "Surely not '" 
 "It can't be true !" It carried truth on its face. Use- 
 less to demand sternly: "Who told you?" The news 
 had reached Auntie Hamps through a curious chan- 
 nel the stationmaster at Latchett. Heaven alone 
 could say how Auntie Hamps came to have relations 
 with the stationmaster at Latchett. But you might 
 be sure that, if an elopement was to take place from 
 Latchett station, Auntie Hamps would by an instinc- 
 tive prescience have had relations with the station- 
 master for twenty years previously. Latchett was the 
 next station, without the least importance, to Shaw- 
 port on the line to Crewe. Johnnie Orgreave had got 
 into the train at Shawport, and Mrs. Chris had joined 
 it at Latchett, her house being near by. Once on the 
 vast platforms of Crewe, the guilty couple would be 
 safe from curiosity, lost in England, like needles in a 
 haystack. 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 239 
 
 The Orgreave-Hamson flirtation had been afoot for 
 over two years, but had only been seriously talked 
 about for less than a year. Mrs. Chris did not "move" 
 much in town circles. She was older than Johnnie, 
 but she was one of your blonde, slim, unfruitful women, 
 who under the shade of a suitable hat-brim are ageless. 
 Mr. Chris was a heavy man, "glumpy" as they say 
 down there, a moneymaker in pots, and great on the 
 colonial markets. He made journeys to America and 
 to Australia. His Australian journey occupied usually 
 about four months. He was now on his way back 
 from Sydney, and nearly home. Mrs. Chris had not 
 long since inherited a moderate fortune. It must have 
 been the fortune, rendering them independent, that had 
 decided the tragic immoralists to abandon all for love. 
 The time of the abandonment was fixed for them by 
 circumstance, for it had to occur before the husband's 
 return. 
 
 Imagine the Orgreave business left in the hands of 
 an incompetent irresponsible like Jimmie Orgreave! 
 And then, what of that martyr, Janet? Janet and 
 Johnnie had been keeping house together a tiny house. 
 And Janet had had to "have an operation." Women, 
 talking together, said exactly what the operation was, 
 but the knowledge was not common. The phrase "have 
 an operation" was enough in its dread. As a fact the 
 operation, for calculus, was not very serious ; it had 
 perfectly succeeded, and Janet, whom Hilda had ten- 
 derly visited, was to emerge from the nursing home at 
 Knype Vale within three days. Could not Johnnie 
 and his Mrs. Chris have waited until she was re-estab- 
 lished? No, for the husband was unpreventibly ap- 
 proaching, and romantic love must not be baulked. 
 Nothing could or should withstand romantic love. 
 Janet had not even been duly warned; Hilda had seen 
 
240 THESE TWAIN 
 
 her that very morning, and assuredly she knew noth- 
 ing then. Perhaps Johnnie would write to her softly 
 from some gay seaside resort where he and his leman 
 were hiding their strong passion. The episode was 
 shocking; it was ruinous. The pair could never re- 
 turn. Even Johnnie alone would never dare to return. 
 
 "He was a friend of yours, was he not?" asked 
 Auntie Hamps in bland sorrow of Tertius Ingpen. 
 
 He was a friend, and a close friend, of all three of 
 them. And not only had he outraged their feelings 
 he had shamed them, irretrievably lowered their pres- 
 tige. They could not look Auntie Hamps in the face. 
 But Auntie Hamps could look them in the face. And 
 her glance, charged with grief and with satisfaction, 
 said: "How are the mighty fallen, with their jaunty 
 parade of irreligion, and their musical evenings on 
 Sundays, with the windows open while folks are com- 
 ing home from chapel !" And there could be no retort. 
 
 "Another good man ruined by women!" observed 
 Tertius Ingpen, with a sigh, stroking his beard. 
 
 Hilda sprang up; and all her passionate sympathy 
 for Janet, and her disappointment and disgust with 
 Johnnie, the victim of desire, and her dissatisfaction 
 with her husband and her hatred of Auntie Hamps, 
 blazed forth and devastated the unwise Ingpen as she 
 scathingly replied: 
 
 "Mr. Ingpen, that is a caddish thing to say !" 
 
 She despised convention; she was frankly and atro- 
 ciously rude; and she did not care. Edwin blushed. 
 Tertius Ingpen blushed. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Ingpen, keeping his temper. "I 
 think I ought to have left a little earlier. Good-bye, 
 Ed. Mrs. Hamps " He bowed with extreme urban- 
 ity to the ladies, and departed. 
 
 Shortly afterwards Auntie Hamps also departed, 
 
LITHOGRAPHY 
 
 saying that she must not be late for tea at dear 
 Clara's. She was secretly panting to disclose the whole 
 situation to dear Clara. What a scene had Clara 
 missed by leaving the works too soon! 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 DARTMOOR 
 
 "WHAT was that telegram you had this afternoon, 
 Hilda?" 
 
 The question was on Edwin's tongue as he walked 
 up Acre Lane from the works by his wife's side. But 
 it did not achieve utterance. A year had passed since 
 he last walked up Acre Lane with Hilda; and now of 
 course he recalled the anger of that previous prome- 
 nade. In the interval he had acquired to some extent 
 the habit of containing his curiosity and his criticism. 
 In the interval he had triumphed, but Hilda also had 
 consolidated her position, so that despite the increase 
 of his prestige she was still his equal; she seemed to 
 take strength from him in order to maintain the strug- 
 gle against him. 
 
 During the final half-hour at the works the great, 
 the enormous problem in his mind had been not 
 whether such and such a plan of action for Janet's wel- 
 fare in a very grave crisis would be advisable, but 
 whether he should demand an explanation from Hilda 
 of certain disquieting phenomena in her boudoir. In 
 the excitement of his indecision Janet's tragic case 
 scarcely affected his sensibility. For about twelve 
 months Hilda had, he knew, been intermittently carry- 
 ing on a correspondence as to which she had said no 
 word to him; she did not precisely conceal it, but she 
 failed to display it. Lately, so far as his observation 
 
 242 
 
DARTMOOR 243 
 
 went, it had ceased. And then to-day he had caught 
 sight of an orange telegraph-envelope in her waste- 
 paper basket. Alone in the boudoir, and glancing back 
 cautiously and guiltily at the door, he had picked up 
 the little ball of paper and smoothed it out, and read 
 the words : "Mrs. Edwin Clayhanger." In those days 
 the wives of even prominent business men did not cus- 
 tomarily receive such a rain of telegrams that the de- 
 livery of a telegram would pass unmentioned and be 
 forgotten. On the contrary, the delivery of a telegram 
 was an event in a woman's life. The telegram which 
 he had detected might have been innocently negligible, 
 in forty different ways. It might, for example, have 
 been from Janet, or about a rehearsal of the Choral 
 Society, or from a tradesman at Oldcastle, or about 
 rooms at the seaside. But supposing that it was not 
 innocently negligible? Supposing that she was keep- 
 ing a secret? . . . What secret? What conceivable 
 secret? He could conceive no secret. Yes, he could 
 conceive a secret. He had conceived and did conceive 
 a secret, and his private thoughts elaborated it. ... 
 He had said to himself at the works: "I may ask 
 her as we go home. I shall see." But, out in the 
 street, with the disturbing sense of her existence over 
 his shoulder, he knew that he should not ask her. 
 Partly timidity and partly pride kept him from asking. 
 He knew that, as a wise husband, he ought to ask. 
 He knew that commonsense was not her strong- 
 est quality, and that by diffidence he might be inviting 
 unguessed future trouble; but he would not ask. In 
 the great, passionate war of marriage they would draw 
 thus apart, defensive and watchful, rushing together at 
 intervals either to fight or to kiss. The heat of their 
 kisses had not cooled ; but to him at any rate the kisses 
 often seemed intensely illogical; for, though he re- 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 garded himself as an improving expert in the science 
 of life, he had not yet begun to perceive that those 
 kisses were the only true logic of their joint career. 
 
 He was conscious of grievances against her as they 
 walked up Acre Lane, but instead of being angrily 
 resentful, he was content judicially to register the 
 grievances as further corroboration of his estimate 
 of her character. They were walking up Acre Lane 
 solely because Hilda was Hilda. A year ago they 
 had walked up Acre Lane in order that Edwin might 
 call at the shop. But Acre Lane was by no means 
 on the shortest way from Shawport to Bleakridge. 
 Hilda, however, on emerging from the works, full of 
 trouble concerning Janet, had suddenly had the beau- 
 tiful idea of buying some fish for tea. In earlier days 
 he would have said: "How accidental you are! What 
 would have happened to our tea if you hadn't been 
 down here, or if you hadn't by chance thought of fish?" 
 He would have tried to show her that her activities 
 were not based in the principles of reason, and that 
 even the composition of meals ought not to depend 
 upon the hazard of an impulse. Now, wiser, he said 
 not a word. He resigned himself in silence to an extra 
 three-quarters of a mile of walking. In such matters, 
 where her deep instinctiveness came into play, she had 
 established over him a definite ascendancy. 
 
 Then another grievance was that she had sent George 
 to Hanbridge, knowing that George, according to a 
 solemn family engagement, ought to have been at the 
 works. She was conscienceless. A third grievance, 
 naturally, was her behaviour to Ingpen. And a fourth 
 came back again to George. Why had she sent George 
 to Hanbridge at all? Was it not to despatch a tele- 
 gram which she was afraid to submit to the inquisitive- 
 ness of the Post Office at Bursley? A daring supposi- 
 
DARTMOOR 245 
 
 tion, but plausible; and if correct, of what duplicity 
 was she not guilty ! The mad, shameful episode of 
 Johnnie Orgreave, the awful dilemma of Janet colos- 
 sal affairs though they were interested him less and 
 less as he grew more and more preoccupied with his 
 relations to Hilda. And he thought, not caring: 
 
 "Something terrific will occur between us, one of 
 these days." 
 
 And then his bravado would turn to panic. 
 
 They passed along Wedgwood Street, and Hilda 
 preceded him into the chief poulterer-and-fishmonger's. 
 Here was another slight grievance of Edwin's ; for the 
 chief poulterer-and-fishmonger's happened now to be 
 the Clayh anger shop at the corner of Wedgwood 
 Street and Duck Bank. Positively there had been com- 
 petitors for the old location ! Why should Hilda go 
 there and drag him there? Could she not comprehend 
 that he had a certain fine delicacy about entering? 
 . . . The place where the former sign had been was 
 plainly visible on the brickwork above the shop-front. 
 Rabbits, fowl, and a few brace of grouse hung in the 
 right-hand window, from which most of the glass had 
 been removed ; and in the left, upon newly-embedded 
 slabs of Sicilian marble, lay amid ice the curved forms 
 of many fish, and behind them was the fat white- 
 sleeved figure of the chief poulterer-and-fishmonger's 
 wife with her great, wet hands. He was sad. He 
 seriously thought yet again: "Things are not what 
 they were in this town, somehow." For this place had 
 once been a printer's; and he had a conviction that 
 printing was an aristocrat among trades. Indeed, could 
 printing and fishmongering be compared ? 
 
246 THESE TWAIN 
 
 The saleswoman greeted them with deference, calling 
 Edwin "sir," and yet with a certain complacent famil- 
 iarity, as an occupant to ex-occupants. Edwin casu- 
 ally gave the short shake of the head which in the 
 district may signify "Good-day," and turned, hum- 
 ming, to look at the hanging game. It seemed to him 
 that he could only keep his dignity as a man of the 
 world by looking at the grouse with a connoisseur's 
 eye. Why didn't Hilda buy grouse? The shop was a 
 poor little interior. It smelt ill. He wondered what 
 the upper rooms were like, and what had happened to 
 the decrepit building at the end of the yard. The 
 saleswoman slapped the fish about on the marble, and 
 running water could be heard. 
 
 "Edwin," said Hilda, with enchanting sweetness and 
 simplicity, "would you like hake or turbot, dear?" 
 
 Impossible to divine from her voice that the ruin of 
 their two favourite Orgreaves was complete, that she 
 was conducting a secret correspondence, and that she 
 had knowingly and deliberately offended her husband! 
 
 Both women waited, moveless, for the decision, as 
 for an august decree. 
 
 When the transaction was finished, the saleswoman 
 handed over the parcel into Hilda's gloved hands ; it 
 was a rough-and-ready parcel, not at all like the neat 
 stiff paper-bag of the modern age. 
 
 "Very hot, isn't it, ma'am?" said the saleswoman. 
 
 And Hilda, utterly distinguished in gesture and 
 tone, replied with calm, impartial urbanity: 
 
 "Very. Good afternoon." 
 
 "I'd better take that thing," said Edwin outside, in 
 spite of himself. 
 
 She gave up the parcel to him. 
 
 "Tell cook to fry it," said Hilda. "She always 
 fries better than she boils." 
 
DARTMOOR 247 
 
 He repeated: 
 
 " 'Tell cook to fry it.' What's up now?" His tone 
 challenged. 
 
 "I must go over and see Janet at once. I shall take 
 the next car." 
 
 He lifted the end of his nose in disgust. There was 
 no end to the girl's caprices. 
 
 "Why at once?" the superior male demanded. Dis- 
 dain and resentment were in his voice. Hundreds of 
 times, when alone, he had decided that he would never 
 use that voice first, because it was unworthy of a 
 philosopher, second, because it never achieved any 
 good result, and third, because it often did harm. Yet 
 he would use it. The voice had an existence and a 
 volition of its own within his being; he marvelled that 
 the essential mechanism of life should be so clumsy and 
 inefficient. He heard the voice come out, and yet was 
 not displeased, was indeed rather pleasantly excited. 
 A new grievance had been created for him; he might 
 have ignored it, just as he might ignore a solitary 
 cigarette lying in his cigarette case. Both cigarettes 
 and grievances were bad for him. But he could not 
 ignore them. The last cigarette in the case mag- 
 netised him. Useless to argue with himself that he had 
 already smoked more than enough, the cigarette had 
 to emerge from the case and be burnt; and the griev- 
 ance too was irresistible. In an instant he had it 
 between his teeth and was darkly enjoying it. Of 
 course Hilda's passionate pity for Janet was a fine 
 thing. Granted! But therein was no reason why 
 she should let it run away with her. The worst of 
 these capricious, impulsive creatures was that they 
 could never do anything fine without an enormous fuss 
 and upset. What possible difference would it make 
 whether Hilda went to break the news of disaster to 
 
248 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Janet at once or in an hour's time? The mere desire 
 to protect and assuage could not properly furnish an 
 excuse for unnecessarily dislocating a household and 
 depriving oneself of food. On the contrary, it was 
 wiser and more truly kind to take one's meals regu- 
 larly in a crisis. But Hilda would never appreciate 
 that profound truth never, never! 
 
 Moreover, it was certain that Johnnie had written 
 to Janet. 
 
 "I feel I must go at once," said Hilda. 
 
 He spoke with more marked scorn: 
 
 "And what about your tea?" 
 
 "Oh, it doesn't matter about my tea." 
 
 "Of course it matters about your tea. If you have 
 your tea quietly, you'll find the end of the world won't 
 have come, and you can go and see Janet just the 
 same, and the whole house won't have been turned up- 
 side down." 
 
 She put her lips together and smiled mysteriously, 
 saying nothing. The racket of the Hanbridge and 
 Knype steam-car could be heard behind them. She 
 did not turn her head. The car overtook them, and 
 then stopped a few yards in front. But she did not 
 hail the conductor. The car went onwards. 
 
 He had won. His argument had been so convincing 
 that she could not help being convinced. It was too 
 powerful for even her obstinacy, which as a rule suc- 
 cessfully defied any argument whatever. 
 
 Did he smile and forgive? Did he extend to her 
 the blessing of his benevolence? No. He could not 
 have brought himself to such a point. After all, she 
 had done nothing to earn approval; she had simply 
 refrained from foolishness. She had had to be re- 
 minded of considerations which ought ever to have 
 been present in her brain. Doubtless she thought that 
 
DARTMOOR 249 
 
 he was hard, that he was incapable of her divine pity 
 for Janet. But that was only because she could not 
 imagine a combination of emotional generosity and 
 calm commonsense; and she never would be able to 
 imagine it. Hence she would always be unjust to him. 
 
 When they arrived home, she was still smiling mys- 
 teriously to herself. She did not take her hat off 
 sign of disturbance! He moved with careful tran- 
 quillity through the ritual that preceded tea. He could 
 feel her in the house, ordering it, softening it, civilising 
 it. He could smell the fish. He could detect the 
 subservience of Ada to her mistress's serious mood. 
 He went into the dining-room. Ada followed him with 
 a tray of hot things. Hilda followed Ada. Then 
 George entered, cleaner than ordinary. Edwin 
 savoured deeply the functioning of his home. And his 
 wife had yielded. Her instinct had compelled her not 
 to neglect him ; his sagacity had mastered her. In her 
 heart she must admire his sagacity, whatever she said 
 or looked, and her unreasoning passion for him was 
 still the paramount force in her vitality. 
 
 "Now, are you two all right?" said Hilda, when 
 she had poured out the tea, and Edwin was carving 
 the fish. 
 
 Edwin glanced up. 
 
 "I don't want any tea," she said. "I couldn't 
 touch it." 
 
 She bent and kissed George, took her gloves from 
 the sideboard, and left the house, the mysterious smile 
 still on her face. 
 
 m 
 
 Edwin controlled his vexation at this dramatic move. 
 It was only slight, and he had to play the serene 
 
250 THESE TWAIN 
 
 omniscient to George. Further, the attractive food 
 helped to make him bland. 
 
 "Didn't you know your mother had to go out?" said 
 Edwin, with astounding guile. 
 
 "Yes, she told me upstairs," George murmured, 
 "while she was washing me. She said she had to go 
 and see Auntie Janet again." 
 
 The reply was a blow to Edwin. She had said noth- 
 ing to him, but she had told the boy. Still, his com- 
 placency was not overset. Boy and stepfather began 
 to talk, with the mingled freedom and constraint prac- 
 tised by males accustomed to the presence of a woman, 
 when the woman is absent. Each was aware of the 
 stress of a novel, mysterious, and grave situation. 
 Each also thought of the woman, and each knew that 
 the other was thinking of the woman. Each, over a 
 serious apprehension, seemed to be lightly saying : "It's 
 rather fun to be without her for a bit. But we must be 
 able to rely on her return." Nothing stood ' between 
 them and domestic discomfort. Possible stupidity in 
 the kitchen had no check. As regards the mere house- 
 hold machine, they had a ridiculous and amusing sense 
 of distant danger. 
 
 Edwin had to get up in order to pour out more tea. 
 He reckoned that he could both make tea and pour it 
 out with more exactitude than his wife, who often 
 forgot to put the milk in first. But he could not pour 
 it out with the same grace. His brain, not his heart, 
 poured the tea out. He left the tray in disorder. The 
 symmetry of the table was soon wrecked. 
 
 "Glad you're going back to school, I suppose?" said 
 Edwin satirically. 
 
 George nodded. He was drinking, and he glanced 
 at Edwin over the rim of the cup. He had grown 
 much in twelve months, and was more than twelve 
 
DARTMOOR 251 
 
 months older. Edwin was puzzled by the almost sud- 
 den developments of his intelligence. Sometimes the 
 boy was just like a young man; his voice had become 
 a little uncertain. He still showed the greatest con- 
 tempt for his fingernails, but he had truly discovered 
 the toothbrush, and was preaching it at school among 
 a population that scoffed yet was impressed. 
 
 "Yes, I'm glad," he answered. 
 
 "Oh! You're glad, are you?" 
 
 "Well, I'm glad in a way. A boy does have to go 
 to school, doesn't he, uncle? And the sooner it's over 
 the better. I tell you what I should like I should 
 like to go to school night and day and have no holi- 
 days till it was all done. I sh'd think you could save at 
 least three years with that." 
 
 "A bit hard on the masters, wouldn't it be?" 
 
 "I never thought of that. Of course it would never 
 be over for them. I expect they'd gradually die." 
 
 "Then you don't like school?" 
 
 George shook his head. 
 
 "Did you like school, uncle?" 
 
 Edwin shook his head. They both laughed. 
 
 "Uncle, can I leave school when I'm sixteen?" 
 
 "I've told you once." 
 
 "Yes, I -know. But did you mean it? People 
 change so." 
 
 "I told you you could leave school when you're six- 
 teen if you pass the London Matric." 
 
 "But what good's the London Matric to an archi- 
 tect? Mr. Orgreave says it isn't any gocd, any- 
 way." 
 
 "When did he tell you that?" 
 
 "Yesterday." 
 
 "But not so long since you were all for being a stock- 
 breeder!" 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Ah! I was only pretending to myself!" George 
 smiled. 
 
 "Well, fetch me my cigarettes off the mantelpiece 
 in the drawing-room." 
 
 The boy ran off, eager to serve, and Edwin's glance 
 followed him with affection. George's desire to be 
 an architect had consistently strengthened, save dur- 
 ing a brief period when the Show of the North Staf- 
 fordshire Agricultural Society, held with much splen- 
 dour at Hanbridge, had put another idea into his 
 noddle an idea that fed itself richly on glorious bulls 
 and other prize cattle for about a week, and then 
 expired. Indeed, already it had been in a kind of 
 way arranged that the youth should ultimately be 
 articled to Johnnie Orgreave. Among many conse- 
 quences of Johnnie's defiance to society would prob- 
 ably be the quashing of that arrangement. And there 
 was Johnnie, on the eve of his elopement, chatting to 
 George about the futility of the London Matricula- 
 tion! Edwin wondered how George would gradually 
 learn what had happened to his friend and inspirer, 
 John Orgreave. 
 
 He arrived with the cigarettes, and offered them, and 
 lit the match, and offered that. 
 
 "And what have you been doing with yourself all 
 afternoon?" Edwin enquired, between puffs of smoke. 
 
 "Oh, nothing much !" 
 
 "I thought you were coming to the works and then 
 going down to Auntie Clara's for tea." 
 
 "So I was. But mother sent me to Hanbridge." 
 
 "Oh," murmured Edwin casually. "So your mother 
 packed you off to Hanbridge, did she?" 
 
 "I had to go to the Post Office," George continued. 
 "I think it was a telegram, but it was in an envelope, 
 and some money." 
 
DARTMOOR 253 
 
 "7/ideed!" said Edwin, with a very indifferent air. 
 
 He was, however, so affected that he jumped up 
 abruptly from the table, and went into the darkening, 
 chill garden, ignoring George. George, accustomed 
 to these sudden accessions of interest and these sudden 
 forgettings, went unperturbed his ways. 
 
 About half past eight Hilda returned. Edwin was 
 closing the curtains in the drawing-room. The gas 
 had been lighted. 
 
 "Johnnie has evidently written to Alicia," she burst 
 out somewhat breathless. "Because Alicia's tele- 
 graphed to Janet that she must positively go straight 
 down there and stay with them when she leaves the 
 Home." 
 
 "What, on Dartmoor?" Edwin muttered, in a strange 
 voice. The very word "Dartmoor" made him shake. 
 
 "It isn't actually on the moor," said Hilda. "And 
 so I shall take her down myself. I've told her all 
 about things. She wasn't a bit surprised. They're a 
 strange lot." 
 
 She tried to speak quite naturally, but he knew that 
 she was not succeeding. Their eyes would not meet. 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "How far away we are from this morning !" Hazard 
 and fate, like converging armies, seemed to be closing 
 upon him. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE DEPARTURE 
 
 IT was a wet morning. Hilda, already in full street 
 attire, save for her gloves, and with a half empty cup 
 of tea by her side, sat at the desk in the boudoir. 
 She unlocked the large central drawer immediately be- 
 low the flap of the desk, with a peculiar, quick, ruth- 
 less gesture, which gesture produced a very short 
 snappy click that summed up all the tension spreading 
 from Hilda's mind throughout the house and even into 
 the town. It had been decided that in order to call 
 for Janet at the Nursing Home and catch the Crewe 
 train at Knype for the Bristol and Southwest of 
 England connexion, Hilda must leave the house at 
 five minutes to nine. 
 
 This great fact was paramount in the minds of 
 various people besides Hilda. Ada upstairs stood bent 
 and flushed over a huge portmanteau into which she 
 was putting the last things, while George hindered 
 her by simultaneously tying to the leather handle a 
 wet label finely directed by himself in architectural 
 characters. The cook in the kitchen was preparing the 
 master's nine o'clock breakfast with new solicitudes 
 caused by a serious sense of responsibility; for Hilda, 
 having informed her in moving tones that the master's 
 welfare in the mistress's absence would depend finally 
 on herself, had solemnly entrusted that welfare to her 
 had almost passed it to her from hand to hand, with 
 
 254 
 
THE DEPARTURE 255 
 
 precautions, like a jewel in a casket. Ada, it may be 
 said, had immediately felt the weight of the cook's 
 increased importance. Edwin and the clerks at the 
 works knew that Edwin had to be home for breakfast 
 at a quarter to nine instead of nine, and that he must 
 not be late, as Mrs. Clayhanger had a train to catch, 
 and accordingly the morning's routine of the office 
 was modified. And, finally, a short old man in a rainy 
 stable-yard in Acre Parade, between Acre Lane and 
 Oldcastle Street, struggling to force a collar over the 
 head of a cab-horse that towered above his own head, 
 was already blasphemously excited by those pessimistic 
 apprehensions about the flight of time which forty 
 years of train-catching had never sufficed to allay in 
 him. As for Janet, she alone in her weakness and 
 her submissiveness was calm; the nurse and Hilda 
 understood one another, and she was "leaving it all" 
 to them. 
 
 Hilda opened the drawer, half lifting the flap of 
 the desk to disclose its contents. It was full of odd 
 papers, letters, bills, blotting-paper, door-knobs, finger- 
 plates, envelopes, and a small book or two. A preju- 
 diced observer, such as Edwin, might have said that 
 the drawer was extremely untidy. But to Hilda, who 
 had herself put in each item separately, and each for 
 a separate reason, the drawer was not untidy, for her 
 intelligence knew the plan of it, and every item as it 
 caught her eye suggested a justifying reason, and a 
 good one. Nevertheless, she formed an intention to 
 "tidy out" the drawer (the only drawer in the desk 
 with a safe lock), upon her return home. She felt 
 at the back of the drawer, drew forth the drawer a 
 little further, and felt again, vainly. A doubt of her 
 own essential orderliness crossed her mind. "Surely 
 I can't have put those letters anywhere else? Surely 
 
256 THESE TWAIN 
 
 I've not mislaid them?" Then she closed the flap of 
 the desk, and pulled the drawer right out, letting it 
 rest on her knees. Yes, the packet was there, hidden, 
 and so was another packet of letters in the hand- 
 writing of Edwin. She was reassured. She knew she 
 was tidy, had always been tidy. And Edwin's innuen- 
 dos to the contrary were inexcusable. Jerking the 
 drawer irregularly back by force into its place, she 
 locked it, reopened the desk, laid the packet on the 
 writing-pad, and took a telegram from her purse to 
 add to the letters in the packet. 
 
 The letters were all in the same loose, sloping 
 hand, and on the same tinted notepaper. The 
 signature was plain on one of them, "Charlotte M. 
 Cannon," and then after it, in brackets "(Canonges)," 
 the latter being the real name of George Cannon's 
 French father, and George Cannon's only legal name. 
 The topmost letter began: "Dear Madam, I think it 
 is my duty to inform you that my husband still de- 
 clares his innocence of the crime for which he is now 
 in prison. He requests that you shallbe informed of 
 this. I ought perhaps to tell you that, since the change 
 in my religious convictions, my feelings " The first 
 page ended there. Hilda turned the letters over, pre- 
 occupied, gazing at them and deciphering chance 
 phrases here and there. The first letter was dated 
 about a year earlier; it constituted the beginning of 
 the resuscitation of just that part of her life which 
 she had thought to be definitely interred in memory. 
 
 Hilda had only once and on a legal occasion met 
 Mrs. Canonges (as with strict correctness she called 
 herself in brackets) a surprisingly old lady, with 
 quite white hair, and she had thought : "What a shame 
 for that erotic old woman to have bought and mar- 
 ried a man so much younger than herself ! No won- 
 
THE DEPARTURE 257 
 
 der he ran away from her !" She had been positively 
 shocked by the spectacle of the well-dressed, well- 
 behaved, quiet-voiced, prim, decrepit creature with her 
 aristocratic voice. And her knowledge of the possibili- 
 ties of human nature was thenceforth enlarged. And 
 when George Cannon (known to the law only as Ca- 
 nonges) had received two years' hard labour for going 
 through a ceremony of marriage with herself, she had 
 esteemed, despite all her resentment against him, that 
 his chief sin lay in his real first marriage, not in his 
 false second one, and that for that sin the old woman 
 was the more deserving of punishment. And when 
 the old woman had with strange naivete written to 
 say that she had become a convert to Roman Catholi- 
 cism and that her marriage and her imprisoned biga- 
 mous husband were henceforth to her sacred, Hilda 
 had reflected sardonically: "Of course it is always 
 that sort of woman that turns to religion, when she's 
 too old for anything else!" And when the news came 
 that her deceiver had got ten years' penal servitude 
 (and might have got penal servitude for life) for utter- 
 ing a forged Bank-of-England note, Hilda had 
 reflected in the same strain: "Of course, a man who 
 would behave as George behaved to me would be just 
 the man to go about forging bank notes ! I am not 
 in the least astonished. What an inconceivable simple- 
 ton I was !" 
 
 A very long time had elapsed before the letter ar- 
 rived bearing the rumour of Cannon's innocence. It 
 had not immediately produced much effect on her 
 mind. She had said not a word to Edwin. The idea 
 of reviving the shames of that early episode in con- 
 versation with Edwin was extremely repugnant to her. 
 She would not do it. She had not the right to do it. 
 All her proud independence forbade her to do it. The 
 
258 THESE TWAIN 
 
 episode idid not concern Edwin. The effect on her of 
 the rumour came gradually. It was increased when 
 Mrs. Cannon wrote of evidence, a petition to the Home 
 Secretary, and employing a lawyer. Mrs. Cannon's 
 attitude seemed to say to Hilda: "You and I have 
 shared this man, we alone in all the world." Mrs. 
 Cannon seemed to imagine that Hilda would be inter- 
 ested. She was right. Hilda was interested. Her 
 implacability relented. Her vindictiveness forgave. 
 She pondered with almost intolerable compassion upon 
 the vision of George Cannon suffering unjustly month 
 after long month interminably the horrors of a con- 
 vict's existence. She read with morbidity reports of 
 Assizes, and picked up from papers and books and 
 from Mrs. Cannon pieces of information about prisons. 
 When he was transferred to Parkhurst in the Isle of 
 Wight on account of ill-health, she was glad, because 
 she knew that Parkhurst was less awful than Port- 
 land, and when from Parkhurst he was sent to Dart- 
 moor she tried to hope that the bracing air would do 
 him good. She no longer thought of him as a criminal 
 at all, but simply as one victim of his passion for 
 herself; she, Hilda, had been the other victim. She 
 raged in secret against the British Judicature, its de- 
 lays, its stoniness, its stupidity. And when the princi- 
 pal witness in support of Cannon's petition died, she 
 raged against fate. The movement for Cannon's re- 
 lease slackened for months. Of late it had been re- 
 sumed, and with hopefulness. One of Cannon's com- 
 panions had emerged from confinement (due to an 
 unconnected crime), and was ready to swear affidavits. 
 Lastly, Mrs. Cannon had written stating that she 
 was almost beggared, and suggesting that Hilda should 
 lend her ten pounds towards the expenses of the affair. 
 Hilda had not ten pounds. That very day Hilda, 
 
THE DEPARTURE 259 
 
 seeing Janet "in the Nursing Home, had demanded: 
 "I say Jan, I suppose you haven't got ten pounds you 
 can let me have for about a day or so?" And had 
 laughed self-consciously. Janet, flushing with eager 
 pleasure, had replied : "Of course ! I've still got that 
 ten-pound note the poor old dad gave me. I've always 
 kept it in case the worst should happen." Janet was 
 far too affectionate to display curiosity. Hilda had 
 posted the bank-note late at night. The next day had 
 come a telegram from Mrs. Cannon: "Telegraph if 
 you are sending money." Not for a great deal would 
 Hilda have despatched through the hands of the old 
 postmaster at Bursley who had once been postmaster 
 at Turnhill and known her parents a telegram such 
 as hers addressed to anybody named "Cannon." The 
 fear of chatter and scandal was irrational, but it was 
 a very genuine fear. She had sent her faithful George 
 with the telegram to Hanbridge it was just as easy. 
 
 Hilda now, after hesitation, put the packet of letters 
 in her handbag, to take with her. It was a precaution 
 of secrecy which she admitted to be unnecessary, for 
 she was quite certain that Edwin never looked into her 
 drawers ; much less would he try to open a locked 
 drawer; his incurious confidence in her was in some 
 respects almost touching. Certainly nobody else 
 would invade the drawer. Still, she hid the letters in 
 her handbag. Then, in her fashion, she scribbled a 
 bold-charactered note to Mrs. Cannon, giving a tem- 
 porary address, and this also she put in the handbag. 
 
 Her attitude to Mrs. Cannon, like her attitude to the 
 bigamist, had slowly changed, and she thought of the 
 old woman now with respect and sympathetic sorrow. 
 Mrs. Cannon, before she knew that Hilda was married 
 to Edwin, had addressed her first letter to Hilda, 
 "Mrs. Cannon," when she would have been justified in 
 
260 THESE TWAIN 
 
 addressing it, "Miss Lessways." In the days of her 
 boarding-house it had been impossible, owing to busi- 
 ness reasons, for Hilda to drop the name to which she 
 was not entitled and to revert to her own. The auth- 
 entic Mrs. Cannon, despite the violence of her griev- 
 ances, had respected Hilda's difficulty; the act showed 
 kindly forbearance and it had aroused Hilda's imag- 
 inative gratitude. Further, Mrs. Cannon's pertinacity 
 in the liberation proceedings, and her calm, logical 
 acceptance of all the frightful consequences of being 
 the legal wife of a convict, had little by little impressed 
 Hilda, who had said to herself: "There is something 
 in this old woman." And Hilda nowadays never thought 
 of her as an old woman who had been perverse and 
 shameless in desire, but as a victim of passion like 
 George Cannon. She said to herself: "This old 
 woman still loves George Cannon; her love was the 
 secret of her rancour against him, and it is also the 
 secret of her compassion." These constant reflections, 
 by their magnanimity, and their insistence upon the 
 tremendous reality of love, did something to ennoble 
 the clandestine and demoralising life of the soul which 
 for a year Hilda had hidden from her husband and 
 from everybody. 
 
 n 
 
 It still wanted twenty minutes to nine o'clock. She 
 was too soon. The night before, Edwin had abraded 
 her sore nerves by warning her not to be late in a 
 tone that implied habitual lateness on her part. Hilda 
 was convinced that she was an exact woman. She 
 might be late a little late six times together, but 
 as there was a sound explanation of and excuse for 
 each shortcoming, her essential exactitude remained 
 always unimpaired in her own mind. But Edwin 
 
THE DEPARTURE 261 
 
 would not see this. He told her now and then that 
 she belonged to that large class of people who have 
 the illusion that a clock stands still at the last moment 
 while last things are being done. She resented the 
 observation, as she resented many of Edwin's assump- 
 tions concerning her. Edwin seemed to forget that 
 she had been one of the first women-stenographers in 
 England, that she had been a journalist-secretary and 
 accustomed to correct the negligences of men of busi- 
 ness, and finally that she had been in business by her- 
 self for a number of years. Edwin would sweep all 
 that away, and treat her like one of your mere brain- 
 less butterflies. At any rate, on the present occasion 
 she was not late. And she took pride, instead of shame, 
 in her exaggerated earliness. She had the air of 
 having performed a remarkable feat. 
 
 She left the boudoir to go upstairs and superintend 
 Ada, though she had told the impressed Ada that she 
 should put full trust in her, and should not superintend 
 her. However, as she opened the door she heard the 
 sounds of Ada and George directing each other in the 
 joint enterprise of bringing a very large and unwieldy 
 portmanteau out of the bedroom. The hour for super- 
 intendence was therefore past. Hilda went into the 
 drawing-room, idly, nervously, to wait till the port- 
 manteau should have reached the hall. The French 
 window was ajar, and a wet wind entered from the 
 garden. The garden was full of rain. Two workmen 
 were in it, employed by the new inhabitants of the 
 home of the Orgreaves. Those upstarts had decided 
 that certain branches of the famous Orgreave elms 
 were dangerous and must be cut, and the workmen, 
 shirt sleeved in the rain, were staying one of the elms 
 with a rope made fast to the swing in the Clayhanger 
 garden. Hilda was unreasonably but sincerely anti- 
 
262 THESE TWAIN 
 
 pathetic to her new neighbours. The white-ended 
 stumps of great elm-branches made her feel sick. Use- 
 less to insist to her on the notorious treachery of 
 elms! She had an affection for those elms, and, to 
 her, amputation was an outrage. The upstarts had 
 committed other sacrilege upon the house and grounds, 
 not heeding that the abode had been rendered holy by 
 the sacraments of fate. Hilda stared and stared at 
 the rain. And the prospect of the long, jolting, 
 acutely depressing drive through the mud and the rain 
 to Knype Vale, and of the interminable train journey 
 with a tragic convalescent, braced her. 
 
 "Mother !" 
 
 George stood behind her. 
 
 "Well, have you got the luggage down? 9 ' She 
 frowned, but George knew her nervous frown and could 
 rightly interpret it. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Ought I to put 'Dartmoor' on the luggage-label?" 
 
 She gave a negative sign. 
 
 Why should he ask such a question? She had 
 never breathed the name of Dartmoor. Why should 
 he mention it? Edwin also had mentioned Dart- 
 moor. "What, on Dartmoor?" Edwin had said. Did 
 Edwin suspect her correspondence? No. Had he 
 suspected he would have spoken. She knew him. And 
 even if Edwin had suspected, George could not con- 
 ceivably have had suspicions, of any sort. . . . There 
 he stood, the son of a convict, with no name of his 
 own. He existed because she and the convict had 
 been unable to keep apart; his ignorance of the past 
 was appalling to think of, the dangers incident to it 
 dreadful; his easy confidence before the world affected 
 her almost intolerably. She felt that she could never 
 atone to him for having borne him. 
 
THE DEPARTURE 
 
 A faint noise at the front-door reached the draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 "Here's Nunks," exclaimed George, and ran off 
 eagerly. 
 
 This was his new name for his stepfather. 
 
 Hilda returned quickly to the boudoir. As she 
 disappeared therein, she heard George descanting to 
 Edwin on the beauties of his luggage-label, and Edwin 
 rubbing his feet on the mat and removing his mackin- 
 tosh. 
 
 She came back to the door of the boudoir. 
 
 "Edwin." 
 
 "Hello!" 
 
 "One moment." 
 
 He came into the boudoir, wiping the rain off his 
 face. 
 
 "Shut the door, will you?" 
 
 Her earnest, self-conscious tone stirred into activ- 
 ity the dormant secret antagonisms that seemed ever 
 to lie between them. She saw them animating his eyes, 
 stiffening his pose. 
 
 Pointing to the cup and saucer on the desk, Edwin 
 said, critically: 
 
 "That all you've had?" 
 
 "Can you let me have ten pounds?" she asked 
 bluntly, ignoring his implication that in the matter 
 of nourishment she had not behaved sensibly. 
 
 "Ten pounds? More?" He was on the defensive, as 
 it were crouching warily behind a screen of his sus- 
 picions. 
 
 She nodded, awkwardly. She wanted to be graceful, 
 persuasive, enveloping, but she could not. It was to 
 repay Janet that she had need of the money. She 
 ought to have obtained it before, but she had post- 
 poned the demand, and she had been wrong. Janet 
 
264? THESE TWAIN 
 
 would not require the money, she would have no im- 
 mediate use for it, but Hilda could not bear to be in 
 debt to her; to leave the sum outstanding would seem 
 so strange, so sinister, so equivocal; it would mar all 
 their intercourse. 
 
 "But look here, child," said Edwin, protesting, 
 "I've given you about forty times as much as you can 
 possibly want already.'* 
 
 He had never squarely refused any demand of hers 
 for money ; he had almost always acceded instantly and 
 without enquiry to her demands. Obviously he felt 
 sympathy with the woman who by eternal custom is 
 forced to ask, and had a horror of behaving as the 
 majority of husbands notoriously behaved in such cir- 
 cumstances ; obviously he was anxious not to avail 
 himself of the husband's overwhelming economic ad- 
 vantage. Nevertheless the fact that he earned and 
 she didn't was ever mysteriously present in his rela- 
 tively admirable attitude. And sometimes perhaps 
 not without grounds, she admitted he would hesitate 
 before a request, and in him a hesitation was as humil- 
 iating as a refusal would have been from another man. 
 And Hilda resented, not so much his attitude, as the 
 whole social convention upon which it was unassailably 
 based. He earned she knew. She would not deny 
 that he was the unique source and that without him 
 there would be naught. But still she did not think that 
 she ought to have to ask. On the other hand she had 
 no alternative plan to offer. Her criticism of the 
 convention was destructive, not constructive. And 
 all Edwin's careful regard for a woman's susceptibili- 
 ties seemed only to intensify her deep-hidden revolt. 
 It was a mere chance that he was thus chivalrous. And 
 whether he was chivalrous or not, she was in his power ; 
 and she chafed. 
 
THE DEPARTURE 265 
 
 "I should be glad if you could let me have it," she 
 said, grimly. 
 
 The appeal, besides being unpersuasive in manner, 
 was too general; it did not particularize. There was 
 no frankness between them. She saw his suspicions 
 multiplying. What did he suspect? What could he 
 suspect? . . . Ah! And why was she herself so 
 timorous, so strangely excited, about going even to 
 the edge of Dartmoor? And why did she feel guilty, 
 why was her glance so constrained? 
 
 "Well, I can't," he answered. "Not now ; but if any- 
 thing unexpected turns up, I can send you a cheque." 
 
 She was beaten. 
 
 The cab stopped at the front-door, well in advance 
 of time. 
 
 "It's for Janet," she muttered to him, desperately. 
 
 Edwin's face changed. 
 
 "Why in thunder didn't you say so to start with?" 
 he exclaimed. "I'll see what I can do. Of course I've 
 got a fiver in my pocket-book." 
 
 There were a number of men in the town who made 
 a point of always having a reserve five-pound note and 
 a telegraph-form upon their persons. It was the 
 dandyism of well-off prudence. 
 
 He sprang out of the room. The door swung to 
 behind him. 
 
 In a very few moments he returned. 
 
 "Here you are!" he said, taking the note from his 
 pocket-book and adding it to a collection of gold and 
 silver. 
 
 Hilda was looking out of the window at the tail of 
 the cab. She did not move. 
 
 "I don't want it, thanks," she replied coldly. And 
 she thought: "What a fool I am!" 
 
 "Oh!" he murmured, with constraint. 
 
266 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "You'd do it for her!" said Hilda, chill and clear, 
 "But you wouldn't do it for me." And she thought: 
 "Why do I say such a thing?" 
 
 He slapped all the money crossly down on the desk 
 and left the room. She could hear him instructing Ada 
 and the cabman in the manipulation of the great port- 
 manteau. 
 
 "Now, mother!" cried George. 
 
 She gazed at the money, and, picking it up, shovelled 
 it into her purse. It was irresistible. 
 
 In the hall she kissed George, and nodded with a 
 plaintive smile at Ada. Edwin was in the porch. He 
 held back ; she held back. She knew from his face that 
 he would not offer to kiss her. The strange power 
 that had compelled her to alienate him refused to allow 
 her to relent. She passed down the steps out into the 
 rain. They nodded, the theory for George and Ada 
 being that they had made their farewells in the bou- 
 doir. But George and Ada none the less had their 
 notions. It appeared to Hilda that instead of going 
 for a holiday with her closest friend, she was going 
 to some recondite disaster that involved the end of 
 marriage. And the fact that she and Edwin had not 
 kissed outweighed all other facts in the universe. Yet 
 what was a kiss? Until the cab laboriously started 
 she hoped for a miracle. It did not happen. If only 
 on the previous night she had not absolutely insisted 
 that nobody from the house should accompany her to 
 Knype! . . . The porch slipped from her vision. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 TAVY MANSION 
 
 HILDA and Harry Hesketh stood together in the 
 soft warm Devonshire sunshine bending above the foot- 
 high wire-netting that separated the small ornamental 
 pond from the lawn. By their side was a St. Bernard 
 dog with his great baptising tongue hanging out. 
 Two swans, glittering in the strong light, swam slowly 
 to and fro; one had a black claw tucked up on his 
 back among downy white feathers ; the other hissed 
 at the dog, who in his vast and shaggy good-nature 
 simply could not understand this malevolence on the 
 part of a fellow-creature. Round about the elegant 
 haughtiness of the swans clustered a number of iri- 
 descent Muscovy ducks, and a few white Aylesburys 
 with gamboge beaks that intermittently quacked, all 
 restless and expectant of blessings to fall over the 
 wire-netting that eternally separated them from the 
 heavenly hunting-ground of the lawn. Across the 
 pond, looking into a moored dinghy, an enormous drake 
 with a vermilion top-knot reposed on the balustrade 
 of the landing-steps. The water reflected everything 
 in a rippled medley blue sky, rounded woolly clouds, 
 birds, shrubs, flowers, grasses, and browny-olive 
 depths of the plantation beyond the pond, where tiny 
 children in white were tumbling and shrieking with a 
 nurse in white. 
 
 Harry was extraordinarily hospitable, kind, and 
 
 267 
 
268 THESE TWAIN 
 
 agreeable to his guest. Scarcely thirty, tall and slim, 
 he carried himself with distinction. His flannels were 
 spotless ; his white shirt was spotless ; his tennis shoes 
 were spotless; but his blazer, cap and necktie (which 
 all had the same multicoloured pattern of stripes) 
 were shabby, soiled, and without shape; nevertheless 
 their dilapidation seemed only to adorn his dandyism, 
 for they possessed a mysterious sacred quality. He 
 had a beautiful moustache, nice eyes, hands excitingly 
 dark with hair, and no affectations whatever. Al- 
 though he had inherited Tavy Mansion and a fortune 
 from an aunt who had left Oldcastle and the smoke to 
 marry a Devonshire landowner, he was boyish, modest, 
 and ingenuous. Nobody could have guessed from his 
 manner that he had children, nurses, servants, gar- 
 deners, grooms, horses, carriages, a rent-roll, and a 
 safe margin at every year's end. He spoke of the 
 Five Towns with a mild affection. Hilda thought, 
 looking at him: "He has everything, simply every- 
 thing ! And yet he's quite unspoilt !" In spite of the 
 fact that in previous years he had seen Hilda only a 
 few times and that quite casually at the Orgreaves' 
 he hfcd assumed and established intimacy at the very 
 moment of meeting her and Janet at Tavistock station 
 the night before, and their friendship might now have 
 been twenty years old instead of twenty hours. Very 
 obviously he belonged to a class superior to Hilda's, 
 but he was apparently quite unconscious of what was 
 still the most deeply-rooted and influential institution 
 of English life. His confiding confidential tone flat- 
 tered her. 
 
 "How do you think Alicia's looking?" he asked. 
 
 "Magnificent," said Hilda, throwing a last piece of 
 bread into the water. 
 
 "So do I," said he. "But she's ruined for tennis, 
 
TAVY MANSION 269 
 
 you know. This baby business is spiffing, only it puts 
 you right off your game. As a rule she manages to 
 be hors de combat bang in the middle of the season. 
 She Jias been able to play a bit this year, but she*s not 
 keen that's what's up with her ladyship she's not 
 keen now." 
 
 "Well," said Hilda. "Even you can't have every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Why 'even* me?" He laughed. 
 
 She merely gazed at him with a mysterious smile. 
 She perceived that he was admiring her probably for 
 her enigmatic quality, so different from Alicia's and 
 she felt a pleasing self-content. 
 
 "Edwin do much tennis nowadays?" 
 
 "Edwin?" She repeated the name in astonishment, 
 as though it were the name of somebody who could 
 not possibly be connected with tennis. "Not he ! He's 
 not touched a racket all this season. He's quite other- 
 wise employed." 
 
 "I hear he's a fearful pot in the Five Towns, any- 
 way," said Harry seriously. "Making money hand 
 over fist." 
 
 Hilda raised her eyebrows and shook her head depre- 
 catingly. But the marked respectfulness of Harry's 
 reference to Edwin was agreeable. She thought: "I 
 do believe I'm becoming a snob!" 
 
 "It's hard work making money, even in our small 
 way, in Bursley," she said and seemed to indicate the 
 expensive spaciousness of the gardens. 
 
 "I should like to see old Edwin again." 
 
 "I never knew you were friends." 
 
 "Well, I used to see him pretty often at Lane End 
 House, after Alicia and I were engaged. In fact once 
 he jolly nearly beat me in a set." 
 
 "Edwin did?" she exclaimed. 
 
270 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "The same. . . . He had a way of saying things 
 that a feller somehow thought about afterwards." 
 
 "Oh! So you noticed that!" 
 
 "Does he still?" 
 
 "I I don't know. But he used to." 
 
 "You ought to have brought him. In fact I quite 
 thought he was coming. Anyhow, I told Alicia to 
 invite him, too, as soon as we knew you were bringing 
 old Jan down." 
 
 "She did mention it, Alicia did. But, oh! He 
 wouldn't hear of it. Works ! Works ! No holiday all 
 summer." 
 
 "I'll tell you a scheme," said Harry roguishly. "Re- 
 fuse to rejoin the domestic hearth until he comes and 
 fetches you." 
 
 She gave a little laugh. "Oh, he won't come to fetch 
 me." 
 
 "Well," said Harry shortly and decisively, "we shall 
 see what can be done. I may tell you we're rather 
 great at getting people down here. ... I wonder 
 where those girls are?" He turned round and Hilda 
 turned round. 
 
 The red Georgian house with its windows in octago- 
 nal panes, its large pediment hiding the centre of the 
 roof, and its white paint, showed brilliantly across the 
 hoop-studded green, between some cypresses and an 
 ilex; on either side were smooth walls of green 
 trimmed shrubs forming long alleys whose floors were 
 also green ; and here and there a round or oval flower- 
 bed, and, at the edges of the garden, curved borders of 
 flowers. Everything was still, save the ship-like birds 
 on the pond, the distant children in the plantation, 
 and the slow-moving, small clouds overhead. The 
 sun's warmth was like an endearment. 
 
 Janet and Alicia, their arms round each other's 
 
TAVY MANSION 271 
 
 shoulders, sauntered into view from behind the cy- 
 presses. On the more sheltered lawn nearest the house 
 they were engaged in a quiet but tremendous palaver; 
 nobody but themselves knew what they were talking 
 about; it might have been the affair of Johnnie and 
 Mrs. Chris Hamson, as to which not a word had been 
 publicly said at Tavy Mansion since Janet and Hilda's 
 arrival. Janet still wore black, and now she carried 
 a red sunshade belonging to Alicia. Alicia was in 
 white, not very clean white, and rather tousled. She 
 was only twenty-five. She had grown big and jolly and 
 downright (even to a certain shamelessness) and care- 
 less of herself. Her body had the curves, and her face 
 the emaciation, of the young mother. She used abrupt, 
 gawky, kind-hearted gestures. Her rough affectionate- 
 ness embraced not merely her children, but all young 
 living things, and many old. For her children she had a 
 passion. And she would say openly, as it were, defi- 
 antly, that she meant to be the mother of more chil- 
 dren lots more. 
 
 "Hey, lass !" cried out Harry, using the broad Staf- 
 fordshire accent for the amusement of Hilda. 
 
 The sisters stopped and untwined their arms. 
 
 "Hey, lad !" Alicia loudly responded. But instead 
 of looking at her husband she was looking through 
 him at the babies in the plantation behind the pond. 
 
 Janet smiled, in her everlasting resignation. Hilda, 
 smiling at her in return from the distance, recalled 
 the tone in which Harry had said 'old Jan' a tone at 
 once affectionate and half-contemptuous. She was 
 old Jan, now; destined to be a burden upon somebody 
 and of very little use to anybody ; no longer necessary. 
 If she disappeared, life would immediately close over 
 her, and not a relative, not a friend, would be incon- 
 venienced. Some among them would remark: "Per- 
 
[THESE TWAIN 
 
 haps it's for the best/' And Janet knew it. In the 
 years immediately preceding the death of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Orgreave, she had hardened a little from her earlier 
 soft, benevolent self hardened to everybody save her 
 father and mother, whom she protected and now she 
 was utterly tender again, and her gentle acquiescences 
 seemed to say: "I am defenceless, and to-morrow I 
 shall be old." 
 
 "I'm going to telegraph to Edwin Clayhanger to 
 come down for the week-end," shouted Harry. 
 
 And Alicia shouted in reply: 
 
 "Oh! Spiffing!" 
 
 Hilda said nervously: 
 
 "You aren't, really?" 
 
 She had no intention of agreeing to the pleasant 
 project. A breach definitely existed between Edwin 
 and herself, and the idea of either maintaining it or 
 ending it on foreign ground was inconceivable. Such 
 things could only be done at home. She had tele- 
 graphed a safe arrival, but she had not yet written 
 to him nor decided in what tone she should write. 
 
 Two gardeners, one pushing a wheeled water-can, 
 appeared from an alley and began silently and assidu- 
 ously to water a shaded flower-bed. Alicia and Harry 
 continued to shout enthusiastically to each other in 
 a manner sufficiently disturbing, but the gardeners 
 gave no sign that anybody except themselves lived in 
 the garden. Alicia, followed by Janet, was slowly ad- 
 vancing towards the croquet lawn, when a parlourmaid 
 tripping from the house overtook her, and with mod- 
 est deference murmured something to the bawling, jolly 
 mistress. Alicia, still followed by Janet, turned and 
 went into the house, while the parlourmaid with bent 
 head waited discreetly to bring up the rear. 
 
 A sudden and terrific envy possessed Hilda as she 
 
TAVY MANSION 27S 
 
 contrasted the circumstances of these people with her 
 own. These people lived in lovely and cleanly sur- 
 roundings without a care beyond the apprehension of 
 nursery ailments. They had joyous and kindly dis- 
 positions. They were well-bred, and they were at- 
 tended by servants who, professionally, were even bet- 
 ter bred than themselves, and who were rendered happy 
 by smooth words and good pay. They lived at peace 
 with everyone. Full of health, they ate well and slept 
 well. They suffered no strain. They had absolutely 
 no problems, and they did not seek problems. Nor 
 had they any duties, save agreeable ones to each other. 
 Their world was ideal. If you had asked them how 
 their world could be improved for them, they would not 
 have found an easy reply. They could only have de- 
 manded less taxes and more fine days. . . . Whereas 
 Hilda and hers were forced to live among a brutal 
 populace, amid the most horrible surroundings of 
 smoke, dirt, and squalor. In Devonshire the Five 
 Towns was unthinkable; the whiteness of the window- 
 curtains at Tavy Mansion almost broke the heart of 
 the housewife in Hilda. And compare not Hilda's 
 handkerchief-garden, but even the old garden of the 
 Orgreaves, with this elysium, where nothing offended 
 the eye and the soot nowhere lay on the trees, blacken- 
 ing the shiny leaves and stunting the branches. And 
 compare the too mean planning and space-saving of 
 the house in Trafalgar Road with the lavish generosity 
 of space inside Tavy Mansion ! . . . 
 
 Edwin in the Bursley sense was a successful man, 
 and had consequence in the town, but the most that 
 he had acomplished or could accomplish would not 
 amount to the beginning of appreciable success ac- 
 cording to higher standards. Nobody in Bursley really 
 knew the meaning of the word success. And even such 
 
#74 THESE TWAIN 
 
 local success as Edwin had had at what peril and 
 with what worry was it won! These Heskeths were 
 safe forever. Ah! She envied them, and she intensely 
 depreciated everything that was hers. She stood in 
 the Tavy Mansion garden it seemed to her like an 
 impostor. Her husband was merely struggling up- 
 wards. And moreover she had quarrelled with him, 
 darkly and obscurely; and who , could guess what 
 would be the end of marriage ? Harry and Alicia never 
 quarrelled; they might have tiffs nothing worse than 
 ihat; they had no grounds for quarrelling. . . . And 
 supposing Harry and Alicia guessed the link connect- 
 ing her with Dartmoor prison ! . . . No, it could 
 not be supposed. Her envy melted into secret deep 
 dejection amid the beautiful and prosperous scene. 
 
 "Evidently some one's called," said Harry, of his 
 wife's disappearance. "I hope she's nice." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Whoever's called. Shall we knock the balls about 
 a bit?" 
 
 They began a mild game of croquet. But after a 
 few minutes Hilda burst out sharply: 
 
 "You aren't playing your best, Mr. Hesketh. I 
 wish you would." 
 
 He was startled by her eyes and her tone. 
 
 "Honest Injun! I am," he fibbed in answer. "But 
 I'll try to do better. You must remember croquet 
 isn't my game. Alicia floors me at it five times out 
 of six." 
 
 Then the parlourmaid and another maid came out to 
 lay tea on two tables under the ilex. 
 
 "Bowley," said Harry over his shoulder. "Bring 
 me a telegraph- form next time you come out, will you ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the parlourmaid. 
 
 Hilda protested: 
 
TAVY MANSION 275 
 
 "No, Mr. Hesketh ! Really ! I assure you " 
 
 The telegraph-form came with the tea. Harry 
 knocked a ball against a coloured stick, and both he 
 and Hilda sat down with relief. 
 
 "Who's called, Bowley?" 
 
 "Mrs. Rotherwas, sir." 
 
 Harry counted the cups- 
 
 "Isn't she staying for tea?" 
 
 "No, sir. I think not, sir." 
 
 Hilda, humming, rose and walked about. At the 
 same moment Alicia, Janet, and a tall young woman 
 in black and yellow emerged from the house. Hilda 
 moved behind a tree. She could hear good-byes. The 
 group vanished round the side of the house, and then 
 came the sound of hoofs and of wheels crunching. 
 An instant later Alicia arrived at the ilex, bounding 
 and jolly; Janet moved more sedately. The St. Ber- 
 nard, who had been reposing near the pond, now smelt 
 the tea and hot cakes and joined the party. The wag- 
 ging of his powerful tail knocked over a wicker-chair, 
 and Alicia gave a squeal. Then Alicia, putting her 
 hands to her mouth, shouted across the lawn and the 
 pond: 
 
 "Nursey ! Nursey ! Take them in !" 
 
 And a faint reply came. 
 
 "What was the Rotherwas dame after?" asked 
 Harry, sharpening a pencil, when Alicia had ascer- 
 tained the desires of her guests as to milk and sugar. 
 
 "She was after you, of course," said Alicia. "Ten- 
 nis party on Monday. She wants you to balance 
 young Truscott. I just told her so. We shall all go. 
 You'll go, Hilda. She'll be delighted. I should have 
 brought her along only she was in such a hurry." 
 
 Hilda enquired: 
 
 "Who is, Mrs. Rotherwas?" 
 
276 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Her husband's a big coal-owner at Cardiff. But 
 she's a niece or something of the governor of Dart- 
 moor prison, and she's apparently helping to keep 
 house for dear uncle just now. They'll take us over 
 the prison before tennis. It's awfully interesting. 
 Harry and I have been once." 
 
 "Oh !" murmured Hilda, ^staggered. 
 
 "Now about this 'ere woire," said Harry. "What 
 price this?" He handed over the message which he 
 had just composed. It was rather long, and on the 
 form was left space for only two more words. 
 
 Hilda could not decipher it. She saw the charac- 
 ters with her eyes, but she was incapable of interpret- 
 ing them. All the time she thought: 
 
 "I shall go to that prison. I can't help it. I shan't 
 be able to keep from going. I shall go to that prison. 
 I must go. Who could have imagined this? I am 
 bound to go, and I shall go." 
 
 But instead of objecting totally to the despatch of 
 the telegram, she said in a strange voice: 
 
 "It's very nice of you." 
 
 "You fill up the rest of the form," said Harry, 
 offering the pencil. 
 
 "What must I put?" 
 
 "Well, you'd better put 'Countersigned, Hilda.' 
 That'll fix it." 
 
 "Will you write it?" she muttered. 
 
 He wrote the words. 
 
 "Let poor mummy see!" Alicia complained, seizing 
 the telegraph-form. 
 
 Harry called out: 
 
 "Leeks !" 
 
 A shirt-sleeved gardener half hidden by foliage 
 across the garden looked up sharply, saw Harry's beck- 
 oning finger, and approached running. 
 
TAVY MANSION 277 
 
 "Have that sent off for me, will you? Tell Jos to 
 take it," said Harry, and gave Leeks the form and a 
 florin. 
 
 "Why, Hilda, you aren't eating anything!" pro- 
 tested Alicia. 
 
 "I only want tea," said Hilda casually, wondering 
 whether they had noticed anything wrong in her face. 
 
 Edwin, looking curiously out of the carriage- 
 window as the train from Plymouth entered Tavistock 
 station early on the Monday, was surprised to per- 
 ceive Harry Hesketh on the platform. While, in the 
 heavenly air of the September morning, the train was 
 curving through Bickleigh Vale and the Valley of the 
 Plym and through the steeper valley of the Meavy up 
 towards the first fastnesses of the Moor, he had felt 
 his body to be almost miraculously well and his soul 
 almost triumphant. But when he saw Harry the re- 
 membered figure, but a little stouter and coarser 
 he saw a being easily more triumphant than him- 
 self. 
 
 Harry had great reason for triumph, for he had 
 proved himself to possess a genius for deductive psy- 
 chological reasoning and for prophecy. Edwin had 
 been characteristically vague about the visit. First he 
 had telegraphed that he could not come, business pre- 
 venting. Then he had telegraphed that he would come, 
 but only on Sunday, and he had given no particulars 
 of trains. They had all assured one another that this 
 was just like Edwin. "The man's mad!" said Harry 
 with genial benevolence, and had set himself to one 
 of his favourite studies Bradshaw. He always han- 
 dled Bradshaw like a master, accomplishing feats of 
 
278 THESE TWAIN 
 
 interpretation that amazed his wife. He had an- 
 nounced, after careful connotations, that Edwin was 
 perhaps after all not such a chump, but that he was 
 in fact a chump, in that, having chosen the Bristol- 
 Plymouth route, he had erred about the Sunday night 
 train from Plymouth to Tavistock. How did he know 
 that Edwin would choose the Bristol-Plymouth 
 route? Well, his knowledge was derived from divina- 
 tion, based upon vast experience of human nature. 
 Edwin would "get stuck" at Plymouth. He would 
 sleep at Plymouth staying at the Royal (he hoped) 
 and would come on by the 8.1 a.m. on Monday, 
 arriving at 8.59 a.m., where he would be met by 
 Harry in the dog-cart drawn by Joan. The tele- 
 graph was of course closed after 10 a.m. on Sunday, 
 but if it had been open and he had been receiving 
 hourly despatches about Edwin's tortuous progress 
 through England, Harry could not have been more 
 sure of his position. And on the Monday Harry 
 had risen up in the very apogee of health, and had 
 driven Joan to the station. "Mark my words!" he 
 had said. "I shall bring him back with me for break- 
 fast." He had offered to take Hilda to the station 
 to witness his triumph; but Hilda had not accepted. 
 
 And there Edwin was! Everything had happened 
 according to Harry's prediction, except that, from an 
 unfortunate modesty, Edwin had gone to the wrong 
 hotel at Plymouth. 
 
 They shook hands in a glow of mutual pleasure. 
 
 "How on earth did you know?" Edwin began. 
 
 The careful-casual answer rounded off Harry's 
 triumph. And Edwin thought: "Why, he's just like 
 a grown-up boy !" But he was distinguished ; his 
 club-necktie in all its decay was still impressive ; and 
 his expansive sincere goodwill was utterly delightful. 
 
TAVY MANSION 
 
 Also the station, neat, clean, solid the negation of 
 all gimcrackery had an aspect of goodwill to man; 
 its advertisements did not flare; and it seemed to be 
 the expression of a sound and self-respecting race. 
 The silvern middle-aged guard greeted Harry with 
 deferential heartiness and saluted Edwin with even 
 more warmth than he had used at Plymouth. On 
 the Sunday Edwin had noticed that in the western 
 country guards were not guards (as in other parts 
 of England), but rather the cordial hosts of their 
 trains. As soon as the doors had banged in a fusil- 
 lade and the engine whistled, a young porter came 
 and, having exchanged civilities with Harry, picked 
 up Edwin's bag. This porter's face and demeanour 
 showed perfect content. His slight yet eager smile 
 and his quick movements seemed to be saying: "It 
 is natural and proper that I should salute you and 
 carry your bag while you walk free. You are gen- 
 tlemen by divine right, and by the same right I am 
 a railway porter and happy." To watch the man 
 at his job gave positive pleasure, and it was extra- 
 ordinarily reassuring reassuring about everything. 
 Outside the station, the groom stood at Joan's head, 
 and a wonderful fox-terrier sat alert under the dog- 
 cart. Instantly the dog sprang out and began to 
 superintend the preparations for departure, rushing 
 to and fro and insisting all the time that delay would 
 be monstrous, if not fatal. The dog's excellence as 
 a specimen of breeding was so superlative as to ac- 
 cuse its breeder and owner of a lack of perspective 
 in life. It was as if the entire resources of civiliza- 
 tion had been employed towards the perfecting of the 
 points of that dog. 
 
 "Balanced the cart, I suppose, Jos?" asked Harry, 
 kindly. 
 
280 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Yes, sir," was all that Jos articulated, but his 
 bright face said: "Sir, your assumption that I have 
 already balanced the cart for three and a bag is be- 
 nevolent and justified. You trust me. I trust you, 
 sir. All is well." 
 
 The bag was stowed and the porter got threepence 
 and was so happy in his situation that apparently 
 he could not bring himself to leave the scene. Harry 
 climbed up on the right, Edwin on the left. The dog 
 gave one short bark and flew madly forward. Jos 
 loosed Joan's head, and at the same moment Harry 
 .gave a click, and the machine started. It did not 
 wait for young Jos. Jos caught the back step as the 
 machine swung by, and levered himself dangerously to 
 the groom's place. And when he had done it he 
 grinned, announcing to beholders that his mission in 
 life was to do just that, and that it was a grand life 
 and he a lucky and enviable fellow. 
 
 Harry drove across the Tavy, and through the small 
 grey and brown town, so picturesque, so clean, so solid, 
 so respectable, so content in its historicity. A police- 
 man saluted amiably and firmly, as if saying: "I am 
 protecting all this, what a treasure!" Then they 
 passed the Town Hall. 
 ' ^Town Hall," said Harry. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "The Book's," said Harry. 
 
 He put on a certain facetiousness, but there never- 
 theless escaped from him the conviction that the own- 
 ership of a town hall by a Duke was a wondrous rare 
 phenomenon and fine, showing the strength of grand 
 English institutions and traditions, and meet for hon- 
 est English pride. (And you could say what you 
 liked about progress!) And Edwin had just the same 
 feeling. In another minute they were out of the town. 
 
TAVY MANSION 281 
 
 The countryside, though bleak, with its spare hedges 
 and granite walls, was exquisitely beautiful in the 
 morning light; and it was tidy, tended, mature; it 
 was as though it had nothing to learn from the fu- 
 ture. Beyond rose the slopes of the moor, tonic and 
 grim. An impression of health, moral and physical, 
 everywhere disengaged itself. The wayfarer, sturdy 
 and benign, invigorated by his mere greeting. The 
 trot of the horse on the smooth winding road, the 
 bounding of the dog, the resilience of the cart-springs, 
 the sharp tang of the air on the cheek, all helped to 
 perfect Edwin's sense of pleasure in being alive. He 
 could not deny that he had stood in need of a change. 
 He had been worrying, perhaps through over- 
 work. Overwork was a mistake. He now saw that 
 there was no reason why he should not be happy 
 always, even with Hilda. He had received a short but 
 nice and almost apologetic letter from Hilda. As for 
 his apprehensions, what on earth did it matter about 
 Dartmoor being so near? Nothing! This district 
 was marvellously reassuring. He thought: "There 
 simply is no social question down here!" 
 
 "Had your breakfast?" asked Harry. 
 
 "Yes, thanks." 
 
 "Well, you just haven't, then!" said Harry. "We 
 shall be in the nick of time for it." 
 
 "When do you have breakfast?" 
 
 "Nine thirty." 
 
 "Bit late, isn't it?" 
 
 "Oh no! It suits us. . . . I say!" Harry stared 
 straight between the horse's ears. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Harry murmured: 
 
 "No more news about Johnnie, I suppose?" 
 
 (Edwin glanced half round at the groom behind. 
 
282 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Harry with a gesture indicated that the groom was 
 negligible. ) 
 
 "Not that I've heard. Bit stiff, isn't it?" Edwin 
 answered. 
 
 "Bit stiff? I should rather say it was. Especially 
 after Jimmie's performance. Rather hard lines on 
 Alicia, don't you think?" 
 
 "On all of 'em," said Edwin, not seeing why John- 
 nie's escapade should press more on Alicia than, for 
 example, on Janet. 
 
 "Yes, of course," Harry agreed, evidently seeing 
 and accepting the point. "The less said the better!" 
 
 "I'm with you," said Edwin. 
 
 Harry resumed his jolly tone: 
 
 "Well, you'd better peck a bit. We've planned a 
 hard day for you." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Yes. Early lunch, and then we're going to drive 
 over to Princetown. Tennis with the Governor of the 
 prison. He'll show us all over the prison. It's worth 
 seeing." 
 
 Impulsively Edwin exclaimed: 
 
 "All of you? Is Hilda going?" 
 
 "Certainly. Why not?" He raised the whip and 
 pointed: "Behold our noble towers." 
 
 Edwin, feeling really sick, thought: 
 
 "Hilda's mad. She's quite mad. .. . . Morbid 
 isn't the word!" 
 
 He was confounded. 
 
 m 
 
 At Tavy Mansion Edwin and Harry were told by 
 a maid that Mrs. Hesketh and Miss Orgreave were 
 in the nursery and would be down in a moment, but 
 
TAVY MANSION 283 
 
 that Mrs. Clajhanger had a headache and was re- 
 maining in bed for breakfast. The master of the house 
 himself took Edwin to the door of his wife's bedroom. 
 Edwin's spirits had risen in an instant, as he per- 
 ceived the cleverness of Hilda's headache. There 
 could be no doubt that women were clever, though per- 
 haps unscrupulously and crudely clever, in a way be- 
 yond the skill of men. By the simple device of suf- 
 fering from a headache Hilda had avoided the ordeal 
 of meeting a somewhat estranged husband in public; 
 she was also preparing an excuse for not going to 
 Princetown and the prison. Certainly it was better, in 
 the Dartmoor affair, to escape at the last moment than 
 to have declined the project from the start. 
 
 As he opened the bedroom-door, apprehensions and 
 bright hope were mingled in him. He had a weighty 
 grievance against Hilda, whose behaviour at parting 
 had been, he considered, inexcusable; but the warm 
 tone of her curt private telegram to him and of her 
 almost equally curt letter, re-stating her passionate 
 love, was really equivalent to an apology, which he ac- 
 cepted with eagerness. Moreover he had done a lot in 
 coming to Devonshire, and for this great act he lauded 
 himself and he expected some gratitude. Nevertheless, 
 despite the pacificism of his feelings, he could not smile 
 when entering the room. No, he could not ! 
 
 Hilda was lying in the middle of a very wide bed, 
 and her dark hair was spread abroad upon the pillow. 
 On the pedestal was a tea-tray. Squatted comfort- 
 ably at Hilda's side, with her left arm as a support, 
 was a baby about a year old, dressed for the day. 
 This was Cecil, born the day after his grandparents' 
 funeral. Cecil, with mouth open and outstretched pink 
 hands, of which the fingers were spread like the rays of 
 half a starfish, from wide eyes gazed at Edwin with 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 a peculiar expression of bland irony. Hilda smiled 
 lovingly; she smiled without reserve. And as soon as 
 she smiled, Edwin could smile, and his heart was sud- 
 denly quite light. 
 
 Hilda thought: 
 
 "That wistful look in his eyes has never changed, 
 and it never will. Imagine him travelling on Sunday, 
 when the silly old thing might just as well have come 
 on Saturday, if he'd had anybody to decide him ! He's 
 been travelling for twenty-four hours or more, and 
 now he's here ! What a shame for me to have dragged 
 him down here in spite of himself! But he would do 
 it for me! He has done it. ,. ; . . I had to have him, 
 for this afternoon! . ,. ,. : After all he must be very 
 good at business. Everyone respects him, even here. 
 We may end by being really rich. Have I ever really 
 appreciated him? ... ,.. ,. And now of course he's going 
 to be annoyed again. Poor boy!" 
 
 "Hello! Who's this?" cried Edwin. 
 
 "This is Cecil. His mummy's left him. here with 
 his Auntie Hilda," said Hilda. 
 
 "Another clever dodge of hers!" thought Edwin. 
 He liked the baby being there. 
 
 He approached the bed, and, staring nervously 
 about, saw that his bag had already mysteriously 
 reached the bedroom. 
 
 "Well, my poor boy! What a journey!" Hilda 
 murmured compassionately. She could not help show- 
 ing that she was his mother in wisdom and sense. 
 
 "Oh no !" he amiably dismissed this view. 
 
 He was standing over her by the bedside. She 
 looked straight up at him timid and expectant. He 
 bent and kissed her. Under his kiss she shifted slightly 
 in the bed, and her arms clung round his neck, and 
 by her arms she lifted herself a little towards him. 
 
TAVY MANSION 285 
 
 She shut her eyes. She would not loose him. She 
 seemed again to be drawing the life out of him. At 
 last she let him go, and gave a great sigh. All the past 
 which did not agree with that kiss and that sigh of 
 content was annihilated, and an immense reassurance 
 filled Edwin's mind. 
 
 "So you've got a headache?" 
 
 She gave a succession of little nods, smiling hap- 
 
 piiy- 
 
 "I'm so glad you've come, dearest," she said, after 
 a pause. She was just like a young girl, like a child, 
 in her relieved satisfaction. "What about George?" 
 
 "Well, as it was left to me to decide, I thought I'd 
 better ask Maggie to come and stay in the house. 
 Much better than packing him u^ to Auntie 
 Hamps's." 
 
 "And she came?" 
 
 "Oh yes !" said Edwin, indiff erentl; . as if to say : 
 "Of course she came." 
 
 "Then you did get my letter in t .me ?" 
 
 "I shouldn't have got it in timf if I'd left Satur- 
 day morning as you wanted. Oh f And here's a letter 
 for you." 
 
 He pulled a letter from his pocket. The envelope 
 was of the peculiar tinted paper with which he had 
 already been familiarised. Hilda became self-con- 
 scious as she took the letter and opened it. Edwin too 
 was self-conscious. To lighten the situation, he put his 
 little finger in the baby's mouth. Cecil much appreciated 
 this form of humour, and as soon as the finger was with- 
 drawn from his toothless gums, he made a bubbling 
 whirring noise, and waved his arms to indicate that 
 the game must continue. Hilda, frowning, read the 
 letter. Edwin sat down, ledging himself cautiously 
 on the brink of the bed, and leaned back a little so as 
 
286 THESE TWAIN 
 
 to be able to get at the baby and tickle it among its 
 frills. From the distance, beyond walls, he could hear 
 the powerful happy cries of older babies, beings fully 
 aware of themselves, who knew their own sentiments 
 and could express them. And he glanced round the 
 long low room with its two small open windows show- 
 ing sunlit yellow cornfields and high trees, and its 
 monumental furniture, and the disorder of Hilda's 
 clothes and implements humanising it and individual- 
 ising it and making it her abode, her lair. And he 
 glanced prudently at Hilda over the letter-paper. She 
 had no headache ; it was obvious that she had no head- 
 ache. Yet in the most innocent touching way she had 
 nodded an affirmative to his question about the head- 
 ache. He could not possibly have said to her : "Look 
 here, you know you haven't got a headache." She 
 would not have tolerated the truth. The truth would 
 have made her transform herself instantly into a 
 martyr, and him into a brute. She would have stuck 
 to it, even if the seat of eternal judgment had sud- 
 denly been installed at the brassy foot of the bed, 
 that she had a headache. 
 
 It was with this mentality (he reflected, assuming 
 that his own mentality never loved anything as well 
 as truth) that he had to live till one of them expired. 
 He reminded himself wisely that the woman's code is 
 different from the man's. But the honesty of his in- 
 telligence rejected such an explanation, such an excuse. 
 It was not that the woman had a different code, she 
 had no code except the code of the utter opportunist. 
 To live with her was like living with a marvellous 
 wild animal, full of grace, of cunning, of magnificent 
 passionate gestures, of terrific affection, and of cruelty. 
 She was at once indispensable and intolerable. He 
 felt that to match her he had need of all his force, all 
 
TAVY MANSION 287 
 
 his prescience, all his duplicity. The mystery that 
 had lain between him and Hilda for a year was in the 
 letter within two feet of his nose. He could watch 
 her as she read, study her face; he knew that he was 
 the wiser of the two; she was at a disadvantage; as 
 regards the letter, she was fighting on ground chosen 
 by him; and yet he could not in the least foresee the 
 next ten minutes, whether she would advance, retreat, 
 feint, or surrender. 
 
 "Did you bring your dress-clothes?" she murmured, 
 while she was reading. She had instructed him in her 
 letter on this point. 
 
 "Of course," he said, manfully, striving to imply 
 the immense untruth that he never stirred from home 
 without his dress-clothes. 
 
 She continued to read, frowning, and drawing her 
 heavy eyebrows still closer together. Then she said: 
 
 "Here!" 
 
 And passed him the letter. He could see now that 
 she was becoming excited. 
 
 The letter was from the legitimate Mrs. George 
 Cannon, and it said that, though nothing official was 
 announced or even breathed, her solicitor had gath- 
 ered from a permanent and important underling of 
 the Home Office that George Cannon's innocence was 
 supposed to be established, and that the Queen's par- 
 don would, at some time or other, be issued. It was an 
 affecting letter. Edwin, totally ignorant of all that 
 had preceded it, did not immediately understand its 
 significance. At first he did not even grasp what it 
 was about. When he did begin to comprehend he had 
 the sensation of being deprived momentarily of his 
 bearings. He had expected everything but this. That 
 is to say, he had absolutely not known what to ex- 
 pect. The shock was severe. 
 
288 THESE TWAIN 
 
 " 'What is it? What is it?" he questioned, as if im- 
 patient. 
 
 Hilda replied: 
 
 "It's about George Cannon. It seems he was quite 
 innocent in that bank-note affair. It's his wife who's 
 been writing to me about it. I don't know why she 
 should. But she did, and of course I had to reply." 
 
 "You never said anything to me about it." 
 
 "I didn't want to worry you, dearest. I knew you'd 
 quite enough on your mind with the works. Besides, 
 I'd no right to worry you with a thing like that. 
 But of course I can show you all her letters, I've 
 kept them." 
 
 Unanswerable! Unanswerable! Insincere, concoct- 
 ed, but unanswerable! The implications in her 
 spoken defence were of the simplest and deepest in- 
 genuity, and withal they hurt him. For example, the 
 implication that the strain of the new works was 
 breaking him ! As if he could not support it, and had 
 not supported it, easily! As if the new works meant 
 that he could not fulfil all his duties as a helpmeet! 
 And then the devilishly adroit plea that her conceal- 
 ment was morally necessary since he ought not to be 
 troubled with any result of her pre-conjugal life! And 
 finally the implication that he would be jealous of the 
 correspondence and might exact the production of it! 
 ;. ,.; r . He now callously ignored Cecil's signals for 
 attention. .., ,., ,. He knew that he would receive no 
 further enlightenment as to the long secrecy of the 
 past twelve months. His fears and apprehensions and 
 infelicity were to be dismissed with those few words. 
 They would never be paid for, redeemed, atoned. The 
 grand scenic explanation and submission which was 
 his right would never come. Sentimentally, he was 
 cheated, and had no redress. And, as a climax, he 
 
TAVY MANSION 289 
 
 had to assume, to pretend, that justice still prevailed 
 on earth. 
 
 "Isn't it awful!" Hilda muttered. "Him in prison 
 all this time !" 
 
 He saw that her eyes were wet, and her emotion 
 increasing. 
 
 He nodded in sympathy. 
 
 He thought: 
 
 "She'll want some handling, I can see that !" 
 
 He too, as well as she, imaginatively comprehended 
 the dreadful tragedy of George Cannon's false im- 
 prisonment. He had heart enough to be very glad 
 that the innocent man (innocent at any rate of that 
 one thing) was to be released. But at the same time 
 he could not stifle a base foreboding and regret. Look- 
 ing at his wife, he feared the moment when George 
 Cannon, with all the enormous prestige of a victim in a 
 woman's eyes, should be at large. Yes, the lover in 
 him would have preferred George Cannon to be incar- 
 cerated forever. Had he not heard, had he not read, 
 had he not seen on the stage, that a woman never for- 
 gets the first man ? Nonsense, all that ! Invented the- 
 atrical psychology! And yet if it was true! .., ,. : .., 
 Look at her eyes ! 
 
 "I suppose he is innocent?" he said gruffly, for he 
 mistrusted, or affected to mistrust, the doings of these 
 two women together, Cannon's wife and Cannon's vic- 
 tim. Might they not somehow have been hoodwinked? 
 He knew nothing, no useful detail, naught that was 
 convincing and he never would know! Was it not 
 astounding that the bigamist should have both these 
 women on his side, either working for him, or weeping 
 over his woes? 
 
 "He must be innocent," Hilda answered, thought- 
 fully, in a breaking voice. 
 
290 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Where is he now, up yon?" 
 
 He indicated the unvisited heights of Dartmoor. 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "I thought they always shifted 'em back to Lon- 
 don before they released 'em." 
 
 "I expect they will do. They may have moved him 
 already." 
 
 His mood grew soft, indulgent. He conceded that 
 Jier emotion was natural. She had been bound up 
 with the man. Cannon's admitted guilt on the one 
 count, together with all that she had suffered through 
 it, only intensified the poignancy of his innocence on 
 the other count. Contrary to the general assumption, 
 you must be sorrier for an unfortunate rascal than 
 for an unfortunate good man. He could feel all that. 
 He, Edwin, was to be pitied; but nobody save him- 
 self would perceive that he was to be pitied. His 
 role would be difficult, but all his pride and self-re- 
 liance commanded him to play it well, using every 
 resource of his masculine skill, and so prove that he 
 was that which he believed himself to be. The future 
 would be all right, because he would be equal to the 
 emergency. Why should it not be all right? His 
 heart in kindliness and tenderness drew nearer to 
 Hilda's, and he saw, or fancied he saw, that all their 
 guerilla had been leading up to this, had perhaps been 
 caused by this, and would be nobly ended by it. 
 
 Just then a mysterious noise penetrated the room, 
 growing and growing until it became a huge deafening 
 din, and slowly died away. 
 
 "I expect that's breakfast," said Edwin in a casual 
 tone. 
 
 The organism of the English household was func- 
 tioning. Even in the withdrawn calm of the bedroom 
 they could feel it irresistibly functioning. The gong 
 
TAVY MANSION 291 
 
 had a physical effect on Cecil; all his disappointment 
 and his* sense of being neglected were gathered up in 
 his throat and exploded in a yell. Hilda took him 
 in her right arm and soothed him and called him 
 silly names. 
 
 Edwin rose from the bed, and as he did so, Hilda re- 
 tained him with her left hand, and pulled him very 
 gently towards her, inviting a kiss. He kissed her. 
 She held to him. He could see at a distance of two 
 inches all the dark swimming colour of her wet eyes 
 half veiled by the long lashes. And he could feel the 
 soft limbs of the snuffling baby somewhere close to 
 his head. 
 
 "You'd better stick where you are," he advised her 
 in a casual tone. 
 
 Hilda thought: 
 
 "Now the time's come. He'll be furious. But I 
 can't help it." 
 
 She said: 
 
 "Oh no. I shall be quite all right soon. I'm going 
 to get up in about half an hour." 
 
 "But then how shall you get out of going to Prince- 
 town?" 
 
 "Oh! Edwin! I must go. I told them I should 
 go." 
 
 He was astounded. There was no end to her in- 
 calculability, no end! His resentment was violent. 
 He stood right away from her. 
 
 " 'Told them you should go' !" he exclaimed. "What 
 in the name of heaven does that matter? Are you 
 absolutely mad?" 
 
 She stiffened. Her features hardened. In the midst 
 of her terrible relief as to the fate of George Cannon 
 and of her equal terrible excitement under the enig- 
 matic and irresistible mesmerism of Dartmoor prison, 
 
292 THESE TWAIN 
 
 she was desperate, and resentment against Edwin 
 kindled deep within her. She felt the brute in him. 
 She felt that he would never really understand. She 
 felt all her weakness and all his strength, but she was 
 determined. At bottom she knew well that her weak- 
 ness was the stronger. 
 
 "I must go !" she repeated. 
 
 "It's nothing but morbidness!" he said savagely. 
 "Morbidness ! . . . Well, I shan't have it. I shan't 
 let you go. And that's flat." 
 
 She kept silent. Frightfully disturbed, cursing 
 women, forgetting utterly in a moment his sublime re- 
 solves, Edwin descended to breakfast in the large, 
 strange house. Existence was monstrous. 
 
 And before the middle of the morning Hilda came 
 into the garden where everyone else was idling. And 
 Alicia and Janet fondly kissed her. She said her head- 
 ache had vanished. 
 
 "Sure you feel equal to going this afternoon, dear- 
 est?" asked Janet. 
 
 "Oh yes!" Hilda replied lightly. "It will do me 
 ood." 
 
 Edwin was helpless. He thought, recalling with 
 vexation his last firm forbidding words to Hilda in 
 the bedroom: 
 
 "Nobody could be equal to this emergency." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE PRISON 
 
 HARRY had two stout and fast cobs in a light wag- 
 onette. He drove himself, and Hilda sat by his side. 
 The driver's boast was that he should accomplish the 
 ten miles, with a rise of a thousand feet, in an hour 
 and a quarter. A hired carriage would have spent two 
 hours over the journey. 
 
 It was when they had cleared the town, and were 
 on the long straight rise across the moor towards 
 Longford, that the horses began to prove the faith that 
 was in them, eager, magnanimous, conceiving grandly 
 the splendour of their task in life, and irrepressibly 
 performing it with glory. The stones on the loose-sur- 
 faced road flew from under the striding of their hoofa 
 into the soft, dark ling on either hand. Harry's whip 
 hovered in affection over their twin backs, never touch- 
 ing them, and Harry smiled mysteriously to himself. 
 He did not wish to talk. Nor did Hilda. The move- 
 ment braced and intoxicated her, and rendered thought 
 impossible. She brimmed with emotion, like a vase with 
 some liquid unanalysable and perilous. She was not 
 happy, she was not unhappy; the sensation of her 
 vitality and of the kindred vitality of the earth and the 
 air was overwhelming. She would have prolonged the 
 journey indefinitely, and yet she intensely desired the 
 goal, whatever terrors it might hold for her. At in- 
 tervals she pulled up the embroidered and mono- 
 
294 THESE TWAIN 
 
 grammed apron that slipped slowly down over her skirt 
 and over Harry's tennis-flannels, disclosing two rack- 
 ets in a press that lay between them. Perhaps Harry 
 was thinking of certain strokes at tennis. 
 
 "Longford!" ejaculated Harry, turning his head 
 slightly towards the body of the vehicle, as they rat- 
 tled by a hamlet. 
 
 Soon afterwards the road mounted steeply, five 
 hundred feet in little more than a mile, and the horses 
 walked, but they walked in haste, fiercely, clawing at 
 the road with their forefeet and thrusting it behind 
 them. And some of the large tors emerged clearly 
 into view Cox Tor, the Staple Tors, and Great Mis 
 lifting its granite above them and beyond. 
 
 They were now in the midst of the moor, trotting 
 fast again. Behind and before them, and on either 
 side, there was nothing but moor and sky. The sky, 
 a vast hemisphere of cloud and blue and sunshine, with 
 a complex and ever elusive geography of its own, dis- 
 covered all the tints of heath and granite. It was one 
 of those days when every tint was divided into ten 
 thousand shades, and each is richer and more softly 
 beautiful than the others. On the shoulder of Great 
 Mis rain fell, while little Vixen Tor glittered with mica 
 points in the sun. Nothing could be seen over the 
 whole moor save here and there a long-tailed pony, or 
 a tiny cottage set apart in solitude. And the yellow- 
 ish road stretched forward, wavily, narrowing, dis- 
 appeared for a space, reappeared still narrower, disap- 
 peared once more, reappeared like a thin meandering 
 line, and was lost on the final verge. It was an end- 
 less road. Impossible that the perseverance of horses 
 should cover it yard by yard ! But the horses strained 
 onward, seeing naught but the macadam under their 
 noses. Harry checked them at a descent. 
 
THE PRISON 295 
 
 "Walkham River!" he announced. 
 
 They crossed a pebbly stream by a granite bridge. 
 
 "Hut-circles !" said Harry laconically. 
 
 They were climbing again. 
 
 Edwin, in the body of the wagonette with Janet and 
 Alicia, looked for hut-circles and saw none ; but he did 
 not care. He was content with the knowledge that 
 prehistoric hut-circles were somewhere there. He had 
 never seen wild England before, and its primeval san- 
 ity awoke in him the primeval man. The healthiness 
 and simplicity and grandiose beauty of it created the 
 sublime illusion that civilisation was worthy to be 
 abandoned. The Five Towns seemed intolerable by 
 their dirt and ugliness, and by the tedious intricacy 
 of their existence. Lithography, you had but to think 
 of the word to perceive the paltriness of the thing! 
 Riches, properties, proprieties, all the safeties, fu- 
 tile! He could have lived alone with Hilda on the 
 moor, begetting children by her, watching with satis- 
 faction the growing curves of her fecundity his work, 
 and seeing her with her brood, all their faces beaten 
 by wind and rain and browned with sun. He had a 
 tremendous, a painful longing for such a life. His 
 imagination played round the idea of it with volup- 
 tuous and pure pleasure, and he wondered that he had 
 never thought of it before. He felt that he had never 
 before peered into the depths of existence. And thoagh 
 he knew that the dream of such an arcadian career 
 was absurd, yet he seemed to guess that beneath the 
 tiresome surfaces of life in the Five Towns the es- 
 sence of it might be mystically lived. And he thought 
 that Hilda would be capable of sharing it with him, 
 nay, he knew she would! 
 
 His mood became gravely elated, even optimistic. 
 He saw that he had worried himself about nothing. If 
 
296 THESE TWAIN 
 
 she wanted to visit the prison, let her visit it! Why 
 not? At any rate he should not visit it. He had an 
 aversion for morbidity almost as strong as his aver- 
 sion for sentimentality. But her morbidity could do 
 no harm. She could not possibly meet George Can- 
 non. The chances were utterly against such an en- 
 counter. Her morbidity would cure itself. He pitied 
 her, cherished her, and in thought enveloped her 
 fondly with his sympathetic and protective wisdom. 
 
 "North Hessary," said Harry, pointing with his 
 whip to a jutting tor on the right hand. "We go 
 round by the foot of it. There in a jiff!" 
 
 Soon afterwards they swerved away from the main 
 road, obeying a signpost marked "Princetown." 
 
 "Glorious, isn't it?" murmured Janet, after a long 
 silence which had succeeded the light chatter of her- 
 self and Alicia about children, servants, tennis, laun- 
 dries. 
 
 He nodded, with a lively responsive smile, and 
 glanced at Hilda's mysterious back. Only once dur- 
 ing the journey had she looked round. Alicia with 
 her coarse kind voice and laugh began to rally him, 
 saying he had dozed. 
 
 A town, more granite than the moor itself, grad- 
 ually revealed its roofs in the heart of the moor. The 
 horses, indefatigable, quickened their speed. Villas, a 
 school, a chapel, a heavy church-tower followed in suc- 
 cession; there were pavements; a brake full of excur- 
 sionists had halted in front of a hotel; holiday-makers 
 simple folk who disliked to live in flocks wandered 
 in ecstatic idleness. Concealed within the warmth of 
 the mountain air, there pricked a certain sharpness. 
 All about, beyond the little town, the tors raised their 
 shaggy flanks surmounted by colossal masses of stone 
 that recalled the youth of the planet. The feel of the 
 
THE PRISON 297 
 
 world was stimulating like a tremendous tonic. Then 
 the wagonette passed a thick grove of trees, hiding a 
 house, and in a moment, like magic, appeared a huge 
 gated archway of brick and stone, and over it the 
 incised words: 
 
 PARCERE SUBJECTIS 
 
 "Stop! Stop! Harry," cried [Alicia shrilly. 
 "What are you doing? You'll have to go to the 
 house first." 
 
 "Shall I?" said Harry. "All right. Two thirty- 
 five, be it noted." 
 
 The vehicle came to a standstill, and instantly 
 clouds of vapour rose from the horses. 
 
 "Virgil!" thought Edwin, gazing at the archway, 
 which filled him with sudden horror, like an obscenity 
 misplaced. 
 
 Less than ten minutes later, he and Hilda and Alicia, 
 together with three strange men, stood under the arch- 
 way. Events had followed one another quickly, to 
 Edwin's undoing. When the wagonette drew up in 
 the grounds of the Governor's house, Harry Hesketh 
 had politely indicated that for his horses he pre- 
 ferred the stables of a certain inn down the road to 
 any stables that hospitality might offer; and he had 
 driven off, Mrs. Rotherwas urging him to return with- 
 out any delay so that tennis might begin. The Gov- 
 ernor had been called from home, and in his absence 
 a high official of the prison was deputed to show the 
 visitors through the establishment. This official was 
 the first of the three strange men; the other two were 
 visitors. Janet had said that she would not go over the 
 prison, because she meant to play tennis and wished 
 
298 THESE TWAIN 
 
 not to tire herself. Alicia said kindly that she at any 
 rate would go with Hilda, though she had seen it all 
 before, it was interesting enough to see again. 
 
 Edwin had thereupon said that he should remain 
 with Janet. But immediately Mrs. Rotherwas, whose 
 reception of him had been full of the most friendly 
 charm, had shown surprise, if not pain. What, come 
 to Princetown without inspecting the wonderful prison, 
 when the chance was there ? Inconceivable ! Edwin 
 might in his blunt Five Towns way have withstood 
 Mrs. Rotherwas, but he could not withstand Hilda, 
 who, frowning, seemed almost ready to risk a public 
 altercation in order to secure his attendance. He had 
 to yield. To make a scene, even a very little one, in 
 the garden full of light dresses and polite suave voices 
 would have been monstrous. He thought of all that he 
 had ever heard of the subjection of men to women. 
 He thought of Johnnie and of Mrs. Chris Hamson, 
 who was known for her steely caprices. And he 
 thought also of Jimmie and of the undesirable Mrs. 
 Jimmie, wjho, it was said, had threatened to love 
 Jimmie no more unless he took her once a week without 
 fail to the theatre, whatever the piece, and played 
 cards with her and two of her friends on all the other 
 nights of the week. He thought of men as a sex con- 
 quered by the unscrupulous and the implacable, and in 
 this mood, superimposed on his mood of disgust at 
 the mere sight of the archway, he followed the high 
 official and his train. Mrs. Rotherwas's last words were 
 that they were not to be long. But the official said 
 privately to the group that they must at any rate 
 approach the precincts of the prison with all ceremony, 
 and he led them proudly, with an air of ownership, 
 round to the main entrance where the wagonette had 
 first stopped. 
 
THE PRISON 299 
 
 A turnkey on the other side of the immense gates, 
 using a theatrical gesture, jangled a great bouquet 
 of keys; the portal opened, increasing the pride of 
 the official, and the next moment they were interned 
 in the outer courtyard. The moor and all that it 
 meant lay unattainably beyond that portal. As the 
 group slowly crossed the enclosed space, with the grim 
 Trades of yellow-brown buildings on each side and 
 vistas of further gates and buildings in front, the offi- 
 cial and the two male visitors began to talk together 
 over the heads of Alicia and Hilda. The women held 
 close to each other, and the official kept upon them 
 a chivalrous eye ; the two visitors were friends ; Edwin 
 was left out of the social scheme, and lagged some- 
 what behind, like one who is not wanted but who can- 
 not be abandoned. He walked self-conscious, miser- 
 able, resentful, and darkly angry. In one instant the 
 three men had estimated him, decided that he was not 
 of their clan nor of any related clan, and ignored 
 him. Whereas the official and the two male visitors, 
 who had never met before, grew more and more friendly 
 each minute. One said that he did not know So-and- 
 So of the Scots Greys, but he knew his cousin Trevor 
 of the Hussars, who had in fact married a niece of 
 his own. And then another question about somebody 
 else was asked, and immediately they were engaged 
 in following clues, as explorers will follow the intricate 
 mouths of a great delta and so unite in the main 
 stream. They were happy. 
 
 Edwin did not seriously mind that; but what he did 
 mind was their accent in those days termed through- 
 out the Midlands "lah-di-dah" (an onomatopoeic des- 
 cription), which, falsifying every vowel sound in the 
 language, and several consonants, magically created 
 around them an aura of utter superiority to the rest 
 
300 THESE TWAIN 
 
 of the world. He quite unreasonably hated them, and 
 he also envied them, because this accent was their 
 native tongue, and because their clothes were not cut 
 like his, and because they were entirely at their ease. 
 Useless for the official to throw him an urbane word 
 now and then ; neither his hate nor his constraint would 
 consent to be alleviated; the urbane words grew less 
 frequent. Also Edwin despised them because they 
 were seemingly insensible to the tremendous horror of 
 the jail set there like an outrage in the midst of prim- 
 itive and sane Dartmoor. "Yes," their attitude said. 
 "This is a prison, ,one of the institutions necessary to 
 the well being of society, like a workhouse or an opera 
 house, an interesting sight !" 
 
 A second pair of iron gates were opened with the 
 same elaborate theatricality as the first, and while 
 the operation was being done the official, invigorated 
 by the fawning of turnkeys, conversed with Alicia, 
 who during her short married life had acquired some 
 shallow acquaintance with the clans, and he even drew 
 a reluctant phrase from Hilda. Then, after another 
 open space, came a third pair of iron gates, final and 
 terrific, and at length the party was under cover, and 
 even the sky of the moor was lost. Edwin, bored, dis- 
 gusted, shamed, and stricken, yielded himself proudly 
 and submissively to the horror of the experience. 
 
 m 
 
 Hilda had only one thought would she catch sight 
 of the innocent prisoner? The party was now deeply 
 engaged in a system of corridors and stairways. The 
 official had said that as the tour of inspection was to 
 be short he would display to them chiefly the modern 
 part of the prison. So far not a prisoner had been 
 
THE PRISON 301 
 
 seen, and scarcely a warder. The two male visitors 
 were scientifically interested in the question of escapes. 
 Did prisoners ever escape? 
 
 "Never!" said the official, with satisfaction. 
 
 "Impossible, I suppose. Even when they're work- 
 ing out on the moor? Warders are pretty good 
 shots, eh?" 
 
 "Practically impossible," said the official. "But 
 there is one way." He looked up the stairway on 
 whose landing they stood, and down the stairway, and 
 cautiously lowered his voice. "Of course what I tell 
 you is confidential. If one of our Dartmoor fogs 
 came on suddenly, and kind friends outside had hid- 
 den a stock of clothes and food in an arranged spot, 
 then theoretically I say, theoretically a man might 
 get away. But nobody ever has done." 
 
 "I suppose you still have the silent system?" 
 
 The official nodded. 
 
 "Absolutely?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "How .awful it must be !" said Alicia, with a nervous 
 laugh. 
 
 The official shrugged his shoulders, and the other 
 two males murmured reassuring axioms about disci- 
 pline. 
 
 They emerged from the stairway into a colossal and 
 resounding iron hall. Round the emptiness of this 
 interior ran galleries of perforated iron protected from 
 the abyss by iron balustrades. The group stood on 
 the second of the galleries from the stony floor, and 
 there were two galleries above them. Far away, op- 
 posite, a glint of sunshine had feloniously slipped in, 
 transpiercing the gloom, and it lighted a series of 
 doors. There was a row of these doors along every 
 gallery. Each had a peep-hole, a key-hole and a num- 
 
302 THESE TWAIN 
 
 ber. The longer Hilda regarded, the more night- 
 marishly numerous seemed the doors. The place was 
 like a huge rabbit-hutch designed for the claustration 
 of countless rabbits. Across the whole width and 
 length of the hall, and at the level of the lowest gal- 
 lery, was stretched a great net. 
 
 "To provide against suicides ?" suggested one of 
 the men. 
 
 "Yes," said the official. 
 
 "A good idea." 
 
 When the reverberation of the words had ceased, a 
 little silence ensued. The ear listened vainly for the 
 slightest sound. In the silence the implacability of 
 granite walls and iron reticulations reigned over the 
 accursed vision, stultifying the soul. 
 
 "Are these cells occupied?" asked Alicia timidly. 
 
 "Not yet, Mrs. Hesketh. It's too soon. A few 
 are." 
 
 Hilda thought: 
 
 "He may be here, behind one of those doors." Her 
 heart was liquid with compassion and revolt. "No," 
 she assured herself. "They must have taken him 
 away already. It's impossible he should be here. He's 
 innocent." 
 
 "Perhaps you would like to see one of the cells?" 
 the official suggested. 
 
 A warder appeared, and, with the inescapable jangle 
 of keys, opened a door. The party entered the cell, 
 ladies first, then the official and his new acquaintances ; 
 then Edwin, trailing. The cell was long and narrow, 
 fairly lofty, bluish-white colour, very dimly lighted by a 
 tiny grimed window high up in a wall of extreme thick- 
 ness. The bed lay next the long wall ; except the bed, a 
 stool, a shelf, and some utensils, there was nothing to 
 furnish the horrible nakedness of the cell. One of the 
 
THE PRISON 303 
 
 visitors picked up an old book from the shelf. It was a 
 Greek Testament. The party seemed astonished at this 
 evidence of culture among prisoners, of the height from 
 which a criminal may have fallen. 
 
 The official smiled. 
 
 "They often ask for such things on purpose," said 
 he. "They think it's effective. They're very naive, 
 you know, at bottom." 
 
 "This very cell may be his cell," thought Hilda. 
 "He may have been here all these months, years, know- 
 ing he was innocent. He may have thought about me 
 in this cell." She glanced cautiously at Edwin, but 
 Edwin would not catch her eye. 
 
 They left. On the way to the workshops, they had a 
 glimpse of the old parts of the prison, used during 
 the Napoleonic wars, incredibly dark, frowsy, like 
 catacombs. 
 
 "We don't use this part unless we're very full up," 
 said the official, and he contrasted it with the bright, 
 spacious, healthy excellences of the hall which they 
 had just quitted, to prove that civilisation never stood 
 still. 
 
 And then suddenly, at the end of a passage, a door 
 opened and they were in the tailors' shop, a large ir- 
 regular apartment full of a strong stench and of squat- 
 ted and grotesque human beings. The human beings, 
 for the most part, were clothed in a peculiar brown 
 stuff, covered with broad arrows. The dress consisted 
 of a short jacket, baggy knickerbockers, black stock- 
 ings, and coloured shoes. Their hair was cut so short 
 that they had the appearance of being bald, and their 
 great ears protruded at a startling angle from the sides 
 of those smooth heads. They were of every age, yet 
 they all looked alike, ridiculous, pantomimic, appall- 
 ing. Some gazed with indifference at the visitors; 
 
304 THESE TWAIN 
 
 others seemed oblivious of the entry. They all stitched 
 on their haunches, in the stench, under the surveillance 
 of eight armed warders in blue. 
 
 "How many?" asked the official mechanically. 
 
 "Forty-nine, sir," said a warder. 
 
 And Hilda searched their loathsome and vapid faces 
 for the face of George Cannon. He was not there. 
 She trembled, whether with relief or with disappoint- 
 ment she knew not. She was agonised, but in her tor- 
 ture she exulted that she had come. 
 
 No comment had been made in the workshop, the 
 official having hinted that silence was usual on such 
 occasions. But in a kind of antechamber one of 
 those amorphous spaces, serving no purpose and re- 
 sembling nothing, which are sometimes to be found be- 
 tween definable rooms and corridors in a vast building 
 imperfectly planned the party halted in the midst of 
 a discussion as to discipline. The male visitors, ex- 
 cept Edwin, showed marked intelligence and detach- 
 ment; they seemed to understand immediately how it 
 was that forty-nine ruffians could be trusted to squat 
 on their thighs and stitch industriously and use scis- 
 sors and other weapons for hours without being chained 
 to the ground; they certainly knew something of the 
 handling of men. The official, triumphant, stated that 
 every prisoner had the right of personal appeal to the 
 Governor every day. 
 
 "They come with their stories of grievances," said 
 he, tolerant and derisive. 
 
 "Which often aren't true?" 
 
 "Which are never true," said the official quietly. 
 "Never! They are always lies always! . . . Shows 
 the material we have to deal with!" He gave a short 
 laugh. 
 
THE PRISON 305 
 
 "Really !" said one of the men, rather pleased and ex- 
 cited by this report of universal lying. 
 
 "I suppose," Edwin blurted out, "you can tell for 
 certain when they aren't speaking the truth?" 
 
 Everybody looked at him surprised, as though the 
 dumb had spoken. The official's glance showed some 
 suspicion of sarcasm and a tendency to resent it. 
 
 "We can," he answered shortly, commanding his 
 features to a faint smile. "And now I wonder what 
 Mrs. Rotherwas will be saying if I don't restore you 
 to her." It was agreed that regard must be had for 
 Mrs. Rotherwas's hospitable arrangements, though the 
 prison was really very interesting and would repay 
 study. 
 
 They entered a wide corridor one of two that met 
 at right-angles in the amorphous space leading in 
 the direction of the chief entrance. From the end of 
 this corridor a file of convicts was approaching in 
 charge of two warders with guns. The official offered 
 no remark, but held on. Hilda, falling back near to 
 Edwin in the procession, was divided between a dread- 
 ful fear and a hope equally dreadful. Except in the 
 tailors' shop, these were the only prisoners they had 
 seen, and they appeared out of place in the half-free- 
 dom of the corridor ; for nobody could conceive a pris- 
 oner save in a cell or shop, and these were moving in a 
 public corridor, unshackled. 
 
 Then she distinguished George Cannon among them. 
 He was the third from the last. She knew him by his 
 nose and the shape of his chin, and by his walk, though 
 there was little left of his proud walk in the desolat- 
 ing, hopeless prison-shuffle which was the gait of all 
 six convicts. His hair was iron-grey. All these de- 
 tails she could see and be sure of in the distance of the 
 
306 THESE TWAIN 
 
 dim corridor. She no longer had a stomach; it had 
 gone, and yet she felt a horrible nausea. 
 
 She cried out to herself: 
 
 "Why did I come? Why did I come? I am al- 
 ways doing these mad things. Edwin was right. Why 
 do I not listen to him?" 
 
 The party of visitors led by the high official, and 
 the file of convicts in charge of armed warders, were 
 gradually approaching one another in the wide corri- 
 dor. It seemed to Hilda that a fearful collision was 
 imminent, and that something ought to be done. But 
 nobody among the visitors did anything or seemed to 
 be disturbed. Only they had all fallen silent; and in 
 the echoing corridor could be heard the firm steps of 
 the male visitors accompanying the delicate tripping 
 of the women, and the military tramp of the warders 
 with the confused shuffling of the convicts. 
 
 "Has he recognised me?" thought Hilda, wildly. 
 
 She hoped that he had and that he had not. She 
 recalled with the most poignant sorrow the few days 
 of their union, their hours of intimacy, his kisses, her 
 secret realisation of her power over him, and of his pas- 
 sion. She wanted to scream: 
 
 "That man there is as innocent as any of you, and 
 soon the whole world will know it! He never com- 
 mitted any crime except that of loving me too much. 
 He could not do without me, and so I was his ruin. It 
 is horrible that he should be here in this hell. He must 
 be set free at once. The Home Secretary knows he 
 is innocent, but they are so slow. How can anyone 
 bear that he should stop here one instant longer?" 
 
 But she made no sound. The tremendous force of 
 an ancient and organised society kept her lips closed 
 and her feet in a line with the others. She thought in 
 despair : 
 
THE PRISON 307 
 
 "We are getting nearer, and I cannot meet him. I 
 shall drop." She glanced at Edwin, as if for help, but 
 Edwin was looking straight ahead. 
 
 Then a warder, stopping, ejaculated with the harsh 
 brevity of a drill-serjeant: 
 
 "Halt!" 
 
 The file halted. 
 
 "Right turn!" 
 
 The six captives turned, with their faces close 
 against the wall of the corridor, obedient, humiliated, 
 spiritless, limp, stooping. Their backs presented the 
 most ridiculous aspect; all the calculated grotes- 
 querie of the surpassingly ugly prison uniform was ac- 
 centuated as they stood thus, a row of living scare- 
 crows, who knew that they had not the right even to 
 look upon free men. Every one of them except George 
 Cannon had large protuberant ears that completed 
 the monstrosity of their appearance. 
 
 The official gave his new acquaintances a satisfied 
 glance, as if saying: 
 
 "That is the rule by which we manage these chance 
 encounters." 
 
 The visitors went by in silence, instinctively edging 
 away from the captives. And as she passed, Hilda 
 lurched very heavily against Edwin, and recovered her- 
 self. Edwin seized her arm near the shoulder, and 
 saw that she was pale. The others were in front. 
 
 Behind them they could hear the warder: 
 
 "Left turn! March!" 
 
 And the shuffling and the tramping recommenced. 
 
 rv 
 
 In the garden of the Governor's house tennis had 
 already begun when the official brought back his con- 
 
308 THESE TWAIN 
 
 voy. Young Truscott and Mrs. Rotherwas were pitted 
 against Harry Hesketh and a girl of eighteen who 
 possessed a good wrist but could not keep her head. 
 Harry was watching over his partner, quietly advis- 
 ing her upon the ruses of the enemy, taking the more 
 difficult strokes for her, and generally imparting to 
 her the quality which she lacked. Harry was fully 
 engaged ; the whole of his brain and body was at strain ; 
 he let nothing go by; he missed no chance, and within 
 the laws of the game he hesitated at no stratagem. 
 And he was beating young Truscott and Mrs. Rother- 
 was, while an increasing and polite audience looked on. 
 To the entering party, the withdrawn scene, lit by 
 sunshine, appeared as perfect as a stage-show, with 
 its trees, lawn, flowers, toilettes, the flying balls, the 
 grace of the players, and the grey solidity of the gov- 
 ernor's house in the background. 
 
 Alicia ran gawkily to Janet, who had got a box of 
 chocolates from somewhere, and one of the men fol- 
 lowed her, laughing. Hilda sat apart; she was less 
 pale. Edwin remained cautiously near her. He had 
 not left her side since she lurched against him in the 
 corridor. He knew ; he had divined that that which he 
 most feared had come to pass, the supreme punish- 
 ment of Hilda's morbidity. He had not definitely rec- 
 ognised George Cannon, for he was not acquainted with 
 him, and in the past had only once or twice by chance 
 caught sight of him in the streets of Bursley or Turn- 
 hill. But he had seen among the six captives one who 
 might be he, and who certainly had something of the 
 Five Towns look. Hilda's lurch told him that by 
 vindictiveness of fate George Cannon was close to 
 them. 
 
 He had ignored his own emotion. The sudden tran- 
 sient weight of Hilda's body had had a strange moral 
 
THE PRISON 309 
 
 effect upon him. "This," he thought, "is the burden 
 I have to bear. This, and not lithography, nor riches, 
 is my chief concern. She depends on me. I am all 
 she has to stand by." The burden with its immense 
 and complex responsibilities was sweet to his inmost 
 being; and it braced him and destroyed his resentment 
 against her morbidity. His pity was pure. He felt 
 that he must live more nobly yes, more heroically 
 than he had been living; that all irritable pettiness 
 must drop away from him, and that his existence in 
 her regard must have simplicity and grandeur. The 
 sensation of her actual weight stayed with him. He 
 had not spoken to her; he dared not; he had scarcely 
 met her eyes; but he was ready for any emergency. 
 Every now and then, in the garden, Hilda glanced 
 over her shoulder at the house, as though her gaze 
 could pierce the house and see the sinister prison be- 
 yond. 
 
 The set ended, to Harry Hesketh's satisfaction ; and, 
 another set being arranged, he and Mrs. Rotherwas, 
 athletic in a short skirt and simple blouse, came walk- 
 ing, rather flushed and breathless, round the garden 
 with one or two others, including Harry's late part- 
 ner. The conversation turned upon the great South 
 Wales colliery strike against a proposed reduction 
 of wages. Mrs. Rotherwas' husband was a colliery 
 proprietor near Monmouth, and she had just received 
 a letter from him. Everyone sympathised with her 
 and her husband, and nobody could comprehend the 
 wrongheadedness of the miners, except upon the sup- 
 position that they had been led away by mischievous 
 demagogues. As the group approached, the timid 
 young girl, having regained her nerve, was exclaiming 
 with honest indignation: "The leaders ought to be 
 shot, and the men who won't go down the pits ought to 
 
310 THESE TWAIN 
 
 be -forced to go down and made to work." And she 
 picked at fluff on her yellow frock. Edwin feared an 
 uprising from Hilda, but naught happened. Mrs. 
 Rotherwas spoke about tea, though it was rather early, 
 and they all, Hilda as well, wandered to a large yew 
 tree under which was a table; through the pendant 
 branches of the tree the tennis could be watched as 
 through a screen. 
 
 The prison clock tolled the hour over the roofs of 
 the house, and Mrs. Rotherwas gave the definite signal 
 for refreshments. 
 
 "You're exhausted," she said teasingly to Harry. 
 
 "You'll see," said Harry. 
 
 "No," Mrs. Rotherwas delightfully relented. "You're 
 a dear, and I love to watch you play. I'm sure you 
 could give Mr. Truscott half fifteen." 
 
 "Think so?" said Harry, pleased, and very conscious 
 that he was living fully. 
 
 "You see what it is to have an object in life, Hes- 
 keth," Edwin remarked suddenly. 
 
 Harry glanced at him doubtfully, and yet with a 
 certain ingenuous admiration. At the same time a 
 white ball rolled near the tree. He ducked under the 
 trailing branches, returned the ball, and moved slowly 
 towards the court. 
 
 "Alicia tells me you're very old friends of theirs," 
 said Mrs. Rotherwas, agreeably, to Hilda. 
 
 Hilda smiled quietly. 
 
 "Yes, we are, both of us." 
 
 Who could have guessed, now, that her condition was 
 not absolutely normal? 
 
 "Charming people, aren't they, the Heskeths?" said 
 Mrs. Rotherwas. "Perfectly charming. They're an 
 ideal couple. And I do like their house, it's so deli- 
 ciously quaint, isn't it, Mary?" 
 
THE PRISON 311 
 
 "Lovely," agreed the young girl. 
 
 It was an ideal world, full of ideal beings. 
 
 Soon after tea the irresistible magnetism of Alicia's 
 babies drew Alicia off the moor, and with her the 
 champion player, Janet, Hilda and Edwin. Mrs. 
 Rotherwas let them go with regret, adorably expressed. 
 Harry would have liked to stay, but on the other hand 
 he was delightfully ready to yield to Alicia. 
 
 On arriving at Tavy Mansion Hilda announced that 
 she should lie down. She told Edwin, in an exhausted 
 but friendly voice, that she needed only rest, and he 
 comprehended, rightly, that he was to leave her. Not 
 a word was said between them as to the events within 
 the prison. He left her, and spent the time before 
 dinner with Harry Hesketh, who had the idea of occu- 
 pying their leisure with a short game of bowls, for 
 which it was necessary to remove the croquet hoops. 
 
 Hilda undressed and got into bed. Soon afterwards 
 both Alicia, with an infant, and Janet came to see her. 
 Had Janet been alone, Hilda might conceivably in her 
 weakness have surrendered the secret to her in ex- 
 change for that soft and persuasive sympathy of which 
 Janet was the mistress, but the presence of Alicia made 
 a confidence impossible, and Hilda was glad. She 
 plausibly fibbed to both sisters, and immediately after- 
 wards the household knew that Hilda would not appear 
 at dinner. There was not the slightest alarm or 
 apprehension, for the affair explained itself in the 
 simplest way, Hilda had had a headache in the morn- 
 ing, and had been wrong to go out; she was now 
 merely paying for the indiscretion. She would be 
 quite recovered the next day. Alicia whispered a word 
 
312 THESE TWAIN 
 
 to her husband, who, besides, was not apt easily to 
 get nervous about anything except his form at games. 
 Edwin also, with his Five Towns habit of mind, soberly 
 belittled the indisposition. The household remained 
 natural and gay. When Edwin went upstairs to pre- 
 pare for dinner, moving very quietly, his wife had 
 her face towards the wall and away from the light. 
 He came round the bed to look at her. 
 
 "I'm all right," she murmured. 
 
 "Want nothing at all?" he asked, with nervous 
 gruffness. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 Very impatiently she awaited his departure, exas- 
 perated more than she had ever been by his precise 
 deliberation over certain details of his toilet. As soon 
 as he was gone she began to cry; but the tears came 
 so gently from her eyes that the weeping was as pas- 
 sive, as independent of volition, as the escape of blood 
 from a wound. 
 
 She had a grievance against Edwin. At the crisis in 
 the prison she had blamed herself for not submitting 
 to his guidance, but now she had reacted against all 
 such accusations, and her grievance amounted to just 
 an indictment of his commonsense, his quietude, his 
 talent for keeping out of harm's way, his lack of vio- 
 lent impulses, his formidable respectability. She was 
 a rebel; he was not. He would never do anything 
 wrong, or even perilous. Never, n^er would he find 
 himself in need of a friend's help. He would always 
 direct his course so that society would protect him. 
 He was a firm part of the structure of society ; he was 
 the enemy of impulses. When he foresaw a danger, 
 the danger was always realised: she had noticed that, 
 and she resented it. He was infinitely above the George 
 Cannons of the world. He would be incapable of 
 
THE PRISON 313 
 
 bigamy, incapable of being caught in circumstances 
 which could bring upon him suspicion of any crime 
 whatever. Yet for her the George Cannons had a 
 quality which he lacked, which he could never possess, 
 and which would have impossibly perfected him a 
 quality heroic, foolish, martyr-like! She was almost 
 ready to decide that his complete social security was 
 due to cowardice and resulted in self-righteousness! 
 . . . Could he really feel pity as she felt it, for the 
 despised and rejected, and a hatred of injustice equal 
 to hers? 
 
 These two emotions were burning her up. Again 
 and again, ceaselessly, her mind ran round the circle 
 of George Cannon's torture and the callousness of so- 
 ciety. He had sinned, and she had loathed him; but 
 both his sin and her loathing were the fruit of passion. 
 He had been a proud man, and she had shared his 
 pride ; now he was broken, unutterably humiliated, and 
 she partook of his humiliation. The grotesque and 
 beaten animal in the corridor was all that society had 
 left of him who had once inspired her to acts of devo- 
 tion, who could make her blush, and to satisfy whom 
 she would recklessly spend herself. The situation was 
 intolerable, and yet it had to be borne. But surely 
 it must be ended! Surely at the latest on the morrow 
 the prisoner must be released, and soothed and rein- 
 stated! . . . Pardoned? No! A pardon was an in- 
 sult, worse than an insult. She would not listen to the 
 word. Society might use it for its own purposes ; but 
 she would never use it. Pardon a man after deliber- 
 ately and fiendishly achieving his ruin? She could 
 have laughed. 
 
 Exhaustion followed, tempering emotion and reduc- 
 ing it to a profound despairing melancholy that was 
 stirred at intervals by frantic revolt. The light failed. 
 
314 THESE TWAIN 
 
 The windows became vague silver squares. Outside 
 fowls clucked, a horse's hoof clattered on stones ; serv- 
 ants spoke to each other in their rough, good-natured 
 voices. The peace of the world had its effect on 
 her, unwilling though she was. Then there was a 
 faint tap at the door. She made no reply, and shut 
 her eyes. The door gently opened, and someone tripped 
 delicately in. She heard movements at the washstand. 
 . . . One of the maids. A match was struck. The 
 blinds were stealthily lowered, the curtains drawn; 
 garments were gathered together, and at last the 
 door closed again. 
 
 She opened her eyes. The room was very dimly 
 illuminated. A night-light, under a glass hemisphere 
 of pale rose, stood on the dressing-table. By magic, 
 order had been restored; a glinting copper ewer of 
 hot water stood in the whiteness of the basin with a 
 towel over it; the blue blinds, revealed by the narrow- 
 ness of the red curtains, stirred in the depths of the 
 windows ; each detail of the chamber was gradually 
 disclosed, and the chamber was steeped in the first 
 tranquillity of the night. Not a sound could be heard. 
 Through the depths of her bitterness, there rose slowly 
 the sensation of the beauty of existence even in its 
 sadness. . . . 
 
 A long time afterwards it occurred to her in the 
 obscurity that the bed was tumbled. She must have 
 turned over and over. The bed must be arranged be- 
 fore Edwin came. He had to share it. After all, he 
 had committed no fault; he was entirely innocent. 
 She and fate between them had inflicted these difficul- 
 ties and these solicitudes upon him. He had said little 
 or nothing, but he was sympathetic. When she had 
 stumbled against him she had felt his upholding mas- 
 culine strength. He was dependable, and would be de- 
 
THE PRISON 313 
 
 pendable to the last. The bed must be creaseless when 
 he came; this was the least she could do. She arose. 
 Very faintly she could descry her image in the mirror 
 of the great wardrobe a dishevelled image. Forget- 
 ting the bed, she bathed her face, and, unusually, took 
 care to leave the washstand as tidy as the maid had 
 left it. Then, having arranged her hair, she set about 
 the bed. It was not easy for one person unaided to 
 make a wide bed. Before she had finished she heard 
 footsteps outside the door. She stood still. Then she 
 heard Edwin's voice: 
 
 "Don't trouble, thanks. I'll take it in myself." 
 
 He entered, carrying a tray, and shut the door, and 
 instantly she busied herself once more with the bed. 
 
 "My poor girl," he said with quiet kindliness, "what 
 are you doing?" 
 
 "I'm just putting the bed to rights," she answered, 
 and almost with a single movement she slid back into 
 the bed. "What have you got there?" 
 
 "I thought I'd ask for some tea for you," he said. 
 "Nearly the whole blessed household wanted to come 
 and see you, but I wouldn't have it." 
 
 She could not say: "It's very nice of you." But 
 she said, simply to please him: "I should like some 
 tea." 
 
 He put the tray on the dressing-table ; then lit three 
 candles, two on the dressing-table and one on the night- 
 table, and brought the tray to the night-table. 
 
 He himself poured out the tea, and offered the cup. 
 She raised herself on an elbow. 
 
 "Did you recognise him?" she muttered suddenly, 
 after she had blown on the tea to cool it. 
 
 Under ordinary conditions Edwin would have 
 replied to such an unprepared question with another, 
 petulant and impatient : "Recognise who ?" pretending 
 
316 THESE TWAIN 
 
 that he did not understand the allusion. But now he 
 made no pretences. 
 
 "Not quite," he said. "But I knew at once. I could 
 see which of them it must be." 
 
 The subject at last opened between them, Hilda felt 
 an extraordinary solace and relief. He stood by the 
 bedside, in black, with a great breastplate of white, his 
 hair rough, his hands in his pockets. She thought he 
 had a fine face ; she thought of him as, at such a time, 
 her superior ; she wanted powerfully to adopt his atti- 
 tude, to believe in everything he said. They were 
 talking together in safety, quietly, gravely, amicably, 
 withdrawn and safe in the strange house he benevolent 
 and assuaging and comprehending, she desiring the 
 balm which he could give. It seemed to her that they 
 had never talked to each other in such tones. 
 
 "Isn't it awful awful?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "It is," said Edwin, and added carefully, tenderly: 
 "I suppose he is innocent." 
 
 She might have flown at him: "That's just like you 
 to assume he isn't!" But she replied: 
 
 "I'm quite sure of it. I say I want you to read all 
 the letters I've had from Mrs. Cannon. I've got them 
 here. They're in my bag there. Read them now. 
 Of course I always meant to show them to you." 
 
 "All right," he agreed, drew a chair to the dressing- 
 table where the bag was, found the letters, and read 
 them. She waited, as he read one letter, put it down, 
 read another, laid it precisely upon the first one, with 
 his terrible exactitude and orderliness, and so on 
 through the whole packet. 
 
 "Yes," said he at the end, "I should say he's innocent 
 this time, right enough." 
 
 "But something ought to be done !" she cried. "Don't 
 you think something ought to be done, Edwin?" 
 
THE PRISON 317 
 
 "Something has been done. Something is being 
 done." 
 
 "But something else!" 
 
 He got up and walked about the room. 
 
 "There's only one thing to be done," he said. 
 
 He came towards her, and stood over her again, and 
 the candle on the night-table lighted his chin and the 
 space between his eyelashes and his eyebrows. He 
 timidly touched her hair, caressing it. They were ab- 
 solutely at their ease together in the intimacy of the 
 bedroom. In her brief relations with George Cannon 
 there had not been time to establish anything like such 
 intimacy. With George Cannon she had always had 
 the tremors of the fawn. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Wait. That's all. It's not the slightest use trying 
 to hurry these public departments. You can't do it. 
 You only get annoyed for nothing at all. You can 
 take that from me, my child." 
 
 He spoke with such delicate persuasiveness, such an 
 evident desire to be helpful, that Hilda was convinced 
 and grew resigned. It did not occur to her that he 
 had made a tremendous resolve which had raised him 
 above the Edwin she knew. She thought she had 
 hitherto misjudged and underrated him. 
 
 "I wanted to explain to you about that ten pounds," 
 she said. 
 
 "That's all right that's all right," said he hastily. 
 
 "But I must tell you. You saw Mrs. Cannon's let- 
 ter asking me for money. Well, I borrowed the ten 
 pounds from Janet. So of course I had to pay it back, 
 hadn't I?" 
 
 "How is Janet?" he asked in a new, lighter tone. 
 
 "She seems to be going on splendidly, don't you 
 think so?" 
 
318 [THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Well then, we'll go home to-morrow." 
 
 "Shall we?" 
 
 She lifted her arms and he bent. She was crying. 
 In a moment she was sobbing. She gave him violent 
 kisses amid her sobs, and held him close to her until 
 the fit passed. Then she said, in her voice reduced to 
 that of a child: 
 
 "What time's the train?" 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE GHOST 
 
 IT was six-thirty. The autumn dusk had already 
 begun to fade; and in the damp air, cold, grimy, and 
 vaporous, men with scarves round their necks and girls 
 with shawls over their heads, or hatted and even gloved, 
 were going home from work past the petty shops where 
 sweets, tobacco, fried fish, chitterlings, groceries, and 
 novelettes were sold among enamelled advertisements 
 of magic soaps. In the feeble and patchy illumination 
 of the footpaths, which left the middle of the streets 
 and the upper air all obscure, the chilled, preoccupied 
 people passed each other rapidly like phantoms, emerg- 
 ing out of one mystery and disappearing into another. 
 Everywhere, behind the fanlights and shaded windows 
 of cottages, domesticity was preparing the warm re- 
 laxations of the night. Amid the streets of little build- 
 I ^s the lithographic establishment, with a yellow ob- 
 long here and there illuminated in its dark fa9ades, 
 stood up high, larger than reality, more important and 
 tyrannic, one of the barracks, one of the prisons, one 
 of the money-works where a single man or a small 
 group of men by brains and vigour and rigour ex- 
 ploited the populace. 
 
 Edwin, sitting late in his private office behind those 
 fa9ades, was not unaware of the sensation of being an 
 exploiter. By his side on the large flat desk lay a copy 
 
 319 
 
320 THESE TWAIN 
 
 of the afternoon's Signal containing an account of 
 the breaking up by police of an open-air meeting of 
 confessed anarchists on the previous day at Manches- 
 ter. Manchester was, and is still, physically and 
 morally, very close to the Five Towns, which respect 
 it more than they respect London. An anarchist meet- 
 ing at Manchester was indeed an uncomfortable por- 
 tent for the Five Towns. Enormous strikes, like civil 
 wars at stalemate, characterised the autumn as they 
 had characterised the spring, affecting directly or 
 indirectly every industry, and weakening the prestige 
 of government, conventions, wealth, and success. Ed- 
 win was successful. It was because he was successful 
 that he was staying late and that a clerk in the outer 
 office was staying late and that windows were illumi- 
 nated here and there in the fa9ades. Holding in his 
 hand the wage-book, he glanced down the long column 
 of names and amounts. Some names conveyed nothing 
 to him; but most of them raised definite images in his 
 mind of big men, roughs, decent clerks with wrist- 
 bands, undersized pale machinists, intensely respectable 
 skilled artisans and daughtsmen, thin ragged lads, 
 greasy, slatternly, pale girls, and one or two fat 
 women, all dirty, and working with indifference in 
 dirt. Most of them kowtowed to him; s^-ne did not; 
 some scowled askance. But they were all depend^t 
 on him. Not one of them but would be prodigiously 
 alarmed and inconvenienced to say nothing- of going 
 hungry if it he did not pay wages the next morning. 
 The fact was he could distribute ruin with a gesture 
 and nobody could bring him to book. . . . 
 
 Something wrong! Under the influence of strikes 
 and anarchist meetings he felt with foreboding and even 
 with a little personal alarm that something was wrong. 
 Those greasy, slatternly girls, for instance, with their 
 
THE GHOST 321 
 
 coarse charm and their sexuality, they were under- 
 paid. They received as much as other girls, on pot- 
 banks, perhaps more, but they were underpaid. What 
 chance had they? He was getting richer every day, 
 and safer (except for the vague menace) ; yet he could 
 not appreciably improve their lot, partly for business 
 reasons, partly because any attempt to do so would 
 bring the community about his ears and he would be 
 labelled as a doctrinaire and a fool, and partly be- 
 cause his own commonsense was against such a move. 
 Not those girls, not his works, not this industry and 
 that, was wrong. All was wrong. And it was im- 
 possible to imagine any future period when all would 
 not be wrong. Perfection was a desolating thought. 
 Nevertheless the struggle towards it was instinctive 
 and had to go on. The danger was (in Edwin's eyes) 
 of letting that particular struggle monopolise one's 
 energy. Well, he would not let it. He did a little 
 here and a little there, and he voted democratically 
 and in his heart was most destructively sarcastic about 
 toryism; and for the rest he relished the adventure of 
 existence, and took the best he conscientiously could, 
 and thought pretty well of himself as a lover of his 
 fellowmen. If he was born to be a master, he would 
 be one, and not spend his days in trying to overthrow 
 mastery. He was tired that evening, he had a slight 
 headache, he certainly had worries ; but he was not 
 unhappy on the throbbing, tossing steamer of human- 
 ity. Nobody could seem less adventurous than he 
 seemed, with his timidities and his love of modera- 
 tion, comfort, regularity and security. Yet his nos- 
 trils would sniff to the supreme and all-embracing ad- 
 venture. 
 
 He heard Hilda's clear voice in the outer office: 
 "Mr. Clayhanger in there?" and the clerk's somewhat 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 nervously agitated reply, repeating several times in 
 eager affirmative. And he himself, the master, though 
 still all alone in the sanctum, at once pretended to 
 be very busy. 
 
 Her presence would thus often produce an excita- 
 tion in the organism of the business. She was so 
 foreign to it, so unsoiled by it, so aloof from it, so 
 much more gracious, civilised, enigmatic than any- 
 thing that the business could show! And, fundament- 
 ally, she was the cause of the business ; it was all for 
 her ; it existed with its dirt, noise, crudity, strain, and 
 eternal effort so that she might exist in her elegance, 
 her disturbing femininity, her restricted and deep 
 affections, her irrational capriciousness, and her 
 strange, brusque commonsense. The clerks and some 
 of the women felt this ; Big James certainly felt it ; and 
 Edwin felt it, and denied it to himself, more than any- 
 body. There was no economic justice in the arrange- 
 ment. She would come in veiled, her face mysterious 
 behind the veil, and after a few minutes she would 
 delicately lift her gloved fingers to the veil, and raise 
 it, and her dark, pale, vivacious face would be dis- 
 closed. "Here I am !" 'And the balance was even, her 
 debt paid! That was how it was. 
 
 In the month that had passed since the visit to 
 Dartmoor, Edwin, despite his resolve to live heroically 
 and philosophically, had sometimes been forced into 
 the secret attitude: "This woman will kill me, but 
 without her I shouldn't be interested enough to live." 
 He was sometimes morally above her to the point of 
 priggishness, and sometimes incredibly below her; but 
 for the most part living in a different dimension. She 
 had heard nothing further from Mrs. Cannon; she 
 knew nothing of the bigamist's fate, though more than 
 once she had written for news. Her moods were un- 
 
THE GHOST 
 
 predictable and disconcerting, and as her moods con- 
 stituted the chief object of Edwin's study the effect on 
 him was not tranquillising. At the start he had risen 
 to the difficulty of the situation; but he could not 
 permanently remain at that height, and the situation 
 had apparently become stationary. His exasperations, 
 both concealed and open, were not merely unworthy of 
 a philosopher, they were unworthy of a common man. 
 "Why be annoyed?" he would say to himself. But he 
 was annoyed. "The tone the right tone!" he would 
 remind himself. Surely he could remember to com- 
 mand his voice to the right tone ? But no ! He could 
 not. He could infallibly remember to wind up his 
 watch, but he could not remember that. Moreover, he 
 felt, as he had felt before, on occasions, that no amount 
 of right tone would keep their relations smooth, for 
 the reason that principles were opposed. Could she not 
 see? . . . Well, she could not. There she was, entire, 
 unalterable impossible to chip inconvenient pieces off 
 her you must take her or leave her; and she could 
 not see, or she would not which in practice was the 
 same thing. 
 
 And yet some of the most exquisite moments of their 
 union had occurred during that feverish and unquiet 
 month moments of absolute surrender and devotion 
 on her part, of protective love on his; and also long 
 moments of peace. With the early commencement of 
 autumn, all the family had resumed the pursuit of 
 letters with a certain ardour. A startling feminist 
 writer, and the writer whose parentage and whose very 
 name lay in the Five Towns, who had re-created the 
 East and whose vogue was a passion among the let- 
 tered both these had published books whose success 
 was extreme and genuine. And in the curtained gas-lit 
 drawing-room of a night Hilda would sit rejoicing over 
 
324 THESE TWAIN 
 
 the triumphant satire of the woman-novelist, and Ed- 
 win and George would lounge in impossible postures, 
 each mesmerised by a story of the Anglo-Indian; and 
 between chapters Edwin might rouse himself from the 
 enchantment sufficiently to reflect: "How indescrib- 
 ably agreeable these evenings are!" And ten to one 
 he would say aloud, with false severity : "George ! 
 Bed!" And George, a fine judge of genuineness in 
 severity, would murmur carelessly: "All right! I'm 
 going!" And not go. 
 
 And now Edwin in the office thought: 
 
 "She's come to fetch me away." 
 
 He was gratified. But he must not seem to be 
 gratified. The sanctity of business from invasion had 
 to be upheld. He frowned, feigning more diligently 
 than ever to be occupied. She came in, with that air 
 at once apologetic and defiant that wives have in af- 
 fronting the sacred fastness. Nobody could have 
 guessed that she had ever been a business woman, arriv- 
 ing regularly at just such an office every morning, 
 shorthand-writing, twisting a copying-press, filing, 
 making appointments. Nobody could have guessed 
 that she had ever been in business for herself, and had 
 known how sixpence was added to sixpence and a week's 
 profit lost in an hour. All such knowledge had appar- 
 ently dropped from her like an excrescence, had van- 
 ished like a temporary disfigurement, and she looked 
 upon commerce with the uncomprehending, careless, 
 and yet impressed eyes of a young girl. 
 
 "Hello, missis!" he exclaimed casually. 
 
 Then George came in. Since the visit to Dartmoor 
 Hilda had much increased her intimacy with George, 
 spending a lot of time with him, walking with him, and 
 exploring in a sisterly and reassuring manner his most 
 private life. George liked it, but it occasionally irked 
 
THE GHOST 325 
 
 him and he would give a hint to Edwin that mother 
 needed to be handled at times. 
 
 "You needn't come in here, George," said Hilda. 
 
 "Well, can I go into the engine-house?" George 
 suggested. Edwin had always expected that he would 
 prefer the machine-room. But the engine-house was 
 his haunt, probably because it was dirty, fiery, and 
 stuffy. 
 
 "No, you can't," said Edwin. "Pratt's gone by 
 this, and it's shut up." 
 
 "No, it isn't. Pratt's there." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "Shut the door, dear," said Hilda. 
 
 "Hooray!" George ran off and banged the glass 
 door. 
 
 Hilda, glancing by habit at the unsightly details 
 of the deteriorating room, walked round the desk. 
 With apprehension Edwin saw resolve and pertur- 
 bation in her face. He was about to say: "Look 
 here, infant, I'm supposed to be busy." But he re- 
 frained. 
 
 Holding out a letter which she nervously snatched 
 from her bag, Hilda said: 
 
 "I've just had this by the afternoon post. Read 
 it." 
 
 He recognise'd at once the sloping handwriting; 
 but the paper was different; it was a mere torn 
 half-sheet of very cheap notepaper. He read: "Dear 
 Mrs. Clayhanger. Just a line to say that my husband 
 is at last discharged. It has been weary waiting. 
 We are together, and I am looking after him. With 
 renewed thanks for your sympathy and help. Believe 
 me, Sincerely yours, Charlotte M. Cannon." The sig- 
 nature was scarcely legible. There was no address, no 
 date. 
 
326 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Edwin's first flitting despicable masculine thought 
 was: "She doesn't say anything about that ten 
 pounds !" It fled. He was happy in an intense relief 
 that affected all his being. He said to himself : "Now 
 that's over, we can begin again." 
 
 "Well," he murmured. "That's all right. Didn't I 
 always tell you it would take some time? . . . That's 
 all right." 
 
 He gazed at the paper, waving it in his hand as he 
 held it by one corner. He perceived that it was the 
 letter of a jealous woman, who had got what she 
 wanted and meant to hold it, and entirely to herself; 
 and his mood became somewhat sardonic. 
 
 "Very curt, isn't it?" said Hilda strangely. "And 
 after all this time, too !" 
 
 He looked up at her, turning his head sideways to 
 catch her eyes. 
 
 "That letter," he said in a voice as strange as 
 Hilda's, "that letter is exactly what it ought to be. 
 It could not possibly have been better turned. . . . 
 You don't want to keep it, I suppose, do you?" 
 
 "No," she muttered. 
 
 He tore it into very small pieces, and dropped them 
 into the waste-paper-basket beneath the desk. 
 
 "And burn all the others," he said, in a low tone. 
 
 "Edwin," after a pause. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Don't you think George ought to know? Don't 
 you think one of us ought to tell him, either you or 
 me? You might tell him?" 
 
 "Tell him what?" Edwin demanded sharply, pushing 
 back his chair. 
 
 "WeB, everything!" 
 
 He glt>werd. ,He could feel himself glowering. He 
 could feel the justifiable anger animating him. 
 
THE GHOST 327 
 
 "Certainly not!" he enunciated resentfully, master- 
 fully, overpoweringly. "Certainly not !" 
 
 "But supposing he hears from outsiders?" 
 
 "You needn't begin supposing." 
 
 "But he's bound to have to know sometime." 
 
 "Possibly. But he isn't going to know now, any 
 road! Not with my consent. The thing's absolute 
 madness." 
 
 Hilda almost whispered: 
 
 "Very well, dear. If you think so." 
 
 "I do think so." 
 
 He suddenly felt very sorry for her. He was ready 
 to excuse her astounding morbidity as a consequence 
 of extreme spiritual tribulation. He added with 
 brusque good-nature: 
 
 "And so will you, in the morning, my child." 
 
 "Shall you be long?" 
 
 "No. I told you I should be late. If you'll run 
 off, my chuck, I'll undertake to be after you in half 
 an hour." 
 
 "Is your headache better?" 
 
 "No. On the other hand, it isn't worse." 
 
 He gazed fiercely at the wages-book. 
 
 She bent down. 
 
 "Kiss me," she murmured tearfully. 
 
 As he kissed her, and as she pressed against him, he 
 absorbed and understood all the emotions through 
 which she had passed and was passing, and from him 
 to her was transmitted an unimaginable tenderness 
 that shamed and atoned for the inclemency of his re- 
 fusals. He was very happy. He knew that he would 
 not do another stroke of work that night, but still he 
 must pretend to do some. Playfully, without rising, 
 he drew down her veil, smacked her gently on the back, 
 and indicated the door. 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 "I have to call at Clara's about that wool for Mag- 
 gie," she said, with courage. His fingering of her veil 
 had given her extreme pleasure. 
 
 "I'll bring the kid up," he said. 
 
 "Will you?" 
 
 She departed, leaving the door unlatched. 
 
 n 
 
 A draught from the outer door swung wide-open the 
 unlatched door of Edwin's room. 
 
 "What are doors for?" he muttered, pleasantly im- 
 patient; then he called aloud: 
 
 "Simpson. Shut the outer door and this one, too." 
 
 There was no answer. He arose and went to the 
 outer office. Hilda had passed through it like an 
 arrow. Simpson was not there. But a man stood 
 leaning against the mantelpiece ; he held at full spread 
 a copy of the Signal, which concealed all the upper 
 part of him except his fingers and the crown of his 
 head. Though the gas had been lighted in the middle 
 of the room, it must have been impossible for him to 
 read by it, since it shone through the paper. He low- 
 ered the newspaper with a rustle and looked at Edwin. 
 He was a big, well-dressed man, wearing a dark grey 
 suit, a blue Melton overcoat, and a quite new glossy 
 ''boiler-end" felt hat. He had a straight, prominent 
 nose, and dark, restless eyes, set back; his short hair 
 was getting grey, but not his short black moustache. 
 
 "Were you waiting to see me?" Edwin said, in a 
 defensive, half-hostile tone. The man might be a be- 
 lated commercial traveller of a big house some of 
 those fellows considered themselves above all laws; on 
 the other hand he might be a new; customer in a 
 hurry. 
 
THE GHOST 329 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, in a deep, full and yet uncer- 
 tain voice. "The clerk said you couldn't be disturbed, 
 and asked me to wait. Then he went out." 
 
 "What can I do for you? It's really after hours, 
 but some of us are working a bit late." 
 
 The man glanced at the outer door, which Edwin 
 was shutting, and then at the inner door, which ex- 
 posed Edwin's room. 
 
 "I'm George Cannon," he said, advancing a step, as 
 it were defiantly. 
 
 For an instant Edwin was frightened by the sudden 
 melodrama of the situation. Then he thought: 
 
 "I am up against this man. This is a crisis." 
 
 And he became almost agreeably aware of his own 
 being. The man stood close to him, under the gas, 
 with all the enigmatic quality of another being. He 
 could perceive now at any rate he could believe 
 that it was George Cannon. Forgetful of what the 
 man had suffered, Edwin felt for him nothing but the 
 instinctive inimical distrust of the individual who has 
 never got at loggerheads with society for the individual 
 who once and for always has. To this feeling was 
 added a powerful resentment of the man's act in com- 
 ing especially unannounced to just him, the hus- 
 band of the woman he had dishonoured. It was a 
 monstrous act and doubtless an act characteristic 
 of the man. It was what might have been expected. 
 The man might have been innocent of a particular 
 crime, might have been falsely imprisoned; but what 
 had he originally been doing, with what rascals had 
 he been consorting, that he should be even suspected 
 of crime? George Cannon's astonishing presence, so 
 suddenly after his release, at the works of Edwin 
 Clayhanger, was unforgiveable. Edwin felt an impulse 
 to say savagely: 
 
330 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Look here. You clear out. You understand Eng- 
 lish, don't you? Hook it." 
 
 But he had not the brutality to say it. Moreover, 
 the clerk returned, carrying, full to the brim, the tin 
 water-receptacle used for wetting the damping-brush 
 of the copying-press. 
 
 "Will you come in, please?" said Edwin curtly. 
 "Simpson, I'm engaged." 
 
 The two men went into the inner room. 
 
 "Sit down," said Edwin grimly. 
 
 George Cannon, with a firm gesture, planted his hat 
 on the flat desk between them. He looked round be- 
 hind him at the shut glazed door. 
 
 "You needn't be afraid," said Edwin. "Nobody can 
 hear unless you shout." 
 
 He gazed curiously but somewhat surreptitiously at 
 George Cannon, trying to decide whether it was pos- 
 sible to see in him a released convict. He decided that 
 it was not possible. George Cannon had a shifty, but 
 not a beaten, look; many men had a shifty look. His 
 hair was somewhat short, but so was the hair of many 
 men, if not of most. He was apparently in fair health ; 
 assuredly his constitution had not been ruined. And 
 if his large, coarse features were worn, marked with 
 tiny black spots, and seamed and generally ravaged, 
 they were not more ravaged than the features of nu- 
 merous citizens of Bursley aged about fifty who saved 
 money, earned honours, and incurred the envy of pre- 
 sumably intelligent persons. And as he realised all 
 this, Edwin's retrospective painful alarm as to what 
 might have happened if Hilda had noticed George 
 Cannon in the outer office lessened until he could dismiss 
 it entirely. By chance she had ignored Cannon, per- 
 haps scarcely seeing him in her preoccupied passage, 
 perhaps taking him vaguely for a customer; but sup- 
 
THE GHOST 331 
 
 posing she Jidd recognised him, what then? There 
 would have been an awkward scene nothing more. 
 Awkward scenes do not kill; their effect is transient. 
 Hilda would have had to behave, and would have be- 
 haved, with severe commonsense. He, Edwin himself, 
 would have handled the affair. A demeanour matter- 
 of-fact and impassible was what was needed. After 
 all, a man recently out of prison was not a wild beast, 
 nor yet a freak. Hundreds of men were coming out 
 of prisons every day. . . . He should know how to 
 deal with this man not pharisaically, not cruelly, not 
 unkindly, but still with a clear indication to the man 
 of his reprehensible indiscretion in being where he then 
 was. 
 
 "Did she recognise me down there Dartmoor?" 
 asked George Cannon, without any preparing of the 
 ground, in a deep, trembling voice; and as he spoke a 
 flush spread slowly over his dark features. 
 
 "Er yes !" answered Edwin, and his voice also 
 trembled. 
 
 "I wasn't sure," said George Cannon. "We were 
 halted before I could see. And I daren't look round 
 I should ha' been punished. I've been punished before 
 now for looking up at the sky at exercise." He spoke 
 more quickly and then brought himself up with a snort. 
 "However, I've not come all the way here to talk prison, 
 so you needn't be afraid. I'm not one of your re- 
 formers." 
 
 In his weak but ungoverned nervous excitement, from 
 which a faint trace of hysteria was not absent, he now 
 seemed rather more like an ex-convict, despite his good 
 clothes. He had become, to Edwin's superior self- 
 control, suddenly wistful. And at the same time, the 
 strange opening question, and its accent, had stirred 
 Edwin, and he saw with remorse how much finer had 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 been Hilda's morbid and violent pity than his own 
 harsh commonsense and anxiety to avoid emotion. The 
 man in good clothes moved him more than the convict 
 had moved him. He seemed to have received vision, and 
 he saw not merely the unbearable pathos of George 
 Cannon, but the high and heavenly charitableness of 
 Hilda, which he had constantly douched, and his own 
 common earthliness. He was exceedingly humbled. 
 And he also thought, sadly: "This chap's still at- 
 tached to her. Poor devil !" 
 
 "What have you come for?" he enquired. 
 
 George Cannon cleared his throat. Edwin waited, 
 in fear, for the avowal. He could make nothing out 
 of the visitor's face; its expression was anxious and 
 drew sympathy, but there was something in it which 
 chilled the sympathy it invoked and which seemed to 
 say: "I shall look after myself." It yielded naught. 
 You could be sorry for the heart within, and yet 
 could neither like nor esteem it. "Punished for look- 
 ing up at the sky." . . . Glimpses of prison life 
 presented themselves to Edwin's imagination. He 
 saw George Cannon again halted and turning like 
 a serf to the wall of the corridor. And this man 
 opposite to him, close to him in the familiar room, 
 was the same man as the serf! Was he the same 
 man? . . . Inscrutable, the enigma of that exist- 
 ence whose breathing was faintly audible across 
 the desk. 
 
 "You know all about it about my affair, of 
 course ?" 
 
 "Well," said Edwin. "I expect you know how much 
 I know." 
 
 "I'm an honest man you know that. I needn't be- 
 gin by explaining that to you." 
 
 Edwin nerved himself: 
 
THE GHOST 333 
 
 "You weren't honest towards Hilda, if it comes to 
 that." 
 
 He used his wife's Christian name, to this man with 
 whom he had never before spoken, naturally, inevitably. 
 He would not say "my wife." To have said "my wife" 
 would somehow have brought some muddiness upon 
 that wife, and by contact upon her husband. 
 
 "When I say 'honest' I mean you know what I mean. 
 About Hilda I don't defend that. Only I couldn't 
 help myself. ... I daresay I should do it again." 
 Edwin could feel his eyes smarting and he blinked, and 
 yet he was angry with the man, who went on: "It's 
 no use talking about that. That's over. And I 
 couldn't help it. I had to do it. She's come out of 
 it all right. She's not harmed, and I thank God for 
 it! If there'd been a child living . ; . . well, it would 
 ha' been different." 
 
 Edwin started. This man didn't know he was a 
 father and his son was within a few yards of him 
 might come running in at any moment! (No! Young 
 George would not come in. Nothing but positive or- 
 Iders would get the boy out of the engine-house so long 
 as the engine-man remained there.) Was it possible 
 that Hilda had concealed the existence of her child, 
 or had announced the child's death? If so, she had 
 never done a wiser thing, and such sagacity struck 
 him as heroic. But if Mrs. Cannon knew as to the 
 child, then it was Mrs. Cannon who, with equal pru- 
 dence and for a different end, had concealed its exist- 
 ence from George Cannon or lied to him as to its 
 death. Certainly the man was sincere. As he said 
 "Thank God !" his full voice had vibrated like the voice 
 of an ardent religionist at a prayer-meeting. 
 
 George Cannon began again : 
 
 "All I mean is I'm an honest man. I've been damn- 
 
334 THESE TWAIN 
 
 ably treated. Not that I want to go into that. No f 
 I'm a fatalist. That's over. That's done with. I'm 
 not whining. All I'm insisting on is that I'm not a 
 thief, and I'm not a forger, and I've nothing to hide. 
 Perhaps I brought my difficulties about that bank-note 
 business on myself. But when you've once been in 
 prison, you don't choose your friends you can't. 
 Perhaps I might have ended by being a thief or a for- 
 ger, only on this occasion it just happens that I've 
 had a good six years for being innocent. I never did 
 anything wrong, or even silly, except let myself get too 
 fond of somebody. That might happen to anyone. 
 It did happen to me. But there's nothing else. You 
 understand? I never " 
 
 "Yes, yes, certainly!" said Edwin, stopping him as 
 he was about to repeat all the argument afresh. It 
 was a convincing argument. 
 
 "No one's got the right to look down on me, I 
 mean," George Cannon insisted, bringing his face for- 
 ward over the desk. "On the contrary this country 
 owes me an apology. However, I don't want to go 
 into that. That's done with. Spilt milk's spilt. I 
 know what the world is." 
 
 "I agree. I agree!" said Edwin. 
 
 He did. The honesty of his intelligence admitted 
 almost too eagerly and completely the force of the 
 pleading. 
 
 "Well," said George Cannon, "to cut it short, I want 
 help. And I've come to you for it." 
 
 "Me !" Edwin feebly exclaimed. 
 
 "You, Mr. Clayhanger! I've come straight here 
 from London. I haven't a friend in the whole world, 
 not one. It's not everybody can say that. There was 
 a fellow named Dayson at Turnhill used to work for 
 me he'd have done something if he could. But he 
 
THE GHOST 335 
 
 was too big a fool to be able to ; and besides, he's gone, 
 no address. I wrote to him." 
 
 "Oh, that chap!" murmured Edwin, trying to find 
 relief in even a momentary turn of the conversation. 
 "I know who you mean. Shorthand-writer. He died 
 in the Isle of Man on his holiday two years ago. It 
 was in the papers." 
 
 "That's his address, is it? Good old Dead Letter 
 Office! Well, he is crossed off the list, then; no mis- 
 take!" Cannon snarled bitterly. "I'm aware you're 
 not a friend of mine. I've no claim on you. You 
 don't know me; but you know about me. When I 
 saw you in Dartmoor I guessed who you were, and 
 I said to myself you looked the sort of man who might 
 help another man. . . . Why did you come into the 
 prison? Why did you bring her there? You must 
 have known I was there." He spoke with a sudden 
 change to reproachfulness. 
 
 "I didn't bring her there." Edwin blushed. "It 
 
 was However, we needn't go into that, if you 
 
 don't mind." 
 
 "Was she upset?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Cannon sighed. 
 
 "What do you want me to do?" asked Edwin gloom- 
 ily. In secret he was rather pleased that George Can- 
 non should have deemed him of the sort likely to help. 
 Was it the flattery of a mendicant? No, he did not 
 think it was. He believed implicitly everything the 
 man was saying. 
 
 "Money!" said Cannon sharply. "Money! You 
 won't feel it, but it will save me. After all, Mr. Clay- 
 hanger, there's a bond between us, if it comes to that. 
 There's a bond between us. And you've had all the 
 luck of it." 
 
336 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Again Edwin blushed. 
 
 "But surely your wife " he stammered. "Surely 
 Mrs. Cannon isn't without funds. Of course I know 
 she was temporarily rather short a while back, but 
 surely " 
 
 "How do you know she was short?" Cannon grimly 
 interrupted. 
 
 "My wife sent her ten pounds I fancy it was ten 
 pounds towards expenses, you know." 
 
 Cannon ejaculated, half to himself, savagely: 
 
 "Never told me!" 
 
 He remained silent. 
 
 "But I've always understood she's a woman of prop- 
 erty," Edwin finished. 
 
 Cannon put both elbows on the desk, leaned further 
 forward, and opened his mouth several seconds before 
 speaking. 
 
 "Mr. Clayhanger, I've left my wife as you call 
 her. If I'd stayed with her I should have killed her. 
 I've run off. Yes, I know all she's done for me. I 
 know without her I might have been in prison to-day 
 and for a couple o' years to come. But I'd sooner be 
 in prison or in hell or anywhere you like than with 
 Mrs. Cannon. She's an old woman. She always was 
 an old woman. She was nearly forty when she hooked 
 me, and I was twenty-two. And I'm young yet. I'm 
 not middle-aged yet. She's got a clear conscience, 
 Mrs. Cannon has. She always does her duty. She'd 
 let me walk over her, she'd never complain, if only she 
 could keep me. She'd just play and smile. Oh yes, 
 she'd turn the other cheek and keep on turning it. 
 But she isn't going to have me. And for all she's 
 done I'm not grateful. Hag. That's what she is!" 
 He spoke loudly, excitedly, under considerable 
 emotion. 
 
THE GHOST 337 
 
 "Hsh!" Edwin, alarmed, endeavoured gently ta 
 soothe him. 
 
 "All right! All right!" Cannon proceeded in a 
 lower but still impassioned voice. "But look here! 
 You're a man. You know what's what. You'll under- 
 stand what I mean. Believe me when I say that I 
 wouldn't live with that woman for eternal salvation. 
 I couldn't. I couldn't do it. I've taken some of her 
 money, only a little, and run off . . ." He paused, 
 and went on with conscious persuasiveness now: "I've 
 just got here. I had to ask your whereabouts. I 
 might have been recognised in the streets, but I haven't 
 been. I didn't expect to find you here at this time. 
 I might have had to sleep in the town to-night. I 
 wouldn't have come to your private house. Now I've 
 seen you I shall get along to Crewe to-night. I shall 
 be safer there. And it's on the way to Liverpool and 
 America. I want to go to America. With a bit o' 
 capital I shall be all right in America. It's my one 
 chance; but it's a good one. But I must have some 
 capital. No use landing in New York with empty 
 pockets." 
 
 Said Edwin, still shying at the main issues : 
 
 "I was under the impression you had been to Amer- 
 ica once." 
 
 "Yes, that's why I know. I hadn't any money. 
 And what's more," he added with peculiar emphasis, 
 "I was brought back." 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "I shall yield to this man." 
 
 At that instant he saw the shadow of Hilda's head 
 and shoulders on the glass of the door. 
 
 "Excuse me a second," he murmured, bounded with 
 astonishing velocity out of the room, and pulled the 
 door to after him with a bang. 
 
338 THESE TWAIN 
 
 m 
 
 Hilda, having observed the strange, excited gesture, 
 paused a moment, in an equally strange tranquillity, 
 before speaking. Edwin fronted her at the very door. 
 Then she said, clearly and deliberately, through her 
 veil : 
 
 "Auntie Hamps has had an attack heart. The 
 doctor says she can't possibly live through the night. 
 It was at Clara's." 
 
 This was the first of Mrs. Hamps's fatal heart- 
 attacks. 
 
 "Ah!" breathed Edwin, with apparently a purely 
 artistic interest in the affair. "So that's it, is it? 
 Then she's at Clara's." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What doctor?" 
 
 "I forget his name. Lives in Acre Lane. They 
 sent for the nearest. She can't get her breath has 
 to fight for it. She jumped out of bed, struggling 
 to breathe." 
 
 "Have you seen her?" 
 
 "Yes. They made me." 
 
 "Albert there?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "Well, I suppose I'd better go round. You go 
 back. I'U follow you." 
 
 He was conscious of not the slightest feeling of 
 sorrow at the imminent death of Auntie Hamps. Even 
 the image of the old lady fighting to fetch her 
 breath scarcely moved him, though the deathbed of 
 his father had been harrowing enough. He and 
 Hilda had the same thought: "At last something 
 has happened to Auntie Hamps!" And it gave 
 zest. 
 
THE GHOST 339 
 
 "I must speak to you," said Hilda, low, and moved 
 towards the inner door. 
 
 The clerk Simpson was behind them at his ink- 
 stained desk, stamping letters, and politely pretending 
 to be deaf. 
 
 "No," Edwin stopped her. "There's someone in 
 there. We can't talk there." 
 
 "A customer?" 
 
 "Yes ... I say, Simpson. Have you done those 
 letters?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Simpson, smiling. He had 
 been recommended as a "very superior" youth, and 
 had not disappointed, despite a constitutional ner- 
 vousness. 
 
 "Take them to the pillar, and call at Mr. Benbow's 
 and tell them that I'll be round in about a quarter 
 of an hour. I don't know as you need come back. 
 Hurry up." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Edwin and Hilda watched Simpson go. 
 
 "Whatever's the matter?" Hilda demanded in a low, 
 harsh voice, as soon as the outer door had clicked. 
 It was as if something sinister in her had been sud- 
 denly released. 
 
 "Matter? Nothing. Why?" 
 
 "You look so queer." 
 
 "Well you come along with these shocks." He 
 gave a short, awkward laugh. He felt and looked 
 guilty, and he knew that he looked guilty. 
 
 "You looked queer when you came out." 
 
 "You've upset yourself, my child, that's all." He 
 now realised the high degree of excitement which he 
 himself, without previously being aware of it, had 
 reached. 
 
 "Edwin, who is it in there?" 
 
340 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Don't I tell you it's a customer." 
 
 He could see her nostrils twitching through the 
 veil. 
 
 "It's George Cannon in there !" she exclaimed. 
 
 He laughed again. "What makes you feel that?" 
 he asked, feeling all the while the complete absurdity 
 of such fencing. 
 
 "When I ran out I noticed somebody. He was read- 
 ing a newspaper and I couldn't see him. But he just 
 moved it a bit, and I seemed to catch sight of the top 
 of his head. And when I got into the street I said 
 to myself, 'It looked like George Cannon,' and then 
 I said, 'Of course it couldn't be.' And then with this 
 business about Auntie Hamps the idea went right out 
 of my head." 
 
 "Well, it is, if you want to know." 
 
 Her mysterious body and face seemed to radiate a 
 disastrous emotion that filled the whole office. 
 
 "Did you know he was coming?" 
 
 "I did not. Hadn't the least notion !" The sensa- 
 tion of criminality began to leave Edwin. As Hilda 
 seemed to move and waver, he added : 
 
 "Now you aren't going to see him!" 
 
 And his voice menacingly challenged her, and defied 
 her to stir a step. The most important thing in the 
 world, then, was that Hilda should not see George 
 Cannon. He would stop her by force. He would let 
 himself get angry and brutal. He would show her 
 that he was the stronger. He had quite abandoned 
 his earlier attitude of unsentimental callousness which 
 argued that after all it wouldn't ultimately matter 
 whether they encountered each other or not. Far 
 from that, he was, so it appeared to him, standing be- 
 tween them, desperate and determined, and acting in- 
 stinctively and conventionally. Their separate pasts, 
 
THE GHOST 341 
 
 each full of grief and tragedy, converged terribly upon 
 him in an effort to meet in just that moment, and he 
 was ferociously resisting. 
 
 "What does he want?" 
 
 "He wants me to help him to go to America." 
 
 "Your 9 
 
 "He says he hasn't a friend." 
 
 "But what about his wife?" 
 
 "That's just what I said. . . . He's left her. Says 
 he can't live with her." 
 
 There was a silence, in which the tension appre- 
 ciably lessened. 
 
 "Can't live with her ! Well, I'm not surprised. But 
 I do think it's strange, him coming to you." 
 
 "So do I," said Edwin drily, taking the upper hand ; 
 for the change in Hilda's tone her almost childlike 
 satisfaction in the news that Cannon would not live with 
 his wife seemed to endow him with superiority. "But 
 there's a lot of strange things in this world. Now 
 listen here. I'm not going to keep him waiting; I 
 can't." 
 
 He then spoke very gravely, authoritatively and omi- 
 nously: "Find George and take him home at 
 once." 
 
 Hilda, impressed, gave a frown. 
 
 "I think it's very wrong that you should be asked 
 to help him." Her voice' shook and nearly broke. 
 "Shall you help him, Edwin?" 
 
 "I shall get him out of this town at once, and out 
 of the country. Do as I say. As things are he 
 doesn't know there is any George, and it's just as well 
 he shouldn't. But if he stays anywhere about, he's 
 bound to know." 
 
 All Hilda's demeanour admitted that George Can- 
 non had never been allowed to know that he had a 
 
[THESE TWAIN 
 
 son; and the simple candour of the admission fright- 
 ened Edwin by its very simplicity. 
 
 "Now ! Off you go ! George is in the engine-house." 
 
 Hilda moved reluctantly towards the outer-door^ 
 like a reproved and rebellious schoolgirl. Suddenly 
 she burst into tears, sprang at Edwin, and, putting 
 her arms round his neck, kissed him through the veil. 
 
 "Nobody but you would have helped him in your 
 place !" she murmured passionately, half admiring, 
 half protesting. And with a backward look as she 
 hurried off, her face stern and yet soft seemed to 
 appeal: "Help him." 
 
 Edwin was at once deeply happy and impregnated 
 with a sense of the frightful sadness that lurks in the 
 hollows of the world. He stood alone with the flaring 
 gas, overcome. 
 
 IV 
 
 He went back to the private room, self-conscious 
 and rather tongue-tied, with a clear feeling of relief 
 that Hilda was disposed of, removed from the equa- 
 tion and not unsuccessfully. After the woman, to 
 deal with the man, in the plain language of men, seemed 
 simple and easy. He was astounded, equally, by the 
 grudging tardiness of Mrs. Cannon's information to 
 Hilda as to the release, and by the baffling, inflexible 
 detraction of Hilda's words : "Well, I'm not surprised." 
 And the flitting image of Auntie Hamps fighting for 
 life still left him untouched. He looked at George Can- 
 non, and George Cannon, with his unreliable eyes, 
 looked at him. He almost expected Cannon to say: 
 "Was that Hilda you were talking to out there?" 
 But Cannon seemed to have no suspicion that, in either 
 the inner or the outer room, he had been so close to 
 
THE GHOST 343 
 
 her. No doubt, when he was waiting by the mantel- 
 piece in the outer room, he had lifted the paper as 
 soon as he heard the door unlatched, expressly in order 
 to screen himself from observation. Probably he had 
 not even guessed that the passer was a woman. Had 
 Simpson been there, the polite young man would 
 doubtless have said: "Good night, Mrs. Clayhanger," 
 but Simpson had happened not to be there. 
 
 "Are you going to help me?" asked George Cannon, 
 after a moment, and his heavy voice was so beseeching, 
 so humble, so surprisingly sycophantic, so fearful, that 
 Edwin could scarcely bear to hear it. He hated to 
 hear that one man could be so slavishly dependent on 
 another. Indeed, he much preferred Cannon's defiant, 
 half-bullying tone. 
 
 "Yes," said he. "I shall do what I can. What do 
 you want?" 
 
 "A hundred pounds," said George Cannon, and, as 
 he named the sum, his glance was hard and steady. 
 
 Edwin was startled. But immediately he began to 
 readjust his ideas, persuading himself that after all 
 the man could not prudently have asked for less. 
 
 "I can't give it you all now." 
 
 Cannon's face lighted up in relief and joy. His 
 black eyes sparkled feverishly with the impatience of 
 an almost hopeless desire about to be satisfied. Al- 
 though he did not move, his self-control had for the 
 moment gone completely, and the secrets of his soul 
 were exposed. 
 
 "Can you send it me in notes? I can give you an 
 address in Liverpool." His voice could hardly utter 
 the words. 
 
 "Wait a second," said Edwin. 
 
 He went to the safe let into the wall, of which he 
 was still so naively proud, and unlocked it with the 
 
344 THESE TWAIN 
 
 owner's gesture. The perfect fitting of the bright key, 
 the ease with which it turned, the silent, heavy swing 
 of the massive door on its hinges these things gave 
 him physical as well as moral pleasure. He savoured 
 the security of his position and his ability to rescue 
 people from destruction. From the cavern of the safe 
 he took out a bag of gold, part of the money required 
 for wages on the morrow, he would have to send to 
 the Bank again in the morning. He knew that the 
 bag contained exactly twenty pounds in half-sover- 
 eigns, but he shed the lovely twinkling coins on the 
 desk and counted them. 
 
 "Here," he said. "Here's twenty pounds. Take 
 the bag, too it'll be handier," and he put the money 
 into the bag. Then a foolish, grand idea struck 
 him. "Write down the address on this envelope, will 
 you, and I'll send you a hundred to-morrow. You 
 can rely on it." 
 
 "Eighty, you mean," muttered George Cannon. 
 
 "No," said Edwin, with affected nonchalance, blush- 
 ing, "a hundred. The twenty will get you over and 
 you'll have a hundred clear when you arrive on the 
 other side." 
 
 "Ye're very kind," said Cannon weakly. "I" 
 
 "Here. Here's the envelope. Here's a bit of pen- 
 cil." Edwin stopped him hastily. His fear of being 
 thanked made him harsh. 
 
 While Cannon was nervously writing the address, 
 he noticed that the man's clumsy fingers were those of 
 a day-labourer. 
 
 "You'll get it all back. You'll see," said Cannon, as 
 he stood up to leave, holding his glossy felt hat in his 
 left hand. 
 
 "Don't worry about that. I don't want it. You 
 owe me nothing." 
 
THE GHOST 345 
 
 "You'll have every penny back, and before long, 
 too." 
 
 Edwin smiled, deprecating the idea. 
 
 "Well, good luck!" he said. "You'll get to Crewe 
 all right. There's a train at Shawport at eight 
 seven." 
 
 They shook hands, and quitted the inner office. As 
 he traversed the outer office on his way forth, in front 
 of Edwin, Cannon turned his head, as if to say some- 
 thing, but, confused, he said nothing and went on, and 
 at once he disappeared into the darkness outside. And 
 Edwin was left with a memory of his dubious eyes, hard 
 rather than confident, profoundly relieved rather than 
 profoundly grateful. 
 
 "By Jove!" Edwin murmured by himself. "Who'd 
 have thought it? ... They say those chaps always 
 turn up again like bad pennies, but I bet he won't." 
 Simultaneously he reflected upon the case of Mrs. 
 Cannon, deserted; but it did not excite his pity. He 
 fastened the safe, extinguished the lights, shut the 
 office, and prepared his mind for the visit to Auntie 
 Hamps. 
 
 Hilda and her son were in the dining-room, in which 
 the table, set for a special meal half-tea, half-supper 
 made a glittering oblong of white. On the table, 
 among blue-and-white plates, and knives and forks, lay 
 some of George's shabby school-books. In most 
 branches of knowledge George privately knew that he 
 could instruct his parents especially his mother. 
 Nevertheless that beloved outgrown creature was still 
 occasionally useful at home-lessons, as for instance in 
 "poetry." George, disdainful, had to learn some verses 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 each week, and now his mother held a book entitled 
 "The Poetry Reciter," while George mumbled with 
 imperfect verbal accuracy the apparently immortal 
 lines: 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem, may his tribe increase, 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. 
 
 His mother, however, scarcely regarded the book. 
 She knew the poem by heart, and had indeed recited 
 it to George, who, though he was much impressed by 
 her fire, could not by any means have been persuaded 
 to imitate the freedom of her delivery. His elocution 
 to-night was unusually bad, for the reason that he had 
 been pleasurably excited by the immense news of 
 Auntie Hamps's illness. Not that he had any grudge 
 against Auntie Hamps! His pleasure would have 
 been as keen in the grave illness of any other important 
 family connection, save his mother and Edwin. Such 
 notable events gave a sensational interest to domestic 
 life which domestic life as a rule lacked. 
 
 Then, through the half-open door of the dining- 
 room came the sound of Edwin's latch-key in the 
 front-door. 
 
 "There's uncle!" exclaimed George, and jumped up. 
 
 Hilda stopped him. 
 
 "Put your books together," said she. "You know 
 uncle likes to go up to the bathroom before he does 
 anything!" 
 
 It was a fact that the precisian hated even to be 
 greeted, on his return home in the evening, until he came 
 downstairs from the bathroom. 
 
 Hilda herself collected the books and put them on 
 the sideboard. 
 
 "Shall I tell Ada?" George suggested, champing 
 the bit. 
 
THE GHOST 347 
 
 "No. Ada knows." 
 
 With deliberation Hilda tended the fire. Her mind 
 -was in a state of emotional flux. Memories and com- 
 parisons mournfully and yet agreeably animated it. 
 She thought of the days when she used to recite amid 
 enthusiasm in the old drawing-room of the Orgreaves ; 
 and of the days when she was a wanderer, had no 
 home, no support, little security; and of the brief, 
 uncertain days with George Cannon; and of the eter- 
 nal days when her only assurance was the assurance 
 of disaster. She glanced at George, and saw in him 
 reminders of his tragic secret father now hidden away, 
 forced into the background, like something obscene. 
 Nearly every development of the present out of the 
 past seemed to her, now, to be tragic. Johnnie Or- 
 greave had of course not come back from his idyll with 
 the ripping Mrs. Chris Hamson; their seclusion was 
 not positively known; but the whole district knew that 
 the husband had begun proceedings and that the Or- 
 greave business was being damaged by the incom- 
 petence of Jimmie Orgreave, whose deplorable wife had 
 a few days earlier been seen notoriously drunk in the 
 dress-circle of the Hanbridge Theatre Royal. Janet 
 was still at Tavy Mansion because there was no place 
 for her in the Five Towns. Janet had written to 
 Hilda, sadly, and the letter breathed her sense of her 
 own futility and superfluousness in the social scheme. 
 In one curt phrase, that very afternoon, the taciturn 
 Maggie, who very seldom complained, had disclosed 
 something of what it was to live day and night with 
 Auntie Hamps. Even Clara, the self-sufficient, pro- 
 tected by an almost impermeable armour of conceit, 
 showed signs of the anxiety due to obscure chronic 
 disease and a husband who financially never knew 
 where he was. Finally, the last glories of Auntie 
 
348 (THESE TWAIN 
 
 Hamps were sinking to ashes. Only Hilda herself was, 
 from nearly every point of view, in a satisfactory and 
 promising situation. She possessed love, health, 
 money, stability. When danger threatened, a quiet 
 and unfailingly sagacious husband was there to meet 
 and destroy it. Surely nothing whatever worth men- 
 tioning, save the fact that she was distantly approach- 
 ing forty, troubled the existence of Hilda now; and 
 her age certainly did not trouble her. 
 
 Ada entered with the hot dishes, and went out. 
 
 At length Hilda heard the bathroom door. She left 
 the dining-room, shutting the door on George, who 
 could take a hint very well considering his years. 
 Edwin, brushed and spruce, was coming downstairs, 
 rubbing his clean hands with physical satisfaction. 
 He nodded amiably, but without smiling. 
 
 "Has he gone?" said Hilda, in a low voice. 
 
 Edwin nodded. He was at the foot of the stairs. 
 
 She did not offer to kiss him, having a no- 
 tion that he would prefer not to be kissed just 
 then. 
 
 "How much did you give him?" She knew he would 
 not care for the question, but she could not help put- 
 ting it. 
 
 He smiled, and touched her shoulder. She liked him 
 to touch her shoulder. 
 
 "That's all right," he said, with a faint condescen- 
 sion. "Don't you worry about that." 
 
 She did not press the point. He could be free 
 enough with information except when it was de- 
 manded. Some time later he would begin of his own 
 accord to talk. 
 
 "How was Auntie Hamps?" 
 
 "Well, if anything, she's a bit easier. I don't mind 
 betting she gets over it." 
 
THE GHOST 349 
 
 They went into the dining-room almost side by side, 
 and she enquired again about his headache. 
 
 The meal was tranquil. After a few moments Ed- 
 win opened the subject of Auntie Hamps's illness with 
 some sardonic remarks upon the demeanour of Albert 
 Benbow. 
 
 "Is Auntie dying?" asked George with gusto. 
 
 Edwin replied: 
 
 "What are those schoolbooks doing there on the 
 sideboard? I thought it was clearly understood that 
 you were to do your lessons in your mother's bou- 
 doir." 
 
 He spoke without annoyance, but coldly. He was 
 aware that neither Hilda nor her son could compre- 
 hend that to a bookman schoolbooks were not books, 
 but merely an eyesore. He did not blame them for 
 their incapacity, but he considered that an arrange- 
 ment was an arrangement. 
 
 "Mother put them there," said the base George. 
 
 "Well, you can take them away," said Edwin firmly. 
 "Run along now." 
 
 George rose from his place between Hilda and Ed- 
 win, and from his luscious plate, and removed the 
 books. Hilda watched him meekly go. His father, too, 
 had gone. Edwin was in the right ; his position could 
 not be assailed. He had not been unpleasant, but he 
 had spoken as one sublimely confident that his order 
 would not be challenged. Within her heart Hilda re- 
 belled. If Edwin had been responsible for some act 
 contrary to one of her decrees, she would never in his 
 presence have used the tone that he used to enforce 
 obedience. She would have laughed or she would have 
 frowned, but she would never have been the polite auto- 
 crat. Nor would he have expected her to play the role ; 
 he would probably have resented it. 
 
350 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Why? Were they not equals? No, they were not 
 equals. The fundamental unuttered assumption upon 
 which the household life rested was that they were 
 not equals. She might cross him, she might momen- 
 tarily defy him, she might torture him, she might drive 
 him to fury, and still be safe from any effective re- 
 prisals, because his love for her made her necessary to 
 his being; but in spite of all that his will remained the 
 seat of government, and she and George were only the 
 Opposition. In the end, she had to incline. She was 
 the complement of his existence, but he was not the 
 complement of hers. She was just a parasite, though 
 an essential parasite. Why? . . . The reason, she 
 judged, was economic, and solely economic. She re- 
 belled. Was she riot as individual, as original, as he? 
 Had she not a powerful mind of her own, experience 
 of her own, ideals of her own? Was she not of a 
 nature profoundly and exceptionally independent ? . . . 
 
 Her lot was unalterable. She had of course, nofc 
 the slightest desire to leave him; she was devoted to 
 him; what irked her was that, even had she had the 
 desire, she could not have fulfilled it, for she was too 
 old now, and too enamoured of comfort and security, 
 to risk such an enterprise. She was a captive, and 
 she recalled with a gentle pang, less than regret, the 
 days when she was unhappy and free as a man, when 
 she could say, "I will go to London," "I will leave 
 London," "I am deceived and ruined, but I am my 
 own mistress." 
 
 These thoughts in the idyllic tranquillity of the 
 meal, mingled, below her smiling preoccupations of an 
 honoured house-mistress, with the thoughts of her love 
 for her husband and son and of their excellences, of 
 the masculine love which enveloped and shielded her, 
 of her security, of the tragedy of the bribed and 
 
THE GHOST 351 
 
 dismissed victim and villain, George Cannon, of the 
 sorrows of some of her friends, and of the dead. In 
 her heart was the unquiet whispering: "I submit, and 
 yet I shall never submit." 
 
BOOK in 
 
 EQUILIBRIUM 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 GEORGE'S EYES 
 
 HELDA sat alone in the boudoir, before the fire. She 
 had just come out of the kitchen, and she was wear- 
 ing the white uniform of the kitchen, unsuited for a 
 boudoir; but she wore it with piquancy. The Novem- 
 ber afternoon had, passed into dusk, and through the 
 window, over the roofs of Hulton Street, stars could 
 be seen in a darkening clear sky. After a very sharp 
 fall and rise of the barometer, accounting for heavy 
 rainstorms, the first frosts were announced, and win- 
 ter was on the doorstep. The hardy inhabitants of 
 the Five Towns, Hilda among them, were bracing 
 themselves to the discipline of winter, with its mud, 
 increased smuts, sleet, and damp, piercing chills ; and 
 they were taking pleasure in the tonic prospect of 
 discomfort. The visitation had threatened ever since 
 September. Now it had positively come. Let it come ! 
 Build up the fire, stamp the feet, and defy it! Hilda 
 was exhilarated, having been reawakened to the zest 
 and the romance of life, not merely by the onset of 
 winter, but by dramatic events in the kitchen. 
 
 A little over three years had elapsed since the clos- 
 ing of the episode of George Cannon, and for two of 
 those years Hilda had had peace in the kitchen. She 
 had been the firm mistress who knows what she wants, 
 and, knowing also how to handle the peculiar inmates 
 of the kitchen, gets it; she had been the mistress who 
 "won't put up with" all sorts of things, including 
 
 355 
 
356 THESE TWAIN 
 
 middle-age and ugliness in servants, and whom heaven 
 has spoilt by too much favour. Then the cook, with 
 the ingratitude of a cherished domestic, had fallen in 
 love and carried her passion into a cottage miles away 
 at Longshaw. And from that moment Hilda had 
 ceased to be the mistress who by firmness commands 
 fate; she had become as other mistresses. In a year 
 she had had five cooks, giving varying degrees of in- 
 tense dissatisfaction. She had even dismissed the slim 
 and constant Ada once, but, yielding to an outburst 
 of penitent affection, had withdrawn the notice. The 
 last cook, far removed from youthfulness or pretti- 
 ness, had left suddenly that day, after insolence, after 
 the discovery of secret beer and other vileness in the 
 attic-bedroom, after a scene in which Hilda had ab- 
 solutely silenced her, reducing ribaldry to sobs. Cook 
 and trunk expelled, Hilda had gone about the house 
 like a fumigation, and into the kitchen like the embodi- 
 ment of calm and gay efficiency. She would do the 
 cooking herself. She would show the kitchen that she 
 was dependent upon nobody. She had quickened the 
 speed of Ada, accused her "tartly," but not without 
 dry good-humour, of a disloyal secretiveness, and 
 counselled her to mind what she was about if she 
 wanted to get on in the world. 
 
 Edwin knew nothing, for all had happened since his 
 departure to the works after midday dinner. He would 
 be back in due course, and George would be back, and 
 Tertius Ingpen (long ago reconciled) was coming for 
 the evening. She would show them all three what a 
 meal was, and incidentally Ada would learn what a 
 meal was. There was nothing like demonstrating to 
 servants that you could beat them easily at their own, 
 game. 
 
 She had just lived through her thirty-ninth birth- 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 357 
 
 day. "Forty!" she had murmured to herself with a 
 shiver of apprehension, meaning that the next would 
 be the fortieth. It was an unpleasant experience. She 
 had told Edwin not to mention her birthday abroad. 
 Clumsy George had enquired: "Mother, how old are 
 you?" To which she had replied, "Lay-ours for med- 
 dlers !" a familiar phrase whose origin none of them 
 understood, but George knew that it signified, "Mind 
 your own business." No! She had not been happy 
 on that birthday. She had gazed into the glass and 
 decided that she looked old, that she did not look old, 
 that she looked old, endlessly alternating. She was 
 not stout, but her body was solid, too solid; it had 
 no litheness, none whatever; it was absolutely set; the 
 cleft under the chin was quite undeniable, and the olive 
 complexion subtly ravaged. Still, not a hair of her 
 dark head had changed colour. It was perhaps her 
 soul that was greying. Her married life was fairly 
 calm. It had grown monotonous in ease and tran- 
 quillity. The sharp, respectful admiration for her hus- 
 band roused in her by his handling of the Cannon epi- 
 sode, had gradually been dulled. She had nothing 
 against him. Yet she had everything against him, be- 
 cause apart from his grave abiding love for her he 
 possessed an object and interest in life, and because 
 she was a mere complement and he was not. She had 
 asked herself the most dreadful of questions: "Why 
 have I lived? Why do I go on living?" and had an- 
 swered: "Because of them" meaning Edwin and her 
 son. But it was not enough for her, who had once 
 been violently enterprising, pugnacious, endangered, 
 and independent. For after she had watched over 
 them she had energy to spare, and such energy was 
 not being employed and could not be employed. Read- 
 ing a diversion! Fancy work a detestable device 
 
358 THESE TWAIN 
 
 for killing time and energy! Social duties ditto! 
 Charity hateful ! She had slowly descended into mar- 
 riage as into a lotus valley. And more than half her 
 life was gone. She could never detect that any other 
 married woman in the town felt as she felt. She could 
 never explain herself to Edwin, and indeed had not 
 tried to explain herself. 
 
 Now the affair of the alcoholic cook, aided by win- 
 ter's first fillip, stimulated and brightened her. And 
 while thinking with a glance at the clock of the pre- 
 cise moment when she must return to the kitchen and 
 put a dish down to the fire, she also thought, rather 
 hopefully and then quite hopefully, about the future of 
 her marriage.^ Her brain seemed to straighten and 
 correct itself, like the brain of one who, waking up in 
 the morning, slowly perceives that the middle-of-the- 
 night apprehensiveness about eventualities was all 
 awry in its pessimism. She saw that everything could 
 and must be improved, that the new life must begin. 
 Edwin needed to be inspired; she must inspire him. 
 He slouched more and more in his walk; he was more 
 and more absorbed in his business, quieter in the even- 
 ings, more impatient in the mornings. Moreover, the 
 household machine had been getting slack. A general 
 tonic was required; she would administer it and to 
 herself also. They should all feel the invigorating 
 ozone that very night. She would organise social dis- 
 tractions ; on behalf of the home she would reclaim from 
 the works those odd hours and half-hours of Edwin's 
 which it had imperceptibly filched. She would have 
 some new clothes, and she would send Edwin to the 
 tailor's. She would make him buy a dog-cart and a 
 horse. Oh! She could do it. She had the mastery of 
 him in many things when she chose to be aroused. In 
 a word, she would "branch out." 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 359 
 
 She was not sure that she would not prosecute a cam- 
 paign for putting Edwin on the Town Council, where he 
 certainly ought to be. It was his duty to take a share in 
 public matters, and ultimately to dominate the town. 
 Suggestions had already been made by wirepullers, and 
 unreflectively repulsed by the too casual Edwin. She 
 saw him mayor, and herself mayoress. Once, the pros- 
 pect of any such formal honour, with all that it entailed 
 of ceremoniousness and insincere civilities, would have 
 annoyed if not frightened her. But now she thought, 
 proudly and timidly and desirously, that she would 
 make as good a mayoress as most mayoresses, and that 
 she could set one or two of them an example in tact 
 and dignity. Why not? Of late neither mayors nor 
 mayoresses in the Five Towns had been what they used 
 to be. The grand tradition was apparently in abey- 
 ance, the people who ought to carry it on seeming 
 somehow to despise it. She could remember mayors, 
 especially Chief Bailiffs at Turnhill, who imposed them- 
 selves upon the imagination of the town. But nowa- 
 days the name of a mayor was never a household word. 
 She had even heard Ingpen ask Edwin: "See, who is 
 the new mayor?" and Edwin start his halting answer: 
 "Let me see" 
 
 And she had still another and perhaps greater 
 ambition to possess a country house. In her 
 fancy her country house was very like Alicia Hes- 
 keth's house, Tavy Mansion, which she had never 
 ceased to envy. She felt that in a new home, spacious, 
 with space around it, she could really commence the 
 new life. She saw the place perfectly appointed and 
 functioning perfectly no bother about smuts on 
 white curtains; no half-trained servants; none of the 
 base, confined, promiscuity of filthy Trafalgar Road; 
 and the Benbows and Auntie Hamps at least eight or 
 
860 THESE TWAIN 
 
 ten miles off! She saw herself driving Edwin to the 
 station in the morning, or perhaps right into Bursley 
 if she wanted to shop. . . . No, she would of course 
 shop at Oldcastle. . . . She would leave old Darius 
 Clayhanger's miracle-house without one regret. And in 
 the new life she would be always active, busy, dignified, 
 elegant, influential, and kind. And to Edwin she would 
 be absolutely indispensable. 
 
 In these imaginings their solid but tarnished love 
 glittered and gleamed again. She saw naught but 
 the charming side of Edwin and the romantic side of 
 their union. She was persuaded that there really was 
 nobody like Edwin, and that no marriage had ever had 
 quite the mysterious, secretly exciting quality of hers. 
 She yearned for him to come home at once, to appear 
 magically in the dusk of the doorway. The mood was 
 marvellous. 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 "Can I speak to you, m'm?" 
 
 It was the voice of Ada, somewhat perturbed. She 
 advanced a little and stood darkly in front of the 
 open doorway. 
 
 "What is it, Ada?" Hilda asked curtly, without 
 turning to look at her. 
 
 "It's " Ada began and stopped. 
 
 Hilda glanced round quickly, recognising now in the 
 voice a peculiar note with which experience had famil- 
 iarised her. It was a note between pertness and the 
 beginning of a sob, and it always indicated that Ada 
 was feeling more acutely than usual- the vast injustice 
 of the worldly scheme. It might develop into tears; 
 on the other hand it might develop into mere insolence. 
 Hilda discerned that Ada was wearing neither cap nor 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 361 
 
 apron. She thought: "If this stupid girl wants 
 trouble, she has come to me at exactly and precisely 
 the right moment to get it. I'm not in the humour, 
 after all I've gone through to-day, to stand any non- 
 sense either from her or from anybody else." 
 
 "What is it, Ada?" she repeated, with restraint, and 
 yet warningly. "And where' s your apron and your 
 cap?" 
 
 "In the kitchen, m'm." 
 
 "Well, go and put them on, and then come and say 
 what you have to say," said Hilda, thinking: "I don't 
 give any importance to her cap and apron, but she 
 does." 
 
 "I was thinking I'd better give ye notice, m'm," said 
 Ada, and she said it pertly, ignoring the command. 
 
 The two women were alone together in the house. 
 Each felt it; each felt the large dark emptiness of the 
 house behind them, and the solid front and back doors 
 cutting them off from succour; each had to depend 
 entirely upon herself. 
 
 Hilda asked quietly : 
 
 "What's the matter now?" 
 
 She knew that Ada's grievance would prove to be 
 silly. The girl had practically no commonsense. Not 
 one servant girl in a hundred had any appreciable com- 
 monsense. And when girls happened to be "upset" 
 as they were all liable to be, and as Ada by the vio- 
 lent departure of the cook no doubt was even such 
 minute traces of gumption as they possessed were 
 apt to disappear. 
 
 "There's no pleasing you, m'm!" said Ada. "The 
 way you talked to me in the kitchen, saying I was 
 always a-hiding things from ye. I've felt it very 
 much!" 
 
 She threw her head back, and the gesture signified: 
 
362 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "I'm younger than you, and young men are always 
 running after me. And I can get a new situation any 
 time. And I've not gone back into my kitchen to 
 put my cap and apron on." 
 
 "Ada," said Hilda. "Shall I tell you what's wrong 
 with you? You're a little fool. You know you're 
 talking rightdown nonsense. You know that as well 
 as I do. And you know you'll never get a better place 
 than you have here. But you've taken an idea into 
 your head and there you are! Now do be sensible. 
 You say you think you'd better give notice. Think 
 it over before you do anything ridiculous. Sleep on 
 it. We'll see how you feel in the morning." 
 
 "I think I'd better give notice, m'm, especially seeing 
 I'm a fool, and silly," Ada persisted. 
 
 Hilda sighed. Her voice hardened slightly: 
 
 "So you'd leave me without a maid just at Christ- 
 mas ! And that's all the thanks I get for all I've done 
 for you." 
 
 "Well, m'm. We've had such a queer lot of girls here 
 lately, haven't we?" The pertness was intensified. "I 
 don't hardly care to stay. I feel we sh'd both be 
 better for a change like." 
 
 It was perhaps Ada's subtly insolent use of the word 
 "we" and "both" that definitely brought about a new 
 phase of the interview. Hilda suddenly lost all desire 
 for an amicable examination of the crisis. 
 
 "Very well, Ada," she said, shortly. "But remem- 
 ber I shan't take you back again, whatever happens." 
 
 Ada moved away, and then returned. 
 
 "Could I leave at once, m'm, same as cook?" 
 
 Hilda was astonished and outraged, despite all her 
 experience and its resulting secret sardonic cynicism in 
 regard to servants. The girl was ready to walk out in- 
 stantly. 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 363 
 
 "And may I enquire where you'd go to?" asked 
 Hilda with a sneer. "At this time of night you couldn't 
 possibly get home to your parents." 
 
 "Oh!" answered Ada brightly. "I could go to me 
 cousin's up at Toft End. And her could send down 
 a lad with a barrow for me box." 
 
 The plot, then, had been thought out. "Her 
 cousin's !" thought Hilda, and seemed to be putting 
 her finger on the cause of Ada's disloyalty. "Her 
 cousin's!" It was a light in a dark mystery. "Her 
 cousin's !" 
 
 "I suppose you know you're forfeiting the wages 
 due to you the day after to-morrow?" 
 
 "I shall ask me cousin about that, m'm," said Ada, as 
 it were menacingly. 
 
 "I should !" Hilda sarcastically agreed. "I certainly 
 should." And she thought with bitter resignation: 
 "She'll have to leave anyhow after this. She may as 
 well leave on the spot." 
 
 "There's those as'll see as I have me rights," said 
 Ada pugnaciously, with another toss of the head. 
 
 Hilda had a mind to retort in anger; but she con- 
 trolled herself. Already that afternoon she had im- 
 perilled her dignity in the altercation with the cook. 
 The cook, however, had not Ada's ready tongue, and, 
 while the mistress had come off best against the cook, 
 she might through impulsiveness find herself worsted 
 by Ada's more youthful impudence, were it once un- 
 loosed. 
 
 "That will do, then, Ada," she said. "You can 
 go and pack your box first thing." 
 
 In less than three quarters of an hour Ada was 
 gone, and her corded trunk lay just within the scul- 
 lery door, waiting the arrival of the cousin's barrow. 
 She had bumped it down the stairs herself. 
 
364 THESE TWAIN 
 
 All solitary in the house, which had somehow been 
 transformed into a strange and unusual house, Hilda 
 wept. She had only parted with an unfaithful and 
 ungrateful servant, but she wept. She dashed into the 
 kitchen and began to do Ada's work, still weeping, and 
 she was savage against her own tears ; yet they con- 
 tinued softly to fall, misting her vision of fire and 
 utensils and earthenware vessels. Ada had left every- 
 thing in a moment; she had left the kettle on the fire, 
 and the grease in the square tin in which the dinner- 
 joint had been cooked, and the ashes in the fender, 
 and tea-leaves in the kitchen teapot and a cup and 
 saucer unwashed. She had cared naught for the in- 
 convenience she was causing; had shewn not the 
 slightest consideration ; had walked off without a pang, 
 smilingly hoity-toity. And all servants were like that. 
 Such conduct might be due as much to want of imagi- 
 nation, to a simple inability to picture to themselves 
 the consequences of certain acts, as to stark ingrati- 
 tude ; but the consequences remained the same ; and 
 Hilda held fiercely to the theory of stark ingratitude. 
 
 She had made Ada ; she had created her. When 
 Hilda engaged her, Ada was little more than an "oat- 
 cake girl," that is to say, one of those girls who earn 
 a few pence by delivering oat-cakes fresh from the stove 
 at a halfpenny each before breakfast at the houses 
 of gormandising superior artisans and the middle- 
 classes. True, she had been in one situation prior 
 to Hilda's, but it was a situation where she learnt 
 nothing and could have learnt nothing. Nevertheless, 
 she was very quick to learn, and in a month Hilda 
 had done wonders with her. She had taught her not 
 only her duties, but how to respect herself, to make 
 the best of herself, and favourably to impress others. 
 She had enormously increased Ada's value in the uni- 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 365 
 
 verse. And she had taught her some worldly wisdom, 
 and permitted and even encouraged certain coquetries, 
 and in the bed-room during dressings and undressings 
 had occasionally treated her as a soubrette if not as a 
 confidante ; had listened to her at length, and had gone 
 so far as to ask her views on this matter or that the 
 supreme honour for a menial. Also she had very con- 
 scientiously nursed her in sickness. She had really 
 liked Ada, and had developed a sentimental weakness 
 for her. She had taken pleasure in her prettiness, in 
 her natural grace, and in her crude youth. She en- 
 joyed seeing Ada arrange a bedroom, or answer the 
 door, or serve a meal. And Ada's stupidity that 
 half-cunning stupidity of her class, which immovably 
 underlay her superficial aptitudes had not ( sufficed 
 to spoil her affection for the girl. She had been in- 
 dulgent to Ada's stupidity; she had occasionally in 
 some soft moods hoped that it was curable. And she 
 had argued in moments of discouragement that at any 
 rate stupidity could be faithful. In her heart she had 
 counted Ada as a friend, as a true standby in the 
 more or less tragic emergencies of the household. And 
 now Ada had deserted her. Stupidity had proved to 
 be neither faithful nor grateful. Why had Ada been 
 so silly and so base? Impossible to say! A nothing! 
 A whim! Nerves! Fatuity! The whole affair was 
 horribly absurd. These creatures were incalculable. 
 Of course Hilda would have been wiser not to upbraid 
 her so soon after the scene with the cook, and to have 
 spoken more smoothly to the chit in the boudoir. Hilda 
 admitted that. But what then? Was that an excuse 
 for the chit's turpitude? There must be a limit to 
 the mistress's humouring. And probably after all the 
 chit had meant to go. ... If she had not meant 
 to go she would not have entered the boudoir apron- 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 less and capless. Some rankling word, some ridicu- 
 lous sympathy with the cook, some wild dream of a 
 Christmas holiday who could tell what might have in- 
 fluenced her? Hilda gave it up and returned to it 
 a thousand times. One truth emerged and it was the 
 great truth of housemistresses namely, that it never, 
 never, never pays to be too kind to servants. "Ser- 
 vants do not understand kindness." You think they 
 do; they themselves think they do; but they don't, 
 they don't and they don't. Hilda went back into the 
 immensity of her desolating experience as an employer 
 of female domestic servants of all kinds, but chiefly 
 bad for the landlady of a small boarding house must 
 take what servants she can get and she raged at 
 the persistence of the proof that kindness never paid. 
 What did pay was severity and inhuman strictness, 
 and the maintenance of an impassable gulf between 
 employer and employed. Not again would she make 
 the mistake which she had made a hundred times. She 
 hardened herself to the consistency of a slave-driver. 
 And all the time it was the woman in her, not the mis- 
 tress, that the hasty thoughtless Ada had wounded. 
 To the woman the kitchen was not the same place 
 without Ada Ada on whom she had utterly relied in 
 the dilemma caused by the departure of the cook. As 
 with angrily wet eyes she went about her new work in 
 the kitchen, she could almost see the graceful ghost 
 of Ada tripping to and fro therein. 
 
 And all that the world, and the husband, would 
 know or understand was that a cook had been turned 
 out for drunkenness, and that a quite sober parlour- 
 maid had most preposterously walked after her. Hilda 
 was aware that in Edwin she had a severe, though a 
 taciturn, critic of her activities as employer of ser- 
 vants. She had no hope whatever of his sympathy, 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 367 
 
 and so she closed all her gates against him. She 
 waited for him as for an adversary, and all the lustre 
 faded from her conception of their love. 
 
 in 
 
 When Edwin approached his home that frosty even- 
 ing, he was disturbed to perceive that there was no 
 light from the hall-gas shining through the panes of 
 the front-door, though some light showed at the din- 
 ing-room window, the blinds of which had not been 
 drawn. "What next?" he thought crossly. He was 
 tired, and the keenness of the weather, instead of brac- 
 ing him, merely made him petulant. He was astonished 
 that several women in a house could all forget such 
 an important act as the lighting of the hall-gas at 
 nightfall. Never before had the hall-gas been forgot- 
 ten, and the negligence appeared to Edwin as abso- 
 lutely monstrous. The effect of it on the street, the 
 effect on a possible caller, was bad enough (Edwin, 
 while pretending to scorn social opinion, was really 
 very deferential towards it), but what was worse was 
 the revelation of the feminine mentality. 
 
 In opening the door with his latchkey he was pur- 
 posely noisy, partly in order to give expression to his 
 justified annoyance, and partly to warn all peccant 
 women that the male had arrived, threatening. 
 
 As his feet fumbled into the interior gloom and he 
 banged the door, he quite expected a rush of at least 
 one apologetic woman with a box of matches. But 
 nobody came. Nevertheless he could hear sharp move- 
 ments through the half-open door of the kitchen. As- 
 suredly women had the irresponsibility of infants. He 
 glanced for an instant into the dining-room ; the white 
 cloth was laid, biit the table was actually not set. 
 
368 THESE TWAIN 
 
 With unusual righteous care he wiped the half-con- 
 gealed mud off his boots on the mat ; then removed his 
 hat and his overcoat, took a large new piece of in- 
 diarubber from his pocket and put it on the hall-table, 
 felt the radiator (which despite all his injunctions 
 and recommendations was almost cold) ; and lastly he 
 lighted the gas himself. This final act was contrary 
 to his own rule, for he had often told Hilda that half 
 her trouble with servants arose through her impa- 
 tiently doing herself things which they had omitted, in- 
 stead of ringing the bell and seeing the things done. 
 But he was not infrequently inconsistent, both in deed 
 and in thought. For another example, he would say 
 superiorly that a woman could never manage women, 
 ignoring that he the all-wise had never been able to 
 manage Hilda. 
 
 He turned to go upstairs. At the same moment 
 somebody emerged obscurely from the kitchen. It was 
 Hilda, in a white apron. 
 
 "Oh! I'm glad you've lighted it," said she curtly, 
 without the least symptom of apology, but rather af- 
 frontingly. 
 
 He continued his way. 
 
 "Have you seen anything of George?" she asked, 
 and her tone stopped him. 
 
 Yet she well knew that he hated to be stopped of 
 an evening on his way to the bathroom. It could 
 not be sufficiently emphasized that to accost him 
 before he had descended from the bathroom was to 
 transgress one of the most solemn rules of his daily 
 life. 
 
 "Of course I haven't seen George," he answered. 
 "How should I have seen George ?" 
 
 "Because he's not back from school yet, and I can't 
 help wondering > " 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 369 
 
 She was worrying about George as usual. 
 
 He grunted and passed on. 
 
 "There's no light on the landing, either," he said, 
 over the banisters. "I wish you'd see to those ser- 
 vants of yours." 
 
 "As it happens there aren't any servants." 
 
 Her tone, getting more peculiar with each phrase, 
 stopped him again. 
 
 "Aren't any servants? What d'you mean?" 
 
 "Well, I found the attic full of beer bottles, so I 
 sent her off on the spot." 
 
 "Sent who off?" 
 
 "Eliza." 
 
 "And where's Ada?" 
 
 "She's gone too," said Hilda defiantly, and as 
 though rebutting an accusation before it could be 
 made. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "She seemed to want to. And she was very imper- 
 tinent over it." 
 
 He snorted and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Well, it's your affair," he muttered, too scornful 
 to ask details. 
 
 "It is," said she, significantly laconic. 
 
 In the bathroom, vexed and gloomy as he brushed 
 his nails and splashed in the wash basin, he mused 
 savagely over the servant problem. The servant prob- 
 lem had been growing acute. He had predicted several 
 times that a crisis would arrive; a crisis had arrived; 
 he was always right; his rightness was positively un- 
 canny. He had liked Ada; he had not disliked the 
 cook. He knew that Hilda was to blame. How should 
 she not be to blame, losing her entire staff in one 
 afternoon? It was not merely that she lacked the 
 gift of authoritative control, it was also that she had 
 
370 THESE TWAIN 
 
 no feeling for democratic justice as between one hu- 
 man being and another. And yet among his earliest 
 recollections of her was her passionate sympathy with 
 men on strike as against their employers. Totally 
 misleading manifestations ! For her a servant was 
 nothing but a "servant." She was convinced that all 
 her servants were pampered and spoilt; and as for 
 Edwin's treatment of his workpeople she considered 
 it to be ridiculously, criminally soft. If she had im- 
 plied once she had implied a hundred times that the 
 whole lot of them laughed at him behind his back for 
 a sentimental simpleton. Occasionally Edwin was 
 quite outraged by her callousness. The topic of the 
 eight-hours day, of the ten-hours day, and even of 
 the twelve-hours day (the last for tramwaymen) had 
 been lately exciting the district. And Edwin was dis- 
 tressed that in his own house a sixteen-hour day for 
 labour was in vogue and that the employer perceived 
 no shame in it. He did not clearly see how the shame 
 was to be abolished, but he thought that it ought to 
 be admitted. It was not admitted. From six in the 
 morning until ten at night these mysterious light- 
 headed young women were the slaves of a bell. They 
 had no surcease except one long weekday evening each 
 week and a short Sunday evening each fortnight. At 
 one period Hilda had had a fad for getting them out 
 of bed at half-past five, to cure them of laziness. He 
 remembered one cook whose family lived at the village 
 of Brindley Edge, five miles off. This cook on her 
 weekday evening would walk to Brindley Edge, spend 
 three quarters of an hour in her home, and walk back 
 to Bursley, reaching Trafalgar Road just in time to 
 get to bed. Hilda saw nothing very odd in that. She 
 said the girl could always please herself about going 
 to Brindley Edge. 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 371 
 
 Edwin's democratic sense was gradually growing in 
 force; it disturbed more and more the peace of his in- 
 most mind. He seldom displayed his sympathies (save 
 to Tertius Ingpen who, though a Tory, was in some 
 ways astoundingly open to ideas, which seemed to in- 
 terest him as a pretty equation would interest him), 
 but they pursued their secret activity in his being, an- 
 noying him at his lithographic works, and still more 
 in his home. He would suppress them, and grin, and 
 repeat his ancient consoling truth that what was, was. 
 The relief, however, was not permanent. 
 
 In that year the discovery of Rontgen Rays, the 
 practical invention of the incandescent gas-mantle, the 
 abolition of the man with the red flag in front of self- 
 propelled vehicles, and the fact that Consols stood 
 at 113, had combined to produce in innumerable 
 hearts the illusion that civilisation was advancing at a 
 great rate. But Edwin in his soul scarcely thought 
 so. He was worrying not only about Liberal prin- 
 ciples, but about the world; in his youth he had never 
 worried about the world. And of his own personal 
 success he would ask and ask: Is it right? He said to 
 himself in the bathroom: "There's a million domestic 
 servants in this blessed country, and not one of them 
 works less than a hundred hours a week, and nobody 
 cares. I don't think I really care myself. But there 
 it is all the same !" And he was darkly resentful against 
 Hilda on account of the entire phenomenon. . . . 
 He foresaw, too, a period of upset and discomfort in 
 his house. Would there, indeed, ever be any real tran- 
 quillity in his house, with that strange, primeval cave- 
 woman in charge of it? 
 
 As he descended the stairs, Hilda came out of the 
 dining-room with an empty tray. 
 
 She said: 
 
372 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "I wish you'd go out and look for George." 
 
 Imagine it going out into the Five Towns to look 
 for one boy! 
 
 "Oh ! He'll be all right. I suppose you haven't for- 
 gotten Ingpen's coming to-night." 
 
 "Of course I haven't. But I want you to go out 
 and look for George." 
 
 He knew what was in her mind, namely an absurd 
 vision of George and his new bicycle crushed under 
 a tramcar somewhere between Bleakridge and Han- 
 bridge. In that year everybody with any pretension 
 to youthfulness and modernity rode a bicycle. Both 
 Edwin and Hilda rode occasionally such was the 
 power of fashion. Maternal apprehensions had not 
 sufficed to keep George from having a bicycle, nor from 
 riding on it unprotected up and down the greasy 
 slopes of Trafalgar Road to and from school. Edwin 
 himself had bought the bicycle, pooh-poohing danger, 
 and asserting that anyhow normal risks must always 
 be accepted with an even mind. 
 
 He was about to declare that he would certainly 
 not do anything so silly as to go out and look for 
 George, and then all of a sudden he had the queer 
 sensation of being alone with Hilda in the house made 
 strange and romantic by a domestic calamity. He 
 gazed at Hilda with her apron, and the calamity had 
 made her strange and romantic also. He was vexed, 
 annoyed, despondent, gloomy, fearful of the imme- 
 diate future; he had immense grievances; he hated 
 Hilda, he loathed giving way to her. He thought: 
 "What is it binds me to this incomprehensible 
 woman? I will not be bound!" But he felt that 
 he would be compelled (not by her but by some- 
 thing in himself) to commit the folly of going out 
 to look for George. And he felt that though his ex- 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 373 
 
 istence was an exasperating adventure, still it was an 
 adventure. 
 
 "Oh ! Damn !" he exploded, and reached for a cap. 
 
 And then George came into the hall through the 
 kitchen. The boy often preferred to enter by the back, 
 the stalking Indian way. 
 
 rv 
 
 George wore spectacles. He had grown consider- 
 ably. He was now between fourteen and fifteen years 
 of age, and he had begun to look his age. His mental 
 outlook and conversation were on the whole in advance 
 of his age. Even when he was younger he had fre- 
 quently an adult manner of wise talking, but it had 
 appeared unreal, naive, it was amusing rather than 
 convincing. Now he imposed himself even on his family 
 as a genuine adolescent, though the idiom he employed 
 was often schoolboyish and his gestures were immature- 
 ly rough. The fact was he was not the same boy. Every- 
 body noticed it. His old charm and delicacy seemed to 
 have gone, and his voice was going. He had become 
 harsh, defiant, somewhat brutal, and egotistic if not 
 conceited. He held a very low opinion of all his school- 
 fellows, and did not conceal it. Yet he was not very 
 high in his form (the lower fifth) ; his reports were 
 mediocre; and he cut no figure in the playfield. In 
 the home he was charged with idleness, selfishness, and 
 irresolution. It was pointed out to him that he was 
 not making the best of his gifts, and that if he only 
 chose to make the best of them he might easily, etc., 
 etc. Apparently he did not care a bit. He had marked 
 facility on the piano, but he had insisted on giving up 
 his piano lessons and would not open the piano for a 
 fortnight at a time. He still maintained his intention 
 
374 THESE TWAIN 
 
 of being an architect, but he had ceased to show any 
 interest in architecture. He would, however, still paint 
 in water-colours; and he read a lot, but gluttonously, 
 without taste. Edwin and Hilda, and especially Hilda, 
 did not hide their discontent. Hilda had outbursts 
 against him. In regard to Hilda he was disobedient. 
 Edwin always spoke quietly to him, and was seldom 
 seriously disobeyed. When disobeyed Edwin would 
 show a taciturn resentment against the boy, who would 
 sulk and then melt. 
 
 "Oh! He'll grow out of it," Edwin would say to 
 Hilda, yet Edwin, like Hilda, thought that the boy 
 was deliberately naughty, and they held themselves 
 towards him as grieved persons of superior righteous- 
 ness towards a person of inferior righteousness. Not 
 even Edwin reflected that profound molecular changes 
 might be proceeding in George's brain, for which 
 changes he was in no way responsible. Nevertheless, 
 despite the blighting disappointment of George's evo- 
 lution, the home was by no means deeply engloomed. 
 No ! George had an appealing smile, a mere gawky 
 boyishness, a peculiar way of existing, that somehow 
 made joy in the home. Also he was a centre of intense 
 and continual interest, and of this he was very well 
 aware. 
 
 In passing through the kitchen George had of course 
 been struck by the astounding absence of the cook; 
 he had noticed further a fancy apron and a cap lying 
 on the window sill therein. And when he came into the 
 hall, the strange aspect of his mother (in a servant's 
 apron) and his uncle proved to him that something 
 marvellously unusual, exciting, and uplifting was 
 afoot. He was pleased, agog, and he had the addi- 
 tional satisfaction that great events would conveniently 
 divert attention from his lateness. Still he must be 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 375 
 
 discreet, for the adults were evidently at loggerheads, 
 and therefore touchy. He slipped between Edwin and 
 Hilda with a fairly good imitation of innocent casual- 
 ness, as if saying: "Whatever has occurred, I am 
 guiltless, and going on just as usual." 
 
 "Ooh! Bags I!" he exclaimed loudly, at the hall- 
 table, and seized the indiarubber, which Edwin had 
 promised him. His school vocabulary comprised an ex- 
 traordinary number of words ending in gs. He would 
 never, for example, say "first," but "f oggs" ; and never 
 "second," but "seggs." That very morning, for ex- 
 ample, meeting Hilda on the mat at the foot of the 
 stairs, he had shocked her by saying: "You go up 
 foggs, mother, and I'll go seggs." 
 
 "George!" Hilda severely protested. Her anxiety 
 concerning him was now turned into resentment. 
 "Have you had an accident?" 
 
 "An accident?" said George, as though at a loss. 
 Yet he knew perfectly that his mother was referring 
 to the bicycle. 
 
 Edwin said curtly: 
 
 "Now, don't play the fool. Have you fallen off 
 your bike? Look at your overcoat. Don't leave that 
 satchel there, and hang your coat up properly." 
 
 The overcoat was in a grievous state. A few days 
 earlier it had been new. Besides money, it had cost 
 an enormous amount of deliberation and discussion, like 
 everything else connected with George. Against his 
 will, Edwin himself had been compelled to conduct 
 George to Shillitoe's, the tailor's, and superintend a 
 third trying-on, for further alterations, after the over- 
 coat was supposed to be finished. And lo, now it had no 
 quality left but warmth! Efforts in regard to George 
 were always thus out of proportion to the trifling re- 
 sults obtained. At George's age Edwin doubtless had 
 
376 THESE TWAIN 
 
 an overcoat, but he positively could not remember hav- 
 ing one, and he was quite sure that no schoolboy over- 
 coat of his had ever preoccupied a whole household for 
 two minutes, to say nothing of a week. 
 
 George's face expressed a sense of injury, and his 
 face hardened. 
 
 "Mother made me take my overcoat. You know I 
 can't cycle in my overcoat. I've not been on my 
 bicycle all day. Also my lamp's broken," he said, with 
 gloomy defiance. 
 
 His curiosity about wondrous events in the house 
 was quenched. 
 
 And Edwin felt angry with Hilda for having quite 
 unjustifiably assumed that George had gone to school 
 on his bicycle. Ought she not to have had the ordinary 
 gumption to assure herself, before worrying, that the 
 lad's bicycle was not in the shed? Incredible thought- 
 lessness! All these alarms for nothing! 
 
 "Then why are you so late?" Hilda demanded, di- 
 verting to George her indignation at Edwin's unut- 
 tered but yet conveyed criticism of herself. 
 
 "Kept in." 
 
 "All this time?" Hilda questioned, suspiciously. 
 
 George sullenly nodded. 
 
 "What for?" " 
 
 "Latin." 
 
 "Homework? Again?" ejaculated Edwin. "Why 
 hadn't you done it properly?" 
 
 "I had a headache last night. And I've got one 
 to-day." 
 
 "Another of your Latin headaches!" said Edwin 
 sarcastically. There was nothing, except possibly cod 
 liver oil, that George detested more than Edwin's se- 
 rious sarcasm. 
 
 The elders glanced at one another and glanced 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 377 
 
 away. Both had the same fear the dreadful fear 
 that George might be developing the worse character- 
 istics of his father. Both had vividly in mind the fact 
 that this boy was the son of George Cannon. They 
 never mentioned to each other either the fear or the 
 fact ; they dared not. But each knew the thoughts of 
 the other. The boy was undoubtedly crafty ; he could 
 conceal subtle designs under a simple exterior; he was 
 also undoubtedly secretive. The recent changes in his 
 disposition had put Edwin and Hilda on their guard, 
 and every time young George displayed cunning, or 
 economised the truth, or lied, the fear visited them. 
 "I hope he'll turn out all right !" Hilda had said once. 
 Edwin had nearly replied: "What are you worrying 
 about? The sons of honest men are often rascals. 
 Why on earth shouldn't the son of a rascal be an 
 honest man?" But he had only said, with good-hu- 
 moured impatience: "Of course he'll turn out all 
 right!" Not that he himself was convinced. 
 
 Edwin now attacked the boy gloomily : 
 
 "You didn't seem to have much of a headache when 
 you came in just now." 
 
 It was true. 
 
 But George suddenly burst into tears. His head- 
 aches were absolutely genuine. The emptiness of the 
 kitchen and the general queer look of things in the 
 house had, however, by their promise of adventurous 
 happenings, caused him to forget his headache alto- 
 gether, and the discovery of the new indiarubber had 
 been like a tonic to a convalescent. The menacing at- 
 titude of the elders had now brought about a relapse. 
 The headache established itself as his chief physical 
 sensation. His chief moral sensation was that of a ter- 
 rible grievance. He did not often cry ; he had not in- 
 deed cried for about a year. But to-night there was 
 
378 THESE TWAIN 
 
 something nervous in the very air, and! the sob took Kim 
 unawares. The first sob having prostrated all resist- 
 ance, others followed victoriously, and there was no 
 stopping them. He did not quite know why he should 
 have been more liable to cry on this particular occa- 
 sion than on certain others, and he was rather 
 ashamed ; on the other hand it was with an almost ma- 
 licious satisfaction that he perceived the troubling ef- 
 fect of his tears on the elders. They were obviously 
 in a quandary. Serve them right! 
 
 "It's my eyes," he blubbered. "I told you these 
 specs would never suit me. But you wouldn't believe 
 me, and the headmaster won't believe me. 5 * 
 
 The discovery that George's eyesight was defective, 
 about two months earlier, had led to a desperate but 
 of course hopeless struggle on his part against the 
 wearing of spectacles. It was curious that in the 
 struggle he had never even mentioned his strongest 
 objection to spectacles, namely, the fact that Bert 
 Benbow wore spectacles. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell us?" Edwin demanded. 
 
 Between sobs George replied with overwhelming dis- 
 illusioned disgust: 
 
 "What's the good of telling you anything? You 
 only think I'm codding." 
 
 And he passed upstairs, apparently the broken 
 victim of fate and parents, but in reality triumphant. 
 His triumph was such that neither Edwin nor Hilda 
 dared even to protest against the use of such an in- 
 excusable word as 'codding.' 
 
 Hilda went into the kitchen, and Edwin rather aim- 
 lessly followed her. He felt incompetent. He could 
 do nothing except carry trays, and he had no desire to 
 carry trays. Neither spoke. Hilda was bending over 
 the fire, then she arranged the grid in front of the 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 879 
 
 fire to hold a tin, and she greased the tin. He thought 
 she looked very wistful, for all the somewhat bitter 
 sturdiness of her demeanour. Tertius Ingpen was due 
 for the evening; she had no servants through her 
 own fault; and now a new phase had arrived in the 
 unending responsibility for George's welfare. He 
 knew that she was blaming him on account of George. 
 He knew that she believed in the sincerity of George's 
 outburst ; he believed in it himself. The spectacles were 
 wrong; the headache was genuine. And he, Edwin, 
 was guilty of the spectacles because he had forced 
 Hilda, by his calm bantering commonsense, to consult 
 a small local optician of good reputation. 
 
 Hilda had wanted to go to Birmingham or Man- 
 chester; but Edwin said that such an idea was 
 absurd. The best local optician was good enough 
 for the great majority of the inhabitants of the Five 
 Towns and would be good enough for George. Why 
 not indeed? Why the craze for specialists? 
 There could be nothing uniquely wrong with the 
 boy's eyes, it was a temporary weakness. And 
 so on and so on, in accordance with Edwin's 
 instinct for denying the existence of a crisis. And 
 the local optician, consulted, had borne him out. The 
 local optician said that every year he dealt with 
 dozens of cases similar to George's. And now both 
 the local optician and Edwin were overthrown by a 
 boy's sobbing tears. 
 
 Suddenly Hilda turned round upon her husband. 
 
 "I shall take George to London to-morrow about 
 his eyes," she said, with immense purpose and sin- 
 cerity, in a kind of fierce challenge. 
 
 This was her amends to George for having often 
 disbelieved him, and for having suspected him of tak- 
 ing after his father. She made her amends passion- 
 
380 [THESE TWAIN 
 
 atelj, and with all the force of her temperament. In 
 her eyes George was now a martyr. 
 
 "To London?" exclaimed Edwin weakly. 
 
 "Yes. It's no use half doing these things. I shall 
 ask Charlie Orgreave to recommend me a first-class 
 oculist." 
 
 Edwin dared say nothing. Either Manchester or 
 Birmingham would have been just as good as London, 
 perhaps better. Moreover, she had not even consulted 
 him. She had decided by a violent impulse and an- 
 nounced her decision. This was not right; she would 
 have protested against a similar act by Edwin. But 
 he could not argue with her. She was far beyond ar- 
 gument. 
 
 "I wouldn't have that boy's eyesight played with 
 for anything!" she said fiercely. 
 
 "Well, of course you wouldn't! Who would?" Ed- 
 win thought, but he did not say it. 
 
 "Go and see what he's doing," she said. 
 
 Edwin slouched off. He was no longer the master 
 of the house. He was only an economic factor and 
 general tool in the house. And as he wandered like 
 a culprit up the stairs of the mysteriously transformed 
 dwelling he thought again : "What is it that binds me 
 to her?" But he was abashed and in spite of himself 
 impressed by the intensity of Hilda's formidable emo- 
 tion. Nevertheless as he began vaguely to perceive all 
 that was involved in her threat to go to London on 
 the morrow, he stiffened, and said to himself: "We 
 shall see about that. We shall just see about that!" 
 
 They were at the meal. Hilda had covered George's 
 portion of fish with a plate and put it before the fire 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 381 
 
 to keep warm. She was just returning to the table. 
 Tertius Ingpen, who sat with his back to the fire, looked 
 at her over his shoulder with an admiring smile and 
 said: 
 
 "Well, I've had some good meals in this house, but 
 this is certainly the best bit of fish I ever tasted. So 
 that the catastrophe in the kitchen leaves me unmoved." 
 
 Hilda, with face suddenly transformed by a respon- 
 sive smile, insinuated herself between the table and her 
 arm-chair, drew forward the chair by its arms, and 
 sat down. Her keen pleasure in the compliment was 
 obvious. Edwin noted that the meal was really very 
 well served, the table brighter than usual, the toast 
 crisper, and the fish a fine piece of hake white as 
 snow within its browned exterior merely perfect. 
 There was no doubt that Hilda could be extremely ef- 
 ficient when she desired; Edwin's criticism was that 
 she was too often negligent, and that in her moods of 
 conscientiousness she gave herself too urgently and 
 completely, producing an unnecessary disturbance in 
 the atmosphere of the home. Nevertheless Edwin too 
 felt pleasure in the compliment to Hilda; and he 
 calmly enjoyed the spectacle of his wife and his friend 
 side by side on such mutually appreciative terms. The 
 intimacy of the illuminated table in the midst of the 
 darker room, the warmth and crackling of the fire, the 
 grave solidity of the furniture, the springiness of the 
 thick carpet, and the delicate odours of the repast, 
 all these things satisfied in him something that was 
 profound. And the two mature, vivacious, intelligent 
 faces under the shaded gas excited his loyal affection. 
 
 "That's right," Hilda murmured, in her clear enun- 
 ciation. "I do like praise !" 
 
 "Now then, you callous brute," said Ingpen to Ed- 
 win. "What do you say?" 
 
382 THESE TWAIN 
 
 And Hilda cried with swift, complaining sincerity: 
 
 "Oh ! Edwin never praises me !" 
 
 Her sincerity convinced by its very artlessness. The 
 complaint had come unsought from her heart. And 
 it was so spontaneous and forcible that Tertius Ing- 
 pen, as a tactful guest, saw the advisability of easing 
 the situation by laughter. 
 
 "Yes, I do!" Edwin protested, and though he was 
 shocked, he laughed, in obedience to Ingpen's cue. It 
 was true ; he did praise her ; but not frequently, and al- 
 most always in order to flatter her rather than to ex- 
 press his own emotion. Edwin did not care for praising 
 people ; he would enthusiastically praise a book, but not 
 a human being. His way was to take efficiency for grant- 
 ed. "Not so bad," was a superlative of laudation with 
 him. He was now shocked as much by the girl's outrage- 
 ous candour as by the indisputable revelation that she 
 went hungry for praise. Even to a close friend such as 
 Ingpen, surely a wife had not the right to be quite so 
 desperately sincere. Edwin considered that in the pres- 
 ence of a third person husband and wife should always 
 at any cost maintain the convention of perfect conjugal 
 amenity. He knew couples who achieved the feat, Al- 
 bert and Clara, for example. But Hilda, he surmised, 
 had other ideas, if indeed she had ever consciously re- 
 flected upon this branch of social demeanour. Certainly 
 she seemed at moments to lose all regard for appear- 
 ances. 
 
 Moreover, she was polluting by acerbity the pure 
 friendliness of the atmosphere, and endangering 
 cheer. 
 
 "He's too wrapped up in the works to think about 
 praising his wife," Hilda continued, still in the discon- 
 certing vein of sincerity, but with less violence and a 
 more philosophical air. The fact was that, although 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 383 
 
 she had not regained the zest of the mood so rudely 
 dissipated by the scene with Ada, she was kept cheerful 
 by the mere successful exercise of her own energy in 
 proving to these two men that servants were not in the 
 least essential to the continuance of plenary comfort 
 in her house; and she somewhat condescended towards 
 Edwin. 
 
 "By the way, Teddie," said Ingpen, pulling lightly at 
 his short beard, "I heard a rumour that you were going 
 to stand for the Town Council in the South ward. Why 
 didn't you?" 
 
 Edwin looked a little confused. 
 
 "Who told you that tale?" 
 
 "It was about." 
 
 "It never came from me," said Edwin. 
 
 Hilda broke in eagerly: 
 
 "He was invited to stand. But he wouldn't. I 
 thought he ought to. I begged him to. But no, he 
 wouldn't. And did you know he refused a J. P. ship 
 too?" 
 
 "Oh!" mumbled Edwin. "That sort o' thing's not 
 my line." 
 
 "Oh, isn't it !" Ingpen exclaimed. "Then whose line 
 is it?" 
 
 "Look at all the rotters in the Council!" said Ed- 
 win. 
 
 "All the more reason why you should be on it!" 
 
 "Well, I've got no time," Edwin finished gloomily 
 and uneasily. 
 
 Ingpen paused, tapping his teeth with his finger, 
 before proceeding, in a judicial, thoughtful manner 
 which in recent years he had been developing: 
 
 "I'll tell you what's the matter with you, old man. 
 You don't know it, but you're in a groove. You go 
 about like a shuttle from the house to the works and 
 
384 THESE TWAIN 
 
 the works to the house. And you never think beyond 
 the works and the house." 
 
 "Oh, don't I?" 
 
 Ingpen went placidly on : 
 
 "No, you don't. You've become a good specimen of 
 the genus 'domesticated business man.' You've for- 
 gotten what life is. You fancy you're at full stretch 
 all the time, but you're in a coma. I suppose you'll 
 never see forty again and have you ever been outside 
 this island? You went to Llandudno this year because 
 you went last year. And you'll go next year because 
 you went this year. If you happen now and then to 
 worry about the failure of your confounded Liberal 
 Party you think you're a blooming broad-minded pub- 
 licist. Where are your musical evenings? When I 
 asked you to go with me to a concert at Manchester 
 last week but one, you thought I'd gone dotty, simply 
 because it meant your leaving the works early and not 
 getting to bed until the unheard-of-time of one thirty 
 a. m." 
 
 "I was never told anything about any concert," Hilda 
 interjected sharply. 
 
 "Go on! Go on!" said Edwin raising his eyebrows. 
 
 "I will," said Ingpen with tranquillity, as though 
 discussing impartially and impersonally the conduct 
 of some individual at the Antipodes. "Where am 1? 
 Well, you're always buying books, and I believe you 
 reckon yourself a bit of a reader. What d'you get 
 out of them? I daresay you've got decided views on 
 the transcendent question whether Emily Bronte was 
 a greater writer than Charlotte. That's about what 
 you've got. Why, dash it, you haven't a vice left. A 
 vice would interfere with your lovely litho. There's 
 only one thing that would upset you more than a ma- 
 chinery breakdown at the works " 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 385 
 
 "And what's that?" 
 
 "What's that? If one of the hinges of your gar- 
 den-gate came off, or you lost your latchkey! Why, 
 just look how you've evidently been struck all of a 
 heap by this servant affair! I expect it occurred to 
 you your breakfast might be five minutes late in the 
 morning." 
 
 "Stuff!" said Edwin, amiably. He regarded Ing- 
 pen's observations as fantastically unjust and beside 
 the mark. But his sense of fairness and his admira- 
 tion of the man's intellectual honesty would not allow 
 him to resent them. Ingpen would discuss and dissect 
 either his friends or himself with equal detachment ; the 
 detachment was complete. And his assumption that 
 his friends fully shared his own dispassionate, curious 
 interest in arriving at the truth appealed very strongly 
 to Edwin's loyalty. That Ingpen was liable to preach 
 and even to hector was a drawback which he silently 
 accepted. 
 
 "Struck all of a heap indeed!" muttered Edwin. 
 
 "Wasn't he, Hilda?" 
 
 "I should just say he was ! And I know he thinks 
 it's all my fault," said Hilda. 
 
 Tertius Ingpen glanced at her an instant, and gave 
 a short half-cynical laugh, which scarcely concealed 
 his mild scorn of her feminine confusion of the argu- 
 ment. 
 
 "It's the usual thing!" said Ingpen, with scorn still 
 more marked. At this stage of a dissertation he was 
 inclined to be less a human being than the trumpet of a 
 sacred message. "It's the usual thing! I never knew 
 a happy marriage yet that didn't end in the same 
 way." Then, perceiving that he was growing too earn- 
 est, and that his emphasis on the phrase 'happy mar- 
 riage' had possibly been too sarcastic, he sniggered. 
 
386 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "I really don't see what marriage has to do with it," 
 said Hilda, frowning. 
 
 "No, of course you don't," Ingpen agreed. 
 
 "If you'd said business " she added. 
 
 "Now we've had the diagnosis," Edwin sardonically 
 remarked, looking at his plate, "what's the prescrip- 
 tion?" He was reflecting: "'Happy marriage,' does 
 he call it ! ... Why on earth does she say I think 
 it's all her fault? I've not breathed a word." 
 
 "Well," replied Ingpen. "You live much too close 
 to your infernal works. Why don't you get away, 
 right away, and live out in the country like a sensible 
 man, instead of sticking in this filthy hole among all 
 these new cottages? . . . Barbarian hordes. ..." 
 
 "Oh! Hurrah!" cried Hilda. "At last I've got 
 somebody who takes my side." 
 
 "Of course you say it's impossible. You naturally 
 would " Ingpen resumed. 
 
 He was interrupted by the entrance of George. Soon 
 after Tertius Ingpen's arrival, George had been des- 
 patched to summon urgently Mrs. Tarns, the char- 
 woman who had already more than once helped to fill 
 a hiatus between two cooks. George showed now no 
 trace of his late martyrdom, nor of a headache. To 
 conquer George in these latter days you had to de- 
 mand of him a service. It was Edwin who had first 
 discovered the intensity of the boy's desire to take a use- 
 ful share in any adult operation whatever. He came 
 in red-cheeked, red-handed, rough, defiant, shy, proud, 
 and making a low intermittent "Oo-oo" noise with pro- 
 truding lips to indicate the sharpness of the frost out- 
 side. As he had already greeted Ingpen he was able 
 to go without ceremony straight to his chair. 
 
 Confidentially, in the silence, Hilda raised her eye- 
 brows to him interrogatively. In reply he gave one 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 387 
 
 short nod. Thus in two scarcely perceptible gestures 
 the assurance was asked for and given that the mission 
 had been successful and that Mrs. Tarns would be com- 
 ing up at once. George loved these private and la- 
 conic signallings, which produced in him the illusion 
 that he was getting nearer to the enigma of life. 
 
 As he persisted in the "Oo-oo" manifestation, Hilda 
 amicably murmured: 
 
 "Hsh-hsh!" 
 
 George pressed his lips swiftly and hermetically to- 
 gether, and raised his eyebrows in protest against his 
 own indecorum. He glanced at his empty place ; where- 
 upon Hilda glanced informingly in the direction of the 
 fire, and George, skilled in the interpretation of minute 
 signs, skirted stealthily round the table behind his 
 mother's chair, and snatched his loaded plate from 
 the hearth. 
 
 Nobody said a word. The sudden stoppage of the 
 conversation had indeed caused a slight awkwardness 
 among the elders. George, for his part, was quite con- 
 vinced that they had been discussing his eyesight. 
 
 "Furnace all right again, sonny?" asked Edwin, 
 quietly, when the boy had sat down. Hilda was re- 
 plenishing Ingpen's plate. 
 
 "Blop !" muttered George, springing up aghast. This 
 meant that he had forgotten the furnace in the cellar, 
 source of heat to the radiator in the hall. By a recent 
 arrangement he received sixpence a week for stoking the 
 furnace. 
 
 "Never mind! It'll do afterwards," said Edwin. 
 
 But George, masticating fish, shook his head. He 
 must be stern with himself, possibly to atone for his 
 tears. And he went off instantly to the cellar. 
 
 "Bit chill," observed Edwin to him as he left the 
 room. "A bit chilly" was what he meant; but George 
 
388 THESE TWAIN 
 
 delighted to chip the end off a word, and when Edwin 
 chose to adopt the same practice, the boy took it as a 
 masonic sign of profound understanding between them. 
 
 George nodded and vanished. And both Edwin and 
 Hilda dwelt in secret upon his boyish charm, and affec- 
 tionate satisfaction mingled with and softened their 
 apprehensions and their brooding responsibility and re- 
 morse. They thought: "He is simply exquisite," and 
 in their hearts apologised to him. 
 
 Tertius Ingpen asked suddenly : 
 
 "What's happened to the young man's spectacles?" 
 
 "They don't suit him," said Hilda eagerly. "They 
 don't suit him at all. They give him headaches. Ed- 
 win would have me take him to the local man, what's- 
 his-name at Hanbridge. I was afraid it would be risky, 
 but Edwin would have it. I'm going to take him to 
 London to-morrow. He's been having headaches for 
 some time and never said a word. I only found it out 
 by accident." 
 
 "Surely," Ingpen smiled, "it's contrary to George's 
 usual practice to hide his troubles like that, isn't it?" 
 
 "Oh!" said Hilda. "He's rather secretive, you 
 know." 
 
 "I've never noticed," said Ingpen, "that he was more 
 secretive than most of us are about a grievance." 
 
 Edwin, secretly agitated, said in a curious light 
 tone: 
 
 "If you ask me, he kept it quiet just to pay us out." 
 
 "Pay you out? What for?" 
 
 "For making him wear spectacles at all. These 
 kids want a deuce of a lot of understanding ; but that's 
 my contribution. He simply said to himself: 'Well, 
 if they think they're going to cure my eyesight for 
 me with their beastly specs they just aren't, and I 
 won't tell 'em!'" 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 389 
 
 "Edwin!" Hilda protested warmly. "I wonder you 
 can talk like that !" 
 
 Tertius Ingpen went off into one of his peculiar long 
 fits of laughter; and Edwin quizzically smiled, feeling 
 as if he was repaying Hilda for her unnecessary in- 
 sistence upon the fact that he was responsible for the 
 choosing of an optician. Hilda, suspecting that the 
 two men saw something droll which was hidden from 
 her, blushed and then laughed in turn, somewhat self- 
 consciously. 
 
 "Don't you think it's best to go to London, about 
 an affair like eyesight?" she asked Ingpen pointedly. 
 
 "The chief thing in these cases," said Ingpen sol- 
 emnly, "is to satisfy the maternal instinct. Yes, I 
 should certainly go to London. If Teddie disagrees, 
 I'm against him. Who are you going to?" 
 
 "You are horrid!" Hilda exclaimed, and added with 
 positiveness : "I shall ask Charlie Orgreave first. He'll 
 tell me the best man." 
 
 "You seem to have a great belief in Charlie," said 
 Ingpen. 
 
 "I have," said Hilda, who had seen Charlie at 
 George's bedside when nobody knew whether George 
 would live or die. 
 
 And while they were talking about Charlie and about 
 Janet, who was now living with her brother at Eating, 
 the sounds of George stoking the furnace below came 
 dully up through the floor-boards. 
 
 "If you and George are going away," asked Ing- 
 pen, "what'll happen to his worship with not a ser- 
 vant in the house?" 
 
 This important point had been occupying Edwin's 
 mind ever since Hilda had first announced her inten- 
 tion to go to London. But he had not mentioned it 
 to her, nor she to him, their relations being rather 
 
390 THESE TWAIN 
 
 delicate. It had, for him, only an academic interest, 
 since he had determined that she should not go to 
 London on the morrow. Nevertheless he awaited anx- 
 iously the reply. 
 
 Hilda answered with composure: 
 
 "I'm hoping he'll come with us." 
 
 He had been prepared for anything but this. The 
 proposition was monstrously impossible. Could a man 
 leave his works at a moment's notice? The notion 
 was utterly absurd. 
 
 "That's quite out of the question," he said at once. 
 He was absolutely sincere. The effect of Ingpen's dis- 
 course was, however, such as to upset the assured dig- 
 nity of his pronouncement ; for the decision was simply 
 an illustration of Ingpen's theory concerning him. 
 He blushed. 
 
 "Why is it out of the question?" demanded Hilda, 
 inimically gazing at him. 
 
 She had lost her lenient attitude towards him of 
 the afternoon. Nevertheless, reflecting upon Tertius 
 Ingpen's indictment of the usual happy marriage, she 
 had been planning the expedition to London as a 
 revival of romance in their lives. She saw it as 
 a marvellous rejuvenating experience. When she 
 thought of all that she had suffered, and all that Ed- 
 win had suffered, in order that they might come to- 
 gether, she was quite desolated by the prosaic flatness 
 of the ultimate result. Was it to attain their present 
 stolid existence that they had endured affliction for 
 a decade? She wanted passionately to break the mys- 
 terious bands that held them both back from ecstasy 
 and romance. And he would not help her. He would not 
 enter into her desire. She had known that he would 
 refuse. He refused everything he was so set in his 
 own way. Resentment radiated from her. 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 391 
 
 "I can't," said Edwin. "What d'you want to go to- 
 morrow for? What does a day or two matter?" 
 
 Then she loosed her tongue. Why to-morrow? Be- 
 cause you couldn't trifle with a child's eyesight. Al- 
 ready the thing had been dragging on for goodness 
 knew how long. Every day might be of importance. 
 And why not to-morrow? They could shut the house 
 up, and go off together and stay at Charlie's. Hadn't 
 Janet asked them many a time? Maggie would look 
 out for new servants. And Mrs. Tarns would clean 
 the house. It was really the best way out of the 
 servant question too, besides being the best for 
 George. 
 
 "And there's another thing," she went on without a 
 pause, speaking rapidly and clearly. "Your eyes want 
 seeing to as well. Do you think I don't know?" she 
 sneered. 
 
 "Mine!" he exclaimed. "My eyes are as right as 
 rain." It was not true. His eyes had been troubling 
 him. 
 
 "Then why have you had a double candle-bracket 
 fixed at your bed-head, when a single one's been enough 
 for you all these years?" she demanded. 
 
 "I just thought of it, that's all," said Edwin glumly, 
 and with no attempt to be diplomatic. "Anyhow I 
 can't go to London to-morrow. And when I want an 
 oculist," he finished with grimness, "Hanbridge'll be 
 good enough for me, I'm thinking." 
 
 Strange, she had never before said a word to him 
 about his eyes ! 
 
 "Then what shall you do while I'm away?" she asked 
 implacably. 
 
 But if she was implacable, he also could be impla- 
 cable. If she insisted on leaving him in the lurch, well, 
 she should leave him in the lurch! Tertius Ingpen 
 
392 THESE TWAIN 
 
 was witness of a plain breach between them. It was 
 unfortunate; it was wholly Hilda's fault; but he had 
 to face the fact. 
 
 "I don't know," he replied curtly. 
 
 The next moment George returned. 
 
 "Hasn't Mrs. Tarns been quick, mother?" said 
 George. "She's come." 
 
 VI 
 
 In the drawing-room, after the meal, Edwin could 
 hear through the half open door the sounds of con- 
 versation between Hilda and Mrs. Tarns, with an occa- 
 sional word from George, who was going to help Mrs. 
 Tarns to "put the things away" after she had washed 
 and wiped. The voice of Mrs. Tarns was very gentle 
 and comforting. Edwin's indignant pity went out to 
 her. Why should Mrs. Tarns thus cheerfully bear the 
 misfortunes of others? Why should she at a moment's 
 notice leave a cottageful of young children and a hus- 
 band liable at any time to get drunk and maim either 
 them or her, in order to meet a crisis caused by Hilda's 
 impulsiveness and lack of tact? The answer, as in so 
 many cases, was of course economic. Mrs. Tarns could 
 not afford not to be at Mrs. Clayhanger's instant call ; 
 also she was born the victim of her own altruism; her 
 soul was soft like her plump cushionlike body, and 
 she lived as naturally in injustice as a fish in water. 
 But could anything excuse those who took advantage of 
 such an economic system and such a devoted nature? 
 Edwin's conscience uneasily stirred; he could have 
 blushed. However, he was helpless ; and he was basely 
 glad that he was helpless, that it was no affair of 
 his after all, and that Mrs. Tarns had thus to work 
 out her destiny to his own benefit. He saw in her a 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 393 
 
 seraph for the next world, and yet in this world he 
 contentedly felt himself her superior. And her voice, 
 soothing, acquiescent, expressive of the spirit which 
 gathers in extraneous woes as the mediaeval saint drew 
 to his breast the swords of the executioners, continued 
 to murmur in the hall. 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "I alone in this house feel the real significance of 
 Mrs. Tarns. I'm sure she doesn't feel it herself." 
 
 But these reflections were only the vague unimpor- 
 tant background to the great matter in his mind, 
 the difficulty with Hilda. When he had entered the 
 house, questions of gaslight and blinds were enormous 
 to him. The immense general question of servants had 
 diminished them to a trifle. Then the question of 
 George's headache and eyesight had taken precedence. 
 And now the relations of husband and wife were mightily 
 paramount over everything else. Tertius Ingpen, hav- 
 ing as usual opened the piano, was idly diverting him- 
 self with strange chords, while cigarette smoke rose 
 into his eyes, making him blink. Like Edwin, Ingpen 
 was a little self-conscious after the open trouble in the 
 dining-room. It would have been absurd to pretend 
 that trouble did not exist; on the other hand the 
 trouble was not of the kind that could be referred to, 
 by even a very intimate friend. The acknowledgment 
 of it had to be mute. But in addition to being self- 
 conscious, Ingpen was also triumphant. There was a 
 peculiar sardonic and somewhat disdainful look on his 
 face as he mused over the chords, trying to keep the 
 cigarette smoke out of his eyes. His oblique glance 
 seemed to be saying to Edwin: "What have I always 
 told you about women? Well, you've married and 
 you must take the consequences. Your wife's no worse 
 than other wives. Here am I, free ! And wouldn't you 
 
394 THESE TWAIN 
 
 like to be in my place, my boy! . . . How wise I 
 have been!" 
 
 Edwin resented these unspoken observations. The 
 contrast between Ingpen's specious support and flat- 
 tery of Hilda when she was present, and his sardonic 
 glance when she was absent, was altogether too marked. 
 Himself in revolt against the institution of marriage, 
 Edwin could not bear that Ingpen should attack it. 
 Edwin had, so far as concerned the outside world, taken 
 the institution of marriage under his protection. More- 
 over Ingpen's glance was a criticism of Hilda such as 
 no husband ought to permit. And it was also a criti- 
 cism of the husband that slave and dupe ! . . . Yet, 
 at bottom what Edwin resented was Ingpen's contemp- 
 tuous pity for the slave and the dupe. 
 
 "Why London and why to-morrow?" said Edwin, 
 cheerfully, with a superior philosophical air, as though 
 impartially studying an argumentative position, as 
 though he could regard the temporary vagaries of an 
 otherwise fine sensible woman with bland detachment. 
 He said it because he was obliged to say something, in 
 order to prove that he was neither a slave nor a dupe. 
 
 "Ask me another," replied Ingpen curtly, continuing 
 to produce chords. 
 
 "Well, we shall see," said Edwin mysteriously, firmly, 
 and loftily; meaning that, if his opinion were invited, 
 his opinion would be that Hilda would not go away to- 
 morrow and that whenever she went she would not go 
 to London. 
 
 He had decided to have a grand altercation with his 
 wife that night, when Ingpen and Mrs. Tarns had de- 
 parted and George was asleep and they had the house 
 to themselves. He knew his ground and he could force 
 a decisive battle. He felt no doubt as to the result. 
 The news of his triumph should reach Ingpen. 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 395 
 
 Ingpen was apparently about to take up the conver- 
 sation when George came clumsily and noisily into the 
 drawing-room. All his charm seemed to have left him. 
 
 "I thought you were going to help," said Edwin. 
 
 "So I am," George challenged him ; and, lacking the 
 courage to stop at that point, added : "But they aren't 
 ready yet." 
 
 "Let's try those Haydn bits, George," Ingpen sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Oh no!" said George curtly. 
 
 Ingpen and the boy had begun to play easy frag- 
 ments of duets together. 
 
 Edwin said with sternness : 
 
 "Sit down to that piano and do as Mr. Ingpen asks 
 you." 
 
 George flushed and looked foolish and sat down ; and 
 Ingpen quizzed him. All three knew well that Edwin's 
 fierceness was only one among sundry consequences of 
 the mood of the housemistress. The slow movement and 
 the scherzo from the symphony were played. And while 
 the music went on, Edwin heard distantly the opening 
 and shutting of the front-door and an arrival in the 
 hall, and then chattering. Maggie had called. "What's 
 she after?" thought Edwin. 
 
 "Hoo! There's Auntie Maggie!" George exclaimed, 
 as soon as the scherzo was finished, and ran off. 
 
 "That boy is really musical," said Ingpen with con- 
 viction. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose he is," Edwin agreed casually, as 
 though deprecating a talent which however was unde- 
 niable. "But you'd never guess he's got a bad head- 
 ache, would you?" 
 
 It was a strange kind of social evening, and Hilda 
 it seemed to the august Edwin had a strange notion 
 of the duties of hostess. Surely, if Mrs. Tarns was in 
 
396 THESE TWAIN 
 
 the kitchen, Hilda ought to be in the drawing-room 
 with their guest! Surely Maggie ought to have been 
 brought into the drawing-room, she was not a school 
 girl, she was a woman of over forty, and yet she had 
 quite inexcusably kept her ancient awkwardness and 
 timidities. He could hear chatterings from the dining- 
 room, scurryings through the hall, and chatterings 
 from the kitchen; then a smash of crockery, a slight 
 scream, and girlish gigglings. They were all the same, 
 all the women he knew, except perhaps Clara, they had 
 hours when they seemed to forget that they were adult 
 and that their skirts were long. And how was it that 
 Hilda and Maggie were suddenly so intimate, they 
 whose discreet mutual jealousy was an undeniable phe- 
 nomenon of the family life? With all his majesty he 
 was simpleton enough never to have understood that 
 two women who eternally suspect each other may yet 
 dissolve upon occasion into the most touching playful 
 tenderness. The whole ground-floor was full of the ru- 
 mour of an apparent alliance between Hilda and Mag- 
 gie. And as he listened Edwin glanced sternly at the 
 columns of the evening Signal, while Tertius Ingpen, 
 absorbed, worked his way bravely through a sonata of 
 Beethoven. 
 
 Then George reappeared. 
 
 "Mother's going to take me to London to-morrow 
 about my eyes," said George to Ingpen, stopping the 
 sonata by his mere sense of the terrific importance of 
 such tidings. And he proceeded to describe the pro- 
 jected doings in London, the visit to Charlie and Janet 
 Orgreave, and possibly to the Egyptian Hall. 
 
 Edwin did not move. He kept an admirable and com- 
 plete calm under the blow. Hilda was decided, then, to 
 defy him. In telling the boy, who during the meal had 
 been permitted to learn nothing, she had burnt her 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 397 
 
 boats; she had even burnt Edwin's boats also: which 
 seemed to be contrary to the rules laid down by society 
 for conjugal warfare, but women never could fight 
 according to rules ! The difficulties and dangers of the 
 great pitched battle which Edwin had planned for the 
 close of the evening were swiftly multiplied. He had 
 misgivings. 
 
 The chattering, giggling girls entered the drawing- 
 room. But as Maggie came through the doorway her 
 face stiffened ; her eyes took on a glaze ; and when Ing- 
 pen bent over her hand in all the false ardour of his ex- 
 cessive conventional chivalry, the spinster's terrible con- 
 straint scourge of all her social existence gripped 
 her like a disease. She could scarcely speak. 
 
 "Hello, Mag," Edwin greeted her. 
 
 Impossible to divine in this plump, dowdy, fading, 
 dumb creature the participator in all those chatterings 
 and gigglings of a few moments earlier! Nevertheless 
 Edwin, who knew her profoundly, could see beneath the 
 glaze of those eyes the commonsense soul of the saga- 
 cious woman protesting against Ingpen's affected man- 
 ners and deciding that she did not care for Ingpen at 
 all. 
 
 "Auntie Hamps is being naughty again," said Hilda 
 bluntly. 
 
 Ingpen, and then Edwin, sniggered. 
 
 "/ can't do anything with her, Edwin," said Maggie, 
 speaking quickly and eagerly, as she and Hilda sat 
 down. "She's bound to let herself in for another attack 
 if she doesn't take care of herself. And she won't take 
 care of herself. She won't listen to the doctor or any- 
 body else. She's always on her feet, and she's got 
 sewing-meetings on the brain just now. I've got her 
 to bed early to-night she's frightfully shaky and I 
 thought I'd come up and tell you. You're the only 
 
398 THESE TWAIN 
 
 one that can do anything with her at all, and you 
 really must come and see her to-morrow on your way 
 to the works." 
 
 Maggie spoke as though she had been urging Edwin 
 for months to take the urgent matter in hand and was 
 now arrived at desperation. 
 
 "All right ! All right !" said he, with amiable impa- 
 tience; it was the first he had heard of the matter. 
 "I'll drop in. But I've got no influence over her," he 
 added, with sincerity. 
 
 "Oh yes, you have !" said Maggie, mildly now. "I'm 
 very sorry to hear about George's eyes. Seeing it's 
 absolutely necessary for Hilda to take him to London 
 to-morrow, and you've got no servants at all, can't you 
 come and sleep at Auntie's for a night or two? You've 
 no idea what a relief it would be to me." 
 
 In an instant Edwin saw that he was beaten, that 
 Hilda and Maggie, in the intervals of their giggling, 
 had combined to overthrow him. The tone in which 
 Maggie uttered the words 'George's eyes,' 'absolutely 
 necessary' and 'such a relief precluded argument. 
 His wife would have her capricious unnecessary way, 
 and he would be turned out of his own house. 
 
 "I think you might, dear," said Hilda, with the an- 
 gelic persuasiveness of a loving and submissive wife. 
 Nobody could have guessed from that marvellous 
 tone that she had been determined to defeat him and 
 was then, so to speak, standing over his prostrate 
 form. 
 
 Maggie, having said what was necessary to be said, 
 fell back into the constraint from which no efforts of 
 her companions could extricate her. Such was the ef- 
 fect upon her of the presence of Tertius Ingpen, a 
 stranger. Presently Ingpen was scanning time-tables 
 for Hilda, and George was finding notepaper for her, 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 399 
 
 and Maggie was running up and down stairs for her. 
 She was off to London. "In that woman's head," 
 thought Edwin, as, observing his wife, he tried in vain 
 to penetrate the secrets behind her demeanour, "there's 
 only room for one idea at a time." 
 
 vn 
 
 Edwin sat alone in the drawing-room, at the end 
 of an evening which he declined to call an evening at 
 all. His eyes regarded a book on his knee, but he was 
 not reading it. His mind was engaged upon the enigma 
 of his existence. He had entered his house without the 
 least apprehension, and brusquely, in a few hours, 
 everything seemed to be changed for him. Impulse 
 had conquered commonsense; his ejectment was a set- 
 tled thing; and he was condemned to the hated abode 
 of Auntie Hamps. Events seemed enormous; they 
 desolated him; his mouth was full of ashes. The re- 
 sponsibilities connected with George were increasing; 
 his wife, incalculable and unforeseeable, was getting 
 out of hand; and the menace of a future removal to 
 another home in the country was raised again. 
 
 He looked about the room; and he imagined all the 
 house, every object in which was familiar and beloved, 
 and he simply could not bear to think of the disinte- 
 gration of these interiors by furniture-removers, and 
 of the endless rasping business of creating a new home 
 in partnership with a woman whose ideas about furn- 
 ishing were as unsound as they were capricious. He ut- 
 terly dismissed the fanciful scheme, as he dismissed the 
 urgings towards public activity. He deeply resented all 
 these headstrong intentions to disturb him in his tran- 
 quillity. They were indefensible, and he would not 
 have them. He would die in sullen obstinacy rather 
 
400 THESE TWAIN 
 
 than yield. Impulse might conquer commonsense, but 
 not beyond a certain degree. He would never yield. 
 
 Ingpen had departed, to sleep in a room in the same 
 building as his office at Hanbridge. He knew that Ing- 
 pen had no comprehension of domestic comfort and a 
 well-disposed day. Nevertheless he envied the man his 
 celestial freedom. If he, Edwin, were free, what an 
 ideal life he could make for himself, a life presided 
 over by commonsense, regularity, and order! He was 
 not free; he would never be free; and what had he 
 obtained in exchange for freedom? . . . Ingpen's 
 immense criticism smote him. He had a wife and her 
 child; servants at intervals; a fine works and many 
 workpeople ; a house, with books ; money, security. The 
 organised machinery of his existence was tremendous; 
 and it was all due to him, made by him in his own in- 
 terests and to satisfy his own desires. Without him 
 the entire structure would crumble in a week; without 
 him it would have no excuse. And what was the result ? 
 Was he ever, in any ideal sense, happy: that is, free 
 from foreboding, from friction, from responsibility, 
 and withal lightly joyous? Was any quarter of an 
 hour of his day absolutely what he would have wished? 
 He ranged over his day, and concluded that the best 
 part of it was the very last. . . . He got into bed, the 
 candles in the sconce were lit, the gas diminished to a 
 blue speck, and most of the room in darkness ; he lay 
 down on his left side, took the marker from the volume 
 in his hand, and began to read; the house was silent 
 and enclosed; the rumbling tramcar to whose sound 
 he had been accustomed from infancy did not a bit 
 disturb him; it was in another world; over the edge of 
 his book he couIH see the form of his wife, fast asleep 
 in the other bed, her plaited hair trailing over the pil- 
 low ; the feel of the sheets to his limbs was exquisite ; he 
 
GEORGE'S EYES 401 
 
 read, the book was good; the chill of winter just pleas- 
 antly affected the hand that held the book ; nothing an- 
 noyed; nothing jarred; sleep approached. . . . That 
 fifteen minutes, that twenty or thirty minutes, was all 
 that he could show as the result of the tremendous or- 
 ganised machinery of his existence his house, his 
 works, his workpeople, his servants, his wife with her 
 child. . . . 
 
 Hilda came with quick determination into the draw- 
 ing-room. They had not spoken to each other alone 
 since the decision and his defeat. He was aware of his 
 heart beating resentfully. 
 
 "I'm going to bed now, dear," she said in an or- 
 dinary tone. "I've got a frightful headache, and I 
 must sleep. Be sure and wake me up at seven in the 
 morning, will you? I shall have such lots to do." 
 
 He thought: 
 
 "Has she a frightful headache?" 
 
 She bent down and kissed him several times, very 
 fervently ; her lips lingered on his. And all the time 
 she frowned ever so little ; and it was as if she was con- 
 veying to him: "But each for himself in marriage, 
 after all." 
 
 In spite of himself, he felt just a little relieved; and 
 he could not understand why. He watched her as she 
 left the room. How had it come about that the still 
 finally mysterious creature was living in his house, im- 
 posing her individuality upon him, spoiling his exist- 
 ence? He considered that it was all disconcertingly 
 strange. 
 
 He rose, lit a cigarette, and opened the window ; and 
 the frosty air, entering, braced him and summoned his 
 self-reliance. The night was wondrous. And when he 
 had shut the window and turned again within, the room, 
 beautiful, withdrawn, peaceful, was wondrous too. He 
 
402 THESE TWAIN 
 
 reflected that soon he would be in bed, calmly reading, 
 with his wife unconscious as an infant in the other bed. 
 And then his grievance against Hilda slowly surged up 
 and he began for the first time to realise how vast it 
 was. 
 
 "Confound that woman!" he muttered, meaning 
 Auntie Hamps. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 
 
 ON the next evening it was Maggie who opened Mrs. 
 Hamps's front-door for Edwin. There was no light in 
 the lobby, but a faint gleam coming through the open 
 door of the sitting-room disclosed the silhouette of 
 Maggie's broad figure. 
 
 "I thought you'd call in this morning," said Maggie 
 discontentedly. "I asked you to. I've been expecting 
 you all day." 
 
 "Didn't you get my message?" 
 
 "No. What message?" 
 
 "D'you mean to say a lad hasn't been here with my 
 portmanteau?" demanded Edwin, alarmed and ready 
 to be annoyed. 
 
 "Yes. A lad's been with your portmanteau. But he 
 gave no message." 
 
 "D n him. I told him to tell you I couldn't possibly 
 get here before night." 
 
 "Well, he didn't !" said Maggie stoutly, throwing back 
 the blame upon Edwin and his hirelings. "I particu- 
 larly wanted you to come early. I told Auntie you'd 
 be coming." 
 
 "How's she getting on?" Edwin asked with laconic 
 gruffness, dismissing Maggie's grievance without an 
 apology. He might have to stand nonsense from 
 Hilda; but he would not stand it from Maggie, of 
 whose notorious mildness he at once began to take ad- 
 
 403 
 
404 THESE TWAIN 
 
 vantage, as in the old days of their housekeeping to- 
 gether. Moreover, his entrance into this abode was a 
 favour, exhibiting the condescension of the only human 
 being who could exercise influence upon Auntie Hamps. 
 
 "She's worse," said Maggie, briefly and significantly. 
 
 "In bed?" said Edwin, less casually, marking her 
 tone. 
 
 Maggie nodded. 
 
 "Had the doctor?" 
 
 "I should think so indeed!" 
 
 "Hm! Why don't you have a light in this lobby?" 
 he enquired suddenly, on a drily humorous note, as 
 he groped to suspend his overcoat upon an unstable 
 hatstand. It seemed to be a very cold lobby, after 
 his own radiator-heated half. 
 
 "She never will have a light here, unless she's doing 
 the grand for someone. Are you going to wash ye?" 
 
 "No. I cleaned up at the works." A presentiment 
 of the damp chilliness of the Hamps bedroom had 
 suggested this precaution. 
 
 Maggie preceded him into the sitting-room, where 
 a hexagonal occasional-table was laid for tea. 
 
 "Hello! Do you eat here? What's the matter with 
 the dining-room?" 
 
 "The chimney always smokes when the wind's in the 
 south-west." 
 
 "Well, why doesn't she have a cowl put on it?" 
 
 "You'd better ask her. . . . Also she likes to save 
 a fire. She can't bear to have two fires going as well 
 as the kitchen-range. I'll bring tea in. It's all ready." 
 
 Maggie went away. 
 
 Edwin looked round the shabby Victorian room. A 
 length of featureless linoleum led from the door to the 
 table. This carpet-protecting linoleum exasperated 
 him. It expressed the very spirit of his aunt's house. 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 405 
 
 He glanced at the pictures, the texts, the beady and the 
 woolly embroideries, the harsh chairs, and the magnifi- 
 cent morocco exteriors of the photograph-albums in 
 which Auntie Hamps kept the shiny portraits of all 
 her relatives, from grand-nieces back to the third and 
 fourth generation of ancestors. And a feeling of des- 
 olation came over him. He thought : "How many days 
 shall I have to spend in this deadly hole?" It was ex- 
 tremely seldom that he visited King Street, and when 
 he did come the house was brightened to receive him. 
 He had almost forgotten what the house really was. 
 And, suddenly thrown back into it at its most lugu- 
 brious and ignoble, after years of the amenities of 
 Trafalgar Road, he was somehow surprised that that 
 sort of thing had continued to exist, and he resented 
 that it should have dared to continue to exist. He had 
 a notion that, since he had left it behind, it ought to 
 have perished. 
 
 He cautiously lifted the table and carried it to the 
 hearthrug. Then he sat down in the easy-chair, whose 
 special property, as he remembered, was slowly and 
 inevitably to slide the sitter forward to the hard 
 edge of the seat; and he put his feet inside the fender. 
 In the grate a small fire burned between two fire- 
 bricks. He sneezed. Maggie came in with a tray. 
 
 "Are you cold?" she asked, seeing the new situation 
 of the table. 
 
 "Am I cold!" Edwin repeated. 
 
 "Well," said Maggie, "I always think your room* 
 are so hot." 
 
 Edwin seized the small serviceable tongs which saved 
 the wear of the large tongs matching the poker and 
 the shovel, and he dragged both firebricks out of the 
 grate. 
 
 "No coal here, I suppose !" he exclaimed gloomily, 
 
406 THESE TWAIN 
 
 opening the black japanned coal-scuttle. "Oh! Corn 
 In Egypt!" The scuttle was full of coal. He threw 
 on to the fire several profuse shovelfuls of best house- 
 hold nuts which had cost sixteen shillings a ton even 
 in that district of cheap coal. 
 
 "Well," Baggie murmured, aghast. "It's a good 
 thing it's you. If it had been anybody else " 
 
 "What on earth does she do with her money?" he 
 muttered. 
 
 Shrugging her shoulders, Maggie went out again 
 with an empty tray. 
 
 "No servant, either?" Edwin asked, when she re- 
 turned. 
 
 "She's sitting with Auntie." 
 
 "Must I go up before I have my tea?" 
 
 "No. She won't have heard you come." 
 
 There was a grilled mutton-chop and a boiled egg 
 on the crowded small table, with tea, bread-and-butter, 
 two rounds of dry bread, some cakes, and jam. 
 
 "Which are you having egg or chop?" Edwin de- 
 manded as Maggie sat down. 
 
 "Oh ! They're both for you." 
 
 "And what about you?" 
 
 "I only have bread-and-butter as a rule." 
 
 Edwin grunted, and started to eat. 
 
 "What's supposed to be the matter with her?" he 
 enquired. 
 
 "It seems it's congestion of the lung, and thickened 
 arteries. It wouldn't matter so much about the lung 
 being congested, in itself, only it's the strain on her 
 heart." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "Been in bed all day, I suppose." 
 
 "No, she would get up. But she had to go back to 
 bed at once. She had a collapse." 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 407 
 
 "Hm!" 
 
 He could not think of anything else to say. 
 
 "Haven't got to-night's Signal, have you?" 
 
 "Oh no !" said Maggie, astonished at such a strange 
 demand. "Hilda get off all right?" 
 
 "Yes, they went by the nine train." 
 
 "She told me that she should, if she could manage 
 it. I expect Mrs. Tarns was up there early." 
 
 Edwin nodded, recalling with bitterness certain mo- 
 ments of the early morning. And then silence ensued. 
 The brother and sister could not keep the conversation 
 alive, Edwin thought: "We know each other inti- 
 mately, and we respect each other, and yet we cannot 
 even conduct a meal together without awkwardness and 
 constraint. Has civilisation down here got no further 
 than that?" He felt sorry for Maggie, and also kindly 
 disdainful of her. He glanced at her furtively and 
 tried to see in her the girl of the far past. She had 
 grown immensely older than himself. She was now at 
 home in the dreadful Hamps environment. True, she 
 had an income, but had she any pleasures? It was im- 
 possible to divine what her pleasures might be, what she 
 thought about when she lay in bed, to what hours she 
 looked forward. First his father, then himself, and 
 lastly Auntie Hamps had subjugated her. And of the 
 three Auntie Hamps had most ruthlessly succeeded, 
 and in the shortest time. And yet Edwin felt even 
 Auntie Hamps had not quite succeeded, and the orig- 
 inal individual still survived in Maggie and was silently 
 critical of all the phenomena which surrounded her 
 and to which she had apparently submitted. Realising 
 this, Edwin ceased to be kindly disdainful. 
 
 Towards the end of the meal a heavy foot was heard 
 on the stairs. 
 
 "Minnie !" Maggie called. 
 
408 THESE TWAIN 
 
 After shuffling and hesitation the sitting-room door 
 was pushed ever so little open. 
 
 ''Yes, miss," said someone feebly. 
 
 "Why have you left Mrs. Hamps? Do you need 
 anything?" 
 
 "Missis made me go, miss," came the reply, very 
 loosely articulated. 
 
 "Come in and take your bread," said Maggie, and 
 aside to Edwin : "Auntie's at it again !" 
 
 After another hesitation the door opened wide, and 
 Minnie became visible. She was rather a big girl, quite 
 young, fat, too fair, undecided, obviously always be- 
 tween two minds. Her large apron, badly-fitting over 
 the blue frock, was of a dubious yellow colour. She 
 wore spectacles. Behind her spectacles she seemed to t 
 be blinking in confusion at all the subtle complexities of 
 existence. She advanced irregularly to the table with 
 a sort of nervous desperation, as if saying: "I have 
 to go through this ordeal." Edwin could not judge 
 whether she was about to smile or about to weep. 
 
 "Here's your bread," said Maggie, indicating the two 
 rounds of dry bread. "I've left the dripping on the 
 kitchen table for you." 
 
 Edwin, revolted, perceived of course in a flash what 
 the life of Minnie was under the regime of Auntie 
 Hamps. 
 
 "Thank ye, miss." 
 
 He noticed that the veiled voice was that of a rather 
 deaf person. 
 
 Blushing, Minnie took the bread, and moved away. 
 Just as she reached the door, she gave a great sob, fol- 
 lowed by a number of little ones; and the bread fell 
 on to the % carpet. She left it there, and vanished, still 
 violently sobbing. 
 
 Edwin, spellbound, stopped masticating. A momen- 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 409 
 
 tary sensation almost of horror seized him. Maggie 
 turned pale, and he was glad that she turned pale. If 
 she had shown by no sign that such happenings were 
 unusual, he would have been afraid of the very house 
 itself, of its mere sinister walls which seemed to shelter 
 sick tyrants, miserable victims, and enchanted captives ; 
 he would have begun to wonder whether he himself 
 was safe in it. 
 
 "What next?" muttered Maggie, intimidated but 
 plucky, rising and following Minnie. "Just go up to 
 Auntie, will you?" she called to Edwin over her shoul- 
 der. "She oughtn't really to be left alone for a min- 
 ute." 
 
 Edwin pushed open the door and crept with precau- 
 tions into the bedroom. Mrs. Hamps was dozing. In 
 the half-light of the lowered gas he looked at her and 
 was alarmed, shocked, for it was at once apparent that 
 she must be very ill. She lay reclining against sev- 
 eral crumpled and crushed pillows, with her head on 
 one side and her veined hands limp on the eiderdown, 
 between the heavy brown side-curtains that hung from 
 the carved mahogany tester. The posture seemed to 
 be that of an exhausted animal, surprised by the un- 
 consciousness of final fatigue, shameless in the intense 
 reed of repose. Auntie Hamps had ceased to be a 
 Wesleyan, a pillar of society, a champion of the con- 
 ventions, and a keeper-up of appearances ; she was just 
 an utterly wearied and beaten creature, breathing 
 noisily through wide-open mouth. Edwin could not 
 remember ever having seen her when she was not to 
 some extent arrayed for the world's gaze; he had not 
 seen her at the crisis of any of her recent attacks. He 
 knew that more than once she had recovered when 
 
410 THESE TWAIN 
 
 good judges had pronounced recovery impossible; but 
 he was quite sure, now, that she would never rise from 
 that bed. He had the sudden dreadful thought : "She 
 is done for, sentenced, cut off from the rest of us. 
 This is the end for her. She won't be able to pretend 
 any more. All her efforts have come to this." The 
 thought affected him like a blow. And two somewhat 
 contradictory ideas sprang from it: first, the entire 
 absurdity of her career as revealed by its close, and 
 secondly, the tragic dignity with which its close was 
 endowing her. 
 
 At once contemptible and august, she was dimin- 
 ished, even in size. Her scanty grey hair was tousled. 
 Her pink flannel night-dress with its long, loose sleeves 
 was grotesque; the multitude of her patched outer 
 wrappings, from which peeped her head on its withered 
 neck, and safety-pins, and the orifice of a hot-water 
 bag, were equally grotesque. None of the bed-linen was 
 clean, or of good quality. The eiderdown was old, and 
 the needle-points of its small white feathers were pierc- 
 ing it. The table at the bed-head had a strange col- 
 lection of poor, odd crockery. The whole room, with 
 its distempered walls of an uncomfortable green colour, 
 in spite of several respectable pieces of mahogany furn- 
 iture, seemed to be the secret retreat of a graceless and 
 mean indigence. And above all it was damply cold; 
 the window stood a little open, and only the tiniest 
 fire burnt in the inefficient grate. 
 
 For decades Auntie Hamps, with her erect figure 
 and handsome face, her black silks, jet ornaments, and 
 sealskins, her small regular subscriptions and her spas- 
 modic splendours of golden generosity, her heroic re- 
 lentless hypocrisies and her absolute self-reliance and 
 independence, had exhibited a glorious front to the 
 world. With her, person and individuality were almost 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 411 
 
 everything, and the environment she had made for her- 
 self almost nothing. The ground-floor of her house 
 was presentable, especially when titivated for occa- 
 sional hospitalities, but not more than presentable. The 
 upper floor was never shown. In particular, Auntie 
 Hamps was not one of those women who invite other 
 women to their bedrooms. Her bedroom was guarded 
 like a fastness. In it, unbeheld, lived the other Auntie 
 Hamps, complementary to the grand and massive Mrs. 
 Hamps known to mankind. And now the fastness was 
 exposed, defenceless, and its squalid avaricious secrets 
 discovered; and she was too broken to protest. There 
 was something unbearably pitiful in that. Her pose 
 was pitiful and her face was pitiful. Those features 
 were still far from ugly; the contours of the flushed 
 cheeks, the chin, and the convex eyelids were astonish- 
 ingly soft, and recalled the young girl of about half a 
 century earlier. She was both old and young in her 
 troubled unconsciousness. The reflection was inevitable : 
 "She was a young girl and now she is sentenced." 
 Edwin felt himself desolated by a terrible gloom which 
 questioned the justification of all life. The cold of the 
 room made him shiver. After gazing for a long time 
 at the sufferer, he tiptoed to the fire. On the painted 
 iron mantelpiece were a basalt clock and three photo- 
 graphs ; a recent photograph of smirking Clara sur- 
 rounded by her brood ; a faded photograph of Maggie 
 as a young girl, intolerably dowdy; and an equally 
 faded photograph of himself as a young man of twenty, 
 he remembered the suit and the necktie in which he 
 had been photographed. The simplicity, the ingenu- 
 ousness, of his own boyish face moved him deeply and 
 at the same time disgusted him. "Was I like that?" 
 he thought, astounded, and he felt intensely sorry 
 for the raw youth. Above the clock was suspended by 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 
 
 a ribbon a new green card, lettered in silver with some 
 verses entitled "Lean Hard." This card, he knew, 
 had superseded a booklet of similar tenor that used 
 to lie on the dressing-table when he was an infant. 
 The verses began: 
 
 Child of My love, "Lean hard", 
 
 And let Me feel the pressure of thy care. 
 
 And they ended: 
 
 Thou lovest Me. I knew it. Doubt not then, 
 But loving Me, LEAN HARD. 
 
 All his life he had laughed at the notion of his 
 Auntie leaning hard upon anything whatever. Yet 
 she had lived continually with these verses ever since 
 the year of their first publication; she had never 
 tired of their message. And now Edwin was touched. 
 He seemed to see some sincerity, some beauty, in them. 
 He had a vision of their author, unknown to literature, 
 but honoured in a hundred thousand respectable homes. 
 He thought: "Did Auntie only pretend to believe in 
 them? Or did she think she did believe in them? Or 
 did she really believe in them?" The last seemed a 
 possibility. Supposing she did really believe in them? 
 . . . Yes, he was touched. He was ready to admit 
 that spirituality was denied to none. He seemed to 
 come into contact with the universal immanent spirit- 
 uality. 
 
 Then he stooped to put some bits of coal silently 
 on the fire. 
 
 "Who's that putting coal on the fire?" said a faint 
 but sharply protesting voice from the bed. 
 
 The weakness of the voice gave Edwin a fresh shock. 
 The voice seemed to be drawing on the very last reserves 
 of its owner's vitality. Owing to the height of the 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 413 
 
 foot of the bed, Auntie Hamps could not see anything 
 at the fireplace lower than the mantelpiece. As she 
 withdrew from earth she employed her fading faculties 
 to expostulate against a waste of coal and to identify 
 the unseen criminal. 
 
 "I am," said Edwin cheerfully. "It was nearly out." 
 
 He stood up, smiling slightly, and faced her. 
 
 Auntie Hamps, lifting her head and frowning in sur- 
 prise, gazed at him for a few moments, as if trying 
 to decide who he was. Then she said, in the same 
 enfeebled tone as before: 
 
 "Eh, Edwin! I never heard you come in. This is 
 an honour!" And her head dropped back. 
 
 "I'm sleeping here," said Edwin, with determined 
 cheerfulness. "Did ye know?" 
 
 She reflected, and answered deliberately, using her 
 volition to articulate every syllable: 
 
 "Yes. Ye're having Maggie's room." 
 
 "Oh no, Auntie !" 
 
 "Yes, you are. I've told her." The faint voice be- 
 came harshly obstinate. "Turn the gas up a bit, Ed- 
 win, so that I can see you. Well, this is an honour. 
 Did Maggie give ye a proper tea?" 
 
 "Oh yes, thanks. Splendid." 
 
 He raised the gas. Auntie Hamps blinked. 
 
 "You want something to shade this gas," said Edwin. 
 "I'll fix ye something." 
 
 The gas-bracket was a little to the right of the fire- 
 place, over the dressing-table, and nearly opposite the 
 bed. Auntie Hamps nodded. Having glanced about, 
 Edwin put a bonnet-box on the dressing-table and on 
 that, upright and open, the Hamps family Bible from 
 the ottoman. The infirm creation was just lofty 
 enough to come between the light and the old woman's 
 eyes. 
 
414 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "That'll be better," said he. "You're not at all 
 well, I hear, Auntie." He endeavoured to be tactful. 
 
 She slowly shook her head as it lay on the pillow. 
 
 "This is one of my bad days. . . . But I shall pick 
 up. . . . Then has Hilda taken George to London?" 
 
 Edwin nodded. 
 
 "Eh, I do hope and pray it'll be all right. I've had 
 such good eyesight myself, I'm all the more afraid for 
 others. What a blessing it's been to me ! . . . Eh, 
 what a good mother dear Hilda is !" She added after 
 a pause: "I daresay there never was such a mother 
 as Hilda, unless it's Clara." 
 
 "Has Clara been in to-day?" Edwin demanded, to 
 change the subject of conversation. 
 
 "No, she hasn't. But she will, as soon as she has a 
 moment. She'll be popping in. They're such a tie on 
 her, those children are and how she looks after them ! 
 . . . Edwin!" She called him, as though he were re- 
 ceding. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 The frail voice continued, articulating with great 
 carefulness, and achieving each sentence as though it 
 were a miracle, as indeed it was : 
 
 "I think no one ever had such nephews and nieces 
 as I have. I've never had children of my own that 
 was not to be! but I must say the Lord has made it 
 up to me in my nephews and nieces. You and Hilda 
 . . . and Clara and Albert . . . and the little 
 chicks !" Tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 "You're forgetting Maggie," said Edwin, lightly. 
 
 "Yes," Auntie Hamps agreed, but in a quite different 
 tone, reluctant and critical. "I'm sure Maggie does 
 her best. Oh! I'm sure she .does . . . Edwin!" 
 Again she called him. 
 
 He approached the tumbled bed, and even sat on 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 415 
 
 the edge of it, his hands in his pockets. Auntie Hamps, 
 though breathing now more rapidly and with more dif- 
 ficulty, seemed to have revitalised herself at some mys- 
 terious source of energy. She was still preoccupied 
 by the mental concentration and the effort of volition 
 required for the smallest physical acts incident to her 
 continued existence ; but she had accumulated power for 
 the furtherance of greater ends. 
 
 "D'ye want anything?" Edwin suggested, indicating 
 the contents of the night-table. 
 
 She moved her head to signify a negative. Her pink- 
 clad arms did not stir. And her whole being seemed 
 to be suspended while she prepared for an exertion. 
 
 "I'm so relieved you've come," she said at length, 
 slowly and painfully. "You can't think what a relief 
 it is to me. I've really no one but you. . . . It's 
 about that girl." 
 
 "What girl?" 
 
 "Minnie." 
 
 "The servant?" 
 
 Mrs. Hamps inclined her head, and fetched breath 
 through the wide-open mouth. "I've only just found 
 it out. She's in trouble. Oh! She admitted it to 
 me a bit ago. I sent her downstairs. I wouldn't have 
 her in my bedroom a minute longer. She's in trouble. 
 I felt sure she was. . . . She was at class-meeting 
 last Wednesday. And only yesterday I paid her her 
 wages. Only yesterday! Here she lives on the fat of 
 the land, and what does she do for it? I assure you 
 I have to see to everything myself. I'm always after 
 her. ... In a month she won't be fit to be seen . . . 
 Edwin, I've never been so ashamed. . . . That I 
 should have to tell such a thing to my own nephew!" 
 She ceased, exhausted. 
 
 Edwin was somewhat amused. He could not help 
 
416 THESE TWAIN 
 
 feeling amused at such an accident happening in the 
 house of Mrs. Hamps. 
 
 "Who's the man?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, and that's another thing!" answered Mrs. 
 Hamps solemnly, in her extreme weakness. "It's the 
 barman at the Vaults, of all people. She wouldn't 
 admit it, but I know." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "She must leave my house at once." 
 
 "Where does she live I mean her people?" 
 
 "She has no parents." Auntie Hamps reflected for 
 a few moments. "She has an aunt at Axe." 
 
 "Well, she can't get to Axe to-night," said Edwin 
 positively. "Does Maggie know about it?" 
 
 "Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Hamps scornfully. 
 "Maggie never notices anything." She added in a 
 graver tone: "And there's no reason why Maggie 
 should know. It's not the sort of thing that Maggie 
 ought to know about. You can speak to the girl 
 herself. It will come much better from you. I shall 
 simply tell Maggie I've decided the girl must go." 
 
 "She can't go to-night," Edwin repeated, humour- 
 ingly, but firmly. 
 
 Auntie Hamps proved the sincerity of her regard 
 for him by yielding. 
 
 "Well," she murmured, "to-morrow morning, then. 
 She can turn out the sitting-room, and clean the silver 
 in the black box, and then she can go before dinner. 
 I don't see why I should give her her dinner. Nor her 
 extra day's wages either." 
 
 "And what shall you do for a servant? Get a 
 charwoman ?" 
 
 "Charwoman? No! Maggie will manage." And 
 then with a sudden flare of relished violence: "I al- 
 ways knew that girl was a mopsy slut. And what's 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 417 
 
 more, if you ask me, she brought him into the house 
 and after eleven o'clock at night too !" 
 
 "All right!" Edwin muttered, to soothe the patient. 
 
 And Mrs. Hamps sadly smiled. 
 
 "It's such a relief to me," she breathed. "You don't 
 know what a relief to me it is to put it in your hands." 
 
 Her eyelids dropped. She said no more. Having 
 looked back for an instant in a supreme effort on 
 behalf of the conventions upon which society was es- 
 tablished, Auntie Hamps turned again exhausted to- 
 wards the lifting veil of the unknown. And Edwin 
 began to realise the significance of the scene that was 
 ended. 
 
 m 
 
 "I say," Edwin began, when he had silently closed the 
 door of the sitting-room. "Here's a lark, if you like !" 
 And he gave a short laugh. It was under such language 
 and such demeanour that he concealed his real emo- 
 tion, which was partly solemn, partly pleasurable, and 
 wholly buoyant. 
 
 Maggie looked up gloomily. With a bit of pencil 
 held very close to the point in her heavy fingers, she 
 was totting up the figures of household accounts in a 
 penny red-covered cash-book. 
 
 Edwin went on: 
 
 "It seems the girl yon" he indicated the kitchen 
 with a jerk of the head " 's been and got herself into 
 a mess." 
 
 Maggie leaned her chin on her hand. 
 
 "Has she been talking to you about it?" With a 
 similar jerk of the head Maggie indicated Mrs. Hamps's 
 bedroom. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I suppose she's only just found it out?" 
 
418 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Who? Auntie? Yes. Did you know about it?" 
 
 "Did I know about it?" Maggie repeated with mild 
 disdainful impatience. "Of course I knew about it. 
 I've known for weeks. But I wasn't going to tell her." 
 She finished bitterly. 
 
 Edwin regarded his sister with new respect and not 
 without astonishment. Never before in their lives had 
 they discussed any inconvenient sexual phenomenon. 
 Save for vague and very careful occasional reference 
 to Clara's motherhood, Maggie had never given any 
 evidence to her brother that she was acquainted with 
 what are called in Anglo-Saxon countries "the facts of 
 life," and he had somehow thought of her as not hav- 
 ing emerged, at the age of forty-four or so, from the 
 naive ignorance of the young girl. Now her per- 
 fectly phlegmatic attitude in front of the Minnie epi- 
 sode seemed to betoken a familiarity that approached 
 cynicism. And she was not at all tongue-tied ; she was 
 at her ease. She had become a woman of the world. 
 Edwin liked her; he liked her manner and her tone. 
 His interest in the episode even increased. 
 
 "She was for turning her out to-night," said he. 
 "I stopped that." 
 
 "I should think so indeed !" 
 
 "I've got her as far as to-morrow morning." 
 
 "The girl won't go to-morrow morning either !" said 
 Maggie. "At least, if she goes, I go." She spoke with 
 tranquillity, adding: "But we needn't bother about 
 that. Auntie'll be past worrying about Minnie to- 
 morrow morning. . . . I'd better go up to her. She 
 can't possibly be left alone." 
 
 Maggie shut the account-book, and rose. 
 
 "I only came down for a sec to tell you. She was 
 dozing," said Edwin apologetically. "She's awfully 
 ill. I'd no idea." 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 419 
 
 "Yes, she's ill right enough." 
 
 "Who'll sit up with her?" 
 
 "I shall." 
 
 "Did you sit up with her last night?" 
 
 "No only part of the night." 
 
 "We ought to get a nurse." 
 
 "Well, we can't get one to-night." 
 
 "And what about Clara? Can't she take a turn? 
 Surely in a case like this she can chuck her eternal 
 kids for a bit." 
 
 "I expect she could. But she doesn't know." 
 
 "Haven't you sent round?" He expressed surprise. 
 
 "I couldn't," said Maggie with undisturbed equa- 
 nimity. "Who could I send? I couldn't spare Minnie. 
 The thing didn't seem at all serious until this morning. 
 Since then I've had my hands full." 
 
 "Yes, I can see you have," Edwin agreed apprecia- 
 tively. 
 
 "It was lucky the doctor called on his own. He 
 does sometimes, you know, since she began to have 
 her attacks." 
 
 "Well, I'll go round to Clara's myself," said Edwin. 
 
 "I shouldn't," said Maggie. "At least not to-night." 
 
 "Why not?" He might have put the question angrily, 
 overbearingly ; but Maggie was so friendly, suave, con- 
 fidential, persuasive, and so sure of herself, that with 
 pleasure he copied her accents. He enjoyed thus talk- 
 ing to her intimately in the ugly dark house, with the 
 life-bearing foolish Minnie on the one hand, and the 
 dying old woman on the other. He thought : "There's 
 something splendid about Mag. In fact I always knew 
 there was." And he forgot her terrible social short- 
 comings, her utter lack of the feminine seductiveness 
 that for him ought to be in every woman, and her in- 
 vincible stolidity. Her sturdy and yet scarcely articu- 
 
420 THESE TWAIN 
 
 late championship of Minnie delighted him and quick- 
 ened his pulse. 
 
 "I'd sooner not have her here to-night," said Maggie. 
 "You knew they'd had a tremendous rumpus, didn't 
 you?" 
 
 "Who? Auntie and Clara?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I didn't. What about? When? Nobody ever said 
 anything to me." 
 
 "Oh, it must have been two or three months ago. 
 Auntie said something about Albert not paying me my 
 interest on my money he's got. And then Clara flared 
 up, and the fat was in the fire." 
 
 "D'you mean to say he's not paying you your inter- 
 est? Why didn't you tell me?" 
 
 "Oh! It doesn't matter. I didn't want to bother 
 you." 
 
 "Well, you ought to have bothered me," said Ed- 
 win, with a trace of benevolent severity. He was as- 
 tounded, and somewhat hurt, that this great family 
 event should have been successfully concealed from 
 him. He felt furious against Albert and Clara, and at 
 the same time proud that his prognostication about 
 the investment with Albert had proved correct. 
 
 "Did Hilda know?" 
 
 "Oh yes. Hilda knew." 
 
 "Well, I'm dashed!" The exclamation showed 
 naivete. His impression of the chicanery of women was 
 deepened, so that it actually disquieted him. "But I 
 suppose," he went on, "I suppose this row isn't going 
 to stop Clara from coming here, seeing the state 
 Auntie's in?" 
 
 "No, certainly not. Clara would come like a shot 
 if she knew, and Albert as well. She's a good nurse 
 in some ways." 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 
 
 "Well, if they aren't told, and anything happens to 
 Auntie in the night, there'll be a fine to-do afterwards, 
 don't forget that." 
 
 "Nothing'll happen to Auntie in the night," said 
 Maggie, with tranquil reassurance. "And I don't think 
 I could stand 'em to-night." 
 
 The hint of her nervous susceptibility, beneath that 
 stolid exterior, appealed to him. 
 
 Maggie, since closing the account-book, had moved 
 foot by foot anxiously towards the door, and had only 
 been kept in the room by the imperative urgency of 
 the conversation. She now had her hand on the door. 
 
 "I say !" He held her yet another moment. "What's 
 this about me taking your room? I don't want to 
 turn you out of your room." 
 
 "That's all right," she said, with a kind smile. "It's 
 easiest, really. Moreover, I daresay there won't be such 
 a lot of sleeping. ... I must go up at once. She 
 can't possibly be left alone." 
 
 Maggie opened the door and she had scarcely 
 stepped forth when Minnie from the kitchen rushed 
 into the lobby and dropped, intentionally or uninten- 
 tionally, on her knees before her. Edwin, unobserved 
 by Minnie, witnessed the scene through the doorway. 
 Minnie, agitated almost to the point of hysteria, was 
 crying violently and as she breathed her shoulders 
 lifted and fell, and the sound of her sobbing rose period- 
 ically to a shriek and sank to a groan. She knelt with 
 her body and thighs upright and her head erect, mak- 
 ing no attempt to stem the tears or to hide her face. 
 In her extreme desolation she was perhaps as uncon- 
 scious of herself as she had ever been. Her cap was 
 awry on her head, and her hair disarranged ; the blink- 
 ing spectacles made her ridiculous ; only the blue print 
 uniform, and the sinister yellowish apron drawn down 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 tight under her knees, gave a certain respectable 
 regularity to her extraordinary and grotesque appear- 
 ance. 
 
 To Edwin she seemed excessively young and yet far 
 too large and too developed for her age. The girl was 
 obviously a fool. Edwin could perceive in her no charm 
 whatever, except that of her innocence ; and it was not 
 easy to imagine that any man, even the barman at the 
 Vaults, could have mistaken her, even momentarily, 
 for the ideal. And then some glance of her spectacled 
 eyes, or some gesture of the great red hand, showed him 
 his own blindness and mysteriously made him realise 
 the immensity of the illusion and the disillusion through 
 which she had passed in her foolish and incontinent 
 simplicity. What had happened to her was miraculous, 
 exquisite, and terrible. He felt the magic of her illu- 
 sion and the terror of her disillusion. Already in her 
 girlishness and her stupidity she had lived through su- 
 preme hours. "Compared to her," he thought, "I don't 
 know what life is. No man does." And he not only 
 suffered for her sorrow, he gave her a sacred quality. 
 It seemed to him that heaven itself ought to endow 
 her with beauty, grace, and wisdom, so that she might 
 meet with triumphant dignity the ordeals that awaited 
 her; and that mankind should supplement the work of 
 heaven by clothing her richly and housing her in se- 
 cluded splendour, and offering her the service which 
 only victims merit. Surely her caprices ought to be 
 indulged and honoured ! . . . Edwin was indignant ; 
 indignation positively burnt his body. She was help- 
 less and defenceless and she had been exploited by 
 Auntie Hamps. And after having been exploited she 
 had been driven out by ukase on week-night to class- 
 meeting and on Sunday night to chapel, to find Christ, 
 with the result that she had found the barman at 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 
 
 the Vaults. The consequences were inevitable. She 
 was definitely ruined, unless the child should bereave 
 her by dying; and even then she might still be ruined. 
 And what about the child, if the child lived? And al- 
 though Edwin had never seen the silly girl before, he 
 said to himself, while noticing that a crumb or two of 
 the bread dropped by her still remained on the floor: 
 "I'll see that girl through whatever it costs !" He was 
 not indignant against Auntie Hamps. How could he 
 be indignant against an expiring old creature already 
 desperate in the final dilemma. He felt nearly as sorry 
 for Auntie Hamps as for Minnie. He was indignant 
 against destiny, of which Auntie Hamps was only the 
 miserable, unimaginative instrument. 
 
 "I'd better go to-night, miss. Let me go to-night !" 
 cried Minnie. And she cried so loudly that Edwin was 
 afraid Auntie Hamps might hear and might make an 
 apparition at the head of the stairs and curse Minnie 
 with fearful Biblical names. And the old woman in the 
 curtained bed upstairs was almost as present to him 
 as the girl kneeling before his eyes on the linoleum 
 of the lobby. 
 
 "Minnie ! Minnie ! Don't be foolish !" said Maggie, 
 standing over her and soothing her, not with her hands 
 but with her voice. 
 
 Maggie had shown no perturbation or even surprise 
 at Minnie's behaviour. She stood looking down at her 
 benevolent, deprecating, and calm. And by contrast 
 with Minnie she seemed to be quite middle-aged. Her 
 tone was exactly right. It reminded Edwin of the 
 tone which she would use to himself when, she was six- 
 teen and the housekeeper, and he was twelve. Maggie 
 had long since lost authority over him; she had lost 
 everything; she would die without having lived; she 
 had never begun to live (No, perhaps once she had 
 
424 THESE TWAIN 
 
 just begun to live!) Minnie had prime knowledge far 
 exceeding hers. And yet she had power over Minnie 
 and could exercise it with skill. 
 
 Minnie, hesitating, sobbed more slowly, and then 
 ceased to sob. 
 
 "Go back into the kitchen and have something to 
 eat, and then you can go to bed. You'll feel differently 
 in the morning," said Maggie with the same gentle 
 blandness. 
 
 And Minnie, as though fascinated, rose from her 
 knees. 
 
 Edwin, surmising what had passed between the two 
 in the kitchen while he was in the bedroom, was aware 
 of a fresh, intense admiration for Maggie. She might 
 be dowdy, narrow, dull, obstinate, virgin, but she 
 was superb. She had terrific reserves. He was proud 
 of her. The tone merely of her voice as she spoke 
 to the girl seemed to prove the greatness of her deeply- 
 hidden soul. 
 
 Suddenly Minnie caught sight of Edwin through the 
 doorway, flushed red, had the air of slavishly apolo- 
 gising to the unapproachable male for having disturbed 
 him by her insect-woes, and vanished. Maggie hur- 
 ried upstairs to the departing. Edwin was alone with 
 the chill draught from the lobby into the room, and 
 with the wonder of life. 
 
 IV 
 
 In the middle of the night Edwin kept watch over 
 Auntie Hamps, who was asleep. He sat in a rocking- 
 chair, with his back to the window and the right side of 
 his face to the glow of the fire. The fire was as effec- 
 tive as the size and form of the grate would allow; 
 it burnt richly red; but its influence did not seem to 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 425 
 
 extend beyond a radius of four feet outwards from its 
 centre. The terrible damp chill of the Five Towns 
 winter hung in the bedroom like an invisible miasma. 
 He could feel the cold from the window, which was 
 nevertheless shut, through the shawl with which he had 
 closed the interstices of the back of the chair, and, 
 though he had another thick shawl over his knees, the 
 whole of his left side felt the creeping attack of the 
 insidious miasma. A thermometer which he had found 
 and which lay on the night-table five yards from the 
 fire registered only fifty-two degrees. His expelled 
 breath showed in the air. It was as if he were fighting 
 with all resources against frigidity, and barely holding 
 his own. 
 
 In the half-light of the gas, still screened from the 
 bed by the bonnet-box and the Bible, he glanced round 
 amid the dark ngjeadows at the mean and sinister ugli- 
 ness of the historic chamber, the secret nest and with- 
 drawing place of Auntie Hamps ; and the real asceti- 
 cism of her life and of the life of all her generation al- 
 most smote him. Half a century earlier such a room had 
 represented comfort; in some details, as for instance 
 in its bed, it represented luxury ; and in half a century 
 Auntie Hamps had learnt nothing from the material 
 progress of civilisation but the use of the hot-water 
 bag; her vanished and forgotten parents would have 
 looked askance at the enervating luxuriousness of her 
 hot-water bag unknown even to the crude wistful boy 
 Edwin on the mantelpiece. And Auntie Hamps herself 
 was wont as it were to atone for it by using the still 
 tepid water therefrom for her morning toilet instead 
 of having truly hot water brought up from the kitchen. 
 Edwin thought: "Are we happier for these changes 
 brought about by the mysterious force of evolution?" 
 And answered very emphatically : "Yes, we are." He 
 
426 THESE TWAIN 
 
 would not for anything have gone back to the austerities 
 of his boyhood. 
 
 He rocked gently to and fro in the chair, excited 
 by events and by the novel situation, and he was not 
 dissatisfied with himself. Indeed he was aware of a 
 certain calm complacency, for his commonsense had 
 triumphed over Maggie's devoted silly womanishness. 
 Maggie was for sitting up through the night ; she was 
 anxious to wear herself out for no reason whatever; 
 but he had sent her to bed until three o'clock, promising 
 to call her if she should be needed. The exhausted 
 girl was full of sagacity save on that one point of 
 martyrdom to the fullest apparently with her a point 
 of honour. For the sake of the sensation of having 
 martyrised herself utterly she was ready to imperil her 
 fitness for the morrow. She secretly thought it was 
 unfair to call upon him, a man, to share her fatigues. 
 He regarded himself as her superior in wisdom, and 
 he was relieved that anyone so wise and balanced as 
 Edwin Clayhanger had taken supreme charge of the 
 household organism. 
 
 Restless, he got up from the chair and looked at 
 the bed. He had heard no unusual sound therefrom, 
 but to excuse his restlessness he had said: "Suppose 
 some change had occurred and I didn't notice it!" 
 No change had occurred. Auntie Hamps lay like a 
 mite, like a baby forlorn, senile and defenceless, amid 
 the heaped pillows and coverings of the bed. Within 
 the deep gloom of the canopy and the over-arching 
 curtains only her small, soft face was alive ; even her 
 hair was hidden in the indentation made by the weight 
 of her head in the pillows. She was unconscious, 
 either in sleep or otherwise, he could not tell how. 
 And in her unconsciousness the losing but obstinate 
 fight against the power which was dragging her over 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 427 
 
 the edge of eternity still went on. It showed in the 
 apprehensive character of her breathing, which made 
 a little momentary periodic cloud above her face, and 
 in the uneasy muscular movements of the lips and 
 jaws, and in the vague noises in her throat. A tre- 
 mendous pity for her re-entered his heart, almost break- 
 ing it, because she was so beaten, and so fallen from 
 the gorgeousness of her splendour. Even Minnie could 
 have imposed her will upon Auntie Hamps now; each 
 hour she weakened. 
 
 He had no more resentment against her on account 
 of Minnie, no accusation to formulate. He was merely 
 grieved, with a compassionate grief, that Auntie Hamps 
 had learnt so little while living so long. He knew that 
 she was cruel only because she was incapable of imag- 
 ining what it was to be Minnie. He understood. She 
 worshipped God under the form of respectability, but 
 she did worship God. Like all religious votaries she 
 placed religion above morality; hence her chicane, her 
 inveterate deceit and self-deceit. It was with a relig- 
 ious aim that she had concealed from him the es- 
 trangement between herself and Clara. The unity of 
 the family was one of her major canons (as indeed 
 it was one of Edwin's). She had a passion for her 
 nephew and nieces. It was a grand passion. Her 
 pride in them must have been as terrific as her longing 
 that they and all theirs should conform to the sole 
 ideal that she comprehended. Undeniably there was 
 something magnificent in her religion her unscrupu- 
 lousness in the practice of it, and the mighty consist- 
 ency of her career. She had lived. He ceased to pity 
 her, for she towered above pity. She was dying, but 
 only for an instant. He would smile at his aunt's pri- 
 meval notions of a future life, yet he had to admit that 
 his own notions, though far less precise, could not 
 
428 THESE TWAIN 
 
 be appreciably less crude. He and she were anyhow 
 at one in the profound and staggering conviction of im- 
 mortality. Enlightened by that conviction, he was able 
 to reduce the physical and mental tragedy of the 
 death-bed to its right proportions as a transiency be- 
 tween the heroic past and the inconceivable future. 
 And in the stillness of the room and the stillness of 
 the house, perfumed by the abnegation of Maggie and 
 the desolate woe of the ruined Minnie whom the Clay- 
 hangers would save, and in the outer stillness of the 
 little street with the Norman church-tower sticking up 
 out of history at the bottom of its slope, Edwin felt 
 uplifted and serene. 
 
 He returned to the rocking-chair. 
 
 "She's asleep now in some room I've never seen!" 
 he reflected. 
 
 He was suddenly thinking of his wife. During the 
 previous night, lying sleepless close to her while she 
 slept soundly, he had reflected long and with increasing 
 pessimism. The solace of Hilda's kiss had proved fleet- 
 ing. She had not realised he himself was then only 
 realising little by little the enormity of the thing 
 she had done. What she had deliberately and obsti- 
 nately done was to turn him out of his house. No 
 injury that she might have chosen could have touched 
 him more closely, more painfully, for his house to 
 him was sacred. Her blundering with the servants 
 might be condoned, but what excuse was it possible to 
 find for this precipitate flight to London involving the 
 summary ejectment from the home of him who had 
 created the home and for and by whom the home chiefly 
 existed? True the astounding feat of wrong-headed- 
 ness had been aided by the mere chance of Maggie's 
 calling (capricious women were always thus lucky!), 
 Maggie's suggestion and request had given some after- 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 429 
 
 glow of reason to the mad project. But the justifica- 
 tion was still far from sufficient. And the odious idea 
 haunted him that, even if Maggie had not called with 
 her tale, Hilda would have persisted in her scheme all 
 the same. Yes, she was capable of that! The argu- 
 ment that George's eyes (of whose condition she had 
 learnt by mere hazard) could not wait until domestic 
 affairs were arranged, was too grotesque to deserve an 
 answer. 
 
 Lying thus close to his wife in the dark, he had 
 perceived that the conflict between his individuality 
 and hers could never cease. No diplomatic devices 
 of manner could put an end to it. And he had seen 
 also that as they both grew older and developed more 
 fully, the conflict was becoming more serious. He as- 
 sumed that he had faults, but he was solemnly con- 
 vinced that the faults of Hilda were tremendous, es- 
 sential, and ineradicable. She had a faculty for acting 
 contrary to justice and contrary to sense which was 
 simply monstrous. And it had always been so. Her 
 whole life had been made up of impulsiveness and con- 
 tumacy in that impulsiveness. Witness the incredible 
 scenes of the strange Dartmoor episode all due to her 
 stubborn irrationality! The perspective of his mar- 
 riage was plain to him in the night, and it ended in 
 a rupture. He had been resolutely blind to Hilda's pe- 
 culiarities, dismissing incident after incident as an iso- 
 lated misfortune. But he could be blind no more. His 
 marriage was all of a piece, and he must and would 
 recognise the fact. . . . The sequel would be a scan- 
 dal! . . . Well, let it be a scandal! As the minutes 
 and hours passed in grim meditation, the more attract- 
 ive grew the lost freedom of the bachelor and the more 
 ready he felt to face any ordeal that lay between him 
 and it. ... And just as it was occurring to him 
 
430 THESE TWAIN 
 
 that his proper course was to have fought a terrific 
 open decisive battle with her in front of both Maggie 
 and Ingpen he had fallen asleep. 
 
 Upon awaking, barely in time to arouse Hilda, he 
 knew that the mood of the night had not melted away 
 as such moods are apt to melt when the window begins 
 to show a square of silver-grey. The mood was even 
 intensified. Hilda had divined nothing. She never did 
 divine the tortures which she inflicted in his heart. She 
 did not possess the gumption to divine. Her demean- 
 our had been amazing. She averred that she had not 
 slept at all. Instead of cajoling, she bullied. Instead 
 of tacitly admitting that she was infamously wrong- 
 ing him, she had assumed a grievance of her own 
 without stating it. Once she had said discontentedly 
 
 about some trifle: "You might at any rate " as 
 
 though the victim should caress the executioner. She 
 had kissed him at departure, but not as usual effusively, 
 and he had suffered the kiss in enmity; and after an 
 unimaginable general upset and confusion, in which 
 George had shown himself strangely querulous, she 
 had driven off with her son, unconscious, stupidly una- 
 ware, that she was leaving a disaster behind her. And 
 last of all Edwin, solitary, had been forced to per- 
 form the final symbolic act, that of locking him out 
 of his own sacred home ! The affair had transcended 
 belief. 
 
 All day at the works his bitterness and melancholy 
 had been terrible, and the works had been shaken with 
 apprehension, for no angry menaces are more discon- 
 certing than those of a man habitually mild. Before 
 evening he had decided to write to his wife from Auntie 
 Hamps's, a letter cold, unanswerable, crushing, that 
 would confront her unes capably with the alternatives 
 of complete submission or complete separation. The 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 431 
 
 phrases of the letter came into his mind. . . . He 
 would see who was master. . . . He had been full of 
 the letter when he entered Auntie Hamps's lobby. But 
 the strange tone in which Maggie had answered his 
 questions about the sick woman had thrust the letter 
 and the crisis right to the back of his mind, where 
 they had uneasily remained throughout the evening. 
 And now in the rocking-chair he was reflecting: 
 "She's asleep in some room I've never seen!" 
 He smiled, such a smile, candid, generous, and affec- 
 tionate, as was Hilda's joy, such a smile as Hilda dwelt 
 on in memory when she was alone. The mood of re- 
 sentment passed away, vanished like a nightmare at 
 dawn, and like one of his liverish headaches dispersed 
 suddenly after the evening meal. He saw everything 
 differently. He saw that he had been entirely wrong in 
 his estimate of the situation, and of Hilda. Hilda was 
 a mother. She had the protective passion of maternity. 
 She was carried away by her passions ; but her passions 
 were noble, marvellous, unique. He himself could never 
 he thought, humbled attain to her emotional 
 heights. He was incapable of feeling about anything 
 or anybody as she felt about George. The revelation 
 concerning George's eyesight had shocked her, over<r 
 whelmed her with remorse, driven every other idea out 
 of her head. She must atone to George instantly; 
 instantly she must take measures the most drastic and 
 certain to secure him from the threatened danger. 
 She could not count the cost till afterwards. She was 
 not a woman in such moments, she was an instinct, a 
 desire, a ruthless purpose. And as she felt towards 
 George, so she must feel, in other circumstances, to- 
 wards himself. Her kisses proved it, and her soothing 
 hand when he was unwell. Mrs. Hamps had said : "Eh, 
 dear! What a good mother dear Hilda is!" A senti- 
 
432 THESE TWAIN 
 
 mental outcry! But there was profound truth in it, 
 truth which the old woman had seen better than he 
 had seen it. "I daresay there never was such a mother 
 unless it's Clara !" Hyperbole ! And yet he himself 
 now began to think that there never could have been 
 such a mother as Hilda. Clara too in her way was 
 wonderful. . . . Smile as you might, these mothers 
 were tremendous. The mysterious sheen of their nar- 
 row and deep lives dazzled him. For the first time, per- 
 haps, he bowed his head to Clara. 
 
 But Hilda was far beyond Clara. She was not 
 only a mother but a lover. Would he cut himself off 
 from her loving? Why? For what? To live alone 
 in the arid and futile freedom of a Tertius Ingpen? 
 Such a notion was fatuous. Where lay the difficulty 
 between himself and Hilda? There was no difficulty. 
 How had she harmed him? She had not harmed him. 
 
 ^s 
 
 Everything was all right. He had only to under- 
 stand. He understood. As for her impulsiveness, 
 her wrongheadedness, her bizarre ratiocination, he 
 knew how to accept them, for was he not a philosopher? 
 They were indeed part of the incomparable romance 
 of existence with these prodigious and tantalising 
 creatures. He admitted that Hilda in some aspects 
 transcended him, but in others he was comfortably con- 
 fident of his own steady, conquering superiority. He 
 thought of her with the most exquisite devotion. He 
 pictured the secret tenderness of their reunion amid the 
 conventional gloom of Auntie Hamps's death-bed. 
 . . . He was confident of his ability to manage Hilda, 
 at any rate in the big things, for example the dis- 
 puted points of his entry into public activity and their 
 removal from Trafalgar Road into the country. The 
 sturdiness of the male inspired him. At the same time 
 the thought of the dark mood from which he had 
 
AUNTIE HAMPS SENTENCED 433 
 
 emerged obscurely perturbed him, like a fearful danger 
 passed; and he argued to himself with satisfaction, 
 and yet not quite with conviction, that he had yielded 
 to Maggie, and not to Hilda, in the affair of the jour- 
 ney to London, and that therefore his masculine mar- 
 ital dignity was intact. 
 
 And then he started at a strange sound below, which 
 somehow recalled him to the nervous tension of the 
 house. It was a knocking at the front-door. His heart 
 thumped at the formidable muffled noise in the middle 
 of the night. He jumped up, and glanced at the bed. 
 Auntie Hamps was not wakened. He went downstairs 
 where the gas which he had lighted was keeping watch. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 DEATH AND BURIAL 
 
 ALBERT BENBOW was at the front-door. Edwin 
 curbed the expression of his astonishment. 
 
 "Hello, Albert!" 
 
 "Oh! You aren't gone to bed?" 
 
 "Not likely. Come in. What's up?" 
 
 Albert, with the habit of one instructed never to 
 tread actually on a doorstep lest it should be newly 
 whitened, stepped straight on to the inner mat. He 
 seemed excited, and Edwin feared that he had just 
 learnt of Auntie Hamps's illness and had come in the 
 middle of the night ostensibly to make enquiries, but 
 really to make a grievance of the fact that the Ben- 
 bows had been "kept in ignorance." He could already 
 hear Albert demanding : "Why have you kept us in ig- 
 norance?" It was quite a Benbow phrase. 
 
 Edwin shut the door and shut out the dark and 
 windy glimpse of the outer world which had empha- 
 sised for a moment the tense seclusion of the house. 
 
 "You've heard of course about the accident to Ing- 
 pen?" said Albert. His hands were deep in his over- 
 coat pockets; the collar of the thin, rather shabby 
 overcoat was turned up; an old cap adhered to the 
 back of his head. While talking he slowly lifted his 
 feet one after the other, as though desiring to get 
 warmth by stamping but afraid to stamp in the night. 
 
 "No, I haven't," said Edwin, with false calmness. 
 "What accident?" 
 
 434 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 435 
 
 The perspective of events seemed to change ; Auntie 
 Hamps's illness to recede, and a definite and familiar 
 apprehension to be supplanted by a fear more formi- 
 dable because it was a fear of the unknown. 
 
 "It was all in the late special Signal!" Benbow pro- 
 tested, as if his pride had been affronted. 
 
 "Well, I haven't seen the Signal. What is it?" 
 And Edwin thought: "Is somebody else dying too?" 
 
 "Fly-wheel broke. Ingpen was inspecting the slip- 
 house next to the engine-house. Part of the fly-wheel 
 came through and knocked a loose nut off the blunger 
 right into his groin." 
 
 "Whose works?" 
 
 Albert answered in a light tone: 
 
 "Mine." 
 
 "And how's he going on?" 
 
 "Well, he's had an operation and Sterling's got the 
 nut out. Of course they didn't know what it was till 
 they got it out. And now Ingpen wants to see you at 
 once. That's why I've come." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "At the hospital." 
 
 "Pirehill?" 
 
 "No. The Clowes Moorthorne Road, you know." 
 
 "Is he going on all right?" 
 
 "He's very weak. He can scarcely whisper. But 
 he wants you. I've been up there all the time, prac- 
 tically." 
 
 Edwin seized his overcoat from the rack. 
 
 "I had a rare job finding ye," Benbow went on. "I'd 
 no idea you weren't all at home. I wakened most of 
 Hulton Street over it. It was Smiths next door came 
 out at last and told me missis and George had gone 
 to London and you were over here." 
 
 "I wonder who told them!" Edwin mumbled as Al- 
 
436 THESE TWAIN 
 
 bert helped him with the overcoat. "I must tell Mag- 
 gie. We've got some illness here, you know." 
 
 "Oh?" 
 
 "Yes. Auntie. Very sudden. Seemed to get worse 
 to-night. Fact is I was sitting up while Maggie has a 
 bit of sleep. She was going to send round for Clara 
 in the morning. I'll just run up to Mag." 
 
 Having thus by judicious misrepresentation deprived 
 the Benbows of a grievance, Edwin moved towards the 
 stairs. Maggie, dressed, already stood at the top of 
 them, alert, anxious, adequate. 
 
 "Albert, is that you?" 
 
 After a few seconds of quick murmured explanation, 
 Edwin and Albert departed, and as they went Maggie, 
 in a voice doubly harassed but cheerful and oily called 
 out after them how glad she would be, and what a help 
 it would be, if Clara could come round early in the 
 morning. 
 
 The small Clowes Hospital was high up in the town 
 opposite the Park, near the station and the railway* 
 cutting and not far from the Moorthorne ridge. Be- 
 hind its bushes, through which the wet night-wind 
 swished and rustled, it looked still very new and red 
 in the fitful moonlight. And indeed it was scarcely 
 older than the Park and swimming-baths close by, and 
 Bursley had not yet lost its nai've pride in the pos- 
 session of a hospital of its own. Not much earlier in 
 the decade this town of thirty-five thousand inhabitants 
 had had to send all its "cases" five miles in cabs to 
 Pirehill Infirmary. Albert Benbow, with the satisfac- 
 tion of a habitue, led Edwin round through an aisle 
 of bushes to the side-entrance for out-patients. He 
 pushed open a dark door, walked into a gaslit vestibule, 
 and with the assured gestures of a proprietor invited 
 Edwin to follow. A fat woman who looked like a char' 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 437 
 
 woman made tidy sat in a windsor-chair in the vestibule, 
 close to a radiator. She signed to Albert as an old 
 acquaintance to go forward, and Albert nodded in the 
 manner of one conspirator to another. What struck 
 Edwin was that this middle-aged woman showed no 
 sign of being in the midst of the unusual. She was ut- 
 terly casual and matter-of-fact. And Edwin had the 
 sensation of moving in a strange nocturnal world a 
 world which had always co-existed with his own, but of 
 which he had been till then most curiously ignorant. 
 His passage through the town listening absently to 
 Albert's descriptions of the structural damage to Ing- 
 pen and to the works, and Albert's defence against 
 unbrought accusations, had shown him that the silent 
 streets lived long after midnight in many a lighted win- 
 dow here and there and in the movements of mysterious 
 but not furtive frequenters. And he seemed to have been 
 impinging upon half-veiled enigmas of misfortune or of 
 love. At the other end of the thread of adventure 
 was his aunt's harsh bedroom with Maggie stolidly 
 watching the last ebb of senile vitality, and at this 
 end was the hospital, full of novel and disturbing vi- 
 brations and Tertius Ingpen waiting to impose upon 
 him some charge or secret. 
 
 At the top of the naked stairs which came after a 
 dark corridor was a long naked resounding passage 
 lighted by a tiny jet at either end. A cough from be- 
 hind a half-open door came echoing out and filled the 
 night and the passage. And then at another door ap- 
 peared a tall, thin, fair nurse in blue and white, with 
 thin lips and a slight smile hard and disdainful. 
 
 "Here's Mr. Clayhanger, nurse!" muttered Albert 
 Benbow, taking off his cap, with a grimace at once 
 sycophantic and grandiose. 
 
 Edwin imagined that he knew by sight everybody in 
 
438 THESE TWAIN 
 
 the town above a certain social level, but he had no 
 memory of the face of the nurse, 
 
 "How is he?" he asked awkwardly, fingering his hat. 
 
 The girl merely raised her eyebrows. 
 
 "You mustn't stay," said she, in a mincing but rather 
 loud voice that matched her lips. 
 
 "Oh no, I won't !" 
 
 "I suppose Td better stop outside!" said Benbow. 
 
 Edwin f ollowed\ the nurse into a darkened room, of 
 which the chief article of furniture appeared to be a 
 screen. Behind the screen was a bed, and on the bed 
 in the deep obscurity lay a form under creaseless bed- 
 clothes. Edwin first recognised Ingpen's beard, then 
 his visage very pale and solemn, and without the cus- 
 tomary spectacles. Of the whole body only the eyes 
 moved. As Edwin approached the bed he cast across 
 Ingpen a shadow from the distant gas. 
 
 "Well, old chap !" he began with constraint. "This 
 is a nice state of affairs! How are you getting on?" 
 
 Ingpen's enquiring apprehensive dumb glance silenced 
 the clumsy greeting. It was just as if he had rebuked: 
 "This is no time for How d'ye do's." When he had 
 apparently made sure that Edwin was Edwin, Ingpen 
 turned his eyes to the nurse. 
 
 "Water," he whispered. 
 
 The nurse shook her head. 
 
 "Net yet," she replied, with tepid indifference. 
 
 Ingpen's eyes remained on her a moment and then 
 went back to Edwin. 
 
 "Ed," he whispered, and gazed once more at the 
 nurse, who, looking away from the bed, did not move. 
 
 Edwin bent over the bed. 
 
 "Ed," Ingpen demanded, speaking very deliber- 
 ately. "Go to my office. In the top drawer of the 
 desk in the bedroom there's some photos and letters. 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 439 
 
 . . . Burn them. . . . Before morning. . . . Under- 
 stand? 5 ' 
 
 Edwin was profoundly stirred. In his emotion was 
 pride at Ingpen's trust, astonishment at the sudden, ut- 
 terly unexpected revelation, and the thrill of romance. 
 
 He thought: 
 
 "The man is dying!" 
 
 And the tragic sensation of the vigil of the nocturnal 
 world almost overcame him. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "Anything else?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What about keys?" 
 
 Ingpen gave him another long glance. 
 
 "Trousers." 
 
 "Where are his clothes?" Edwin asked the nurse, 
 whose lips were ironic. 
 
 "Oh! They'll tell you downstairs. You'd better go 
 now." 
 
 As he went from the room he could feel Ingpen's 
 glance following him. He raged inwardly against the 
 callousness of the nurse. It seemed monstrous that 
 he should abandon Ingpen for the rest of the night, de- 
 fenceless, to the cold tyranny of the nurse, whose 
 power over the sufferer was as absolute as that of an 
 eastern monarch, who had never heard of public 
 opinion, over the meanest slave. He could not bear 
 to picture to himself Ingpen and the nurse alone to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Isn't he allowed to drink?" he could not help mur- 
 muring, at the door. 
 
 "Yes. At intervals." 
 
 He wanted to chastise the nurse. He imagined an 
 endless succession of sufferers under her appalling, in- 
 imical nonchalance. Who had allowed her to be a 
 nurse? Had she become a nurse in order to take some 
 
440 THESE TWAIN 
 
 needed revenge against mankind ? And then he thought 
 of Hilda's passionate, succouring tenderness when he 
 himself was unwell, he had not been really ill for 
 years. What was happening to Ingpen could never 
 happen to him, because Hilda stood everlastingly be- 
 tween him and such a horror. He considered that a 
 bachelor was the most pathetic creature on the earth. 
 He was drenched in the fearful, wistful sadness of all 
 life. . . . The sleeping town; Auntie Hamps on the 
 edge of eternity; Minnie trembling at the menaces of 
 her own body; Hilda lying in some room that he had 
 never seen; and Ingpen . . . ! 
 
 "Soon over!" observed Albert Benbow in the cor- 
 ridor. 
 
 Edwin could have winced at the words. 
 
 "How do you think he is?" asked Albert. 
 
 "Don't know!" Edwin replied. "Look here, I've got 
 to get hold of his clothes downstairs." 
 
 "Oh! That's it, is it? Pocket-book! Keys! Eh?" 
 
 Edwin had once been in Tertius Ingpen's office at the 
 bottom of Crown Square, Hanbridge, but never in the 
 bedroom which Ingpen rented on the top floor of the 
 same building. It had been for seventy or eighty years 
 a building of four squat storeys; but a new landlord, 
 seeing the architectural development of the town as a 
 local metropolis and determined to join in it at a min- 
 imum of expense, had knocked the two lower storeys 
 into one, fronted them with fawn-coloured terra cotta, 
 and produced a lofty shop whose rent exceeded the 
 previous rent of the entire house. 
 
 The landlord knew that passers-by would not look 
 higher up the fa9ade than the ground-floor, and that 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 441 
 
 therefore any magnificence above that level was merely 
 wasted. The shop was in the occupation of a tea- 
 dealer who gave away beautiful objects such as vases 
 and useful objects such as tea-trays, to all purchasers. 
 Ingpen's office, and a solicitor's office, were on the first 
 floor, formerly the second ; the third floor was the head- 
 quarters of the Hanbridge and District Ethical So- 
 ciety ; the top floor was temporarily unlet, save for Ing- 
 pen's room. Nobody except Ingpen slept in the build- 
 ing, and he very irregularly. 
 
 The latchkey for the sidedoor was easy to choose 
 in the glittering light of the latest triple- jetted and 
 reflectored gaslamps which the corporation, to match 
 the glories of the new town-hall, had placed 
 in Crown Square. The lock, strange to say, worked 
 easily. Edwin entered somewhat furtively, and as 
 it were guiltily, though in Crown Square and the 
 streets and the other squares visible therefrom, not 
 a soul could be seen. The illuminated clock of the 
 Old Town Hall at the top of the square showed twenty- 
 five minutes to four. Immediately within the door began 
 a new, very long and rather mean staircase, with which 
 Edwin was acquainted. He closed the door, shutting 
 out the light and the town, and struck a match in the 
 empty building. He had walked into Hanbridge from 
 Bursley, and as soon as he began to climb the stairs he 
 was aware of great fatigue, both physical and mental. 
 The calamity to Ingpen had almost driven Auntie 
 Hamps out of his mind; it had not, however, driven 
 Minnie out of his mind. He was gloomy and indignant 
 on behalf of both Ingpen and Minnie. They were both 
 victims. Minnie was undoubtedly a fool, and he was 
 about to learn, perhaps, to what extent Ingpen had 
 been a fool. 
 
 Each footstep sounded loud on the boards of 
 
442 THESE TWAIN 
 
 deserted house. Having used several matches and 
 arrived at the final staircase, Edwin wondered how 
 he was to distinguish Ingpen's room there from the 
 others without trying keys in all of them till he got to 
 the right one. But on the top landing he had no dif- 
 ficulty, for Ingpen's card was fastened with a drawing- 
 pin on to the first door he saw. A match burnt his 
 fingers and expired just as he was shaking out a likely 
 key from Ingpen's bunch. And then, in the black dark- 
 ness, he perceived a line of light under the door in front 
 of which he stood. He forgot his fatigue in an instant. 
 His heart leaped. A burglar? Or had Ingpen left the 
 gas burning ? Ingpen could not have left the gas burn- 
 ing since, according to Albert Benbow, he had been in 
 Bursley all afternoon. With precautions, and feeling 
 very desperate and yet also craven, he lit a fresh match 
 and managed quietly to open the door, which was not 
 locked. 
 
 As soon as he beheld the illuminated interior of the 
 room, all his skin crept and flushed as though he had 
 taken a powerful stimulant. A girl reclined asleep in 
 a small basket lounge-chair by the gas-fire. He could 
 not see her face, which was turned towards the wall 
 and away from the gas-jet that hung from the ceiling 
 over an old desk; but she seemed slim and graceful, 
 and there was something in the abandonment of un- 
 consciousness that made her marvellously alluring. 
 Her hat and gloves had been thrown on the desk, and 
 a cloak lay on a chair. These coloured and intimate 
 objects extensions of the veritable personality of the 
 girl had the effect of delightfully completing the furn- 
 iture of a room which was in fact rather bare. A nar- 
 row bed in the far corner, disguised under a green rug 
 as a sofa; a green square of carpet, showing the un- 
 polished boards at the sides ; the desk, and three chairs ; 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 443 
 
 a primitive hanging wardrobe in another corner, hid- 
 den by a bulging linen curtain ; a portmanteau ; a few 
 unframed prints on the walls; an alarm-clock on the 
 mantelpiece, there was nothing else in the chamber 
 where Ingpen slept when it was too late, or he was too 
 slack, to go to his proper home. But nothing else 
 was needed. The scene was perfect; the girl rendered 
 it so. And immense envy of, and admiration for, Ing- 
 pen surged through Edwin, who saw here the realisa- 
 tion of a dream that was to marriage what poetry is 
 to prose. Ingpen might rail against women and against 
 marriage in a manner exaggerated and indefensible ; but 
 he had at any rate known how to arrange his life and 
 how to keep his own counsel. He had all the careless 
 masculine freedom of his condition, and in the back- 
 ground this exquisite phenomenon! The girl, her 
 trustfulness, her abandonment, her secrecy, that white 
 ear peeping out of her hair, were his! It was stag- 
 gering that such romance could exist in the Five Towns, 
 of all places for Edwin had the vague notion, com- 
 mon to all natives, that his own particular district fell 
 short of full human nature in certain characteristics. 
 For example, he could credit a human nature dying for 
 love in Manchester, but never in the Five Towns. Even 
 the occasional divorces that gave piquancy to life in 
 the Five Towns seemed to lack the mysterious glamour 
 of all other divorces. 
 
 He thought: 
 
 "Was it because he was expecting her that he sent 
 me? Perhaps the desk was only a blind and he 
 couldn't tell me any more. Anyhow I shall have to 
 break it to her." 
 
 He felt exceedingly awkward and unequal to the sit- 
 uation so startling in its novelty. Yet he did not wish 
 himself away. 
 
444 THESE TWAIN 
 
 As timidly, hat in hand, he went forward into the 
 room, the girl stirred and woke up, to the creaking 
 of the chair. 
 
 "Oh! Tert!" she murmured between sleeping and 
 waking. 
 
 Edwin did not like her voice. It reminded him of 
 the voice of the nurse whom he had just left. 
 
 The girl, looking round, perceived that it was not 
 Tertius Ingpen who had come in. She gave a short, 
 faint scream, then gathered herself together and with 
 a single movement stood up, perfectly collected and 
 on the defensive. 
 
 "It's all right! It's all right!" said Edwin. "Mr. 
 Ingpen gave me his keys and asked me to come over 
 and get some papers he wants. ... I hope I didn't 
 frighten you. I'd no idea " 
 
 She was old! She was old! That is to say, she was 
 not the girl he had seen asleep. Before his marriage 
 he would have put her age at thirty-two, but now he 
 knew enough to be sure that she must be more than 
 that. She was not graceful in movement. The ex- 
 pression of her pale face was not agreeable. Her ges- 
 tures were not distinguished. And she could not act 
 her part in the idyll. Moreover her frock was shabby 
 and untidy. But chiefly she was old. Had she been 
 young, Edwin would have excused all the rest. Ro- 
 mance was not entirely destroyed, but very little re- 
 mained. 
 
 He thought, disdainfully, and as if resenting a de- 
 ception : 
 
 "Is this the best he can do?" 
 
 And the Five Towns sank back to its ancient humble 
 place in his esteem. 
 
 The woman said with a silly nervous giggle : 
 
 "I called to see Mr. Ingpen. He wasn't expecting 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 445 
 
 me. And I suppose while I was waiting I must have 
 dropped off to sleep." 
 
 It might have been true, but to Edwin it was in- 
 expressibly inane. 
 
 She seized her hat and then her cloak. 
 
 "I'm sorry to say Mr. Ingpen's had an accident," 
 said Edwin. 
 
 She stopped, both hands above her head fingering 
 her hat. 
 
 "An accident? Nothing serious?" 
 
 "Oh no ! I don't think so," he lied. "A machinery 
 accident. They had to take him to the Clowes Hos- 
 pital at Bursley. I've just come from there." 
 
 She asked one or two more questions, all the time 
 hurrying her preparations to leave. But Edwin judged 
 with disgust that she was not deeply interested in the 
 accident. True, he had minimised it, but she ought not 
 to have allowed him to minimise it. She ought to have 
 obstinately believed that it was very grave. 
 
 "I do hope he'll soon be all right," she said, snatch- 
 ing at her gloves and going to the door. "Good night !" 
 She gave another silly giggle, preposterous in a woman 
 of her age. Then she stopped. "I think you're gen- 
 tleman enough not to say anything about me being 
 here," she said, rather nastily. "It was quite an ac- 
 cident. I could easily explain it, but you know what 
 people are 1" 
 
 What a phrase "I think you're gentleman 
 enough !" 
 
 He blushed and offered the required assurance. 
 
 "Can I let you out?" he started forward. 
 
 "No, thanks!" 
 
 "But you can't open the door." 
 
 "Yes I can." 
 
 "The stairs are all dark." 
 
446 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Please don't trouble yourself," she said drily, in the 
 tone of a woman who sees offence in the courtesy of 
 a male travelling companion on the railway. 
 
 He heard her steps diminuendo down the stairs. 
 
 Closing the door, he went to the window, and drew 
 aside the blind. Perhaps she would pass up the Square. 
 But she did not pass up the Square which was peopled 
 by nothing but meek gaslamps under the empire of the 
 glowing clock in the pediment of the Old Town Hall. 
 Where had she gone? Where did she come from? Her 
 accent had no noticeable peculiarity. Was she mar- 
 ried, or single, or a widow? Perhaps there was hidden 
 in her some strange and seductive quality which he 
 had missed. . . . He saw the slim girl again reclin- 
 ing in the basket-chair. . . . After all, she was a 
 woman, and she had been in Ingpen's room, waiting for 
 him! 
 
 Later, seated in front of the open drawer in the 
 old desk, gathering together letters and photographs 
 photographs of her in adroitly managed poses, taken 
 at Oldham ; letters in a woman's hand he was pene- 
 trated to the marrow by the disastrous and yet beau- 
 tiful infelicity of things. The mere sight of the let- 
 ters (of which he forebore to decipher a single word, 
 even a signature) nearly made him cry; the photo- 
 graphs were tragic with the intolerable evanescence of 
 life. By the will of Tertius Ingpen helpless on the 
 bed in the hospital, these documents of a passion or 
 of a fancy were to be burnt. Why? Was it true that 
 Ingpen was dying? Better to keep them. No, they 
 must be burnt. He rose, and, with difficulty, burnt 
 them by instalments in a shovel over the tiny fender 
 that enclosed the gas-stove, the room was soon half 
 full of smoke. . . . Why had he deceived the woman 
 as to the seriousness of Ingpen's accident? To simplify 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 447 
 
 and mitigate the interview, to save himself trouble; that 
 was all! Well, she would learn soon enough! 
 
 His eye caught a print on the wall above the bed, 
 a classic example of the sentimentality of Marcus 
 Stone: departing cavalier, drooping maiden, terraced 
 garden. It was a dreadful indictment of the Tertius 
 Ingpen who talked so well, with such intellectual ap- 
 lomb, with such detachment and exceptional cynicism. 
 It was like a ray exposing some secret sinister corner 
 in the man's soul. He had hung up that print because 
 it gave him pleasure! Poor chap! But Edwin loved 
 him. He decided that he would call again at the hos- 
 pital before returning to Auntie Hamps's. Impossible 
 that the man was dying ! If the doctor or the matron 
 had thought he was in danger they would have sum- 
 moned his relatives. He might be dying. He might be 
 dead. He must have immediately feared death, or he 
 would not have imposed upon Edwin such an errand. 
 . . . What simple, touching, admirable trust in a 
 friend's loyalty the man had displayed! 
 
 Edwin put out the gas-stove, which exploded, lit a 
 match, gave a great yawn, put out the gas, and began 
 the enterprise of leaving the house. 
 
 m 
 
 "Look here! I must have some tea, now!" said 
 Edwin curtly and yet appealingly to Maggie, who 
 opened the door for him at Auntie Hamps's. 
 
 It was nearly eight o'clock. He had been to the hos- 
 pital again, and, having reported in three words to Ing- 
 pen, whose condition was unchanged, had remained there 
 some time. But he had said nothing to Ingpen about 
 the woman. At six o'clock the matron had come into 
 the room, and the nurse thenceforward until seven 
 
448 THESE TWAIN 
 
 o'clock, when she went off duty, was a changed girl. 
 Edwin slightly knew the matron, who was sympathetic 
 but strangely pessimistic considering her healthy, full 
 figure. 
 
 "The water's boiling," answered Maggie, in a com- 
 forting tone, and disappeared instantly into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "There are some things that girl understands !" 
 
 She had shown no curiosity, no desire to impart 
 news, because she had immediately comprehended that 
 Edwin was, or imagined himself to be, at the end of his 
 endurance. Maggie, with simple and surpassing wis- 
 dom had just said to herself: "He's been out all night, 
 and he's not used to it." For a moment he felt that 
 Maggie was wiser, and more intimately close to him, 
 than anybody else in the world. 
 
 "In the dining-room," she called out from the 
 kitchen. 
 
 And in the small dining-room there was a fire ! It was 
 like a living, welcoming creature. The cloth was laid, 
 the gas was lighted. On the table was beautiful fresh 
 bread and butter. A word, a tone, a glance of his on 
 the previous evening had been enough to bring back 
 the dining-room into use ! Happily the wind suited the 
 chimney. He had scarcely sat down in front of the 
 fire when Maggie entered with the teapot. And at 
 the sight of the teapot Edwin felt that he was saved. 
 Before the tea was out of the teapot it had already 
 magically alleviated the desperate sensations of phys- 
 ical fatigue and moral weariness which had almost over- 
 come him on the way from the hospital in the chill and 
 muddy dawn. 
 
 "What will you have to eat?" said Maggie. 
 
 "Nothing. I couldn't eat to save my life." 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 449 
 
 "Perhaps you'll have a bit of bread-and-butter 
 later," said Maggie blandly. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 "Worse," said Maggie. "But she's slept." 
 
 "Who's up with her now? Minnie?" 
 
 "No. Clara." 
 
 "Oh! She's come?" 
 
 "She came at seven." 
 
 Edwin was drinking the divine tea. After a few 
 gulps he told Maggie briefly about Tertius Ingpen, 
 saying that he had had to go "on business" for Ing- 
 pen to Hanbridge. 
 
 "Are you all right for the present?" she asked after 
 a few moments. 
 
 He nodded. He was eating bread-and-butter. 
 
 "You had any sleep at all?" he mumbled, munch- 
 ing. 
 
 "Oh yes! A little," she answered cheerfully, leav- 
 ing the room. 
 
 He poured out more tea, and then sat down in the 
 sole easy-chair for a minute's reflection before going 
 upstairs and thence to the works. 
 
 Not until he woke up did he realise that there had 
 been any danger of his going to sleep. The earthen- 
 ware clock on the mantelpiece (a birthday gift from: 
 Clara and Albert) showed five minutes past eleven.. 
 Putting no reliance on the cheap, horrible clock, he 
 looked at his watch, which had stopped for lack of 
 winding up. The fire was very low. His chief thought 
 was: "It can't possibly be eleven o'clock, because I 
 haven't been down to the works, and I haven't sent 
 word I'm not coming either!" He got up hurriedly 
 and had reached the door when a sound of a voice on 
 the stairs held him still like an enchantment. It seemed 
 
 
450 THESE TWAIN 
 
 to be the voice, eloquent, and indeed somewhat Church- 
 of-England, of the Rev. Christian Flowerdew, the new 
 superintendent of the Bursley Wesleyan Methodist 
 Circuit. The voice said: "I do hope so!" and then 
 offered a resounding remark about the weather being 
 the kind of weather that, bad as it was, people must 
 expect in view of the time of year. Maggie's voice con- 
 curred. 
 
 As soon as the front-door closed, Edwin peeped cau- 
 tiously out of the dining-room. 
 
 "Who was that?" he murmured. 
 
 "Mr. Flowerdew. She wanted him. Albert sent for 
 liim early this morning." 
 
 Maggie came into the room and shut the door. 
 
 "I've been to sleep," said Edwin. 
 
 "Yes, I know. I wasn't going to have you disturbed. 
 They're all here." 
 
 "Who are all here?" 
 
 "Clara and the children. Auntie asked to see all of 
 them. They waited in the drawing-room for Mr. Flow- 
 erdew to go. Bert didn't go to school this morning, 
 in case because it was so far off. Clara fetched the 
 others out of school, except Rupy of course he doesn't 
 go." 
 
 "Good heavens ! I never came across such a morbid 
 lot in my life. I believe they like it." 
 
 Clara could be heard marshalling, the brood up the 
 stairs. 
 
 "You'd better go up," said Maggie persuasively. 
 
 "I'd better go to the works I'm no use here. What 
 time is it?" 
 
 "After eleven. I think you'd better go up." 
 
 "Does she ask for me?" 
 
 "Oh yes. All the time sometimes. But she forgets 
 for a bit." 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 451 
 
 "Well, anyhow I must wash myself and change my 
 collar." 
 
 "All right. Wash yourself, then." 
 
 "How is she now?" 
 
 "She isn't taking anything." 
 
 When Edwin nervously pushed open the bedroom 
 door, the room seemed to be crowded. Over'the heads 
 of clustering children towered Clara and Albert. As 
 soon as the watchful Albert paught sight of Edwin, he 
 made a conspiratorial sign and hurried to the door, 
 driving Edwin out again. 
 
 "Didn't know you were here," Edwin muttered. 
 
 "I say," Albert whispered. "Has she made a will?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 The bedroom door half opened, and Clara in her 
 shabby morning dress glidingly joined them. 
 
 "He doesn't know," said Albert to Clara. 
 
 Clara's pretty face scowled a little as she asked 
 sharply and resentfully : 
 
 "Then who does know?" 
 
 "I should ha' thought you'd know," said Edwin. 
 
 "Me! I like that! She hasn't spoken to me for 
 months, has she, Albert? And she was always fright- 
 fully close about all these things." 
 
 "About what things?" 
 
 "Well, you know." 
 
 It was a fact. Auntie Hamps had never discussed 
 her own finance, or her testamentary dispositions, with 
 anybody. And nobody had ever dared to mention such 
 subjects to her. 
 
 "Don't you think you'd better ask her?" said Clara. 
 "Albert thinks you ought." 
 
 "No, I don't," said Edwin, with curt disdain. 
 
 "Well, then I shall," Albert decided. 
 
 "So long as you don't do it while I'm there !" Edwin 
 
452 THESE TWAIN 
 
 said menacingly. "If you want to ask people about 
 their wills you ought to ask them before they're ac- 
 tually dying. Can't you see you can't worry her about 
 her will now?" 
 
 He was intensely disgusted. He thought of Mrs. 
 Hamps's bed, and of Tertius Ingpen's bed, and of the 
 woman at dead of night in Ingpen's room, and of Min- 
 nie's case ; and the base insensibility of Albert and 
 Clara made him feel sick. He wondered whether any 
 occasion would ever have solemnity enough for them 
 to make them behave with some distinction, some grand- 
 eur. For himself, if he could have secured a fortune 
 by breathing one business word to Auntie Hamps just 
 then, he would have let the fortune go. 
 
 "There's nothing more to be said," Clara murmured. 
 
 In the glance of both Clara and Albert Edwin saw 
 hatred and envy. Clara especially had never forgiven 
 him for preventing their father from pouring money 
 into that sieve, her husband, nor for Hilda's wounding 
 tongue, nor for his worldly success. And they both 
 suspected that either Maggie or Auntie Hamps had 
 told him of Albert's default in the payment of interest, 
 and so fear was added to their hatred and envy. 
 
 They all entered the bedroom, the children having 
 been left alone only a few seconds. Rupert, wearing 
 a new blue overcoat with gilt buttons, had partially 
 scrambled on to the bed; the pale veiled hands of 
 Auntie Hamps could be seen round his right hand; 
 Rupert had grown enormous, and had already utterly 
 forgotten the time when he was two years old. The 
 others, equally altered, stood two on either side of the 
 bed, Bert and young Clara to the right, and Amy and 
 Lucy to the left. Lucy was crying and Amy was be- 
 nignantly wiping her eyes. Bert, a great lump of a boy, 
 was to leave school at Christmas, but he was still ranked 
 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 453 
 
 with the other children as a child. Young Clara sharply 
 and Bert heavily turned round to witness the entrance 
 of their elders. 
 
 "Oh ! Here's Uncle Edwin !" 
 
 "Edwin!" 
 
 "Yes, Auntie!" 
 
 The moral values of the room were instantly changed 
 by the tone in which Auntie Hamps had murmured 
 "Edwin." All the Benbows knew, and Edwin himself 
 knew, that a personage of supreme importance in 
 Auntie Hamps's eyes had come into the scene. The 
 Benbows became secondary, and even Auntie Hamps's 
 grasp of Rupert's hand loosened, and, having already 
 kissed her, the child slipped off the bed. Edwin ap- 
 proached, and. over the heads of the children, and be- 
 tween the great darkening curtains, he could at last 
 see the face of the dying woman like a senile doll's face 
 amid the confusion of wrappings and bedclothes. The 
 deepset eyes seemed to burn beneath the white fore- 
 head and sparse grey hair; the cheeks, still rounded, 
 were highly flushed over a very small part of their 
 surface ; the mouth, always open, was drawn in, and the 
 chin, still rounded like the cheeks, protruded. The 
 manner of Auntie Hamps's noisy breathing, like the 
 puzzled gaze of her eyes, indicated apprehension of the 
 profoundest, acutest sort. 
 
 "Eh!" said she, in a somewhat falsetto voice, jerky 
 and excessively feeble. "I thought I'd lost you." 
 Her hand was groping 1 about. 
 
 "No, no," said Edwin, leaning over between young 
 Clara and Rupert. 
 
 "She's feeling for your hand, Edwin," said Clara. 
 
 He quickly took her hot, brittle fingers ; they seemed 
 to cling to his for essential support. 
 
 "Have you been to the works?" Auntie Hamps 
 
454 THESE TWAIN 
 
 asked the question as though the answer to it would 
 end all trouble. 
 
 "No," he said. "Not yet." 
 
 "Eh ! That's right ! That's right !" she murmured, 
 apparently much impressed by a new proof of Edwin's 
 wisdom. 
 
 "I've had a sleep." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I've been having a sleep," he repeated more loudly. 
 
 "Eh! That's right! That's right. ... I'm so 
 glad the children have been to see me. . . . Amy 
 did you kiss me?" Auntie Hamps looked at Amy hard, 
 as if for the first time. 
 
 "Yes, Auntie." 
 
 And then Amy began to cry. 
 
 "Better take them away," Edwin suggested aside to 
 Albert. "It's as much as she can stand. The par- 
 son's only just gone, you know." 
 
 Albert, obedient, gave the word of command, and 
 the room was full of movement. 
 
 "Eh, children children!" Auntie Hamps appealed. 
 
 Everybody stood stockstill, gazing attendant. 
 
 "Eh, children, bless you all for coming. If you 
 grow up as good as your mother it's all I ask all 
 I ask. . . . Your mother and I have never had a 
 cross word have we, mother?" 
 
 "No, auntie," said Clara, with a sweet, touching 
 smile that accentuated the fragile charm of her face. 
 
 "Never since mother was as tiny as you. are." 
 
 Auntie Hamps looked up at the ceiling during a few 
 strained breaths, and then smiled for an instant at the 
 departing children, who filed out of the room. Rupert 
 loitered behind, gazing at his mother. The mere con- 
 trast between the infant so healthy and the dying old 
 woman was pathetic to Edwin. Clara, with an exquisite 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 455 
 
 reassuring gesture and smile picked up the stout Ru- 
 pert and kissed him and carried him to the door, while 
 Auntie Hamps looked at mother and son, ecstatic. 
 
 "Edwin!" 
 
 "Yes, Auntie?" 
 
 They were alone now. She had not loosed his hand. 
 Her voice was very faint, and he bent over her still 
 lower in the alcove of the curtains, which seemed to 
 stretch very high above them. 
 
 "Have you heard from Hilda?" 
 
 "Not yet. By the second post, perhaps." 
 
 "It's about George's eyes isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She's done quite right quite right. It's just 
 like Hilda. I do hope and pray the boy's eyesight 
 is safe." 
 
 "Oh yes !" said Edwin. "Safe enough." 
 
 "You really think so?" She had the air of hanging 
 on his words. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "What a blessing!" She sighed deeply with relief. 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "I believe her relations must have been her passion." 
 And he was impressed by the intensity of that pas- 
 sion. 
 
 "Edwin!" 
 
 "Yes, Auntie." 
 
 "Has that girl gone yet?" 
 
 "Who?" he questioned, and added more softly: 
 "Minnie d'you mean?" His own voice sounded too 
 powerful, too healthy and dominating, in comparison 
 with her failing murmurs. 
 
 Auntie Hamps nodded. "Yes Minnie." 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "She's going?" 
 
456 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 <e Because I can't trust Maggie to see to it." 
 
 "I'll see to it." 
 
 "Has she done the silvers d'you know?" 
 
 "She's doing them," answered Edwin, who thought it 
 would be best to carry out the deception with artistic 
 completeness. 
 
 "She needn't have her dinner before she goes." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No." Auntie Hamps's face and tone hardened. 
 "Why should she?" 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "And if she asks for her wages tell her I say 
 there's nothing due under the circumstances." 
 
 "All right, Auntie," Edwin agreed, desperate. 
 
 Maggie, followed by Clara, softly entered the room. 
 Auntie Hamps glanced at them with a certain cau- 
 tious suspicion, as though one or other of them was 
 capable of thwarting her in the matter of Minnie. 
 Then her eyes closed, and Edwin was aware of a slack- 
 ening of her hold on his hand. The doctor, who called 
 half an hour later, said that she might never speak 
 again, and she never did. Her last conscious moments 
 were moments of satisfaction. 
 
 Edwin slowly released his hand. 
 
 "Where's Albert?" he asked Clara, merely for the 
 sake of saying something. 
 
 "He's taking the children home, and then he's going 
 to the works. He ought to have gone long ago. There's 
 a dreadful upset there." 
 
 "I suppose there is," said Edwin, who had forgotten 
 that the fly-wheel accident must have almost brought 
 Albert's manufactory to a standstill. And he won- 
 dered whether it was the family instinct, or anxiety 
 about Auntie Hamps's will, that had caused Albert to 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 457 
 
 absent himself from business on such a critical morn- 
 ing. 
 
 "I ought to go too," he muttered, as a full picture 
 of a lithographic establishment masterless swept into 
 his mind. 
 
 "Have you telegraphed to Hilda?" Clara demanded. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Haven't you !" 
 
 "What's the use?" 
 
 "Well, I should have thought you would." 
 
 "Oh, no!" he said, falsely mild. "I shall write." 
 He was immensely glad that Hilda was not present in 
 the house to complicate still further the human equa- 
 tion. 
 
 Maggie was silently examining the face obscured in 
 the gloom of the curtains. 
 
 Instead of remaining late that night at the works, 
 Edwin came back to the house before six o'clock. He 
 had had word that the condition of Tertius Ingpen 
 was still unchanged. Clara had gone home to see to 
 her children's evening meal. Maggie sat alone in the 
 darkened bedroom, where Auntie Hamps, her features 
 a mere pale blur between the over-arching curtains, 
 still withheld the secret of her soul's reality from the 
 world. Even in the final unconsciousness there was 
 something grandiose which lingered from her crown- 
 ing magnificent deceptions and obstinate effort to safe- 
 guard the structure of society. The sublime obstinacy 
 of the woman had transformed hypocrisy into a virtue, 
 and not the imminence of the infinite unknown had 
 sufficed to make her apostate to the steadfast prin- 
 ciples of her mortal career. 
 
 "What about to-night?" Edwin asked. 
 
 "Oh! Clara and I will manage." 
 
 There was a tap at the door. Edwin opened it. 
 
458 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Minnie, abashed but already taking courage, stood there 
 blinking with a letter in her hand. "Ah !" he breathed. 
 Hilda's scrawling caligraphy was on the envelope. 
 
 The letter read: "Darling boy. George has influ- 
 enza, Charlie says. Temp. 10 anyway. So of course 
 he can't go out to-morrow. I knew this morning there 
 was something wrong with him. Janet and Charlie 
 send their love. Your ever loving wife, Hilda." 
 
 He was exceedingly uplifted and happy and ex- 
 hausted. Hilda's handwriting moved him. The whole 
 missive was like a personal emanation from her. It 
 lived with her vitality. It fought for the mastery of 
 the household interior against the mysterious, far- 
 reaching spell of the dying woman. "Your loving wife." 
 Never before, during their marriage, had she written 
 a phrase so comforting and exciting. He thought: 
 "My faith in her is never worthy of her." And his 
 faith leaped up and became worthy of her. 
 
 "George has got influenza," he said indifferently. 
 
 "George ! But influenza's very serious for him, isn't 
 it?" Maggie showed alarm. 
 
 "Why should it be?" 
 
 "Considering he nearly died of it at Orgreaves' !" 
 
 "Oh! Then! . . . He'll be all right." 
 
 But Maggie had put fear into Edwin, a supersti- 
 tious fear. Influenza indeed might be serious for 
 George. Suppose he died of it. People did die of 
 influenza. Auntie Hamps Tertius Ingpen and now 
 George! . . . All these anxieties mingling with his 
 joy in the thought of Hilda! And all the brooding 
 rooms of the house waiting in light or in darkness for 
 a decisive event! 
 
 "I must go and lie down," he said. He could con- 
 tain no more sensations. 
 
 "Do," said Maggie. 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 459 
 
 IV 
 
 At two o'clock in the afternoon of Auntie Hamps's 
 funeral, a procession consisting of the following people 
 moved out of the small, stuffy dining-room of her house 
 across the lobby into the drawing-room: the Rev. 
 Christian Flowerdew, the Rev. Guy Cliff e (second min- 
 ister), the aged Reverend Josiah Higginbotham (super- 
 numerary minister), the chapel and the circuit stew- 
 ards, the doctor, Edwin, Maggie, Clara, Bert and 
 young Clara (being respectively the eldest nephew and 
 the eldest niece of the deceased), and finally Albert 
 Benbow; Albert came last because he had constituted 
 himself the marshal of the ceremonies. In the drawing- 
 room the coffin with its hideous brass plate and handles 
 lay upon two chairs, and was covered with white 
 wreaths. At the head of the coffin was placed a small 
 table with a white cloth; on the cloth a large inlaid 
 box (in which Auntie Hamps had kept odd photo- 
 graphs), and on the box a black book. The drawn 
 blinds created a beautiful soft silvery gloom which 
 solemnised everything and made even the clumsy carv- 
 ing on the coffin seem like the finest antique work. The 
 three ministers ranged themselves round the small ta- 
 ble; the others stood in an irregular horseshoe about 
 the coffin, nervous, constrained, and in dread of catch- 
 ing each other's glances. Mr. Higginbotham, by vir- 
 tue of his age, began to read the service, and Auntie 
 Hamps became "she," "her," and "our sister," name- 
 less. In the dining-room she had been the paragon of 
 all excellences, in the drawing-room, packed securely 
 and neatly in the coffin, she was a sinner snatched from 
 the consequences of sin by a miracle of divine sacri- 
 fice. 
 
 The interment thus commenced was the result of a 
 
460 THESE TWAIN 
 
 compromise between two schools of funebrial manners 
 sharply divergent. Edwin, immediately after the de- 
 mise, had become aware of influences far stronger than 
 those which had shaped the already half-forgotten in- 
 terment of old Darius Clayhanger into a form repug- 
 nant to him. Both Albert and Clara, but especially 
 Albert, had assumed an elaborate funeral, with a 
 choral service at the Wesleyan chapel, numerous guests, 
 a superb procession, and a substantial and costly meal 
 in the drawing-room to conclude. Edwin had at once 
 and somewhat domineeringly decided: no guests what- 
 ever outside the family, no service at the chapel, every 
 rite reduced to its simplest. When asked why, he had 
 no logical answer. He soon saw that it would be im- 
 possible not to invite a minister and the doctor. He 
 yielded, intimidated by the sacredness of custom. Then 
 not only the Wesleyan chapel but its Sunday School 
 sent dignified emissaries, who so little expected a No 
 to their honorific suggestions that the No was unut- 
 tered and unutterable. Certain other invitations were 
 agreed upon. The Sunday School announced that it 
 would "walk," and it prepared to "walk." 
 
 All the emissaries spoke of Auntie Hamps as a saint ; 
 they all averred with restrained passion that her death 
 was an absolutely irreparable loss to the circuit; and 
 their apparent conviction was such that Edwin's whole 
 estimate of Auntie Hamps and of mankind was momen- 
 tarily shaken. Was it conceivable that none of these 
 respectable people had arrived at the truth concern- 
 ing Auntie Hamps? Had she deceived them all? Or 
 were they simply rewarding her in memory for her 
 ceaseless efforts on behalf of the safety of society? 
 
 Edwin stood like a rock against a service in the Wes- 
 leyan Chanel. Clara cunningly pointed out to him 
 that the Wesleyan Chapel would be heated for the oc- 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 461 
 
 casion, whereas the chapel at the cemetery, where 
 scores of persons had caught their deaths in the few 
 years of its existence, was never heated. His reply 
 showed genius. He would have the service at the 
 house itself. The decision of the chief mourner might 
 be regretted, and was regretted, but none could im- 
 pugn its correctitude, nor its social distinction; some 
 said approvingly that it was 'just like' Edwin. 
 Thenceforward the arrangements went more smoothly, 
 the only serious difficulty being about the route to the 
 cemetery. Edwin was met by a saying that "the last 
 journey must be the longest," which meant that the 
 cortege must go up St. Luke's Square and along the 
 Market Place past the Town Hall and the Shambles, 
 encountering the largest number of sightseers, instead 
 of taking the nearest way along Wedgwood Street. 
 Edwin chose Wedgwood Street. 
 
 In the discussions, Maggie was neutral, thus losing 
 part of the very little prestige which she possessed. 
 Clara and Albert considered Edwin to be excessively 
 high-handed. But they were remarkably moderate in 
 criticism, for the reason that no will had been found. 
 Maggie and Clara had searched the most secret places 
 of the house for a will, in vain. All that they had 
 found was a brass and copper paper-knife wrapped in 
 tissue-paper and labelled "For Edwin, with Auntie's 
 love," and a set of tortoise-shell combs equally wrapped 
 in tissue-paper and labelled "For Maggie, with Auntie's 
 love." Naught for Clara ! Naught for the chicks. 
 
 Albert (who did all the running about) had been to 
 see Mr. Julian Pidduck, the Wesleyan solicitor, who 
 had a pew at the back of the chapel and was famous 
 for invariably arriving at morning service half an 
 hour late. Mr. Pidduck knew of no will. Albert had 
 also been to the Bank that is to say, the Bank, at the 
 
462 THESE TWAIN 
 
 top of St. Luke's Square, whose former manager had 
 been a buttress of Wesleyanism. The new manager 
 (after nearly eight years he was still called the "new" 
 manager, because the previous manager, old Lovatt, 
 had been in control for nearly thirty years), Mr. 
 Breeze, was ill upstairs on the residential floor with 
 one of his periodic attacks of boils; the cashier, how- 
 ever, had told Albert that certain securities, but no 
 testament, were deposited at the Bank; he had offered 
 to produce the securities, but only to Edwin, as the 
 nearest relative. Albert had then secretly looked up 
 the pages entitled "Intestates' Estates" in Whitaker's 
 Almanac and had discovered that whereas Auntie 
 Hamps being intestate, her personal property would 
 be divided equally between Edwin, Maggie, and Clara, 
 her real property would go entirely to Edwin. (Ed- 
 win also had secretly looked up the same pages.) 
 This gross injustice nearly turned Albert from a Tory 
 into a Land Laws reformer. It accounted for the 
 comparative submissiveness of Clara and Albert before 
 Edwin's arrogance as the arbiter of funerals. They 
 hoped that, if he was humoured, he might forego his 
 rights. They could not credit, and Edwin maliciously 
 did not tell them, that no matter what they did he 
 was incapable of insisting on such rights. 
 
 While the ministers succeeded each other in the 
 conduct of the service, each after his different manner, 
 Edwin scrutinised the coffin, and the wreaths, and the 
 cards inscribed with mournful ecstatic affection that 
 nestled amid the flowers, and the faces of the audience, 
 and his thought was: "This will soon be over now!" 
 Beneath his gloomy and wearied expression he was 
 unhappy, but rather hopeful and buoyant, looking for- 
 ward to approaching felicity. His reflections upon 
 the career of Auntie Hamps were kind, and utterly 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 463 
 
 uncritical; he wondered what her spirit was doing in 
 that moment; the mystery ennobled his mind. Yet he 
 wondered also whether the ministers believed all they 
 were saying, why the superintendent minister read so 
 well and prayed with such a lack of distinction, how 
 much the wreaths cost, whether the Sunday School 
 deputation had silently arrived in the street, and why 
 men in overcoats and hatless looked so grotesque in a 
 room, and why when men and women were assembled 
 on a formal occasion the women always clung to- 
 gether. 
 
 Probing his left-hand pocket, he felt a letter. He 
 had received it that morning from Hilda. George 
 was progressing very well, and Charlie Orgreave had 
 actually brought the oculist with his apparatus to 
 see him at Charlie's house. Charlie would always do 
 impossibilities for Hilda. It was Charlie who had 
 once saved George's life so Hilda was convinced. 
 The oculist had said that George's vision was normal, 
 and that he must not wear glasses, but that on oc- 
 count of a slight weakness he ought to wear a shade 
 at night in rooms which were lighted from the top. 
 In a few days Hilda and George would return. Edwin 
 anticipated their arrival with an impatience almost 
 gleeful, so anxious was he to begin the new life with 
 Hilda. Her letters had steadily excited him. He 
 pictured the intimacies of their reunion. He saw her 
 ideally. His mind rose to the finest manifestations of 
 her individuality, and the inconveniences of that indi- 
 viduality grew negligible. Withal, he was relieved that 
 George's illness had kept her out of Bursley during the 
 illness, death, and burial of Auntie Hamps. Had she 
 been there, he would have had three persons to man- 
 age instead of two, and he could not have asserted 
 himself with the same freedom. 
 
464 THESE TWAIN 
 
 And then there was a sound of sobbing outside the 
 door. Minnie, sharing humbly but obstinately in the 
 service according to her station, had broken down in 
 irrational grief at the funeral of the woman whose 
 dying words amounted to an order for her execution. 
 Edwin, though touched, could have smiled ; and he felt 
 abashed before the lofty and incomprehensible mar- 
 vels of human nature. Several outraged bent heads 
 twisted round in the direction of the door, but the 
 minister intrepidly continued with the final prayer. 
 Maggie slipped out, the door closed, and the sound of 
 sobbing receded. 
 
 After the benediction Albert resumed full activity, 
 while the remainder of the company stared and cleared 
 their throats without exchanging a word. The news 
 that the hearse and coaches had not arrived helped 
 them to talk a little. The fault was not that of the 
 undertaker, but Edwin's. The service had finished too 
 soon, because in response to Mr. Flowerdew's official 
 question: "How much time do you give me?" he had 
 replied : "Oh ! A quarter of an hour," whereas Albert 
 the organiser had calculated upon half an hour. The 
 representatives of the Sunday School were already 
 lined up on the pavement and on the opposite pave- 
 ment and in the roadway were knots of ragged, cal- 
 lously inquisitive spectators. The vehicles could at 
 length be described on the brow of Church Street. 
 They descended the slope in haste. The four mutes 
 nipped down with agility from the hammer cloths, hung 
 their greasy top-hats on the ornamental spikes of the 
 hearse, and sneaked grimly into the house. In a sec- 
 ond the flowers were shifted from the coffin, and with 
 startling accomplished swiftness the coffin was darted 
 out of the room without its fraudulent brass handles 
 even being touched, and down the steps into the hearse, 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 465 
 
 and the flowers replaced. The one hitch was due to 
 Edwin attempting to get into the first coach instead of 
 waiting for the last one. Albert, putting on his new 
 black gloves, checked him. The ministers and the 
 doctor had to go first, the chapel officials next, and 
 the chief mourners Edwin, Albert, and Bert had 
 the third coach. The women stayed behind at the 
 door, frowning at the murmurous crowd of shabby 
 idlers. Albert gave a supreme glance at the vehicles 
 and the walkers, made a signal, and joined Edwin 
 and Bert in the last coach, buttoning his left hand 
 glove. Edwin would only hold his gloves in his hand. 
 The cortege moved. Rain was threatening, and the 
 street was muddy. 
 
 At the cemetery it was raining, and the walkers 
 made a string of glistening umbrellas ; only the paid 
 mutes had no umbrellas. Near the gates, under an 
 umbrella, stood a man with a protruding chin and a 
 wiry grey moustache. He came straight to Edwin and 
 shook hands. It was Mr. Breeze, the Bank manager. 
 His neck, enveloped in a white muffler, showed a large 
 excrescence behind, and he kept his head very care- 
 fully in one position. 
 
 He said, in his defiant voice: 
 
 "I only had the news this morning, and I felt that 
 I should pay the last tribute of respect to the de- 
 ceased. I had known her in business and privately for 
 many years." 
 
 His greeting of Albert was extremely reserved, and 
 Albert showed him a meek face. Albert's overdraft 
 impaired the cordiality of their relations. 
 
 "Sorry to hear you've got your old complaint !" said 
 Edwin, astounded at this act of presence by the ter- 
 rible bank-manager. 
 
 Vehicles, by some municipal caprice, were forbidden 
 
466 THESE TWAIN 
 
 to enter the cemetery. And in the rain, between the 
 stone-perpetuated great names of the town's history 
 the Boultons, the Lawtons, the Blackshaws, the 
 Beardmores, the Dunns, the Longsons, the Hulmes, 
 the Suttons, the Greenes, the Gardiners, the Calverts, 
 the Dawsons, the Brindleys, the Baineses, and the 
 Woods the long procession preceded by Auntie Hamps 
 tramped for a third of a mile along the asphalted 
 path winding past the chapel to the graveside. And 
 all the way Mr. Breeze, between Edwin and Albert, 
 with Bert a yard to the rear, talked about boils, and 
 Edwin said "Yes" and "No," and Albert said nothing. 
 And at the graveside the three ministers removed their 
 flat round hats and put on skull-caps while skilfully 
 holding their umbrellas aloft. 
 
 And while Mr. Elowerdew was reading from a little 
 book in the midst of the large encircling bare-headed 
 crowd with umbrellas, and the gravedigger with abso- 
 lute precision accompanied his words with three castings 
 of earth into the hollow of the grave, Edwin scanned an 
 adjoining tombstone, which marked the family vault 
 of Isaac Plant, a renowned citizen. He read, chased 
 in gilt letters on the Aberdeen granite, the following 
 lines : 
 
 "Sacre to the memory of Adelaide Susan, wife of 
 Isaac Plant, died 27th June, 1886, aged 47 years. 
 And of Mary, wife of Isaac Plant, died llth Decem- 
 ber, 1890, aged 33 years. And of Effie Harriet, wife 
 of Isaac Plant, died 9th December, 1893, aged 27 
 years. The Flower Fadeth. And of Isaac Plant, 
 died 9th February, 1894, aged 79 years. I know that 
 my Redeemer Liveth." And the passionate career of 
 the aged and always respectable rip seemed to Edwin 
 to have been a wondrous thing. The love of life was in 
 Isaac Plant. He had risen above death again and 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 467 
 
 again. After having detested him, Edwin now liked 
 him on the tombstone. 
 
 And even in that hilly and bleak burial ground, 
 with melancholy sepulchral parties and white wind- 
 blown surplices dotted about the sodden slopes, and 
 the stiff antipathetic multitude around the pit which 
 held Auntie Hamps, and the terrible seared, harsh, 
 grey-and-brown industrial landscape of the great smok- 
 ing amphitheatre below, Edwin felt happy in the 
 sensation of being alive and of having to contend with 
 circumstance. He was inspired by the legend of Isaac 
 Plant and of Auntie Hamps, who in very different 
 ways had intensely lived. And he thought in the 
 same mood of Tertius Ingpen, who was now under- 
 stood to be past hope. If he died, well, he also had 
 intensely lived! And he thought too of Hilda, whose 
 terrific vitality of emotion had caused him such hours 
 of apprehension and exasperation. He exulted in all 
 those hours. It seemed almost a pity that, by reason 
 of his new-found understanding of Hilda, such hours 
 would not recur. His heart flew impatiently forward 
 into the future, to take up existence with her again. 
 
 When the ministers pocketed their skull-caps and 
 resumed their hats, everybody except Edwin appeared 
 to feel relief in turning away from the grave. Faces 
 brightened; footsteps were more alert. In the draw- 
 ing-room Edwin had thought: "It will soon be over," 
 and every face near him was saying, "It is over" ; but 
 now that it was over Edwin had a pang of depression 
 at the eagerness with which all the mourners aban- 
 doned Auntie Hamps to her strange and desolate grave 
 amid the sinister population of corpses. 
 
 He lingered, glancing about. Mr. Breeze also lin- 
 gered, and then in his downright manner squarely ap- 
 proached Edwin. 
 
468 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "I'll walk down with ye to the gates," said he. 
 
 "Yes," said Edwin. 
 
 Mr. Breeze moved his head round with care. Their 
 umbrellas touched. In front of them the broken units 
 of a procession tramped in disorder, chatting. 
 
 "I've got that will for you," said Mr. Breeze in a 
 confidential tone. 
 
 "What will?" 
 
 "Mrs. Hamps's." 
 
 "But your cashier said there was no will at your 
 place !" 
 
 "My cashier doesn't know everything," remarked 
 Mr. Breeze. And in his voice was the satisfied grimness 
 of a true native of the district, and a Longshaw man. 
 "Mrs. Hamps deposited her will with me as much as a 
 friend as anything else. The fact is I had it in my 
 private safe. I should have called with it this morning^ 
 but I knew that you'd be busy, and what's more I 
 can't go paying calls of a morning. Here it is." 
 
 Mr. Breeze drew an endorsed foolscap envelope from 
 the breast pocket of his overcoat, and handed it to 
 Edwin. 
 
 "Thanks," said Edwin very curtly. He could be as 
 native as any native. But beneath the careful imper- 
 turbability of his demeanour he was not unagitated. 
 
 "I've got a receipt for you to sign," said Mr. Breeze. 
 "It's slipped into the envelope. Here's an ink-pencil." 
 
 Edwin comprehended that he must stand still in the 
 rain and sign a receipt for the will as best he could 
 under an umbrella. He complied. Mr. Breeze said no 
 more. 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Breeze," said Edwin at the gates. 
 
 "Good-day to you, Mr. Clayhanger." 
 
 The coaches trotted down the first part of the hill 
 into Bursley but as soon as the road became a street, 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 469 
 
 with observant houses on either side, the pace was 
 reduced to a proper solemnity. Edwin was amused 
 and even uplifted by the thought of the will in his 
 pocket; his own curiosity concerning it diverted him; 
 he anticipated complications with a light heart. To 
 Albert he said nothing on the subject, which somehow 
 he could not bring himself to force bluntly into the 
 conversation. Albert talked about his misfortunes at 
 the works, including the last straw of the engine acci- 
 dent; and all the time he was vaguely indicating reas- 
 ons the presence of Bert in the carriage necessitated 
 reticence for his default in the interest-paying to 
 Maggie. At intervals he gave out that he was ex- 
 pecting much from Bert, who at the New Year was 
 to leave school for the works and Bert taciturn be- 
 hind his spectacles had to seem loyal, earnest, and 
 promising. 
 
 As they approached the Clowes Hospital Edwin 
 saw a nurse in a bonnet, white bow, and fluent blue 
 robe emerging from the shrubbery and putting up an 
 umbrella. She looked delightful, at once modest and 
 piquant, until he saw that she was the night-nurse ; and 
 even then she still looked delightful. He thought: 
 "I'd no idea she could look like that!" and began to 
 admit to himself that perhaps in his encounters with 
 her in the obscurity of the night he had not envisaged 
 the whole of her personality. Involuntarily he leaned 
 forward. Her eyes were scintillant and active, and 
 they caught his. He saluted ; she bowed, with a most 
 inviting, challenging and human smile. 
 
 "There's Nurse Faulkner!" he exclaimed to Albert. 
 "I must just ask her how Ingpen is. I haven't heard 
 to-day." He made as if to lean out of the window. 
 
 "But you can't stop the procession!" Albert pro- 
 tested in horror, unable to conceive such an enormity. 
 
470 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "I'll just slip out!" said Edwin, guiltily. 
 
 He spoke to the coachman and the coach halted. 
 
 In an instant he was on the pavement. 
 
 "Drive on," he instructed the coachman, and to the 
 outraged Albert: "I'll walk down." 
 
 Nurse Faulkner, apparently flattered by the proof 
 of her attractiveness, stopped and smiled upon the 
 visitor. She had a letter in one hand. 
 
 "Good afternoon, nurse." 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Clayhanger. I'm just going out 
 for my morning walk before breakfast," said she. 
 
 She had dimples. These dimples quite ignored Ed- 
 win's mourning and the fact that he had quitted a 
 funeral in order to. speak to her. 
 
 "How is Mr. Ingpen to-day?" Edwin asked. He 
 could read on the envelope in her hand the words "The 
 Rev." 
 
 She grew serious, and said in a low, cheerful tone: 
 "I think he's going on pretty well." 
 
 Edwin was startled. 
 
 "D'you mean he's getting better?" 
 
 "Slowly. He's taking food more easily. He was 
 undoubtedly better this morning. I haven't seen him 
 since, of course." 
 
 "But the matron seemed to think " He stopped, 
 
 for the dimples began to reappear. 
 
 "Matron always fears the worst, you know," said 
 Nurse Faulkner, not without irony. 
 
 "Does she?" 
 
 The matron had never held out hope to Edwin; and 
 he had unquestioningly accepted her opinion. It had 
 not occurred to him that the matron of a hospital 
 could be led astray by her instinctive unconscious ap- 
 petite for gloom and disaster. 
 
 The nurse nodded. 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 471 
 
 "Then you think he'll pull through?" 
 
 "I'm pretty sure he will. But of course I've not 
 seen the doctor I mean since the first night." 
 
 "I'm awfully glad." 
 
 "His brother came over from Darlington to see 
 him yesterday evening, you know." 
 
 "Yes. I just missed him." 
 
 The nurse gave a little bow as she moved up the 
 road. 
 
 "Just going to the pillar-box," she explained. 
 "Dreadful weather we're having!" 
 
 He left her, feeling that he had made a new ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 "She's in love with a parson, I bet," he said to him- 
 self. And he had to admit that she had charm 
 when off duty. 
 
 The news about Ingpen filled him with bright joy. 
 Everything was going well. Hilda would soon be home ; 
 George's eyes were not seriously wrong; the awful 
 funeral was over; and his friend was out of danger 
 marvellously restored to him. Then he thought of the 
 will. He glanced about to see whether anybody of 
 importance was observing him. There was nobody. 
 The coaches were a hundred yards in front. He drew 
 out the envelope containing the will, managed to ex- 
 tract the will from the envelope, and opened the docu- 
 ment, not very easily because he was holding his um- 
 brella. 
 
 A small printed slip fluttered to the muddy pavement. 
 He picked it up ; it was a printed form of attestation 
 clause, seemingly cut from Whitaker's Almanac: 
 "Signed by the testator (or testatrix as the case may 
 be) in the presence of us, both present at the same 
 time," etc. 
 
 "She's got that right, an}'how," he murmured. 
 
472 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Then, walking along, he read the will of Auntie 
 Hamps. It was quickly spotted with raindrops. 
 
 At the house the blinds were drawn up, and the 
 women sedately cheerful. Maggie was actually teasing 
 Bert about his new hat, and young Clara, active among 
 the preparations for tea for six, was intensely and 
 seriously proud at being included in the ceremonial 
 party of adults. She did not suspect that the adults^ 
 themselves had a novel sensation of being genuinely 
 adult, and that the last representative of the older 
 generation was gone, and that this common sensa- 
 tion drew them together rather wistfully. 
 
 "Oh! By the way, there's a telegram for you," 
 said Maggie, as Minnie left the dining-room after serv- 
 ing the last trayful of hot dishes and pots. 
 
 Edwin took the telegram. It was from Hilda, to say 
 that she and George would return on the morrow. 
 
 "But what about the house being cleaned, and what 
 about servants?" cried Edwin, affecting, in order to 
 conceal his pleasure, an annoyance which he did not in 
 the least feel. 
 
 "Oh! Mrs. Tarns has been looking after the house 
 I shall go round and see her after tea. I've got 
 one servant for Hilda." 
 
 "You never told me anything about it," said Ed- 
 win, who was struck, by no means for the first time, 
 by the concealment which all the women practised. 
 
 "Didn't I?" Maggie innocently murmured. "And 
 then Minnie can go and help if necessary until you're 
 all settled again. Hadn't we better have the gas lighted 
 before we begin?" 
 
 And in the warm cosiness of the small, ugly, dining- 
 room shortly to be profaned by auctioneers and furni- 
 ture-removers, amid the odours of tea and hot tea- 
 cakes, and surrounded by the family faces intimate, 
 
DEATH AND BURIAL 473 
 
 beloved, and disdained, Edwin had an exciting vision 
 of the new life with Hilda, and the vision was shot 
 through with sharp flitting thoughts of the once gor- 
 geous Auntie Hamps forlorn in the cemetery and al- 
 ready passing into oblivion. 
 
 After tea, immediately the children had been sent 
 home, he said, self-consciously to Albert: 
 
 "I've got something for you." 
 
 And offered the will. Maggie and Clara were up- 
 stairs. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "It's Auntie's will. Breeze had it. He gave it to 
 me in the cemetery. It seems he only knew this morn- 
 ing Auntie was dead. I think that was why he came 
 up." 
 
 "Well, I'm !" Albert muttered. 
 
 His hand trembled as he opened the paper. 
 
 Auntie Hamps had made Edwin sole executor, and 
 had left all her property in trust for Clara's children. 
 Evidently she had reasoned that Edwin and Maggie 
 had all they needed, and that the children of such a 
 father as Albert could only be effectually helped in 
 one way, which way she had chosen. The will was 
 seven years old, and the astounding thing was that 
 she had drawn it herself, having probably copied 
 some of the wording from some source unknown. It 
 was a wise if a rather ruthless will ; and its provisions, 
 like the manner of making it, were absolutely charac- 
 teristic of the testatrix. Too mean to employ a law- 
 yer, she had yet had a magnificent gesture of gener- 
 osity towards that Benbow brood which she adored 
 in her grandiose way. And further she had been clever 
 enough not to invalidate the will by some negligent in- 
 formality. It was as tight as if Julian Pidduck him- 
 self had drawn it. 
 
474 THESE TWAIN 
 
 And she had managed to put Albert in a position 
 highly exasperating. For he was both very pleased 
 and very vexed. In slighting him, she had aggrandized 
 his children. 
 
 "What of it?" he asked nervously. 
 
 "It's all right so far as I'm concerned," said Ed- 
 win, with a short laugh. And he was sincere, for he 
 had no desire whatever to take a share of his aunt's 
 modest wealth. He shrank from the trusteeship, but 
 he knew that he could not avoid it, and he was getting 
 accustomed to power and dominion. Albert would have 
 to knuckle down to him, and Clara too. 
 
 Maggie and Clara came back together into the 
 room, noticeably sisterly. They perceived at oace 
 from the men's faces that they were in the presence 
 of a historic event. 
 
 "I say, Clary," Albert began; his voice quavered. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE DISCOVEEY 
 
 HILDA showed her smiling, flattering face at the door 
 of Edwin's private office at a few minutes to one on 
 Saturday morning, and she said: 
 
 "I had to go to the dressmaker's after my shopping, 
 so I thought I might as well call for you." She added 
 with deference : "But I can wait if you're busy." 
 
 True that the question of mourning had taken her 
 to the dressmaker's, and that the dressmaker lived in 
 Shawport Lane, not four minutes from the works ; but 
 such accidents had nothing to do with her call, which, 
 being part of a scheme of Hilda's, would have oc- 
 curred in any case. 
 
 "I'm ready," said Edwin, pleased by the vision of 
 his wife in the stylish wide-sleeved black jacket and 
 black hat which she had bought in London. "What 
 have you got in that parcel?" 
 
 "It's your new office-coat," Hilda replied, depos- 
 iting on the desk the parcel which had been partly 
 concealed behind her muff. "I've mended the sleeves." 
 
 "Aha !" Edwin lightly murmured. "Let's have a look 
 at it." 
 
 His benevolent attitude towards the new office-coat 
 surprised and charmed her. Before her journey to 
 London with George he would have jealously resented 
 any interfering hand among his apparel, but since her 
 return he had been exquisitely amenable. She thought, 
 proud of herself: 
 
 475 
 
476 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "It's really quite easy to manage him. I never used 
 to go quite the right way about it." 
 
 Her new system, which was one of the results of 
 contact with London and which had been inaugurated 
 a week earlier on the platform of Knype station when 
 she stepped down from the London train, consisted 
 chiefly in smiles, voice-control, and other devices to 
 make Edwin believe in any discussion that she fully 
 appreciated his point of view. Often (she was startled 
 to find) this simulation had the unexpected result 
 of causing her actually to appreciate his point of view. 
 Which was very curious. 
 
 London indeed had had its effect on Hilda. She 
 had seen the Five Towns from a distance, and as some- 
 thing definitely provincial. Having lived for years 
 at Brighton, which is almost a suburb of London, and 
 also for a short time in London itself, she could not 
 think of herself as a provincial, in the full sense in 
 which Edwin, for example, was a provincial. She had 
 gone to London with her son, not like a staring and in- 
 timidated provincial, but with the confidence of an ini- 
 tiate returning to the scene of initiation. And once 
 she was there, all her old condescensions towards the 
 dirty and primitive ingenuous Five Towns had very 
 quickly revived. She discovered Charlie Orgreave, the 
 fairly successful doctor in Ealing (a suburb rich in 
 doctors), to be the perfect Londoner, and Janet, no 
 longer useless and forlorn, scarcely less so. These two, 
 indeed, had the air of having at length reached their 
 proper home after being born in exile. The same was 
 true of Johnnie Orgreave, now safely through the mat- 
 rimonial court and married to his blonde Adela (for- 
 merly the ripping Mrs. Chris Hamson), whose money 
 had bought him a junior partnership in an important 
 architectural firm in Russell Square. Johnnie and 
 
THE DISCOVERY 477 
 
 Adela had come over from Bedford Park to Ealing 
 to see Hilda, and Hilda had dined with them at Bed- 
 ford Park at a table illuminated by crimson-shaded 
 night-lights, a repast utterly different in its appoint- 
 ments and atmosphere from anything conceivable in 
 Trafalgar Road. The current Five Towns notion of 
 Johnnie and his wife as two morally ruined creatures 
 hiding for the rest of their lives in shame from an 
 outraged public opinion, seemed merely comic in Ealing 
 and Bedford Park. These people referred to the Five 
 Towns with negligent affection, but with disdain, as to 
 a community that, with all its good qualities, had not 
 yet emerged from barbarism. They assumed that their 
 attitude was also Hilda's, and Hilda, after a moment's 
 secret resentment, had indeed made their attitude her 
 own. When she mentioned that she hoped soon to 
 move Edwin into a country house, they applauded and 
 implied that no other course was possible. Withal, 
 their respect, to say nothing of their regard, for Ed- 
 win, the astute and successful man of business, was ob- 
 vious and genuine. The two brothers Orgreave, amid 
 their possibly superficial splendours of professional 
 men, hinted envy of the stability of Edwin's trade posi- 
 tion. And both Janet and Adela, shopping with Hilda, 
 showed her, by those inflections and eyebrow-liftings of 
 which women possess the secret, that the wife of a 
 solid and generous husband had quite as much economic 
 importance in London as in the Five Towns. 
 
 Thus when Hilda got into the train at Euston, she 
 had in her head a plan of campaign compared to 
 which the schemes entertained by her on the after- 
 noon of the disastrous servants episode seemed amateur- 
 ish and incomplete. And also she was like a return- 
 ing adventurer, carrying back to his savage land the 
 sacred torch of civilisation. She had perceived, as 
 
478 THESE TWAIN 
 
 never before, the superior value of the suave and refined 
 social methods of the metropolitan middle-classes, com- 
 pared with the manners of the Five Towns, and it 
 seemed to her, in her new enthusiasm for the art of 
 life, that if she had ever had a difficulty with Edwin, 
 her own clumsiness was to blame. She saw Edwin as an 
 instrument to be played upon, and herself as a vir- 
 tuoso. In such an attitude was necessarily a conde- 
 scension. Yet this condescension somehow did not in 
 the least affect the tenderness and the fever of her 
 longing for Edwin. Her excitement grew as the train 
 passed across the dusky December plain towards him. 
 She thought of the honesty of his handshake and of 
 his wistful glance. She knew that he was better than 
 any of the people she had left, either more capable, or 
 more reliable, or more charitable, or all three. She 
 knew that most of the people she had left were at 
 heart snobs. "Am I getting a snob?" she asked her- 
 self. She had asked herself the question before. "I 
 don't care if it is snobbishness. I want certain things, 
 and I will have them, and they can call it what they 
 like." Like the majority of women, she was incapable 
 of being frightened by the names of her desires. She 
 might be snobbish in one part of her, but in another 
 she had the fiercest scorn for all that Ealing stood 
 for. And in Edwin she admired nothing more than 
 the fact that success had not modified his politics, 
 which were as downright as they had ever been; she 
 could not honestly say the same for herself; and as- 
 suredly the Orgreaves could not say the same for them- 
 selves. In politics, Edwin was an inspiration to her. 
 And when the train entered the fiery zone of in- 
 dustry, and slackened speed amid the squalid twilit 
 streets, and stopped at Knype station in front of a 
 crowd of local lowering faces and mackintoshed and 
 
THE DISCOVERY 479 
 
 gaitered forms, and the damp chill of the Five Towns 
 came in through the opened door of the compartment, 
 her heart fell, and she regretted the elegance of Eal- 
 ing. But simultaneously her heart was beating with 
 ecstatic expectation. She saw Edwin's face. It was a 
 local face. He wore mourning. He saw her; his eye 
 lighted; his wistful smile appeared. "Yes," she 
 thought, "he is the same as my image of him. He 
 is better than any of them. I am safe. What a 
 shame to have left him all alone ! He was quite right 
 there was no need for it. But I am so impulsive. 
 He must have suffered terribly with those Benbows, 
 and shut out of his own house too." . . . His hand 
 thrilled her. In the terrible sincerity and outpouring of 
 her kiss she sought to compensate him for all wrongs 
 past and future. Her joy in being near him again made 
 her tingle. His matter-of-fact calmness pleased her. 
 She thought: "I know him, with his matter-of-fact 
 calmness !" "Hello, kid," Edwin addressed George with 
 man-to-man negligence. "Been looking after your 
 mother?" George answered like a Londoner. She 
 had them side by side. It was the fact that George 
 had looked after her. London had matured him; he 
 had picked up a little Ealing. He was past Edwin's 
 shoulder. Indeed he was surprisingly near to being a 
 man. She had both of them. On the platform they 
 surrounded her with their masculine protection. 
 George's secret deep respect for Edwin was not hid- 
 den from her. 
 
 And yet, all the time, in her j oy, reliance, love, admi- 
 ration, eating him with her eyes, she was condescend- 
 ing to Edwin, because she had plans for his good. 
 She knew better than he did what would be for his 
 good. And he was a provincial and didn't suspect it. 
 "My poor boy!" she had said gleefully in the cab, 
 
480 THESE TWAIN 
 
 pulling suddenly at a loose button of the old grey 
 coat which he wore surreptitiously under his new black 
 overcoat. "My poor boy, what a state you are in!" 
 implying in her tone of affectionate raillery that with- 
 out her he was a lost man. Through this loose but- 
 ton, she was his mother, his good angel, his saviour. 
 The trifle had led to a general visitation of his ward- 
 robe, conducted by her with metropolitan skill in hu- 
 mouring his susceptibilities. 
 
 Edwin now tried on the new office-coat with the self- 
 consciousness that none but an odious dandy can avoid 
 on such occasions. 
 
 "It seems warmer than it used to be," he said, 
 pleased to have her beholding him and interesting her- 
 self in him, especially in his office. Her presence 
 there, unless it happened to arouse his jealousy for his 
 business independence, always pleasurably excited 
 him. Her muff on the desk had the air of being the 
 muff of a woman who was amorously interested in him, 
 but his relations with whom were not regularised by 
 the law or the church. 
 
 "Yes," said she. "I've put some wash-leather inside 
 the lining at the back." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, didn't you say you felt the cold from the 
 window, and it's bad for your liver?" 
 
 Her glance said: 
 
 "Am I not a clever woman?" 
 
 And his replied: 
 
 "You are." 
 
 "That's the end of that, I hope, darling," she re- 
 marked, picking up the old office-coat and dropping it 
 with charming affected disgust into the waste-paper 
 basket. 
 
 He shouted for the clerk, who entered with some 
 
THE DISCOVERY 481 
 
 letters for signature. Under the eyes of his wife Ed- 
 win signed them with the demeanour of a secretary of 
 state signing the destiny of provinces, while the clerk 
 respectfully waited. 
 
 "I've asked Maggie to come up for the week-end," 
 said Hilda carelessly, when they were alone together, 
 and Edwin was straightening the desk preparatory to 
 departure. 
 
 Since her return she had become far more friendly 
 with Maggie than ever before, not because Maggie 
 had revealed any new charm, but because she saw in 
 Maggie a victim of injustice. Nothing during the week 
 had more severely tested Hilda's new methods of in- 
 tercourse with Edwin than the disclosure of the pro- 
 visions of Auntie Hamps's will, which she had at once 
 and definitely set down as monstrous. She simply 
 could not comprehend Edwin's calm acceptance of them, 
 and a month earlier she would have been bitter about 
 it. It was not (she was convinced) that she coveted 
 money, but that she hated unfairness. Why should 
 the Benbows have all Auntie Hamps's possessions, and 
 Edwin and Maggie, who had done a thousand times 
 more for her than the Benbows, nothing? Hilda's 
 conversation implied that the Benbows ought to be 
 ashamed of themselves, and when Edwin pointed out 
 that their good luck was not their fault, only a mir- 
 acle of self-control had enabled her to say nicely: 
 "That's quite true," instead of sneering: "That's 
 you all over, Edwin!" When she learnt that Edwin 
 would receive not a penny for his labours as executor 
 and trustee for the Benbow children, she was speech- 
 less. Perceiving that he did not care for her to dis- 
 course upon what she considered to be the wrong done 
 to him, she discoursed upon the wrong done to Mag- 
 gie Maggie who was already being deprived by the 
 
482 THESE TWAIN 
 
 wicked Albert of interest due to her. And Edwin had 
 to agree with her about Maggie's case. It appeared 
 that Maggie also agreed with her about Maggie's case. 
 As for the Benbows, Hilda had not deigned to say one 
 word to them on the matter. A look, a tone, a silence, 
 had sufficed to express the whole of Hilda's mind to 
 those Benbows. 
 
 "Oh!" said Edwin. "So Maggie's coming for the 
 week-end, is she? Well, that's not a bad scheme." He 
 knew that Maggie had been very helpful about ser- 
 vants, and that, the second servant having not yet 
 arrived, she would certainly do much more work in 
 the house than she "made." He pictured her and 
 Hilda becoming still more intimate as they turned 
 sheets and blankets and shook pillows on opposite sides 
 of beds, and he was glad. 
 
 "Yes," said Hilda. "I've called there this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "And what's she doing with Minnie?" 
 
 "We've settled all that," said Hilda proudly. Ed- 
 win had told her in detail the whole story of Minnie, 
 and she had behaved exactly as he had anticipated. 
 Her championship of Minnie had been as passionate 
 as her ruthless verdict upon Minnie's dead mistress. 
 "The girl's aunt was there when I called. We've set- 
 tled she is to go to Stone, and Maggie and I shall do 
 something for her, and when it's all over I may take 
 her on as housemaid. Maggie says she probably 
 wouldn't make a bad housemaid. Anyhow it's all ar- 
 ranged for the present." 
 
 "Then Maggie'll be without a servant?" 
 
 "No, she won't. We shall manage that. Besides, 
 I suppose Maggie won't stay on in that house all by 
 herself for ever! . . . It's just the right size, I 
 see." 
 
THE DISCOVERY 483 
 
 "Just!" said Edwin. 
 
 He was spreading over his desk a dust-sheet with a 
 red scolloped edging which Hilda had presented to 
 him three days earlier. 
 
 She gazed at him with composed and justifiable self- 
 satisfaction, as if saying: "Leave absolutely to me 
 everything in my department, and see how smooth your 
 life will be!" 
 
 He would never praise her, and she had a very 
 healthy appetite for praise, which appetite always 
 went hungry. But now, instead of resenting his nig- 
 gardly reserve, she said to herself: "Poor boy! He 
 can't bring himself to pay compliments ; that's it. But 
 his eyes are full of delicious compliments." She was 
 happy, even if apprehensive for the immediate future. 
 There she was, established and respected in his office, 
 which was his church and the successful rival of her 
 boudoir. Her plans were progressing. 
 
 She approached the real business of her call: 
 
 "I was thinking we might have gone over to see 
 Ingpen this afternoon." 
 
 "Well, let's." 
 
 Ingpen, convalescent, had insisted, two days earlier, 
 on being removed to his own house, near the village of 
 Stockbrook, a few miles south of Axe. The depart- 
 ure was a surprising example of the mere power of 
 volition on the part of a patient. The routine of 
 hospital life had exasperated the recovering soul of 
 this priest of freedom to such a point that doctor, 
 matron, and friends had had to yield to a mere in- 
 stinct. 
 
 "There's no decent train to go, and none at all to 
 come back until nearly nine o'clock. And we can't 
 cycle in this weather at least I can't, especially in the 
 dark." 
 
484 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Well, what about Sunday?" 
 
 "The Sunday trains are worse." 
 
 "What a ghastly line!" said Edwin. "And they 
 have the cheek to pay five per cent ! I remember Ing- 
 pen telling me there was one fairish train into Knype 
 in the morning, and one out in the afternoon. And 
 there wouldn't be that if the Locomotive Superintend- 
 ent didn't happen to live at Axe." 
 
 "It's a pity you haven't got a dog-cart, isn't it?" 
 said Hilda, lightly smiling. "Because then we could 
 use the works horse now and then, and it wouldn't 
 really cost anything extra, would it?" 
 
 Her heart was beating perceptibly. 
 
 Edwin shook his head, agreeably, but with firmness.. 
 
 "Can't mix up two different things like that!" he 
 said. 
 
 She knew it. She was aware of the whole theory 
 of horse-owning among the upper trading-class in the 
 Five Towns. A butcher might use his cob for pleas- 
 ure on Sundays he never used it for pleasure on any 
 other day but traders on a higher plane than 
 butchers drew between the works and the house a line 
 which a works horse was not permitted to cross. One 
 or two, perhaps, but not the most solid would put 
 a carter into a livery overcoat and a shabby top-hat 
 and describe him as a coachman while on rare after- 
 noons he drove a landau or a victoria picked up cheap 
 at Axe or Market Drayton. But the majority had 
 no pretensions to the owning of private carriages. 
 The community was not in fact a carriage community. 
 Even the Orgreaves had never dreamed of a carriage. 
 Old Darius Clayhanger would have been staggered into 
 profanity by the suggestion of such a thing. Indeed, 
 until some time after old Clayhanger's death the print- 
 ing business had been content to deliver all its orders 
 
THE DISCOVERY 485 
 
 in a boy-pushed handcart. Only when Edwin discov- 
 ered that, for instance, two thousand catalogues on 
 faced clay paper could not be respectably delivered in 
 a handcart, had he steeled himself to the prodigious 
 move of setting up a stable. He had found an entirely 
 trustworthy ostler-carter with the comfortable name 
 of Unchpin, and, an animal and a tradesman's cov- 
 ered cart having been bought, he had left the affair 
 to Unchpin. Naturally he had never essayed to drive 
 the tradesman's cart. And Edwin Clayhanger could 
 not be seen on the insecure box of a tradesman's cart. 
 He had learnt nothing about horses except that a horse 
 should be watered before, and not after, being fed, that 
 shoeing cost a shilling a week and fodder a shilling a 
 day, and that a horse driven over a hundred and fifty 
 miles a week was likely to get "a bit over" at the 
 knees. At home the horse and cart had always been 
 regarded as being just as exclusively a works item as 
 the printing-machines or the steam-engine. 
 
 "I suppose," said Hilda carefully, "you've got all 
 the work one horse can do?" 
 
 "And more." 
 
 "Well, then, why don't you buy another one?" She 
 tried to speak carelessly, without genuine interest. 
 
 "Yes, no doubt!" Edwin answered drily. "And 
 build fresh stables, too." 
 
 "Haven't you got room for two?" 
 
 "Come along and look, and then perhaps you'll be 
 satisfied." 
 
 Buzzers, syrens, and whistles began to sound in the 
 neighbourhood. It was one o'clock. 
 
 "Shall I? ... Your overcoat collar's turned up 
 behind. Let me do it." 
 
 She straightened the collar. 
 
 They went out, through the clerk's office. Edwin 
 
486 THESE TWAIN 
 
 gave a sideways nod to Simpson. In the passage some 
 girls and a few men were already hurrying forth. None 
 of them took notice of Edwin and Hilda. They all 
 plunged for the street as though the works had been 
 on fire. 
 
 "They are in a hurry, my word !" Hilda murmured, 
 with irony. 
 
 "And why shouldn't they be?" the employer pro- 
 tested almost angrily. 
 
 In the small yard stood the horseless cart, with 
 "Edwin Clayhanger, Lithographer and Steam Printer, 
 Bursley," on both its sides. The stable and cart-shed 
 were in one penthouse, and to get to the stable it was 
 necessary to pass through the cart-shed. linchpin, 
 a fat man of forty with a face marked by black seams, 
 was bending over a chaff-cutter in the cart-shed. He 
 ignored the intruders. The stable consisted of one 
 large loose-box, in which a grey animal was restlessly 
 moving. 
 
 "You see !" Edwin muttered curtly. 
 
 "Oh ! What a beautiful horse ! I've never seen him 
 before." 
 
 "Her," Edwin corrected. 
 
 "Is it a mare?" 
 
 "So they say!" 
 
 "I never knew you'd got a fresh one." 
 
 "I haven't yet. I've taken this one for a fort- 
 night's trial, from Chawner. . . . How's she doing, 
 Unchpin?" he called to the cart-shed. 
 
 Unchpin looked round and stared. 
 
 "Bit light," he growled and turned back to the chaff- 
 cutter, which he seemed to be repairing. 
 
 "I thought so," said Edwin. 
 
 "But her's a good 'un," he added. 
 
 "But where's the old horse?" asked Hilda. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 487 
 
 "With God," Edwin replied. "Dropped down dead 
 last week." 
 
 "What of?" 
 
 Edwin shook his head. 
 
 "It's a privilege of horses to do that sort of thing," 
 he said. "They're always doing it." 
 
 "You never told me." 
 
 "Well, you weren't here, for one thing." 
 
 The mare inquisitively but cautiously put her muz- 
 zle over the door of the box. Hilda stroked her. The 
 animal's mysterious eyes, her beautiful coat, her broad 
 back, her general bigness relatively to Hilda, the sound 
 of her feet among the litter on the paving stones, the 
 smell of the stable, these things enchanted Hilda. 
 
 "I should adore horses !" she breathed, half to her- 
 self, ecstatically ; and wondered whether she would 
 ever be able to work her will on Edwin in the matter 
 of a dog-cart. She pictured herself driving the grey 
 mare, who had learnt to love her, in a flashing dog- 
 cart, Edwin by her side on the front-seat. Her mind 
 went back enviously to Tavy Mansion and Dartmoor. 
 But she felt that Edwin had not enough elasticity to 
 comprehend the rapture of her dream. She foresaw 
 nearly endless trouble and altercation and chicane 
 before she could achieve her end. She was ready to 
 despair, but she remembered her resolutions and took 
 heart. 
 
 "I say, linchpin," said Edwin. "I suppose this 
 box couldn't be made into two stalls?" 
 
 Unchpin on his gaitered legs clumped towards the 
 stable, and gazed gloomily into the box. When he 
 had gazed for some time, he touched his cap to Hilda. 
 
 "It could," he announced. 
 
 "Could you get a trap into the shed as well as the 
 cart?" 
 
488 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Ay ! If ye dropped th' shafts o' th' trap under th' 
 cart. What of it, mester?" 
 
 "Nothing. Only missis is going to have this mare." 
 
 After a pause, Unchpin muttered : 
 
 "Missis, eh!" 
 
 Hilda had moved a little away into the yard. Edwin 
 approached her, flushing slightly, and with a self-con- 
 sciousness which he tried to dissipate with one wink. 
 Hilda's face was set hard. 
 
 "I must just go back to the office," she said, in a 
 queer voice. 
 
 She walked quickly, Edwin following. Simpson be- 
 held their return with gentle surprise. In the private 
 office Hilda shut the door. She then ran to the puz- 
 zled Edwin, and kissed him with the most startling ve- 
 hemence, clasping her arms in one hand she still held 
 the muff round his neck. She loved him for being 
 exactly as he was. She preferred his strange, uncouth 
 method of granting a request, of yielding, of flattering 
 her caprice, to any politer, more conventional methods 
 of the metropolis. She thought that no other man 
 could be as deeply romantic as Edwin. She despised 
 herself for ever having been misled by the surface of 
 him. And even the surface of him she saw now as it 
 were, through the prism of passionate affection, to be 
 edged with the blending colours of the rainbow. And 
 when they came again out of the office, after the sacred 
 rite, and Edwin, as uplifted as she, glanced back never- 
 theless at the sheeted desk and the safe and the other 
 objects in the room with the half-mechanical habitual 
 solicitude of a man from whom the weight of respon- 
 sibility is never lifted, she felt saddened because she 
 could not enter utterly into his impenetrable soul, 
 and live through all his emotions, and compre- 
 hend like a creator the always baffling wistfulness of 
 
THE DISCOVERY 489 
 
 his eyes. This sadness was joy; it was the aura of her 
 tremendous satisfaction in his individuality and in her 
 triumph and in the thought: "I alone stand between 
 him and desolation." 
 
 "Wo !" exclaimed Hilda broadly, bringing the mare 
 and the vehicle to a standstill in front of the "Live 
 and Let Live" inn in the main street of the village of 
 Stockbrook, which lay about a mile and a half off the 
 high road from the Five Towns to Axe. And imme- 
 diately the mare stopped she was enveloped in her 
 own vapour. 
 
 "Ha !" exclaimed Edwin, with faint benevolent irony. 
 "And no bones broken !" 
 
 A man came out from the stable-yard. 
 
 The village of Stockbrook gave the illusion that 
 hundreds of English villages were giving that Christ- 
 mas morning, the illusion that its name was Arcadia, 
 that finality had been reached, and that the forces of 
 civilisation could go no further. More suave than a 
 Dutch village, incomparably neater and cleaner and 
 more delicately finished than a French village, it pre- 
 sented, in the still, complacent atmosphere of long tra- 
 dition, a picturesque medley of tiny architectures 
 nearly every aspect of which was beautiful. And if 
 seven people of different ages and sexes lived in a two- 
 roomed cottage under a thatched roof hollowed by the 
 weight of years, without drains and without water, and 
 also without freedom, the beholder was yet bound to 
 conclude that by some mysterious virtue their exist- 
 ence must be gracious, happy, and in fact ideal es- 
 pecially on Christmas Day, though Christmas Day was 
 also Quarter Day and that they would not on any ac- 
 count have it altered in the slightest degree. Who 
 
490 THESE TWAIN 
 
 could believe that fathers of families drank away their 
 children's bread in the quaint tap-room of that creeper- 
 clad hostel a public-house fit to produce ecstasy in 
 the heart of every American traveller "The Live 
 and Let Live"? Who could have believed that 
 the Wesleyan Methodists already singing a Christmas 
 hymn inside the dwarf Georgian conventicle, and their 
 fellow-Christians straggling under the lych into the 
 church-yard, scorned one another with an immortal de- 
 testation, each claiming a monopoly in knowledge of the 
 unknowable? But after all the illusion of Arcadia was 
 not entirely an illusion. In this calm, rime-decked, 
 Christmas-imbued village, with its motionless trees en- 
 chanted beneath a vast grey impenetrable cloud, a sort 
 of relative finality had indeed been reached, the end 
 of an epoch that was awaiting dissolution. 
 
 Edwin had not easily agreed to the project of shut- 
 ting up house for the day and eating the Christmas 
 dinner with Tertius Ingpen. Although customarily re- 
 garding the ritual of Christmas, with its family visits, 
 its exchange of presents, its feverish kitchen activity, 
 its somewhat insincere gaiety, its hours of boredom, 
 and its stomachic regrets, as an ordeal rather than a 
 delight, he nevertheless abandoned it with reluctance 
 and a sense of being disloyal to something sacred. 
 But the situation of Ingpen, Hilda's strong desire and 
 her teasing promise of a surprise, and the still contin- 
 uing dearth of servants had been good arguments to 
 persuade him. 
 
 And though he had left Trafalgar Road moody and 
 captious, thinking all the time of the deserted and 
 cold home, he had arrived in Stockbrook tingling and 
 happy, and proud of Hilda, proud of her verve, her 
 persistency, and her success. She had carried him very 
 far on the wave of her new enthusiasm for horse-trac- 
 
THE DISCOVERY 491 
 
 tion. She had beguiled him into immediately spending 
 mighty sums on a dog-cart, new harness, rugs, a driv- 
 ing-apron, and a fancy whip. She had exhausted 
 Unchpin, upset the routine of the lithographic business, 
 and gravely overworked the mare, in her determination 
 to learn to drive. She had had the equipage out at 
 night for her lessons. On the other hand she had not 
 in the least troubled herself about the purchase of a 
 second horse for mercantile purposes, and a second 
 horse had not yet been bought. 
 
 When she had announced that she would herself drive 
 her husband and son over to Stockbrook, Edwin had 
 absolutely negatived the idea; but Unchpin had been 
 on her side; she had done the double journey with 
 Unchpin, who judged her capable and the mare (eight 
 years old) quite reliable, and who moreover wanted 
 Christmas as much as possible to himself. And Hilda 
 had triumphed. Walking the mare uphill and also 
 downhill she had achieved Stockbrook in safety; and 
 the conquering air with which she drew up at the "Live 
 and Let Live" was delicious. The chit's happi- 
 ness and pride radiated out from her. It seemed 
 to Edwin that by the mere strength of violition 
 she had actually created the dog-cart and its appoint- 
 ments, and the mare too! And he thought that he 
 himself had not lived in vain if he could procure her 
 such sensations as her glowing face then displayed. 
 Her occasionally overbearing tenacity, and the little 
 jars which good resolutions several weeks old had nat- 
 urally not been powerful enough to prevent, were for- 
 gotten and forgiven. He would have given all his sav- 
 ings to please her caprice, and been glad. A horse and 
 trap, or even a pair of horses and a landau, were a 
 trifling price to pay for her girlish joy and for his own 
 tranquillity in his beloved house and business. 
 
492 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Catch me, both of you !" cried Hilda. 
 
 Edwin had got down, and walked round behind the 
 vehicle to the footpath, where George stood grinning. 
 The stableman, in classic attitude, was at the mare's 
 head. 
 
 Hilda jumped rather wildly. It was Edwin who 
 countered the shock of her descent. The edge of her 
 velvet hat knocked against his forehead, disarranging 
 his cap. He could smell the velvet, as for an instant 
 he held his wife strangely acquiescent and yielding 
 in his arms, and there was something intimately fem- 
 inine in the faint odour. All Hilda's happiness seemed 
 to pass into him, and that felicity sufficed for him. He 
 did not desire any happiness personal to himself. He 
 wanted only to live in her. His contentment was pro- 
 found, complete, rapturous. 
 
 And yet in the same moment, reflecting that Hilda 
 would certainly have neglected the well-being of the 
 mare, he could say to the stableman: 
 
 "Put the rug over her, will you?" 
 
 "Hello ! Here's Mr. Ingpen !" announced George, as 
 he threw the coloured rug on the mare. 
 
 Ingpen, pale and thickly enveloped, came slowly 
 round the bend of the road, waving and smiling. He 
 had had a relapse, after a too early sortie, and was 
 recovering from it. 
 
 "I made sure you'd be about here," he said, shaking 
 hands. "Merry Christmas, all!" 
 
 "Ought you to be out, my lad?" Edwin asked heart- 
 
 %. 
 
 "Out? Yes. I'm as fit as a fiddle. And I've been 
 ordered mild exercise." He squared off gaily against 
 George and hit the stout adolescent in the chest. 
 
 "What about all your parcels, Hilda?" Edwin en- 
 quired. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 493 
 
 "Oh! We'll call for them afterwards." 
 
 "Afterwards?" 
 
 "Yes. Come along before you catch a chill." She 
 winked openly at Ingpen, who returned the wink. 
 "Come along, dear. It's not far. We have to walk 
 across the fields." 
 
 "Put her up, sir?" the stableman demanded of Ed- 
 win. 
 
 "Yes. And give her a bit of a rub down," he re- 
 plied absently, remembering various references of 
 Hilda's to a surprise. His heart misgave him. Ingpen 
 and Hilda looked like plotters, very intimate and mis- 
 chievous. He had a notion that living with a woman 
 was comparable to living with a volcano you never 
 knew when a dangerous eruption might not occur. 
 
 Within three minutes the first and minor catastrophe 
 had occurred. 
 
 "Bit sticky, this field path of yours," said Edwin, 
 uneasily. 
 
 They were all four slithering about in brown clay 
 under a ragged hedge in which a few red berries 
 glowed. 
 
 "It was as hard as iron the day before yesterday," 
 said Hilda. 
 
 "Oh! So you were here the day before yesterday, 
 were you? . . . What's that house there?" Edwin 
 turned to Ingpen. 
 
 "He's guessed it in one !" Ingpen murmured, and 
 then went off into his characteristic crescendo laugh. 
 
 The upper part of a late eighteenth-century house, 
 squat and square, with yellow walls, black uncurtained 
 windows, high slim chimneys, and a blue slate roof, 
 showed like a gigantic and mysterious fruit in a 
 clump of variegated trees, some of which were ever- 
 green. 
 
494 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Ladderedge Hall, my boy," said Ingpen. "Seat of 
 the Beechinors for about a hundred years." 
 
 " 'Seat', eh !" Edwin murmured sarcastically. 
 
 "It's been empty for two years," remarked Hilda 
 brightly. "So we thought we'd have a look at it." 
 
 And Edwin said to himself that he had divined all 
 along what the surprise was. It was astounding that 
 a man could pass with such rapidity as Edwin from 
 vivid joy to black and desolate gloom. She well knew 
 that the idea of living in the country was extremely 
 repugnant to him, and that nothing would ever induce 
 him to consent to it. And yet she must needs lay 
 this trap for him, prepare this infantile surprise, and 
 thereby spoil his Christmas, she who a few moments 
 earlier had been the embodiment of surrender in his 
 arms ! He said no word. He hummed a few notes and 
 glanced airily to right and left with an effort after un- 
 concern. The presence of Ingpen and the boy, and the 
 fact of Christmas, forbade him to speak freely. He 
 could not suddenly stop and 4rive his stick into the 
 earth and say savagely : 
 
 * "Now listen to me ! Once for all, I won't have this 
 country house idea! So let it be understood, if you 
 want a row, you know how to get it." 
 
 The appearance of amity and the more high-spirit- 
 ed the better must be kept up throughout the day. 
 Nevertheless in his heart he challenged Hilda desper- 
 ately. All her good qualities became insignificant, all 
 his benevolent estimates of her seemed ridiculous. She 
 was the impossible woman. He saw a tremendous vista 
 of unpleasantness, for her obstinacy in warfare was 
 known to him, together with her perfect lack of scruple, 
 of commonsense, and of social decency. He had made 
 her a present of a horse and trap solely to please 
 her and this was his reward ! The more rope you 
 
THE DISCOVERY 495 
 
 gave these creatures, the more they wanted! But he 
 would give no more rope. Compromise was at an end. 
 The battle would be joined that night. ... In 
 his grim and resolute dejection there was something 
 almost voluptuous. He continued to glance airily 
 about, and at intervals to hum a few notes. 
 
 Over a stile they dropped into a rutty side-road, 
 and opposite was the worn iron gate of Ladderedge 
 Hall, with a house-agent's board on it. A short curved 
 gravel drive, filmed with green, led to the front-door 
 of the house. In front were a lawn and a flower-gar- 
 den, beyond a paddock, and behind a vegetable garden 
 and a glimpse of stabling ; a compact property ! Ing- 
 pen drew a great key from his pocket. The plotters 
 were all prepared ; they took their victim for a simple- 
 ton, a ninny, a lamb! 
 
 In the damp echoing interior Edwin gazed without 
 seeing, and heard as in a dream without listening. 
 This was the hall, this the dining-room, this the draw- 
 ing-room, this the morning-room. . . . White marble 
 mantelpieces, pre-historic grates, wall-paper hanging 
 in strips, cobwebs, uneven floors, scaly ceilings, the 
 invisible vapour of human memories! This was the 
 kitchen, enormous; then the larder, enormous, and the 
 scullery still more enormous (with a pump-handle flank- 
 ing the slopstone) ! No water. No gas. And what 
 was this room opening out of the kitchen? Oh! That 
 must be the servants' hall. . . . Servants' hall indeed! 
 Imagine Edwin Clayhanger living in a "Hall," with a 
 servants' hall therein! Snobbishness unthinkable! He 
 would not be able to look his friends in the face. . . . 
 On the first floor, endless bedrooms, but no bath-room. 
 Here, though, was a small bedroom that would make a 
 splendid bath-room. . . . Ingpen, the ever expert, con- 
 ceived a tank-room in the roof, and traced routes for 
 
496 THESE TWAIN 
 
 plumbers' pipes. George, excited, and comprehending 
 that he must conduct himself as behoved an architect, 
 ran up to the attic floor to study on the spot the prob- 
 lem of the tank-room, and Ingpen followed. Edwin 
 stared out of a window at the prospect of the Arcadian 
 village lying a little below across the sloping fields. 
 
 "Come along, Edwin," Hilda coaxed. 
 
 Yes, she had pretended a deep concern for the wel- 
 fare of the suffering feckless bachelor, Tertius Ing- 
 pen. She had paid visit after visit in order to watch 
 over his convalescence. Choosing to ignore his scorn 
 for all her sex, she had grown more friendly with him 
 than even Edwin had ever been. Indeed by her sympa- 
 thetic attentions she had made Edwin seem callous in 
 comparison. And all the time she had merely been 
 pursuing a private design with what girlish deceit- 
 fulness. 
 
 In the emptiness of the house the voices of Ingpen 
 and George echoed from above down the second flight of 
 stairs. 
 
 "No good going to the attics," muttered Edwin, on 
 the landing. 
 
 Hilda, half cajoling, half fretful, protested: 
 
 "Now, Edwin, don't be disagreeable." 
 
 He followed her on high, martyrised. The front 
 wall of the house rose nearly to the top of the attic 
 windows, screening and darkening them. 
 
 "Cheerful view !" Edwin growled. 
 
 He heard Ingpen saying that the place could be had 
 on a repairing lease for sixty-five pounds a year, and 
 that perhaps 1,200 would buy it. Dirt cheap. 
 
 "Ah !" Edwin murmured. "I know those repairing 
 leases. 1,000 wouldn't make this barn fit to live in." 
 
 Te knew that Ingpen and Hilda exchanged glances. 
 
 "It's larger than Tavy Mansion," said Hilda. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 497 
 
 Tavy Mansion ! There was the secret ! Tavy Man- 
 sion was at the bottom of her scheme. Alicia Hes- 
 keth had a fine house, and Hilda must have a finer. 
 She, Hilda, of all people, was a snob. He had long 
 suspected it. 
 
 He rejoined sharply: "Of course it isn't larger than 
 Tavy Mansion ! It isn't as large." 
 
 "Oh ! Edwin. How can you say such things !" 
 
 In the portico, as Ingpen was re-locking the door, 
 the husband said negligently, superiorly, cheerfully: 
 
 "It's not so bad. I expect there's hundreds of places 
 like this up and down the country going cheap." 
 
 The walk back to the "Live and Let Live" was irked 
 by constraint, against which everyone fought nobly, 
 smiling, laughing, making remarks about cockrobins, 
 the sky, the Christmas dinner. 
 
 "So I hear it's settled you're going to London when 
 you leave school, kiddie," said Tertius Ingpen, to 
 bridge over a fearful hiatus in the prittle-prattle. 
 
 George, so big now and so mannishly dressed as to 
 be amused and not a bit hurt by the appellation "kid- 
 die," confirmed the statement in his deepening voice. 
 
 Edwin thought: 
 
 "It's more than / hear, anyway !" 
 
 Hilda had told him that during the visit to London 
 the project for articling George to Johnnie Orgreave 
 had been revived, but she had not said that a decision 
 had been taken. Though Edwin from careful pride 
 had not spoken freely George being Hilda's affair 
 and not his he had shown no enthusiasm. Johnnie 
 Orgreave had sunk permanently in his esteem scarcely 
 less so than Jimmie, whose conjugal eccentricities had 
 scandalised the Five Towns and were achieving the 
 ruin of the Orgreave practice; or than Tom, who was 
 developing into a miser. Moreover, he did not at all 
 
498 THESE TWAIN 
 
 care for George going to London. Why should it be 
 thought necessary for George to go to London? The 
 sagacious and successful provincial in Edwin was 
 darkly jealous of London, as a rival superficial and 
 brilliant. And now he learnt from Ingpen that 
 George's destiny was fixed. ... A matter of small im- 
 portance, however ! 
 
 Did "they" seriously expect him to travel from Lad- 
 deredge Hall to his works, and from his works to 
 Ladderedge Hall every week-day of his life ? He laughed 
 sardonically to himself. 
 
 Out came the sun, which George greeted with a 
 cheer. And Edwin, to his own surprise, began to feel 
 hungry. 
 
 m 
 
 "I shan't take that house, you know," said Edwin, 
 casually and yet confidentially, in a pause which fol- 
 lowed a long analysis, by Ingpen, of Ingpen's sensa- 
 tions in hospital before he was out of danger. 
 
 They sat on opposite sides of a splendid extrava- 
 gant fire in Ingpen's dining-room. 
 
 Ingpen, sprawling in a shabby, uncomfortable easy- 
 chair, and flushed with the activity of digestion, raised 
 his eyebrows, squinted down at the cigarette between 
 his lips, and answered impartially: 
 
 "No. So I gather. Of course you must understand 
 it was Hilda's plan to go up there. I merely fell in 
 with it, simplest thing to do in these cases !" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 Thus they both condescended to the feather-headed 
 capricious woman, dismissed her, and felt a marked ac- 
 cess of sincere intimacy on a plane of civilisation ex- 
 clusively masculine. 
 
 In the succeeding silence of satisfaction and relief 
 
THE DISCOVERY 499 
 
 could be heard George, in the drawing-room above, 
 practising again the piano part of a Haydn violin 
 sonata which he had very nervously tried over with 
 Ingpen while they were awaiting dinner. 
 
 Ingpen said suddenly: 
 
 "I say, old chap! Why have you never mentioned 
 that you happened to meet a certain person in my 
 room at Hanbridge that night you went over there 
 for me?" He frowned. 
 
 Edwin had a thrill, pleasurable and apprehensive, 
 at the prospect of a supreme confidence. 
 
 "It was no earthly business of mine," he answered 
 lightly. But his tone conveyed: "You surely ought 
 to be aware that my loyalty and my discretion are 
 complete." 
 
 And Ingpen, replying to Edwin's tone, said with a 
 simple directness that flattered Edwin to the heart: 
 
 "Naturally I knew I was quite safe in your hands. 
 . . . I've reassured the lady." Ingpen smiled slightly. 
 
 Edwin was too proud to tell Ingpen that he had not 
 said a word to Hilda, and Ingpen was too proud to tell 
 Edwin that he assumed as much. 
 
 At that moment Hilda came into the room, mur- 
 muring a carol that some children of Stockbrook had 
 sung on the doorstep during dinner. 
 
 "Don't be afraid I'm not going to interrupt. I 
 know you're in the thick of it," said she archly, not 
 guessing how exactly truthful she was. 
 
 Ingpen, keeping his presence of mind in the most 
 admirable manner, rejoined with irony: 
 
 "You don't mean to say you've finished already ex- 
 plaining to Mrs. Dummer how she ought to run my 
 house for me !" 
 
 "How soon do you mean to have this table cleared?" 
 asked Hilda. 
 
500 THESE TWAIN 
 
 The Christmas dinner, served by a raw girl in a 
 large bluish-white pinafore, temporarily hired to as- 
 sist Mrs. Dummer the housekeeper, had been a good 
 one. Its only real fault was that it had had a little too 
 much the air of being a special and mighty effort ; and 
 although it owed something to Hilda's parcels, Ing- 
 pen was justified in the self-satisfaction which he did 
 not quite conceal as a bachelor host. But now, under 
 Hilda's quizzing gaze, not merely the table but the 
 room and the house sank to the tenth-rate. The coarse 
 imperfections of the linen and the cutlery grew very ap- 
 parent; the disorder of bottles and glasses and cups 
 recalled the refectory of an inferior club. And the 
 untidiness of the room, heaped with accumulations of 
 newspapers, magazines, documents, books, boxes and 
 musical-instrument cases, loudly accused the solitary 
 despot whose daily caprices of arrangement were per- 
 petuated and rendered sacred by the ukase that noth- 
 ing was to be disturbed. Hilda's glinting eyes seemed 
 to challenge each corner and dark place to confess 
 its shameful dirt, and the malicious poise of her head 
 mysteriously communicated the fact that in the past 
 fortnight she had spied out every sinister secret in 
 the whole graceless, primitive wigwam. 
 
 "This table," retorted Ingpen bravely, "is going 
 to be cleared when it won't disturb me to have it 
 cleared." 
 
 "All right," said Hilda. "But Mrs. Dummer does 
 want to get on with her washing-up." 
 
 "Look here, madam," Ingpen replied. "You're a 
 little ray of sunshine, and all that, and I'm the first 
 to say so ; but I'm not your^ husband." He made a 
 warning gesture. "Now don't say you'd be sorry for 
 any woman I was the husband of. Think of something 
 more original." He burst out laughing. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 501 
 
 Hilda went to the window and looked out at the fad- 
 ing day. 
 
 "Please, I only popped in to say it's nearly a quarter 
 to three, and George and I will go down to the inn and 
 bring the dog-cart up here. I want a little walk. We 
 shan't get home till dark as it is." 
 
 "Oh! Chance it and stop for tea, and all will be 
 forgiven." 
 
 "Drive home in the dark? Not much!" Edwin mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "He's afraid of my driving," said Hilda. 
 
 When Edwin and Ingpen were alone together once 
 more, Ingpen's expression changed back instantly to 
 that which Hilda had disturbed, and Edwin's impa- 
 tience, which had uneasily simmered during the inter- 
 ruption, began to boil. 
 
 "Her husband's in a lunatic asylum, I may tell you," 
 said Ingpen. 
 
 "Whose?" 
 
 "The young woman's in question." 
 
 For Edwin, it was as if a door had opened in a wall 
 and disclosed a vast unsuspected garden of romance. 
 
 "Really !" 
 
 "Yes, my boy," Ingpen went on, quietly, with re- 
 straint, but not without a naive and healthy pride in 
 the sudden display of the marvellous garden. "And 
 I didn't meet her at a concert, or on the Grand Canal, 
 or anything of that sort. I met her in a mill at Old- 
 ham while I was doing my job. He was the boss of the 
 mill; I walked into an office and he was lying on the 
 floor on the flat of his back, and she was wiping her 
 feet on his chest. He was saying in a very anxious 
 tone: 'You aren't half wiping them. Harder! 
 Harder !' That was his little weakness, you see. He 
 happened to be convinced that he was a doormat. 
 
502 THESE TWAIN 
 
 She had been hiding the thing for weeks, coming with 
 him to the works, and so on, to calm him." Ingpen 
 spoke more quickly and excitedly: "I never saw a 
 more awful thing in my life ! I never saw a more 
 awful thing in my life ! And coming across it sud- 
 denly, you see. . . . There was something absolutely 
 odious in him lying down like that, and her trying to 
 soothe him in the way he wanted. You should have 
 seen the serious expression of his face, simply bursting 
 with anxiety for her to wipe her boots properly on 
 him. And her face when she caught sight of me. Oh! 
 Dreadful! Dreadful!" Ingpen paused, and then con- 
 tinued calmly: "Of course I soon tumbled to it. For 
 the matter of that, it didn't want much tumbling to. 
 He went raving mad the same afternoon. And he's 
 been more or less raving mad ever since." 
 
 "What a ghastly business. . . . Any children?" 
 
 "No, thank God!" Ingpen answered with fresh emo- 
 tion. "But don't you forget that she's still the wife 
 of that lunatic, and he'll probably live for ever. She's 
 tied up to him just as if she was tied up to a post. 
 Those are our Divorce Laws ! Isn't it appalling? Isn't 
 it inconceivable? Just think of the situation of that 
 woman!" Ingpen positively glared at Edwin in the in- 
 tensity of his indignation. 
 
 "Awful!" Edwin murmured. 
 
 "Quite alone in the world, you know!" said Ingpen. 
 "I'm hanged if I know what she'd have done without me. 
 She hadn't a friend at any rate she hadn't a friend 
 with a grain of sense. Astonishing how solitary some 
 couples are ! ... It aged her frightfully. She's much 
 younger than she looks. Happily there was a bit of 
 money enough in fact." 
 
 Deeply as Edwin had been impressed by his ro- 
 mantic discovery of a woman in Ingpen's room at Han- 
 
THE DISCOVERY 503 
 
 bridge, he was still more impressed by it now. He saw 
 the whole scene again, and saw it far more poetically. 
 He accused himself of blindness, and also of a cer- 
 tain harshness of attitude towards the woman. He en- 
 dowed her now with wondrous qualities. The adven- 
 ture, in its tragicalness and its clandestine tenderness, 
 was enchanting. How exquisite must be the relations 
 between Ingpen and the woman if without warning she 
 could go to his lair at night and wait confidently for 
 his return! How divine the surprise for him, how ar- 
 dent the welcome ! He envied Ingpen. And also he 
 admired him, for Ingpen had obviously conducted the 
 affair with worthy expertise. And he had known how 
 to win devotion. 
 
 With an air of impartiality Ingpen proceeded: 
 
 "You wouldn't see her quite at her best, I'm afraid. 
 She's very shy and naturally she'd be more shy than 
 ever when you saw her. She's quite a different woman 
 when the shyness has worn off. The first two or three 
 times I met her I must say I didn't think she was any- 
 thing more than a nice well-meaning creature, you 
 know what I mean. But she's much more than that. 
 Can't play, but I believe she has a real feeling for 
 music. She has time for reading, and she does read. 
 And she has a more masculine understanding than 
 nearly any other woman I've ever come across." 
 
 "You wait a bit!" thought Edwin. This simplicity 
 on the part of a notable man of the world pleased him 
 and gave him a comfortable sense of superiority. 
 
 Aloud he responded sympathetically: 
 
 "Good! . . . Do I understand she's living in the 
 Five Towns now?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ingpen, after a hesitation. He spoke 
 in a peculiar, significant voice, carefully modest. The 
 single monosyllable conveyed to Edwin: "I cannot 
 
504 THESE TWAIN 
 
 deny it. I was necessary to this woman, and in the end 
 she followed me!" 
 
 Edwin was impressed anew by the full revelation of 
 romance which had concealed itself in the squalid daili- 
 ness of the Five Towns. 
 
 "In fact," said Ingpen, "you never know your 
 luck. If she'd been free I might have been fool enough 
 to get married." 
 
 "Why do you say a thing like that?" 
 
 "Because I think I should be a fool to marry." Ing- 
 pen tapping his front teeth with his finger-nail, spoke 
 reflectively, persuasively, and with calm detachment. 
 
 "Why?" asked Edwin, persuasively also, but ner- 
 vously, as though the spirit of adventure in the search 
 for truth was pushing him to fatal dangers. 
 
 "Marriage isn't worth the price for me, that is. 
 I daresay I'm peculiar." Ingpen said this quite se- 
 riously, prepared to consider impartially the proposi- 
 tion that he was peculiar. "The fact is, my boy, I 
 think my freedom is worth a bit more than I could 
 get out of any marriage." 
 
 "That's all very well," said Edwin, trying to speak 
 with the same dispassionate conviction as Ingpen, and 
 scarcely succeeding. "But look what you miss ! Look 
 how you live!" Almost involuntarily he glanced with 
 self-complacence round the unlovely, unseemly room, 
 and his glance seemed to penetrate ceilings and walls, 
 and to discover and condemn the whole charmless house 
 from top to bottom. 
 
 "Why? What's the matter with it?" Ingpen re- 
 plied uneasily; a slight flush came into his cheeks. 
 "Nobody has a more comfortable bed or more com- 
 fortable boots than I have. How many women can 
 make coffee as good as mine? No woman ever born 
 can make first-class tea. I have all I want." 
 
THE DISCOVERY 505 
 
 "No, you don't. And what's the good of talking 
 about coffee, and tea, and beds?" 
 
 "Well, what else is there I want that I haven't 
 got? If you mean fancy cushions and draperies, no, 
 thanks!" 
 
 "You know what I mean all right. . . . And then 
 'freedom' as you say. What do you mean by free- 
 dom?" 
 
 "I don't specially mean," said Ingpen, tranquil and 
 benevolent, "what I may call physical freedom. I'd 
 give that up. I like a certain amount of untidiness, 
 for instance, and I don't think an absence of dust is 
 the greatest thing in the world; but I wouldn't in the 
 least mind giving all that up. It wouldn't really 
 matter to me. What I won't give up is my intellectual 
 freedom. Perhaps I mean intellectual honesty. I'd 
 give up even my intellectual freedom if I could be de- 
 prived of it fairly and honestly. But I shouldn't be. 
 There's almost no intellectual honesty in marriage. 
 There can't be. The entire affair is a series of com- 
 promises, chiefly base on the part of the man. The 
 alternative is absolute subjection of the woman, which 
 is offensive. No woman not absolutely a slave ever 
 hears the truth except in anger. You can't say the 
 same about men, and you know it. I'm not blaming; 
 I'm stating. Even assuming a married man gets a 
 few advantages that I miss, they're all purely phys- 
 ical 
 
 "Oh no ! Not at all." 
 
 "My boy," Ingpen insisted, sitting up, and gazing 
 earnestly at Edwin. "Anatyse them down, and they're 
 all physical all! And I tell you I won't pay the 
 price for them. I won't. I've no grievance against 
 women; I can enjoy being with women as much as 
 anybody, but I won't I will not live permanently on 
 
506 THESE TWAIN 
 
 their level. That's why I say I might have been fool 
 enough to get married. It's quite simple." 
 
 "Hm!" 
 
 Edwin, although indubitably one of those who had 
 committed the vast folly of marriage, and therefore 
 subject to Ingpen's indictment, felt not the least con- 
 straint, nor any need to offer an individual defence. 
 Ingpen's demeanour seemed to have lifted the argu- 
 ment above the personal. His assumption that Edwin 
 could not be offended was positively inspiring to Ed- 
 win. The fear of truth was exorcised. Freedom of 
 thought existed in that room in England. Edwin re- 
 flected : "If he's right and I'm condemned accordingly, 
 well, I can't help it. Facts are facts, and they're 
 extremely interesting." 
 
 He also reflected: 
 
 "Why on earth can't Hilda and I discuss like that?" 
 
 He did not know why, but he profoundly and sadly 
 knew that such discussion would be quite impossible 
 with Hilda. 
 
 The red-hot coals in the grate subsided together. 
 
 "And I'll tell you another thing " Ingpen com- 
 menced. 
 
 He was stopped by the entrance of Mrs. Dummer, 
 a fat woman, with an old japanned tray. Mrs. Dum- 
 mer came in like a desperate forlorn hope. Her aged, 
 grim, and yet somewhat hysterical face seemed to say : 
 "I'm going to clear this table and get on with my work, 
 even if I die for it at the hands of a brutal tyrant." 
 Her gestures as she made a space for the tray and 
 set it down on the table were the formidable gestures of 
 the persecuted at bay. 
 
 "Mrs. Dummer," said Ingpen, in a weak voice, lean- 
 ing back in his chair, "would you mind fetching me 
 my tonic off my dressing-table? I've forgotten it." 
 
THE DISCOVERY 507 
 
 "Bless us!" exclaimed Mrs. Dummer. 
 
 As she had hurried out, Ingpen winked placidly at 
 Edwin in the room in which the shadows were already 
 falling. 
 
 Nevertheless, when the dog-cart arrived at the front- 
 door, Ingpen did seem to show some signs of exhaus- 
 tion. Hilda would not get down. She sent word into 
 the house by George that the departure must occur at 
 once. Ingpen went out with Edwin, plaintively teased 
 Hilda about the insufferable pride of those who sit in 
 driving-seats, and took leave of her with the most 
 punctilious and chivalrous ceremonial, while Hilda in- 
 scrutably smiling bent down to him with condescension 
 from her perch. 
 
 "I'll sit behind going home, I think," said Edwin. 
 "George, you can sit with your mother." 
 
 "Tchik! Tchik!" Hilda signalled. 
 
 The mare with a jerk started off down the misty and 
 darkening road. 
 
 rv 
 
 The second and major catastrophe occurred very 
 soon after the arrival in Trafalgar Road. It was 
 three-quarters of an hour after sunset and the street 
 lamps were lighted. Unchpin, with gloomy fatalism, 
 shivered obscurely in the dark porch, waiting to drive 
 the dog-cart down to the stable. Hilda had requested 
 his presence ; it was she also who had got him to bring 
 the equipage up to the house in the morning. She 
 had implied, but not asserted, that to harness the mare 
 and trot up to Bleakridge was the work of a few min- 
 utes, and that a few minutes' light labour could make 
 no real difference to linchpin's Christmas Day. Ed- 
 win, descrying Unchpin in the porch, saw merely a de- 
 fenceless man who had been robbed of the most sacred 
 
508 THESE TWAIN 
 
 holiday of the year in order to gratify the selfish ca- 
 price of an overbearing woman. When asked how long 
 he had been in the porch, Unchpin firmly answered 
 that he had been there since three o'clock, the hour 
 appointed by Mrs. Clayhanger. Edwin knew nothing 
 of this appointment, and in it he saw more evidence of 
 Hilda's thoughtless egotism. He perceived that he 
 would be compelled to stop her from using his em- 
 ployees as her private servants, and that the prohi- 
 bition would probably cause trouble. Hilda demanded 
 curtly of Unchpin why he had not waited in the warm 
 kitchen, according to instructions, instead of catching 
 his death of cold in the porch. The reply was that 
 he had rung and knocked fifteen times without getting 
 a response. 
 
 At this Hilda became angry, not only with Emmie, 
 the defaulting servant, but with the entire servant 
 class and with the world. Emmie, the new cook, and 
 temporarily the sole resident servant, was to have gone 
 to Maggie's for her Christmas dinner, and to have re- 
 turned at half past two without fail in order to light 
 the drawing-room fire and prepare for tea-making. 
 But, Maggie at the last moment having decided to go to 
 Clara's for the middle of the day, Emmie was told to 
 go with her and be as useful as she could at Mrs. 
 Benbow's until a quarter past two. 
 
 "I hope you've got your latch-key, Edwin," said 
 Hilda threateningly, as if ready to assume that with 
 characteristic and inexcusable negligence he had left 
 his latch-key at home. 
 
 "I have," he said drily, drawing the key from his 
 pocket. 
 
 "Oh!" she muttered, as if saying: "Well, after 
 all, you're no better than you ought to be." And 
 took the key. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 509 
 
 While she opened the door, Edwin surreptitiously 
 gave half a crown to linchpin, who was lighting the 
 carriage-lamps. 
 
 George, with the marvellous self-preserving instinct 
 of a small animal unprotected against irritated prowl- 
 ing monsters, had become invisible. 
 
 The front-doorway yawned black like the portal of 
 a tomb. The place was a terrible negation of Christ- 
 mas. Edwin felt for the radiator; it was as cold to 
 the touch as a dead hand. He lit the hall-lamp, and 
 the decorations of holly and mistletoe contrived by 
 Hilda and George with smiles and laughter on Christ- 
 mas Eve stood revealed as the very symbol of insin- 
 cerity. Without taking off his hat and coat, he went 
 into the unlighted glacial drawing-room, where Hilda 
 was kneeling at the grate and striking matches. A 
 fragment of newspaper blazed, and then the flame ex- 
 pired. The fire was badly laid. 
 
 "I'm sick of servants !" Hilda exclaimed with fury. 
 "Sick ! They're all alike !" Her tone furiously blamed 
 Edwin and everybody. 
 
 And Edwin knew that the day was a pyramid of 
 which this moment was the dreadful apex. At inter- 
 vals during the drive home Hilda had talked confiden- 
 tially to George of the wondrous things he and she 
 could do if they only resided in the country things 
 connected with flowers, vegetables, cocks, hens, ducks, 
 cows, rabbits, horses. She had sketched out the life 
 of a mistress of Ladderedge Hall, and she had sketched 
 it out for the benefit of the dull, hard man sitting be- 
 hind. Her voice, so persuasive and caressing to George, 
 had been charged with all sorts of accusations against 
 the silent fellow whose back now and then collided with 
 hers. She had exasperated him. She had wilfully and 
 deliberately exasperated him. . . . Her treatment of 
 
510 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Unchpln, her childish outburst concerning servants, 
 her acutely disagreeable demeanour, all combined now 
 to exhaust the poor remainder of Edwin's patience. 
 Not one word had been said about Ladderedge Hall, 
 but Ladderedge Hall loomed always between them. 
 Deadly war was imminent. Let it come ! He would 
 prefer war to a peace which meant for him nothing 
 but insults and injustice. He would welcome war. He 
 turned brusquely and lit the chandelier. On the table 
 beneath it lay the writing-case that Hilda had given to 
 George, and the edition of Matthew Arnold that she had 
 given to Edwin, for a Christmas present. One of Ed- 
 win's Christmas presents to her, an ermine stole, she was 
 wearing round her neck. Tragic absurdities, these 
 false tokens of love. . . . There they were, both of 
 them in full street attire, she kneeling at the grate 
 and he standing at the table, in the dank drawing- 
 room which now had no resemblance to a home. 
 
 Edwin said with frigid and disdainful malevolence: 
 
 "I wish you could control yourself, Hilda. The fact 
 that a servant's a bit late on Christmas Day is no 
 reason for you to behave like a spoilt child. You're 
 offensive." 
 
 His words, righteously and almost murderously re- 
 sentful, seemed to startle and frighten the very furni- 
 ture, which had the air of waiting, enchanted, for dis- 
 aster. 
 
 Hilda turned her head and glared at Edwin. She 
 threw back her shoulders, and her thick eyebrows 
 seemed to meet in a passionate frown. 
 
 "Yes," she said, with her clear, stinging articulation. 
 "That's just like you, that is! I lend my servant to 
 your sister. She doesn't send her back, and it's my 
 fault! I should have thought the Benbows twisted 
 you round their little finger enough, without you hav- 
 
THE DISCOVERY 511 
 
 ing to insult me because of them. Goodness knows 
 what tricks they didn't play to get your Aunt's money 
 every penny of it ! And now they make you do all 
 the work of the estate, for their benefit, and of course 
 you do it like a lamb ! You can never spare a minute 
 from the works for me, but you can spare hours and 
 hours for Auntie Hamps's estate and the Benbows ! 
 It's always like that." She paused and spoke more 
 thickly : "But I don't see why you should insult me on 
 the top of it !" 
 
 Her features went awry. She sobbed. 
 
 "You make me ill !" said Edwin savagely. 
 
 He walked out of the room and pulled the door to. 
 
 George was descending the stairs. 
 
 "Where are you going to, uncle?" demanded George, 
 as Edwin opened the front-door. 
 
 "I'm going down to see Auntie Maggie," Edwin 
 answered, forcing himself to speak very gently. "Tell 
 your mother if she asks." The boy guessed the situa- 
 tion. It was humiliating that he should guess it, and 
 still more humiliating to be compelled to make use of 
 him in the fatal affair. 
 
 He walked at a moderate pace down Trafalgar 
 Road. He did not know where he was going. Cer- 
 tainly he was not going to see Maggie. He had in- 
 vented the visit to Maggie instantly in answer to 
 George's question, and he could not understand why he 
 had invented it. Maggie would be at Clara's; and, in 
 a misfortune, he would never go to Clara's ; only when 
 he was successful and triumphant could he expose him- 
 self to the Benbows. 
 
 The weather was damp and chill without rain. The 
 
512 THESE TWAIN 
 
 chilliness was rather tonic and agreeable to his body, 
 and he felt quite warm, though on getting down from 
 the dog-cart a few minutes earlier he had been cold 
 almost to the point of numbness. He could not re- 
 member how, nor when, the change had occurred. 
 
 Every street lamp was the centre of a greenish-grey 
 sphere, which presaged rain as though the street-lamp 
 were the moon. The pavements were greasy with black 
 slime, the road deep in lamp-reflecting mire through 
 which the tram-lines ran straight and gleaming. Far 
 down the slope a cage of light moving obscurely be- 
 tween the glittering avenue of lamps indicated the 
 steam-tram as it lifted towards the further hill into 
 the heart of the town. Where the lamps merged to- 
 gether and vanished, but a little to the left, the illu- 
 minated dial of the clock in the Town Hall tower 
 glowed in the dark heavens. The street was deserted; 
 no Signal boys, no ragged girls staring into sweet 
 shops, no artisans returning from work, no rattling 
 carts, no vehicles of any kind save the distant tram. 
 All the little shops were shut; even the little green- 
 grocer's shop, which never closed, was shut now, and its 
 customary winter smell of oranges and apples with- 
 drawn. The little inns, not yet open, showed through 
 their lettered plate windows one watching jet of gas 
 amid blue-and-red paper festoons and bunches of holly. 
 The gloomy fronts of nearly all the houses were pierced 
 with oblongs of light on which sometimes appeared 
 transient shadows of human beings. A very few other 
 human beings, equally mysterious, passed furtive and 
 baffling up and down the slope. Melancholy, familiar, 
 inexplicable, and piteous the melancholy of existence 
 itself rose like a vapour out of the sodden ground, 
 ennobling all the scene. The lofty disc of the Town 
 Hall clock solitary in the sky was somehow so heart- 
 
THE DISCOVERY 513 
 
 rending, and the lives of the people both within and 
 without the houses seemed to be so woven of futility and 
 sorrow, that the menace of eternity grew intolerable. 
 
 Edwin's brain throbbed and shook like an engine- 
 house in which the machinery was his violent thoughts. 
 He no longer saw his marriage as a chain of discon- 
 nected episodes ; he saw it as a drama the true meaning 
 of which was at last revealed by the climax now upon 
 him. He had had many misgivings about it, and had 
 put them away, and they all swept back presenting 
 themselves as a series of signs that pointed to inevitable 
 disaster. He had been blind, from wilfulness or cow- 
 ardice. He now had vision. He had arrived at hon- 
 esty. He said to himself, as millions of men and 
 women have said to themselves, with awestruck calm: 
 "My marriage was a mistake." And he began to face 
 the consequences of the admission. He was not such a 
 fool as to attach too much importance to the immediate 
 quarrel, nor even to the half-suppressed but supreme 
 dissension concerning a place of residence. He as- 
 sumed, even, that the present difficulties would some- 
 how, with more or less satisfaction, be adjusted. What, 
 however, would not and could not be adjusted was the 
 temperament that produced them. Those difficulties, 
 which had been preceded by smaller difficulties, would 
 be followed by greater. It was inevitable. To hope 
 otherwise would be weakly sentimental, as his optimism 
 during the vigil in Auntie Hamps's bedroom had been 
 weakly sentimental. He must face the truth: "She 
 won't alter her ways and I shan't stand them." No 
 matter what their relations might in future superficially 
 appear to be, their union was over. Or, if it was not 
 actually over, it soon would be over, for the forces to 
 shatter it were uncontrollable and increasing in 
 strength. 
 
514 THESE TWAIN 
 
 "Of course she can't help being herself! 55 he said 
 impartially. "But what's that got to do with me?" 
 
 His indictment of his wife was terrific and not to be 
 answered. She had always been a queer girl. On the 
 first night he ever saw her, she had run after him into 
 his father's garden, and stood with him in the garden- 
 porch that he had since done away with, and spoken 
 to him in the strangest manner. She was abnormal. 
 The dismal and perilous adventure with George Cannon 
 could not have happened to a normal woman. She 
 could not see reason, and her sense of justice was non- 
 existent. If she wanted a thing she must have it. In 
 reality she was a fierce and unscrupulous egotist, in- 
 capable of understanding a point of view other than 
 her own. Imagine her bursting out like that about 
 Auntie Hamps's will! It showed how her mind ran. 
 That Auntie Hamps had an absolute right to dispose 
 of her goods as she pleased; that there was a great 
 deal to be said for Auntie Hamps's arrangements ; that 
 in any case the Benbows were not to blame; that 
 jealousy was despicable and the mark of a mean mind; 
 that the only dignified course for himself was to exe- 
 cute the trust imposed upon him without complaining, 
 these things were obvious; but not to her! No hu- 
 man skill could ever induce her to grant them. She did 
 not argue, she felt; and the disaster was that she 
 did not feel rightly. . . . Imagine her trying to in- 
 fluence Ingpen's housekeeping, to worry the man, 
 she the guest and he the host ! What would she say 
 if anybody played the same game on her? . . . 
 
 She could not be moderate. She expected every con- 
 sideration from others, but she would yield none. She 
 had desired a horse and trap. She had received it. And 
 how had she used the gift? She had used it in defiance 
 of the needs of the works. She had upset everybody 
 
THE DISCOVERY 515 
 
 and everything, and assuredly linchpin had a very le- 
 gitimate grievance. . . . She had said that she could 
 not feel at home in her own house while the house be- 
 longed to Maggie. Edwin had obediently bought the 
 house, and now she wanted another house. She 
 scorned her husband's convenience and preferences, 
 and she wanted a house that was preposterously in- 
 accessible. The satisfaction of her caprice for a dog- 
 cart had not in the slightest degree appeased her ego- 
 tism. On the contrary it had further excited her 
 egotism and sharpened its aggressiveness. And by what 
 strange infantile paths had she gone about the enter- 
 prise of shifting Edwin into the country ! Not a frank 
 word to Edwin of the house she had found and decided 
 upon! Silly rumours of a "surprise!" And she had 
 counted upon the presence of Ingpen to disarm Edwin 
 and to tie his hands. The conspiracy was simply 
 childish. And because Edwin had at once shown his 
 distaste for her scheme, she had taken offence. Her 
 acrimony had gradually increased throughout the day, 
 hiding for a time under malicious silences and enig- 
 matic demeanours, darting out in remarks to third 
 persons and drawing back, and at last displaying 
 itself openly, cruelly, monstrously. The injustice of it 
 all passed belief. There was no excuse for Hilda, and 
 there never would be any excuse for her. She was im- 
 possible; she would be still more impossible. He did 
 not make her responsible ; he admitted that she was not 
 responsible. But at the same time, with a disdainful 
 and cold resentment, he condemned and hated her. 
 
 He recalled Ingpen's : "I won't pay the price." 
 
 "And I won't!" he said. "The end has come!" 
 
 He envied Ingpen. 
 
 And there flitted through his mind the dream of 
 liberty not the liberty of ignorant youth, but liberty 
 
516 THESE TWAIN 
 
 with experience and knowledge to use it. Ravishing 
 prospect! Marriage had advantages. But he could 
 retain those advantages in freedom. He knew what a 
 home ought to be ; he had the instinct of the interior ; 
 he considered that he could keep house as well as any 
 woman, and better than most; he was not, in that re- 
 spect, at all like Ingpen, who suffered from his inability 
 to produce and maintain comfort. . . . He remem- 
 bered Ingpen's historic habitual phrase about the 
 proper place for women, "behind the veil." It was a 
 phrase which intensely annoyed women ; but nevertheless 
 how true ! And Ingpen had put it into practice. Ing- 
 pen, even in the banal Five Towns, had shown the way. 
 . . . He saw the existence of males, with its rationality 
 and its dependableness, its simplicity, its directness, 
 its honesty, as something ideal. And as he pictured 
 such an existence with or without the romance of 
 mysterious and interesting creatures ever modestly 
 waiting for attention behind the veil further souvenirs 
 of Hilda's wilful naughtiness and injustice rushed into 
 his mind by thousands; in formulating to himself his 
 indictment against her, he had overlooked ninety per 
 cent of them ; they were endless, innumerable. He mar- 
 shalled them again and again, with the fiercest viru- 
 lence, the most sombre gloom, with sardonic, bitter 
 pleasure. 
 
 In the hollow where Trafalgar Road begins to be 
 known as Duck Bank, he turned to the left and, cross- 
 ing the foot of Woodisun Bank, arrived at one of the 
 oldest quarters of the town, where St. Luke's Church 
 stands in its churchyard amid a triangle of little an- 
 cient houses. By the light of a new and improved 
 gas-lamp at the churchyard gates could be seen the 
 dark silhouette of the Norman tower and the occa- 
 sional white gleam of gravestones. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 517 
 
 One solitary couple, arm-in-arm, and bending slightly 
 towards each other, came sauntering in the mud past 
 the historic National Schools towards the illumination 
 of the lamp. The man was a volunteer, with a bril- 
 liant vermilion tunic, white belt, and black trousers ; he 
 wore his hat jauntily and carried a diminutive cane; 
 pride was his warm overcoat. The girl was stout and 
 short, with a heavily flowered hat and a dark 
 amorphous cloak; under her left arm she carried a 
 parcel. They were absorbed in themselves. Edwin 
 discerned first the man's face, in which was a gentle and 
 harmless coxcombry, and then the girl's face, ecstatic, 
 upward-gazing, seeing absolutely naught but the youth. 
 ... It was Emmie's face, as Edwin perceived after a 
 momentary doubt due to his unfamiliarity with the 
 inhabitants of his own house. Emmie, so impatiently 
 and angrily awaited by her mistress, had lost her head 
 about a uniform. Emmie, whose place was in the 
 kitchen among saucepans and crockery, dish-clouts and 
 brushes, had escaped into another realm, where time 
 is not. That she had no immediate intention of re- 
 turning to her kitchen was shown by the fact that she 
 was moving deliberately in a direction away from it. 
 She was not pretty, for Hilda had perforce long since 
 ceased to insist upon physical charm in her servants. 
 She was not even young, she was probably older than 
 the adored soldier. But her rapt ecstasy, her-^fearful 
 bliss, made a marvellous sight, rendered touching by 
 the girl's coarse gawkiness. 
 
 It seemed lamentable, pathetic, to Edwin that des- 
 tiny should not permit her to remain forever in that 
 dream. "Can it be possible," he thought, "that a 
 creature capable of such surpassing emotion is com- 
 pelled to cook my bacon and black my boots?" 
 
 The couple, wordless, strolled onwards, sticking 
 
518 THESE TWAIN 
 
 close to the railings. The churchyard was locked, but 
 Emmie and the soldier were doing the best they could 
 to satisfy that instinct which in the Five Towns seems 
 to drive lovers to graves for their pleasure. The little 
 houses cast here and there a blind yellow eye on the 
 silent and tranquil scene. Edwin turned abruptly back 
 into Woodisun Bank, feeling that he was a disturber 
 of the peace. 
 
 Suddenly deciding to walk up to Hillport "for the 
 sake of exercise," he quickened his pace. After a 
 mile and a half, when he had crossed the railway at 
 Shawport and was on the Hillport rise, and the Five 
 Towns had begun to spread out in a map behind him, 
 he noticed that he was perspiring. He very seldom 
 perspired, and therefore he had the conviction that 
 the walk was "doing him good." He felt exhilarated, 
 and moved still faster. 
 
 His mood was now changed. The spectacle of Emmie 
 and the soldier had thrown him violently out of re- 
 sentment into wonder. His indignation was somewhat 
 exhausted, and though he tried again and again to flick 
 it back into full heat and activity, he could not. He 
 kept thinking of the moment in the morning when, 
 standing ready to jump from the dog-cart, his wife had 
 said : "Catch me, both of you," and he recalled vividly 
 the sensation of her acquiescence, her momentary yield- 
 ing imperceptible yet unforgettable as he supported 
 her strongly in his arms; and with this memory was 
 mingled the smell of velvet. Strange that a woman so 
 harsh, selfish and overbearing, could thus contradict 
 her whole character in an instant of surrender ! Was 
 she in that gesture confiding to him the deepest secret? 
 . . . Rubbish ! But now he no longer looked down on 
 her disdainfully. Honesty made him admit that it was 
 puerile to affect disdain of an individuality so powerful 
 
THE DISCOVERY 519 
 
 and so mysterious. If she was a foe, she was at any 
 rate a dangerous fighter, and not to be played with. 
 And yet she could be a trifle, a wisp of fragile flesh 
 in his arms ! 
 
 He saw the beatific face of Emmie against the church- 
 yard gates under the lamp. . . . Why not humour 
 Hilda? Why not let her plant their home according 
 to her caprice? . . . Certainly not! Never would he 
 do it! Why should he? Time after time he angrily 
 rejected the idea. Time after time it returned. What 
 did it matter to Hilda where she lived? And had he 
 not bought their present house solely in order to please 
 her? The first consideration in choosing a home ought 
 to be and must be the consideration of business con- 
 venience. . . . Yet, what did it matter to him where 
 his home was? (He remembered a phrase of Ingpen's: 
 "I don't live on that plane.") Could he not adapt 
 himself? He dreamt of very rapid transit between Lad- 
 deredge Hall and the works. Motor-cars had just be- 
 come lawful; but he had never happened to see one, 
 though he had heard of several in the district, or pass- 
 ing through. His imagination could not rise so high as 
 a motor-car. That he could ever use or possess one did 
 not even occur to him. He thought only of a fast- 
 trotting horse, and a trap with indiarubber tyres ; him- 
 self the driver; sometimes Hilda the driver. . . . An 
 equipage to earn renown in the district. "Clayhanger's 
 trap," "He drives in from Ladderedge in thirty-five 
 minutes. The horse simply won't walk; doesn't know 
 how to!" And so on. He had heard such talk of 
 others. Why should not others hear it of him? . . . 
 Then, the pleasure, the mere pleasure call it sensual 
 or what you like of granting a caprice to the ca- 
 pricious creature! If a thing afforded her joy, why 
 not give it? . . . To see her in the role of mistress of 
 
520 THESE TWAIN 
 
 a country-house, delicately horsey, excited about char- 
 itable schemes, protecting the poor, working her will 
 upon gardeners and grooms, stamping her foot in the 
 violence of her resolution to have her own way, offering 
 sugar to a horse, nursing a sick dog! Amusing; 
 Agreeable! . . . And all that activity of hers a mere 
 dependence of his own! Flattering to his pride! . . . 
 He could afford it easily, for he was richer even than 
 his wife supposed. To let the present house ought not 
 to be difficult. To sell it advantageously ought not 
 to be impossible. In this connection, he thought, though 
 not seriously, of Tom Swetman, who had at last got 
 himself engaged to one of those Scandinavian women 
 about whom he had been chaffed for years ; Tom would 
 be wanting an abode, and probably a good one. 
 
 He was carried away by his own dream. To realise 
 that dream he had only to yield, to nod negligently, 
 to murmur with benevolent tolerance : "All right. Do 
 as you please." He would have nothing to withdraw, 
 for he had uttered no refusal. Not a word had passed 
 between them as to Ladderedge Hall since they had 
 quitted it. He had merely said that he did not like it, 
 "poured cold water on it" as the phrase was. True, 
 his demeanour had plainly intimated that he was still 
 opposed in principle to the entire project of living in 
 the country ; but a demeanour need not be formally re- 
 tracted; it could be negatived without any humilia- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 No, he would never yield, though yielding seemed to 
 open up a pleasant, a delicious prospect. He could 
 not yield. It would be wrong, and it would be dan- 
 gerous, to yield. Had he not already quite clearly 
 argued out with himself the whole position? And yet 
 why not yield? . . . He was afraid as before a temp- 
 tation. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 521 
 
 He re-crossed the railway, and crossed Fowlea Brook, 
 a boundary, back into the borough. The dark path 
 lay parallel with the canal, but below it. He had gone 
 right through Hillport and round Hillport Marsh and 
 returned down the flank of the great ridge that pro- 
 tects the Five Towns on the West. He could not 
 recollect the details of the walk; he only knew that he 
 had done it all, that time and the miles had passed with 
 miraculous rapidity, and that his boots were very 
 muddy. A change in the consistency of the mud caused 
 him to look up at the sky, which was clearing and 
 showed patches of faint stars. A frost had set in, 
 despite the rainy prophecy of street-lamps. In a few 
 moments he had climbed the short steep curving slope 
 on to the canal-bridge. He was breathless and very 
 hot. 
 
 He stopped and sat on the parapet. In his school- 
 days he had crossed this bridge twice a day on the 
 journey to and from Oldcastle. Many times he had 
 lingered on it. But he had forgotten the little episodes 
 of his schooldays, which seemed now almost to belong 
 to another incarnation. He did, however, recall that 
 as a boy he could not sit on the parapet unless he 
 vaulted up to it. He thought he must have been ridic- 
 ulously small and boyish. The lights of Bursley, Bleak- 
 ridge, Hanbridge and Cauldon hung round the eastern 
 horizon in an arc. To the north presided the clock of 
 Bursley Town Hall, and to the south the clock of 
 Cauldon Church ; but both were much too far off to be 
 deciphered. Below and around the Church clock the 
 vague fires of Cauldon Bar Ironworks played, and the 
 tremendous respiration of the blast-furnaces filled the 
 evening. Beneath him gleamed the foul water of the 
 canal. . . . He trembled with the fever that precedes 
 a supreme decision. He trembled as though he was 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 about to decide whether or not he would throw him- 
 self into the canal. Should he accept the country- 
 house scheme? Ought he to accept it? The question 
 was not simply that of a place of residence, it con- 
 cerned all his life. 
 
 He admitted that marriage must be a mutual ac- 
 commodation. He was, and always had been, ready 
 to accommodate. But Hilda was unjust, monstrously 
 unjust. Of that he was definitely convinced. . . . 
 Well, perhaps not monstrously unjust, but very unjust. 
 How could he excuse such injustice as hers? He ob- 
 viously could not excuse it. ... On previous occa- 
 sions he had invented excuses for her conduct, but they 
 were not convincing excuses. They were compromises 
 between his intellectual honesty and his desire for 
 peace. They were, at bottom, sentimentalism. 
 
 And then there flashed into his mind, complete, the 
 great discovery of all his career. It was banal; it 
 was commonplace; it was what everyone knew. Yet 
 it was the great discovery of all his career. If Hilda 
 had not been unjust in the assertion of her own individ- 
 uality, there could be no merit in yielding to her. To 
 yield to a just claim was not meritorious, though to 
 withstand it would be wicked. He was objecting to 
 injustice as a child objects to rain on a holiday. In- 
 justice was a tremendous actuality! It had to be 
 faced and accepted. (He himself was unjust. At any 
 rate he intellectually conceived that he must be un- 
 just, though honestly he could remember no instance 
 of injustice on his part.) To reconcile oneself to in- 
 justice was the master achievement. He had read it; 
 he had been aware of it; but he had never really felt 
 it till that moment on the dark canal-bridge. He was 
 awed, thrilled by the realisation. He longed ardently 
 to put it to the test. He did put it to the test. He 
 
THE DISCOVERY 523 
 
 yielded on the canal-bridge. And in yielding, it seemed 
 to him that he was victorious. 
 
 He thought confidently and joyously: 
 
 "I'm not going to be beaten by Hilda ! And I'm not 
 going to be beaten by marriage. Dashed if I am! A 
 nice thing if I had to admit that I wasn't clever enough 
 to be a husband!" 
 
 He was happy, but somewhat timorously so. He had 
 the sense to suspect that his discovery would scarcely 
 transform marriage into an everlasting Eden, and that 
 serious trouble would not improbably recur. "Mar- 
 riage keeps on all the time till you're dead!" he said 
 to himself. But he profoundly knew that he had ad- 
 vanced a stage, that he had acquired new wisdom and 
 new power, and that no danger in the future could 
 equal the danger that was past. 
 
 He thought: 
 
 "I know where I am !" 
 
 It had taken him years to discover where he was. 
 Why should the discovery occur just then? He could 
 only suppose that the cumulative battering of expe- 
 rience had at length knocked a hole through his thick 
 head, and let saving wisdom in. The length of time" 
 necessary for the operation depended upon the thick- 
 ness of the head. Some heads were impenetrable and 
 their owners came necessarily to disaster. His head 
 was probably of an average thickness. 
 
 When he got into Trafalgar Road, at the summit of 
 Bleakridge, he hesitated to enter his own house, on ac- 
 count of the acute social difficulties that awaited him 
 there, and passed it like a beggar who is afraid. One 
 by one he went by all the new little streets of cottages 
 with drawing-rooms Millett Street, Wilcox Street, 
 Paul Street, Oak Street, Hulton Street, and the two 
 old little streets, already partly changed Manor 
 
THESE TWAIN 
 
 Street and Higginbotham Street. Those mysterious 
 newcoming families from nowhere were driving him out 
 through the agency of his wife ! The Orgreaves had 
 gone, and been succeeded by excellent people with whom 
 it was impossible to fraternise. There were rumours 
 that in view of Tom Swetnam's imminent defection the 
 Swetnam household might be broken up and the home 
 abandoned. The Suttons, now that Beatrice Sutton 
 had left the district, talked seriously of going. Only 
 Dr. Sterling was left on that side of the road, and 
 he stayed because he must. The once exclusive Ter- 
 races on the other side were losing their quality. Old 
 Darius Clayhanger had risen out of the mass, but he 
 was fiercely exceptional. Now the whole mass seemed 
 to be rising, under the action of some strange leaven, 
 and those few who by intelligence, by manners, or by 
 money counted themselves select were fleeing as from an 
 inundation. 
 
 Edwin had not meant to join in the exodus. But 
 he too would join it. Destiny had seized him. Let 
 him be as democratic in spirit as he would, his fate 
 was to be cut off from the democracy, with which, for 
 the rest, he had very little of speech or thought or 
 emotion in common, but in which, from an implacable 
 sense of justice, he was religiously and unchangeably 
 determined to put his trust. 
 
 He braced himself, and, mounting the steps of the 
 porch, felt in his pocket for his latchkey. It was not 
 there. Hilda had taken it and not returned it. She 
 never did return it when she borrowed it, and probably 
 she never would. He had intended to slip quietly into 
 the house, and prepare if possible an astute opening 
 to minimise the difficulty of the scenes which must inev- 
 itably occur. For his dignity would need some pro- 
 tection. In the matter of his dignity, he wished that 
 
THE DISCOVERY 525 
 
 he had not said quite so certainly to Ingpen : "I shan't 
 take that house." 
 
 With every prim formality, Emmie answered his 
 ring. She was wearing the mask and the black frock 
 and the white apron and cap of her vocation. Not 
 the slightest trace of the beatified woman in the 
 flowered hat under the lamp at the gates of the 
 churchyard! No sign of a heart or of passion or of 
 ecstasy! Incredible creatures they were all incred- 
 ible! ' 
 
 He thought, nervous: 
 
 "I shall meet Hilda in half a second." 
 
 George ran into the hall, wearing his new green shade 
 over his eyes. 
 
 "Here he is, mother !" cried George. "I say, nunks, 
 Emmie brought up a parcel for you from Uncle Albert 
 and Auntie Clara. Here it is. It wasn't addressed out- 
 side, so I opened it." 
 
 He indicated the hall-table, on which, in a bed of 
 tissue paper and brown paper, lay a dreadful flat ink- 
 stand of blue glass and bronze, with a card: "Best 
 wishes to Edwin from Albert and Clara." 
 
 George and Edwin gazed at each other with under- 
 standing. 
 
 "Just my luck isn't it, sonny?" said Edwin. "It's 
 worse than last year's." 
 
 "You poor dear!" said Hilda, appearing, all smiles 
 and caressing glances. She was in a pale grey dress. 
 "^Whatever shall you do with it ? You know you'll have 
 
 to put it on view when they come up. Emmie " 
 
 to the maid vanishing into the kitchen "We'll have 
 supper now." 
 
 "Yes," said Edwin to himself, with light but sar- 
 donic tolerance. "Yes, my lady. You're all smiles be- 
 cause you're bent on getting Ladderedge Hall out of 
 
526 THESE TWAIN 
 
 me. But you don't know what a near shave you've had 
 of getting something else." 
 
 He was elated. The welcome of his familiar home 
 was beautiful to him. And the incalculable woman with 
 a single gesture had most unexpectedly annihilated the 
 unpleasant past and its consequences. He could yield 
 upon the grand contention how and when he chose. He 
 had his acquiescence waiting like a delightful surprise 
 for Hilda. As he looked at her lovingly, with all her 
 crimes of injustice thick upon her, he clearly realised 
 that he saw her as no other person saw her, and that 
 because it was so she in her entirety was indispensable 
 to him. And when he tried to argue impartially and 
 aloofly with himself about rights and wrongs, asinine 
 reason was swamped by an entirely irrational and wise 
 joy in the simple fact of the criminal's existence. 
 
 VI 
 
 In the early spring of 1897 there was an evening 
 party at the Clayhangers'. But it was not called a 
 party ; it was not even called a reception. The theory 
 of the affair was that Hilda had "just asked a few 
 people to come in, without any fuss." The inhabitants 
 of the Five Towns had, and still have, an aversion for 
 every sort of formal hospitality, or indeed for any hos- 
 pitality other than the impulsive and the haphazard. 
 One or two fathers with forceful daughters agitated by 
 newly revealed appetites in themselves, might hire a 
 board-schoolroom in January, and give a dance at 
 which sharp exercise and hot drinks alone kept bodies 
 warm in the icy atmosphere. Also musical and dra- 
 matic societies and games clubs would have annual 
 conversaziones and dances, which however were enter- 
 prises of cooperation rather than of hospitality. Be- 
 
THE DISCOVERY 527 
 
 yond these semi-public entertainments there was almost 
 nothing, in the evening, save card-parties and the small 
 regular reunions of old friends who had foregathered 
 on a certain night of the week for whiskey or tea and 
 gossip ever since the beginning of time, and would 
 continue to do so till some coffin or other was ordered. 
 Every prearranged assemblage comprising more than 
 two persons beyond the family was a "function" a 
 term implying both contempt and respect for ceremo- 
 nial; and no function could be allowed to occur with- 
 out an excuse for it, such as an anniversary. The 
 notion of deliberately cultivating human intercourse for 
 its own sake would have been regarded as an affectation 
 approaching snobbishness. Hundreds of well-to-do and 
 socially unimpeachable citizens never gave or received 
 an invitation to a meal. The reason of all this was 
 not meanness, for no community outside America has 
 more generous instincts than the Five Towns ; it was 
 merely a primitive self-consciousness striving to con- 
 ceal itself beneath breezy disdain for those more highly 
 developed manners which it read about with industry 
 and joy in the weekly papers, but which it lacked the 
 courage to imitate. 
 
 The break-up of the Orgreave household had b^en a 
 hard blow to the cult of hospitality in Bleakridge. 
 Lane End House in the old days was a creative centre 
 of hospitality; for the force of example, the desire to 
 emulate, and the necessity of paying in kind for what 
 one has permitted oneself to receive will make hosts of 
 those who by their own initiative would never have 
 sent out an invitation. When the Orgreaves vanished, 
 sundry persons in Bleakridge were discouraged, and 
 particularly Edwin and Hilda, whose musical evenings 
 had never recovered from the effect of the circum- 
 stances of the first one. They entertained only by fits 
 
528 THESE TWAIN 
 
 and starts, when Hilda happened to remember that she 
 held a high position in the suburb. Hilda was handi- 
 capped by the fact that she could not easily strike up 
 friendships with other women. She had had one friend, 
 and after Janet's departure she had fully confided in 
 no woman. Moreover it was only at intervals that 
 Hilda felt the need of companionship. Her present 
 party was due chiefly to what Edwin in his more bitter 
 moods would have called snobbishness, to-wit, partly 
 a sudden resolve not to be outshone by the Swetnams,, 
 who in recent years, as the younger generation of the 
 family grew up, had beyond doubt increased their as- 
 cendancy; and partly the desire to render memorable 
 the last months of her residence in Bleakridge. 
 
 The list of Hilda's guests, and the names absent 
 from it, gave an indication of the trend of social his- 
 tory. The Benbows were not asked; the relations of 
 the two families remained as friendly as ever they 
 were, but the real breach between them, caused by pro- 
 found differences of taste and intelligence, was now 
 complete. Maggie would have been asked, had she not 
 refused in advance, from a motive of shyness. In all 
 essential respects Maggie had been annexed by Clara 
 and Albert. She had given up Auntie Hamps's house 
 (of which the furniture had been either appropriated 
 or sold) and gone to live with the Benbows as a 
 working aunt, this in spite of Albert's default in the 
 matter of interest; she forewent her rights, slept in a 
 small room with Amy, paid a share of the household 
 expenses, and did the work of a nursemaid and servant 
 combined simply because she was Maggie. She might,, 
 had she chosen, have lived in magnificence with the 
 Clayhangers, but she would not face the intellectual 
 and social strain of doing so. Jim Orgreave was not 
 invited; briefly he had become impossible, though he 
 
THE DISCOVERY 529 
 
 was still well-dressed. More strange Tom Orgreave 
 and his wife had only been invited after some discussion, 
 and had declined ! Tom was growing extraordinarily 
 secretive, solitary, and mysterious. It was reported 
 that Mrs. Tom had neither servant nor nursemaid, 
 and that she dared not ask her husband for money to 
 buy clothes. Yet Edwin and Tom when they met in 
 the street always stopped for a talk, generally about 
 books. Daisy Marrion, who said openly that Tom and 
 Mrs. Tom were a huge disappointment to everybody, 
 was invited and she accepted. Janet Orgreave had ar- 
 rived in Bursley on a visit to the Clayhangers on the 
 very day of the party. The Cheswardines were asked, 
 mainly on account of Stephen, whose bluff, utterly un- 
 intellectual, profound good-nature, and whose adora- 
 tion of his wife, were gradually endearing him to the 
 perceptive. Mr. and Mrs. Fearns were requested to 
 bring their daughter Annunciata, now almost mar- 
 riageable, and also Mademoiselle Renee Souchon, the 
 French governess, newly arrived in the district, of the 
 Fearns younger children. Folks hinted their astonish- 
 ment that Alma Fearns should have been imprudent 
 enough to put so exotic a woman under the same roof 
 with her husband. Ingpen needed no invitation; noth- 
 ing could occur at the Clayhangers' without him. Doc- 
 tor Stirling was the other mature bachelor. Finally in 
 the catalogue were four Swetnams, the vigorous and 
 acute Sarah (who was a mere acquaintance), aged 
 twenty-five, Tom Swetnam, and two younger brothers. 
 Tom had to bring with him the prime excuse for the 
 party, namely, Miss Manna Host of Copenhagen, to 
 whom Hilda intended to show that the Swetnams were 
 not the only people on earth. There were thus eight 
 women, eight men (who had put on evening dress out of 
 respect for the foreigner), and George. 
 
530 THESE TWAIN 
 
 At eleven o'clock, when the musical part of the en- 
 tertainment was over, Miss Host had already fully se- 
 cured for herself the position which later she was to 
 hold as the wife of Tom Swetnam. Bleakridge had 
 been asked to meet her and inspect her, and the opin- 
 ion of Bleakridge was soon formed that Copenhagen 
 must be a wondrous and a romantic place and that 
 Tom Swetnam knew his way about. In the earliest 
 years when the tourist agencies first discovered the ad- 
 vertising value of the phrase "Land of the Midnight 
 Sun," Tom the adventurous had made the Scandinavian 
 round trip, and each subsequent Summer he had gone 
 off again in the same direction. The serpents of the 
 Hanbridge and the Bursley Conservative clubs, and of 
 the bar of the Five Towns Hotel, had wagered that 
 there was a woman at the bottom of it. There was. 
 He had met her at Marienlyst, the watering-place near 
 Helsingor (called by the tourist agencies Elsinore). 
 Manna Host was twenty-three, tall and athletically 
 slim, and more blonde than any girl ever before seen 
 in the Five Towns. She had golden hair and she wore 
 white. It was understood that she spoke Danish, 
 Swedish and Norwegian. She talked French with 
 facility to Renee Souchon. And Tom said that her 
 knowledge of German surpassed her knowledge of either 
 French or English. She spoke English excellently, with 
 a quaint, endearing accent, but with correctness. Some- 
 times she would use an idiom (picked up from the 
 Swetnam boys), exquisitely unaware that it was 
 not quite suited to the lips of a young woman in 
 a strange drawing-room; her innocence, however, puri- 
 fied it. 
 
 She sang classical songs in German, with dramatic 
 force, and she could play accompaniments. She was 
 thoroughly familiar with all the music haltingly per- 
 
THE DISCOVERY 531 
 
 formed by Ingpen, Janet, Annunciata, and young 
 George. Ingpen was very seriously interested in her 
 views thereon. She knew about the French authors 
 from whose works Renee Souchon chose her recitations. 
 And standing up at the buffet table in the dining- 
 room, she had fabricated astounding sandwiches in the 
 Danish style. She stated that Danish cooks reckoned 
 ninety-three sorts of sandwiches. She said in her light, 
 eager voice, apropos of cooking: "There is one thing 
 I cannot understand. I cannot understand why you 
 English throw your potatoes to melt in cold water 
 for an hour before you boil them." "Nor I!" inter- 
 jected Renee Souchon. No other woman standing 
 round the table had ever conceived the propriety of 
 boiling potatoes without first soaking them in cold 
 water, and Manna was requested to explain. "Be- 
 cause," she said, "it it lets go the salts of potassium 
 which are so necessary for the pheesical development 
 of the body." Whereupon Tertius Ingpen had been 
 taken by one of his long crescendo laughs, a laugh that 
 ended by his being bent nearly double below the level 
 of the table. Everybody was much impressed, and 
 Ingpen himself not the least. Ingpen wondered what 
 a girl so complex could see in a man like Tom Swet- 
 nam, who, although he could talk about the arts, had 
 no real feeling for any of them. 
 
 But what impressed the company even more than 
 Miss Host's accomplishments was the candid fervour 
 of her comprehensive interest in life, which was abso- 
 lutely without self-consciousness or fear. She talked 
 with the same disarming ingenuous eager directness to 
 hard-faced Charles Fearns, the secret rake ; to his wife, 
 the ageing and sweetly-sad mother of a family; to 
 Renee Souchon, who despite her plainness and her ru- 
 moured bigotry seemed to attract all the men in the 
 
532 THESE TWAIN 
 
 room by something provocative in her eye and the car- 
 riage of her hips ; to the simple and powerful Stephen 
 Cheswardine; to Vera, the delicious and elegant cat; 
 to Doctor Stirling with his Scotch mysticism, and to 
 Tertius Ingpen the connoisseur and avowed bachelor. 
 She spoke to Hilda, Janet and Daisy Marrion as one 
 member of a secret sisterhood to other members, to 
 Annunciata as a young girl, and to George as an ini- 
 tiated sister. She left them to turn to Edwin with a 
 trustful glance as to one whose special reliability she 
 had divined from the first. "Have a liqueur, Miss 
 Host," Edwin enjoined her. In a moment she was sip- 
 ping Chartreuse. "I love it!" she murmured. 
 
 But somehow beneath all such freedoms and frank- 
 ness she did not cease to be a maiden with reserves of 
 mystery. Her assumption that nobody could misinter- 
 pret her demeanour was remarkable to the English ob- 
 servers, and far more so to Renee Souchon. All gazed 
 at her piquant blonde face, scarcely pretty, with its 
 ardent restless eyes, and felt the startling compliment 
 of her quick, searching sympathy. And she, tinglingly 
 aware of her success, proved easily equal to the ordeal 
 of it. Only at rare intervals did she give a look at 
 the betrothed, as if for confirmation of her security. 
 As for Tom, he was positively somewhat unnerved by 
 the brilliance of the performance. He left her alone, 
 without guidance, as a ring-master who should stand 
 aside during a turn and say : "See this marvel ! I am 
 no longer necessary." When people glanced at him 
 after one of her effects, he would glance modestly 
 away, striving to hide from them his illusion that he 
 himself had created the bewitching girl. At half past 
 eleven, when the entire assemblage passed into the draw- 
 ing-room, she dropped on to the piano-stool and began 
 a Waldteufel waltz with irresistible seductiveness. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 533 
 
 Hilda's heart leaped. In a minute the carpet was up, 
 and the night, which all had supposed to be at an 
 end, began. 
 
 At nearly one o'clock in the morning the party was 
 moving strongly by its own acquired momentum and 
 needed neither the invigoration nor the guidance which 
 hosts often are compelled to give. Hilda, having fin- 
 ished a schottische with Dr. Stirling, missed Janet 
 from the drawing-room. Leaving the room in search 
 of her, she saw Edwin with Tom Swetnam and the 
 glowing Manna at the top of the stairs. 
 
 "Hello!" she called out. "What are you folks 
 doing?" 
 
 Manna's light laugh descended like a shower of crys- 
 tals. 
 
 "Just taking a constitutional," Edwin answered. 
 
 Hilda waved to them in passing. She was extremely 
 elated. Among other agreeable incidents was the suc- 
 cess of her new black lace frock. Edwin's voice pleased 
 her, it was so calm, wise, and kind, and at the same 
 time mysteriously ironical. She occasionally admitted, 
 at the sound of that voice when Edwin was in high 
 spirits, that she had never been able to explore com- 
 pletely the more withdrawn arcana of his nature. He 
 had behaved with perfection that evening. She ad- 
 mitted that he was the basis of the evening, that with- 
 out him she could never have such triumphs. It was 
 strange that a man by spending so many hours per 
 day at a works could create the complicated ease and 
 luxury of a home. She perceived how steadily and 
 surely he had progressed since their marriage, and how 
 his cautiousness always justified itself, and how he had 
 done all that he had said he would do. And she had a 
 vision of that same miraculous creative force of his at 
 work, by her volition, in the near future upon Lad- 
 
534 THESE TWAIN 
 
 deredge Hall. Her mood became a strange compound 
 of humility before him and of self-confident pride in 
 her own power to influence him. 
 
 In the boudoir Janet was reclining in the sole easy 
 chair. Dressed in grey (she had abandoned white), 
 she was as slim as ever, and did not look her age. With 
 face flushed, eyes glinting under drooping lids, and 
 bosom heaving rather quickly, she might have passed 
 in the half-light for a young married woman still under 
 the excitement of matrimony, instead of a virgin of 
 forty. 
 
 "I was so done up I had to come and hide myself!" 
 she murmured in a dreamy tone. 
 
 "Well, of course you've had the journey to-day and 
 everything . . ." 
 
 "I never did come across such a dancer as Charles 
 Fearns !" Janet went on. 
 
 "Yes," said Hilda, standing with her back to the 
 fire, with one hand on the mantelpiece. "He's a great 
 dancer or at least he makes you think so. But I'm 
 sure he's a bad man." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose he is !" Janet agreed with a sigh. 
 
 Neither of the women spoke for a moment, and each 
 looked away. 
 
 Through the closed door came the muffled sound of* 
 the piano, played by Annunciata. No melody was dis- 
 tinguishable, only the percussion of the bass chords 
 beating out the time of a new mazurka. It was as if 
 the whole house faintly but passionately pulsed in the 
 fever of the dance. 
 
 "I see you've got a Rossetti," said Janet at last, 
 fingering a blue volume that lay on the desk. 
 
 "Edwin gave it me," Hilda replied. "He's grad- 
 ually giving me all my private poets. But somehow 
 I haven't been able to read much lately. I expect it's 
 
THE DISCOVERY 535 
 
 the idea of moving into the country that makes me 
 restless." 
 
 "But is it settled, all that?" 
 
 "Of course it's settled, my dear. I'm determined to 
 take him away " Hilda spoke of her husband as of 
 a parcel or an intelligent bear on a chain, as loving 
 wives may "right out of all this. I'm sure it will be 
 a good thing for him. He doesn't mind, really. He's 
 promised me. Only he wants to make sure of either 
 selling or letting this house first. He's always very 
 cautious, Edwin is. He simply hates doing a thing 
 straight off." 
 
 "Yes, he is rather that way inclined," said Janet. 
 
 "I wanted him to take Ladderedge at once, even if we 
 didn't move into it. Anyhow we couldn't move into it 
 immediately, because of the repairs and things. They'll 
 take a fine time, I know. We can get it for sixty pounds 
 a year. And what's sixty pounds more or less to Ed- 
 win? It's no more than what the rent of this house 
 would be. But no, he wouldn't! He must see where 
 he stands with this house before he does anything else ! 
 You can't alter him, you know !" 
 
 The door was cautiously pushed, and Ingpen en- 
 tered. 
 
 "So you're discussing her !" he said, low, with a sa- 
 tiric grin. 
 
 "Discussing who?" Hilda sharply demanded. 
 
 "You know." 
 
 "Tertius," said Hilda, "you're worse than a 
 woman." 
 
 He giggled with delight. 
 
 "I suppose you mean that to be very severe." 
 
 "If you want to know, we were talking about Lad- 
 deredge." 
 "So apologise!" added Janet, sitting up. 
 
536 THESE TWAIN 
 
 Ingpen's face straightened, and he began to tap his 
 teeth with his thumb. 
 
 "Curious! That's just what I came in about. I've 
 been trying to get a chance to tell you all the evening. 
 There's somebody else after Ladderedge, a man from 
 Axe. He's been to look over it twice this week. I 
 thought I'd tip you the wink." 
 
 Hilda stood erect, putting her shoulders back. 
 
 "Have you told Edwin?" she asked very curtly. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He said it was only a dodge of the house-agent's 
 to quicken things up." 
 
 "And do you think it is?" 
 
 "Well, I doubt it," Ingpen answered apprehensively. 
 "That's why I wanted to warn you his lordship being 
 what he is." 
 
 Voices, including Edwin's, could be heard in the hall. 
 
 "Here, I'm not going to be caught conspiring with 
 you!" Ingpen whispered. "It's more than my place 
 is worth." And he departed. 
 
 The voices receded, and Hilda noiselessly shut the 
 door. Everything was now changed for her by a tre- 
 mendous revulsion. The beating of the measure of the 
 mazurka seemed horrible and maddening. Her thought 
 was directed upon Edwin with the cold fury of which 
 only love is capable. It was not his fault that some 
 rival was nibbling at Ladderedge, but it was his fault 
 that Ladderedge should still be in peril. She saw all 
 her grandiose plan ruined. She felt sure that the rival 
 was powerful and determined, and that Edwin would 
 let him win, either by failing to bid against him, or by 
 mere shilly-shallying. Ladderedge was not the only 
 suitable country residence in the county; there were 
 doubtless many others; but Ladderedge was just what 
 
THE DISCOVERY 537 
 
 she wanted, and more important with her it had be- 
 come a symbol. She had a misgiving that if they did 
 not get Ladderedge they would remain in Trafalgar 
 Road, Bursley,.for ever and ever. Yet, angry and des- 
 perate though she was, she somehow did not accuse 
 and arraign Edwin any more than she would have ac- 
 cused and arraigned a climate. He was in fact the 
 climate in which she lived. A moment ago she had 
 said : "You can't alter him !" But now all the energy 
 of her volition cried out that he must be altered. 
 
 "My girl," she said, turning to Janet, "do you 
 think you can stand a scene to-morrow?" 
 
 "A scene?" Janet repeated the word guardedly. The 
 look on Hilda's face somewhat alarmed her. 
 
 "Between Edwin and me. I'm absolutely determined 
 that we shall take Ladderedge, and I don't care how 
 much of a row we have over it." 
 
 "It isn't as bad as all that?" Janet softly murmured, 
 with her skill to soothe. 
 
 "Yes it is !" said Hilda violently. 
 
 "I was wondering the other day, after one of your 
 letters," Janet proceeded gently, "why after all you 
 were so anxious to go into the country. I thought you 
 wanted Edwin to be on the Town Council or something 
 of that kind. How can he do that if you're right 
 away at a place like Stockbrook?" 
 
 "So I should like him to be on the Town Council! 
 But all I really want is to get him away from his busi- 
 ness. You don't know, Janet !" she spoke bitterly, and 
 with emotion. "Nobody knows except me. He'll soon 
 be the slave of his business if he keeps on. Oh ! I don't 
 mean he stays at nights at it. He scarcely ever does. 
 But he's always thinking about it. He simply can't 
 bear being a minute late for it, everything must give 
 way to it, he takes that as a matter of course, and 
 
538 THESE TWAIN 
 
 that's what annoys me, especially as there's no reason 
 for it, seeing how much he trusts Big James and Simp- 
 son. I believe he'd do anything for Big James. He'd 
 listen to Big James far sooner than he'd listen to me. 
 . . . Disagreeable fawning old man, and quite stupid. 
 Simpson isn't so bad. I tell you Edwin only looks on 
 his home as a nice place to be quiet in when he isn't at 
 the works. I've never told him so, and I don't think he 
 suspects it, but I will tell him one of these days. He's 
 very good, Edwin is, in all the little things. He al- 
 ways tries to be just. But he isn't just in the big thing. 
 He's most frightfully unjust. I sometimes wonder 
 where he imagines I come in. Of course he'd do any 
 mortal thing for me except spare half a minute from 
 the works. . . . What do I care about money ? I don't 
 care that much about money. When there's money I 
 can spend it, that's all. But I'd prefer to be poor, and 
 him to be rude and cross and impatient which he 
 scarcely ever is than have this feeling all the time 
 that it's the works first, and everything else second. 
 I don't mind for myself no, really I don't, at least 
 very little! But I do mind for him. I call it humili- 
 ating for a man to get like that. It puts everything 
 upside down. Look at Stephen Cheswardine, for in- 
 stance. There's a pretty specimen! And Edwin'll 
 be as bad as him soon." 
 
 "But everyone says how fond Stephen is of his 
 wife!" 
 
 "And isn't Edwin fond of me? Stephen Cheswardine 
 despises his wife only he can't do without her. That's 
 all. And he treats her accordingly. And I shall be 
 the same." 
 
 "Oh! Hilda!' 
 
 "Yes, I shall. Yes, I shall. But I won't have it. 
 I'd as lief be married to a man like Charles Fearns. 
 
THE DISCOVERY 539 
 
 He isn't a slave to his business anyhow. I shall get 
 Edwin further away. And when I've got him away 
 I shall see he doesn't go to the works on Saturdays, 
 too. I've quite made up my mind about that. And if 
 he isn't on the Town Council he can be on the County 
 Council that's quite as good, I hope !" 
 
 Never before had Hilda spoken so freely to anyone, 
 not even to Janet. Fierce pride had always kept her 
 self-contained. But now she had no feeling of shame at 
 her outburst. Tears stood in her eyes and yet she 
 faced Janet, making no effort to hide them. 
 
 "My dear !" breathed the deprecating Janet, shocked 
 out of her tepid virginal calm by a revelation of con- 
 jugal misery such as had never been vouchsafed to 
 her. She was thinking: "How can the poor thing face 
 her guests after this? Everybody will see that some- 
 thing's happened it will be awful! She really ought 
 to think of her position." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 The door opened with a sharp sound, and Hilda 
 turned away her head as from the suddenly visible 
 mouth of a cannon. The music could be heard plainly, 
 and beneath it the dull shuffling of feet on the bare 
 boards of the drawing-room. Manna Host came in 
 radiant, followed by Edwin and Tom Swetnam. 
 
 "Well, Hilda," said Edwin, with a slight timid con- 
 straint. "I've got rid of your house for you. Here 
 are the deluded victims." 
 
 "We have seen every corner of it, Mrs. Clayhanger," 
 said Manna Host, enthusiastically. "It is lovely. But 
 how can you wish to leave it? It is so practical!" 
 
 Perceiving the agitation of Hilda's face, Edwin 
 added in a lower voice to his wife: 
 
 "I thought I wouldn't say anything until it was set- 
 tled, for fear you might be let in for a disappointment. 
 
540 THESE TWAIN 
 
 He'll buy it if I leave fifteen hundred on mortgage. 
 So I shall. But of course he wanted her to have a 
 good look at it first." 
 
 "How unfair I am!" thought Hilda, as she made 
 some banal remark to Miss Host. "Don't I know I 
 can always rely on him?" 
 
 "Mr. Clayhanger made us promise not to " Miss 
 
 Host began to explain. 
 
 "It was just like him!" Hilda interrupted, smiling. 
 
 She had a strong desire to jump at Edwin and kiss 
 him. She was saved. Her grandiose plan would pro- 
 ceed. The house sold, Edwin was bound to secure 
 Ladderedge Hall against no matter what rival ; and he 
 would do it. But it was the realisation of her power 
 over her husband that gave her the prof oundest j oy . 
 
 About an hour later, when everyone felt that the 
 party was over, the guests, reluctant to leave, and ex- 
 cited afresh by the news that the house had changed 
 hands during the revel, were all assembled in the draw- 
 ing-room. A few were seated on the chairs which, with 
 the tables, had been pushed against the walls. George 
 had squatted on the carpet rolled up into the hearth, 
 where the fire was extinct; he was not wearing his 
 green shade. The rest were grouped around Manna 
 Host in the middle of the room. 
 
 Miss Host, the future mistress of the abode, was now 
 more than ever the centre of regard. Apparently as 
 fresh as at the start, and picking delicately at a sweet 
 biscuit, the flushed blonde stood answering questions 
 about her views on England and especially on the Five 
 Towns. She was quite sure of herself, and utterly 
 charming in her confidence. Annunciata Fearns envied 
 her acutely. The other women were a little saddened 
 by the thought of all the disillusions that inevitably lay 
 before her. It was touching to see her glance at Tom 
 
THE DISCOVERY 541 
 
 Swetnam, convinced that she understood him to the 
 core, and in him all the psychology of his sex. 
 
 "Everybody knows," she was saying, "that the Eng- 
 lish are the finest nation, and I think the Five Towns 
 are much more English than London. That's why I 
 adore the Five Towns. You do not know how English 
 you are here. It makes me laugh because you are so 
 English, and you do not know it. I love you." 
 
 "You're flattering us," said Stephen Cheswardine, 
 enchanted with the girl. 
 
 Everybody waited in eager delight for her next 
 words. Such tit-bits of attention and laudation did 
 not often fall to the district. It occurred to people 
 that after all the local self-conceit might not be en- 
 tirely unjustified. 
 
 "Ah !" Manna pouted. "But you have spots !" 
 
 "Spots !" repeated young Paul Swetnam, amid a gen- 
 eral laugh. 
 
 She turned to him: "You said there were no spots 
 on Knype Football Club, did you not? Well, there 
 is a spot on you English. You are dreadfully exas- 
 perating to us Danes. Oh, I mean it! You are exas- 
 perating because you will not show your feelings!" 
 
 "Tom, that must be one for you," said Charlie 
 Fearns. 
 
 "We're too proud," said Dr. Stirling. 
 
 "No," replied Manna maliciously. "It is not pride. 
 You are afraid to show your feelings. It is because 
 you are cowards in that!" 
 
 "We aren't !" cried Hilda, inspired. And yielding to 
 the temptation which had troubled her incessantly ever 
 since she left the boudoir, she put her arms round Ed- 
 win and kissed him. "So there !" 
 
 "Loud applause !" said young George on the roll of 
 carpet. He said it kindly, but with a certain superi- 
 
542 THESE TWAIN 
 
 ority, perhaps due to the facts that he was wearing 
 a man's "long trousers" for the first time that night, 
 and that he regarded himself as already almost a 
 Londoner. There was some handclapping. 
 
 Edwin's eyes had seduced Hilda. Looking at them 
 surreptitiously she had suddenly recalled another of his 
 tricks, tricks of goodness. When she had told him one 
 evening that Minnie was prematurely the mother of a 
 girl, he had said : "Well, we'll put 130 in the savings 
 bank for the kid." "130? Whatever are you talk- 
 ing about?" "130. I received it from America this 
 very morning as ever is." And he showed her a draft 
 on Brown, Shipley & Co. He said 'from America.' 
 He was too delicate to say 'from George Cannon.' 
 It had been a triumphant moment for him. And now, 
 as before them all Hilda held him to her, the delicious 
 thought that she had power over him, that she was 
 shaping the large contours of his existence, made her 
 feel solemn in her bliss. And yet simultaneously she 
 was reflecting with a scarcely perceptible hardness: 
 "It's each for himself in marriage after all, and I've 
 got my own way." And then she noticed the white- 
 ness of his shirt-front under her chin, and that re- 
 minded her of his mania for arranging his linen ac- 
 cording to his own ideas in his own drawer, and the 
 absurd tidiness of his linen ; and she wanted to laugh. 
 
 "What a romance she has made of my life !" thought 
 Edwin, confused and blushing, as she loosed him. And 
 though he looked round with affection at the walls 
 which would soon no longer be his, the greatness of the 
 adventure of existence with this creature, to him unique, 
 and the eternal expectation of some new ecstasy, left no 
 room in his heart for a regret. 
 
 He caught sight of Ingpen alone in a corner by the 
 piano, nervously stroking his silky beard. The mem- 
 
Page 545 
 
 ory of the secret woman in Ingpen f s 
 room came back to him. Without any 
 process of reasoning, he felt very 
 sorry for both of them, and he was 
 aware of a certain condescension in 
 himself towards Ingpen. 
 

 
 
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