The Price of Love by Arnold Bennett (page 4)

“You didn’t tell me she was out with Mr. Fores,” said Mrs. Maldon, stiffly but weakly.

“It’s first I knew of it,” Mrs. Tams replied, still spying over the pavement. “He’s given her th’ key. There! He’s gone.”

Mrs. Maldon muttered–

“The key? What key?”

“Th’ latch-key belike.”

“I must speak to Miss Rachel,” breathed Mrs. Maldon in a voice of extreme and painful apprehension.

The front door closing sent a vibration through the bedroom. Mrs. Tarns hesitated an instant, and then raised the gas. Mrs. Maldon lay with shut eyes on her left side and gave no sign of consciousness. Light footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

“I’ll go see,” said Mrs. Tams.

In the heart of the aged woman exanimate on the bed, and in the heart of the aging woman whose stout, coarse arm was still raised to the gas-tap, were the same sentiments of wonder, envy, and pity, aroused by the enigmatic actions of a younger generation going its perilous, instinctive ways to keep the race alive.

Mrs. Tarns lighted a benzolene hand-lamp at the gas, and silently left the bedroom. She still somewhat feared an unlawful invader, but the arrival of Rachel had reassured her. Preceded by the waving little flame, she passed Rachel’s door, which was closed, and went downstairs. Every mysterious room on the ground floor was in order and empty. No sign of an invasion. Through the window of the kitchen she saw the fresh cutlets under a wire cover in the scullery; and on the kitchen table were the tin of pineapple and the tin of cocoa, with the reticule near by. All doors that ought to be fastened were fastened. She remounted the stairs and blew out the lamp on the threshold of the mistress’s bedroom. And as she did so she could hear Rachel winding up her alarm-clock in quick jerks, and the light shone bright like a silver rod under Rachel’s door.

“Her’s gone reet to bed,” said Mrs. Tams softly, by the bedside of Mrs. Maldon. “Ye’ve no cause for to worrit yerself. I’ve looked over th’ house.”

Mrs. Maldon was fast asleep.

Mrs. Tams lowered the gas and resumed her chair, and the street lamp once more threw the shadows of the window-frames on the blinds.

II

The next day Mrs. Tams, who had been appointed to sleep in the spare room, had to exist under the blight of Rachel’s chill disapproval because she had not slept in the spare room–nor in any bed at all. The arrangement had been that Mrs. Tams should retire at 4 a.m., Rachel taking her place with Mrs. Maldon. Mrs. Tams had not retired at 4 a.m. because Rachel had not taken her place.

As a fact, Rachel had been wakened by a bang of the front door, at 10.30 a.m. only. Her first glance at the alarm-clock on her dressing-table was incredulous. And she refused absolutely to believe that the hour was so late. Yet the alarm-clock was giving its usual sturdy, noisy tick, and the sun was high. Then she refused to believe that the alarm had gone off, and in order to remain firm in her belief she refrained from any testing of the mechanism, which might–indeed, would–have proved that the alarm had in fact gone off. It became with her an article of dogma that on that particular morning, of all mornings, the very reliable alarm-clock had failed in its duty. The truth was that she had lain awake till nearly three o’clock, turning from side to side and thinking bitterly upon the imperfections of human nature, and had then fallen into a deep, invigorating sleep from which perhaps half a dozen alarm-clocks might not have roused her.

She arose full of health and anger, and in a few minutes she was out of the bedroom, for she had not fully undressed; like many women, when there was watching to be done, she loved to keep her armour on and to feel the exciting strain of the unusual in every movement. She fell on Mrs. Tams as Mrs. Tams was coming upstairs after letting out the doctor and refreshing herself with cocoa in the kitchen. A careless observer might have thought from their respective attitudes that it was Mrs. Tarns, and not Rachel, who had overslept herself. Rachel divided the blame between the alarm-clock and Mrs. Tams for not wakening her; indeed, she seemed to consider herself the victim of a conspiracy between Mrs. Tams and the alarm-clock. She explicitly blamed Mrs. Tams for allowing the doctor to come and go without her knowledge. Even the doctor did not get off scot-free, for he ought to have asked for Rachel and insisted on seeing her.

She examined Mrs. Tams about the invalid’s health as a lawyer examines a hostile witness. And when Mrs. Tams said that the invalid had slept, and was sleeping, stertorously in an unaccountable manner, and hinted that the doctor was not undisturbed by the new symptom and meant to call again later on, Rachel’s tight-lipped mien indicated that this might not have occurred if only Mrs. Tams had fulfilled her obvious duty of wakening Rachel. Though she was hungry, she scornfully repulsed the suggestion of breakfast. Mrs. Tams, thoroughly accustomed to such behaviour in the mighty, accepted it as she accepted the weather. But if she had had to live through the night again–after all, a quite tolerable night–she would still not have wakened Rachel at 4 a.m.

Rachel softened as the day passed. She ate a good dinner at one o’clock, with Mrs. Tams in the kitchen, one or the other mounting at short intervals to see if Mrs. Maldon had stirred. Then she changed into her second-best frock, in anticipation of the doctor’s Sunday afternoon visit, strictly commanded Mrs. Tams (but with relenting kindness in her voice) to go and lie down, and established herself neatly in the sick-room.

Though her breathing had become noiseless again, Mrs. Maldon still slept. She had wakened only once since the previous night. She lay calm and dignified in slumber–an old and devastated woman, with that disconcerting resemblance to a corpse shown by all aged people asleep, but yet with little sign of positive illness save the slight distortion of her features caused by the original attack. Rachel sat idle, prim, in vague reflection, at intervals smoothing her petticoat, or giving a faint cough, or gazing at the mild blue September sky. She might have been reading a book, but she was not by choice a reader. She had the rare capacity of merely existing. Her thoughts flitted to and fro, now resting on Mrs. Maldon with solemnity, now on Mrs. Tams with amused benevolence, now on old Batchgrew with lofty disgust, and now on Louis Fores with unquiet curiosity and delicious apprehension.

She gave a little shudder of fright and instantly controlled it–Mrs. Maldon, instead of being asleep, was looking at her. She rose and went to the bedside and stood over the sick woman, by the pillow, benignly, asking with her eyes what desire of the sufferer’s she might fulfil. And Mrs. Maldon looked up at her with another benignity. And they both smiled.

“You’ve slept very well,” said Rachel softly.

Mrs. Maldon, continuing to smile, gave a scarcely perceptible affirmative movement of the head.

“Will you have some of your Revalenta? I’ve only got to warm it, here. Everything’s ready.”

“Nothing, thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Maldon, in a firm, matter-of-fact voice.

The doctor had left word that food was not to be forced on her.

“Do you feel better?”

Mrs. Maldon answered, in a peculiar tone–

“My dear, I shall never feel any better than I do now.”

“Oh, you mustn’t talk like that!” said Rachel in gay protest.

“I want to talk to you, Rachel,” said Mrs. Maldon, once more reassuringly matter-of-fact. “Sit down there.”

Rachel obediently perched herself on the bed, and bent her head. And her face, which was now much closer to Mrs. Maldon’s, expressed the gravity which Mrs. Maldon would wish, and also the affectionate condescension of youth towards age, and of health towards infirmity. And as almost unconsciously she exulted in her own youth, and strength, delicate little poniards of tragic grief for Mrs. Maldon’s helpless and withered senility seemed to stab through that personal pride. The shiny, veined right hand of the old woman emerged from under the bedclothes and closed with hot, fragile grasp on Rachel’s hand.

Within the impeccable orderliness of the bedroom was silence; and beyond was the vast Sunday afternoon silence of the district, producing the sensation of surcease, re-creating the impressive illusion of religion even out of the brutish irreligion that was bewailed from pulpits to empty pews in all the temples of all the Five Towns. Only the smoke waving slowly through the clean-washed sky from a few high chimneys over miles of deserted manufactories made a link between Saturday and Monday.

“I’ve something I want to say to you,” said Mrs. Maldon, in that deceptive matter-of-fact voice. “I wanted to tell you yesterday afternoon, but I couldn’t. And then again last night, but I went off to sleep.”

“Yes?” murmured Rachel, duped by Mrs. Maldon’s manner into perfect security. She was thinking: “What’s the poor old thing got into her head now? Is it something fresh about the money?”

“It’s about yourself,” said Mrs. Maldon.

Rachel exclaimed impulsively–

“What about me?”

She could feel a faint vibration in Mrs. Maldon’s hand.

“I want you not to see so much of Louis.”

Rachel was shocked and insulted. She straightened her spine and threw back her head sharply. But she dared not by force withdraw her hand from Mrs. Maldon’s. Moreover, Mrs. Maldon’s clasp tightened almost convulsively.

“I suppose Mr. Batchgrew’s been up here telling tales while I was asleep,” Rachel expostulated, hotly and her demeanour was at once pouting, sulky, and righteously offended.

Mrs. Maldon was puzzled.

“This morning, do you mean, dear?” she asked.

Tears stood in Rachel’s eyes. She could not speak, but she nodded her head. And then another sentence burst from her full breast: “And you told Mrs. Tams she wasn’t to tell me Mr. Batchgrew’d called!”

“I’ve not seen or heard anything of Mr. Batchgrew,” said Mrs. Maldon. “But I did hear you and Louis talking outside last night.”

The information startled Rachel.

“Well, and what if you did, Mrs. Maldon?” she defended herself. Her foot tapped on the floor. She was obliged to defend herself, and with care. Mrs. Maldon’s tranquillity, self-control, immense age and experience, superior deportment, extreme weakness, and the respect which she inspired, compelled the girl to intrench warily, instead of carrying off the scene in one stormy outburst of resentment as theoretically she might have done.

Mrs. Maldon said, cajolingly, flatteringly–

“My dear, do be your sensible self and listen to me.”

It then occurred to Rachel that during the last day or so (the period seemed infinitely longer) she had been losing, not her common sense, but her immediate command of that faculty, of which she was, privately, very proud. And she braced her being, reaching up towards her own conception of herself, towards the old invulnerable Rachel Louisa Fleckring. At any cost she must keep her reputation for common sense with Mrs. Maldon.

And so she set a watch on her gestures, and moderated her voice, secretly yielding to the benevolence of the old lady, and said, in the tone of a wise and kind woman of the world and an incarnation of profound sagacity–

“What do I see of Mr. Fores, Mrs. Maldon? I see nothing of Mr. Fores, or hardly. I’m your lady help, and he’s your nephew–at least, he’s your great-nephew, and it’s your house he comes to. I can’t help being in the house, can I? If you’re thinking about last night, well, Mr. Fores called to see how you were getting on, and I was just going out to do some shopping. He walked down with me. I suppose I needn’t tell you I didn’t ask him to walk down with me. He asked me. I couldn’t hardly say no, could I? And there were some parcels and he walked back with me.”

She felt so wise and so clever and the narrative seemed so entirely natural, proper, and inevitable that she was tempted to continue–

“And supposing we _did_ go into a cinematograph for a minute or two–what then?”

But she had no courage for the confession. As a wise woman she perceived the advisability of letting well alone. Moreover, she hated confessions, remorse, and gnashing of teeth.

And Mrs. Maldon regarded her worldly and mature air, with its touch of polite condescension, as both comic and tragic, and thought sadly of all the girl would have to go through before the air of mature worldliness which she was now affecting could become natural to her.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Maldon, “I have perfect confidence in you.” It was not quite true, because Rachel’s protest as to Mr. Batchgrew, seeming to point to strange concealed incidents, had most certainly impaired the perfection of Mrs. Maiden’s confidence in Rachel.

Rachel considered that she ought to pursue her advantage, and in a voice light and yet firm, good-natured and yet restive, she said–

“I really don’t think anybody has the right to talk to me about Mr. Fores…. No, truly I don’t.”

“You mustn’t misunderstand me, Rachel,” Mrs. Maldon replied, and her other hand crept out, and stroked Rachel’s captive hand. “I am only saying to you what it is my duty to say to you–or to any other young woman that comes to live in my house. You’re a young woman, and Louis is a young man. I’m making no complaint. But it’s my duty to warn you against my nephew.”

“But, Mrs. Maldon, I didn’t know either him or you a month ago!”

Mrs. Maldon, ignoring the interruption, proceeded quietly–

“My nephew is not to be trusted.”

Her aged face slowly flushed as in that single brief sentence she overthrew the grand principle of a lifetime. She who never spoke ill of anybody had spoken ill of one of her own family.

“But–” Rachel stopped. She was frightened by the appearance of the flush on those devastated yellow cheeks, and by a quiver in the feeble voice and in the clasping hand. She could divine the ordeal which Mrs. Maldon had set herself and through which she had passed. Mrs. Maldon carried conviction, and in so doing she inspired awe. And on the top of all Rachel felt profoundly and exquisitely flattered by the immolation of Mrs. Maiden’s pride.

“The money–it has something to do with that!” thought Rachel.

“My nephew is not to be trusted,” said Mrs. Maldon again. “I know all his good points. But the woman who married him would suffer horribly–horribly!”

“I’m so sorry you’ve had to say this,” said Rachel, very kindly. “But I assure you that there’s nothing at all, nothing whatever, between Mr. Fores and me.” And in that instant she genuinely believed that there was not. She accepted Mrs. Maldon’s estimate of Louis. And further, and perhaps illogically, she had the feeling of having escaped from a fatal danger. She expected Mrs. Maldon to agree eagerly that there was nothing between herself and Louis, and to reiterate her perfect confidence. But, instead, Mrs. Maldon, apparently treating Rachel’s assurance as negligible, continued with an added solemnity–

“I shall only live a little while longer–a very little while.” The contrast between this and her buoyant announcement on the previous day that she was not going to die just yet was highly disturbing, but Rachel could not protest or even speak. “A very little while!” repeated Mrs. Maldon reflectively. “I’ve not known you long–as you say–Rachel. But I’ve never seen a girl I liked more, if you don’t mind me telling you. I’ve never seen a girl I thought better of. And I don’t think I could die in peace if I thought Louis was going to cause you any trouble after I’m gone. No, I couldn’t die in peace if I thought that.”

And Rachel, intimately moved, thought: “She has saved me from something dreadful!” (Without trying to realize precisely from what.) “How splendid she is!”

And she cast out from her mind all the multitudinous images of Louis Fores that were there. And, full of affection, and flattered pride and gratitude and childlike admiration, she bent down and rewarded the old woman who had so confided in her with a priceless girlish kiss. And she had the sensation of beginning a new life.

III

And yet, a few moments later, when Mrs. Maldon faintly murmured, “Some one at the front door,” Rachel grew at once uneasy, and the new life seemed an illusion–either too fine to be true or too leaden to be desired; and she was swaying amid uncertainties. Perhaps Louis was at the front door. He had not yet called; but surely he was bound to call some time during the day! Of the dozen different Rachels in Rachel, one adventurously hoped that he would come, and another feared that he would come; one ruled him sharply out of the catalogue of right-minded persons, and another was ready passionately to defend him.

“I think not,” said Rachel.

“Yes, dear; I heard some one,” Mrs. Maldon insisted.

Mrs. Maldon, long practised in reconstructing the life of the street from trifling hints of sound heard in bed, was not mistaken. Rachel, opening the door of the bedroom, caught the last tinkling of the front-door bell below. On the other side of the front door somebody was standing–Louis Fores, or another!

“It may be the doctor,” she said brightly, as she left the bedroom. The coward in her wanted it to be the doctor. But, descending the stairs, she could see plainly through the glass that Louis himself was at the front door. The Rachel that feared was instantly uppermost in her. She was conscious of dread. From the breathless sinking within her bosom the stairs might have been the deck of a steamer pitching in a heavy sea.

She thought–

“Here is the Louis to whom I am indifferent. There is nothing between us, really. But shall I have strength to open the door to him?”

She opened the door, with the feeling that the act was tremendous and irrevocable.

The street, in the Sabbatic sunshine, was as calm as at midnight. Louis Fores, stiff and constrained, stood strangely against the background of it. The unusualness of his demeanour, which was plain to the merest glance, increased Rachel’s agitation. It appeared to Rachel that the two of them faced each other like wary enemies. She tried to examine his face in the light of Mrs. Maldon’s warning, as though it were the face of a stranger; but without much success.

“Is auntie well enough for me to see her?” asked Louis, without greeting or preliminary of any sort. His voice was imperfectly under control.

Rachel replied curtly–

“I dare say she is.”

To herself she said–

“Of course if he’s going to sulk about last night–well, he must sulk. Really and truly he got much less than he deserved. He had no business at all to have suggested me going to the cinematograph with him. The longer he sulks the better I shall be pleased.”

And in fact she was relieved at his sullenness. She tossed her proud head, but with primness. And she fervently credited to the full Mrs. Maldon’s solemn insinuations against the disturber.

Louis hesitated a second, then stepped in. Rachel marched processionally upstairs, and with the detachment of a footman announced to Mrs. Maldon that Mr. Fores waited below. “Oh, please bring him up,” said Mrs. Maldon, with a mild and casual benevolence that surprised the girl; for Rachel, in the righteous ferocity of her years, vaguely thought that an adverse moral verdict ought to be swiftly followed by something in the nature of annihilation.

“Will you please come up,” she invited Louis, from the head of the stairs, adding privately–“I can be as stiff as you can–and stiffer. How mistaken I was in you!”

She preceded him into the bedroom, and then with ostentatious formality left aunt and nephew together. Nobody should ever say any more that she encouraged the attentions of Louis Fores.

“What is the matter, dear?” Mrs. Maldon inquired from her bed, perceiving the signs of emotion on Louis’ face.

“Has Mr. Batchgrew been here yet?” Louis demanded.

“No. Is he coming?”

“Yes, he’s just been to my digs. Came in his car. Auntie, do you know that he’s accusing me of stealing your money–and–and–all sorts of things! I don’t want to hide anything from you. It’s true I was with Rachel at the cinematograph last night, but–“

Mrs. Maldon raised her enfeebled, shaking hand.

“Louis!” she entreated. His troubled, ingenuous face seemed to torture her.

“I know it’s a shame to bother you, auntie. But what was I to do? He’s coming up here. I only want to tell you I’ve not got your money. I’ve not stolen it. I’m absolutely innocent–absolutely. And I’ll swear it on anything you like.” His voice almost broke under the strain of its own earnestness. His plaintive eyes invoked justice and protection. Who could have doubted that he was sincere in this passionate, wistful protestation of innocence?

“Louis!” Mrs. Maldon entreated again, committing herself to naught, taking no side, but finding shelter beneath the enigmatic, appealing repetition of his name. It was the final triumph of age over crude youth. “Louis!”

IV

Rachel stood expectant and watchful in the kitchen. She was now filled with dread. She wanted to go up and waken Mrs. Tams, but was too proud. The thought had come into her mind: “His coming like this has something to do with the money. Perhaps he wasn’t sulking with me after all. Perhaps …” But what it was that she dreaded she could not have defined. And then she caught the sound of an approaching automobile. The car threw its shadow across the glazed front door, which she commanded from the kitchen, and stopped. And the front-door bell rang uncannily over her head. She opened the door to Councillor Batchgrew, whose breathing was irregular and rapid.

“Has Louis Fores been here?” Batchgrew asked.

“He’s upstairs now with Mrs. Maldon.”

Without warning, Thomas Batchgrew strode into the house and straight upstairs. His long whiskers sailed round the turn of the stairs and disappeared. Rachel was somewhat discomfited, and very resentful. But her dread was not thereby diminished. “They’ll kill the old lady between them if they don’t take care,” she thought.

The next instant Louis appeared at the head of the stairs. With astounding celerity Rachel slipped into the parlour. She could not bear to encounter him in the lobby–it was too narrow. She heard Louis come down the stairs, saw him take his hat from the oak chest and heard him open the front gate. In the lobby he had looked neither to right nor left. “How do, Ernest!” she heard him greet the amateur chauffeur-in-chief of the Batchgrew family. His footfalls on the pavement died away into the general silence of the street. Overhead she could hear old Batchgrew walking to and fro. Without reflection she went upstairs and hovered near the door of Mrs. Maldon’s bedroom. She said to herself that she was not eavesdropping. She listened, while pretending not to listen, but there was no sign of conversation within the room. And then she very distinctly heard old Batchgrew exclaim–

“And they go gallivanting off together to the cinema!”

Upon which ensued another silence.

Rachel flushed with shame, fury, and apprehension. She hated Batchgrew, and Louis, and all gross masculine invaders.

The mysterious silence within the room persisted. And then old Batchgrew violently opened the door and glared at Rachel. He showed no surprise at seeing her there on the landing.

“Ye’d better keep an eye on missis,” he said gruffly. “She’s gone to sleep seemingly.”

And with no other word he departed.

Before the car had given its warning hoot Rachel was at Mrs. Maldon’s side. The old lady lay in all tranquillity on her left arm. She was indeed asleep, or she was in a stupor, and the peculiar stertorous noise of her breathing had recommenced.

Rachel’s vague dread vanished as she gazed at the worn features, and gave place to a new and definite fright.

“They have killed her!” she muttered.

And she ran into the next room and called Mrs. Tams.

“Who’s below?” asked Mrs. Tarns, as, wide awake, she came out on to the landing.

“Nobody,” said Rachel. “They’ve gone.”

But the doctor was below. Mr. Batchgrew had left the front door open.

“What a good thing!” cried Rachel.

In the bedroom Dr. Yardley, speaking with normal loudness, just as though Mrs. Maldon had not been present, said to Rachel–

“I expected this this morning. There’s nothing to be done. If you try to give her food she’ll only get it into the lung. It’s very improbable that she’ll regain consciousness.”

“But are you sure, doctor?” Rachel asked.

The doctor answered grimly–

“No, I’m not–I’m never sure. She _may_ recover.”

“She’s been rather disturbed this afternoon.”

The doctor lifted his shoulders.

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” said he. “As I told you, she’s had an embolus in one artery of the brain. It lessened at first for a bit–they do sometimes–and now it’s enlarging, that’s all. Nothing external could affect it either way.”

“But how long–?” asked Rachel, recoiling.

V

Her chief sensation that evening was that she was alone, for Mrs. Tams was not a companion, but a slave. She was alone with a grave and strange responsibility, which she could not evade. Indeed, events had occurred in such a manner as to make her responsibility seem natural and inevitable, to give it the sanction of the most correct convention. Between 4.30 and 6 in the afternoon four separate calls of inquiry had been made at the house, thus demonstrating Mrs. Maldon’s status in the town. One lady had left a fine bunch of grapes. To all these visitors Rachel had said the same things, namely, that Mrs. Maldon had been better on the Saturday, but was worse; that the case was very serious; that the doctor had been twice that day and was coming again, that Councillor Batchgrew was fully informed and had seen the patient; that Mr. Louis Fores, Mrs. Maldon’s only near relative in England, was constantly in and out; that she herself had the assistance of Mrs. Tams, who was thoroughly capable, and that while she was much obliged for offers of help, she could think of no way of utilizing them.

So that when the door closed on the last of the callers, Rachel, who a month earlier had never even seen Mrs. Maldon, was left in sole rightful charge of the dying-bed. And there was no escape for her. She could not telegraph–the day being Sunday. Moreover, except Thomas Batchgrew, there was nobody to whom she might telegraph. And she did not want Mr. Batchgrew. Though Mr. Batchgrew certainly had not guessed the relapse, she felt no desire whatever to let him have news. She hated his blundering intrusions; and in spite of the doctor’s statements she would insist to herself that he and Louis between them had somehow brought about the change in Mrs. Maldon. Of course she might fetch Louis. She did not know his exact address, but he could be discovered. At any rate, Mrs. Tams might be sent for him. But she could not bring herself to make any advance towards Louis.

At a little after six o’clock, when the rare chapel-goers had ceased to pass, and the still rarer church-goers were beginning to respond to distant bells, Mrs. Tams informed her that tea was ready for her in the parlour, and she descended and took tea, utterly alone. Mrs. Tams had lighted the fire, and had moved the table comfortably towards the fire–act of astounding initiative and courage, in itself a dramatic proof that Mrs. Maldon no longer reigned at Bycars. Tea finished, Rachel returned to the sick-room, where there was nothing whatever to do except watch the minutes recede. She thought of her father and brother in America.

Then Mrs. Tams, who had been clearing away the tea-things, came into the bedroom and said–

“Here’s Mr. Fores, miss.”

Rachel started.

“Mr. Fores! What does he want?” she asked querulously.

Mrs. Tams preserved her blandness.

“He asked for you, miss.”

“Didn’t he ask how Mrs. Maldon is?”

“No, miss.”

“Well, I don’t want to see him. You might run down and tell him what the doctor said, Mrs. Tams.” She tried to make her voice casually persuasive.

“Shall I, miss?” said Miss Tams doubtfully, and turned to the door.

Rachel was again full of fear and resentment. Louis had committed the infamy of luring her into the cinematograph. It was through him that she had “got herself talked about.” Mrs. Maldon’s last words had been a warning against him. He and Mr. Batchgrew had desecrated the sick-room with their mysterious visitations. And now Louis was come again. From what catastrophes had not Mrs. Maldon’s warning saved her!

“Here! I’ll go,” said Rachel, in a sudden resolve.

“I’m glad on it,” said Mrs. Tams simply.

In the parlour Louis stood in front of the fire. Although the blinds were drawn, the gas had not been lighted; but the fire and the powerful street lamp together sufficed to give clearness to every object in the room. The table had been restored to its proper situation. The gift of grapes ornamented the sideboard.

“Good-evening,” said Rachel sullenly, as if pouting. She avoided looking at Louis, and sat down on the Chesterfield.

Louis broke forth in a cascade of words–

“I say, I’m most awfully sorry. I hadn’t the faintest notion this afternoon she was any worse–not the faintest. Otherwise I shouldn’t have dreamt–I met the doctor just now in Moorthorne Road, and he told me.”

“What did he tell you?” asked Rachel, still with averted head, picking at her frock.

“Well, he gave me to understand there’s very little hope, and nothing to be done. If I’d had the faintest notion–“

“You needn’t worry about that,” said Rachel. “Your coming made no difference. The doctor said so.” And she asked herself why she should go out of her way to reassure Louis. It would serve him right to think that his brusque visit, with Mr. Batchgrew’s, was the origin of the relapse.

“Is there any change?” Louis asked.

Rachel shook her head “No,” she said. “We just have to sit and watch.”

“Doctor’s coming in again to-night, isn’t he?”

Rachel nodded.

“It seems it’s an embolus.”

Rachel nodded once more. She had still no conception of what an embolus was; but she naturally assumed that Louis could define an embolus with exactitude.

“I say,” said Louis, and his voice was suddenly charged with magical qualities of persuasion, entreaty, and sincerity–“I say, you might look at me.”

She flushed, but she looked up at him. She might have sat straight and remarked: “Mr. Fores, what do you mean by talking to me like that?” But she raised her eyes and her crimson cheeks for one timid instant, and dropped them. His voice had overcome her. With a single phrase, with a mere inflection, he had changed the key of the interview. And the glance at him had exposed her to the appeal of his face, more powerful than ten thousand logical arguments and warnings. His face proved that he was a sympathetic, wistful, worried fellow-creature–and miraculously, uniquely handsome. His face in the twilight was the most romantic face that Rachel had ever seen. His gestures had a celestial charm.

He said–

“I know I ought to apologize for the way I came in this afternoon. I do. But if you knew what cause I had …! Would you believe that old Batch had come to my place, and practically accused me of stealing the old lady’s money–_stealing_ it!”

“Never!” Rachel murmured.

“Yes, he did. The fact is, he knew jolly well he’d no business to have left it in the house that night, so he wanted to get out of it by making _me_ suffer. You know he’s always been down on me. Well, I came straight up here and I told auntie. Of course I couldn’t make a fuss, with her ill in bed. So I simply told her I hadn’t got her money and I hadn’t stolen it, and I left it at that. I thought the less said the better. But I had to say that much. I wonder what Julian would have said if he’d been accused. I just wonder!” He repeated the word, queerly evocative: “Julian!”

“What did Mrs. Maldon say?” Rachel asked.

“Well, she didn’t say much. She believed me, naturally. And then old Batch came. I wasn’t going to have a regular scene with him up there, so I left. I thought that was the only dignified thing to do. I wanted to tell you, and I’ve told you. Don’t you think it’s a shame?”

Rachel answered passionately–

“I do.”

She answered thus because she had a tremendous desire to answer thus. To herself she said: “Do I?… Yes, I do.” Louis’ eyes drew sympathy out of her. It seemed to her to be of the highest importance that those appealing eyes should not appeal in vain.

“Item, he made a fearful fuss about you and me being at the cinema last night.”

“I should like to know what it’s got to do with him!” said Rachel, almost savagely. The word “item” puzzled her. Not understanding it, she thought she had misheard.

“That’s what I thought, too,” said Louis, and added, very gravely: “At the same time I’m really awfully sorry. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have asked you. It was my fault. But old Batch would make the worst of anything.”

Rachel replied with feverish conviction–

“Mr. Batchgrew ought to be ashamed. You weren’t to blame, and I won’t hear of it!”

Louis started forward with a sudden movement of the left arm.

“You’re magnificent,” he said, with emotion.

Rachel trembled, and shut her eyes. She heard his voice again, closer to her, repeating with even greater emotion: “You’re magnificent.” Tears were in her eyes. Through them she looked at him. And his form was so graceful, his face so nice, so exquisitely kind and lovable and loving, that her admiration became intense, even to the point of pain. She thought of Batchgrew, not with hate, but with pity. He was a monster, but he could not help it. He alone was responsible for all slanders against Louis. He alone had put Mrs. Maldon against Louis. Louis was obviously the most innocent of beings. Mrs. Maiden’s warning, “The woman who married him would suffer horribly,” was manifestly absurd. “Suffer horribly”–what a stinging phrase, like a needle broken in a wound! She felt tired and weak, above all tired of loneliness.

His hand was on hers. She trembled anew. She was not Rachel, but some new embodiment of surrender and acquiescence. And the change was delicious, fearful…. She thought: “I could die for him.” She forgot that a few minutes before she had been steeling herself against him. She wanted him to kiss her, and waited an eternity. And when he had kissed her, and she was in a maze of rapture, a tiny idea shaped itself clearly in her mind for an instant: “This is wrong. But I don’t care. He is mine”–and then melted like a cloud in a burning sky. And a sense of the miraculousness of destiny overcame her. In two days had happened enough for two years. It was staggering to think that only two days earlier she had been dreaming of him as of a star. Could so much, indeed, happen in two days? She imagined blissfully, in her ignorance of human experience, that her case was without precedent. Nay, her case appalled her in the rapidity of its development! And was thereby the more thrilling! She thought again: “Yes, I could die for him–and I would!” He was still the star, but–such was the miracle–she clasped him.

They heard Mrs. Tams knocking at the door. Nothing would ever cure the charwoman’s habit of knocking before entering. Rachel arose from the sofa as out of a bush of blossoms. And in the artless, honest glance of her virginity and her simplicity, her eyes seemed to say to Mrs. Tams: “Behold the phoenix among men! He is to be my husband.” Her pride in the strange, wondrous, incredible state of being affianced was tremendous, to the tragic point.

“Can ye hear, begging yer pardon?” said Mrs. Tams, pointing through the open door and upward. “Her’s just begun to breathe o’ that’n [like that].”

The loud, stertorous sound of Mrs. Maldon unconsciously drawing the final breaths of life filled the whole house. Louis and Rachel glanced at each other, scared, shamed, even horrified, to discover that the vast pendulum of the universe was still solemnly ticking through their ecstasy.

“I’m coming,” said Rachel.

CHAPTER IX

THE MARRIED WOMAN

I

Wonderful things happen. If anybody had foretold to Mrs. Tams that in her fifty-eighth year she would accede to the honourable order of the starched white cap, Mrs. Tams could not have credited the prophecy. But there she stood, in the lobby of the house at Bycars, frocked in black, with the strings of a plain but fine white apron stretched round her stoutness, and the cap crowning her grey hair. It was Louis who had insisted on the cap, which Rachel had thought unnecessary and even snobbish, and which Mrs. Tams had nervously deprecated. Not without pleasure, however, had both women yielded to his indeed unanswerable argument: “You can’t possibly have a servant opening the door without a cap. It’s unthinkable.”

Thus in her latter years of grandmotherhood had Mrs. Tams cast off the sackcloth of the charwoman and become a glorious domestic servant, with a room of her own in the house, and no responsibilities beyond the house, and no right to leave the house save once a week, when she visited younger generations, who still took from her and gave nothing back. She owed the advancement to Rachel, who, quite unused to engaging servants, and alarmed by harrowing stories of the futility of registry offices and advertisements, had seen in Mrs. Tams the comfortable solution of a fearful problem. Louis would have preferred a younger, slimmer, nattier, fluffier creature than Mrs. Tams, but was ready to be convinced that such as he wanted lived only in his fancy. Moreover, he liked Mrs. Tams, and would occasionally flatter her by a smack on the shoulder.

So in the April dusk Mrs. Tams stood in the windy lobby, and was full of vanity and the pride of life. She gazed forth in disdain at the little crowd of inquisitive idlers and infants that remained obstinately on the pavement hoping against hope that the afternoon’s marvellous series of social phenomena was not over. She scorned the slatternly, stupid little crowd for its lack of manners. Yet she ought to have known, and she did know as well as any one, that though in Bursley itself people will pretend out of politeness that nothing unusual is afoot when something unusual most obviously _is_ afoot, in the small suburbs of Bursley, such as Bycars, no human or divine power can prevent the populace from loosing its starved curiosity openly upon no matter what spectacle that may differ from the ordinary. Alas! Mrs. Tams in the past had often behaved even as the simple members of that crowd. Nevertheless, all ceremonies being over, she shut the front door with haughtiness, feeling glad that she was not as others are. And further, she was swollen and consequential because, without counting persons named Batchgrew, two visitors had come in a motor, and because at one supreme moment no less than two motors (including a Batchgrew motor) had been waiting together at the curb in front of her cleaned steps. Who could have foreseen this arrant snobbishness in the excellent child of nature, Mrs. Tams?

A far worse example of spiritual iniquity sat lolling on the Chesterfield in the parlour. Ignorance and simplicity and a menial imitativeness might be an excuse for Mrs. Tams; but not for Rachel, the mistress, the omniscient, the all-powerful, the giver of good, who could make and unmake with a nod. Rachel sitting gorgeous on the Chesterfield amid an enormous twilit welter and litter of disarranged chairs and tables; empty teapots, cups, jugs, and glasses; dishes of fragmentary remains of cake and chocolate; plates smeared with roseate ham, sticky teaspoons, loaded ash-trays, and a large general crumby mess–Rachel, the downright, the contemner of silly social prejudices and all nonsense, was actually puffed up because she had a servant in a cap and because automobiles had deposited elegant girls at her door and whirled them off again. And she would have denied it and yet was not ashamed.

The sole extenuation of Rachel’s base worldliness was that during the previous six months she had almost continuously had the sensations of a person crossing Niagara on a tight-rope, and that now, on this very day, she had leaped to firm ground and was accordingly exultant. After Mrs. Maldon’s death she had felt somehow guilty of disloyalty; she passionately regretted having had no opportunity to assure the old lady that her suspicions about Louis were wrong and cruel, and to prove to her in some mysterious way the deep rightness of the betrothal. She blushed only for the moment of her betrothal. She had solemnly bound Louis to keep the betrothal secret until Christmas. She had laid upon both of them a self-denying ordinance as to meeting. The funeral over, she was without a home. She wished to find another situation; Louis would not hear of it. She contemplated a visit to her father and brother in America. In response to a letter, her brother sent her the exact amount of the steerage fare, and, ready to accept it, she was astounded at Louis’ fury against her brother and at the accent with which he had spit out the word “steerage.” Her brother and father had gone steerage. However, she gave way to Louis, chiefly because she could not bear to leave him even for a couple of months. She was lodging at Knype, at a total normal expense of ten shillings a week. She possessed over fifty pounds–enough to keep her for six months and to purchase a trousseau, and not one penny would she deign to receive from her affianced.

The disclosure of Mrs. Maldon’s will increased the delicacy of her situation. Mrs. Maldon had left the whole of her property in equal shares to Louis and Julian absolutely. There were others who by blood had an equal claim upon her with these two, but the rest had been mere names to her, and she had characteristically risen above the conventionalism of heredity. Mr. Batchgrew, the executor, was able to announce that in spite of losses the heirs would get over three thousand five hundred pounds apiece. Hence it followed that Rachel would be marrying for money as well as for position! She trembled when the engagement was at length announced. And when Louis, after consultation with Mr. Batchgrew, pointed out that it would be advantageous not merely to the estate as a whole, but to himself and to her, if he took over the house at Bycars and its contents at a valuation and made it their married home, she at first declined utterly. The scheme seemed sacrilegious to her. How could she dare to be happy in that house where Mrs. Maldon had died, in that house which was so intimately Mrs. Maldon’s? But the manifold excellences of the scheme, appealing strongly to her common sense, overcame her scruples. The dead are dead; the living must live, and the living must not be morbid; it would be absurd to turn into a pious monument every house which death has emptied; Mrs. Maldon, had she known all the circumstances, would have been only too pleased, etc., etc. The affair was settled, and grew into public knowledge.

Rachel had to emerge upon the world as an engaged girl. Left to herself she would have shunned all formalities; but Louis, bred up in Barnes, knew what was due to society. Naught was omitted. Louis’ persuasiveness could not be withstood. Withal, he was so right. And though Rachel in one part of her mind had a contempt for “fuss,” in another she liked it and was half ashamed of liking it. Further, her common sense, of which she was still proud, told her that the delicacy of her situation demanded “fuss,” and would be much assuaged thereby. And finally, the whole thing, being miraculous, romantic, and incredible, had the quality of a dream through which she lived in a dazed nonchalance. Could it be true that she had resided with Mrs. Maldon only for a month? Could it be true that her courtship had lasted only two days–or at most, three? Never, she thought, had a sensible, quiet girl ridden such a whirlwind before in the entire history of the world. Could Louis be as foolishly fond of her as he seemed? Was she truly to be married? “I shan’t have a single wedding-present,” she had said. Then wedding-presents began to come. “Are we married?” she had said, when they were married and in the conventional clothes in the conventional vehicle. After that she soon did realize that the wondrous and the unutterable had happened to her too. And she swung over to the other extreme: instead of doubting the reality of her own experiences, she was convinced that her experiences were more real than those of any other created girl, and hence she felt a slight condescension towards all the rest. “I am a married woman,” she reflected at intervals, with intense momentary pride. And her fits of confusion in public would end in recurrences of this strange, proud feeling.

Then she had to face the return to Bursley, and, later, the At Home which Louis propounded as a matter of course, and which she knew to be inevitable. The house was her toy, and Mrs. Tams was her toy. But the glee of playing with toys had been overshadowed for days by the delicious dread of the At Home. “It will be the first caller that will kill me,” she had said. “But will anybody really come?” And the first caller had called. And, finding herself still alive, she had become radiant, and often during the afternoon had forgotten to be clumsy. The success of the At Home was prodigious, startling. Now and then when the room was full, and people without chairs perched on the end of the Chesterfield, she had whispered to her secret heart in a tiny, tiny voice: “These are my guests. They all treat me with special deference. I am the hostess. _I am Mrs. Fores_.” The Batchgrew clan was well represented, no doubt by order from authority, Mrs. Yardley came, in surprising stylishness. Visitors arrived from Knype. Miss Malkin came and atoned for her historic glance in the shop. But the dazzlers were sundry male friends of Louis, with Kensingtonian accents, strange phrases, and assurance in the handling of teacups and the choosing of cake…. One by one and two by two they had departed, and at last Rachel, with a mind as it were breathless from rapid flittings to and fro, was seated alone on the sofa.

She was richly dressed in a dark blue taffeta dress that gave brilliance to her tawny hair. Perhaps she was over-richly dressed, for, like many girls who as a rule are not very interested in clothes, she was too interested in them at times, and inexperienced taste was apt to mislead her into an unfitness. Also her figure was too stiff and sturdy to favour elegance. But on this occasion the general effect of her was notably picturesque, and her face and hair, and the expression of her pose, atoned in their charm for the shortcomings and the luxuriance of the frock. She was no more the Rachel that Mrs. Maldon had known and that Louis had first kissed. Her glance had altered, and her gestures. She would ask herself, could it be true that she was a married woman? But her glance and gestures announced it true at every instant. A new languor and a new confidence had transformed the girl. Her body had been modified and her soul at once chastened and fired. Fresh in her memory was endless matter for meditation. And on the sofa, in a negligent attitude of repose, with shameless eyes gazing far into the caverns of the fire, and an unreadable faint smile on her face, she meditated. And she was the most seductive, tantalizing, self-contradictory object for study in the whole of Bursley. She had never been so interesting as in this brief period, and she might never be so interesting again.

Mrs. Tams entered. With her voice Mrs. Tams said, “Shall I begin to clear all these things away, _mam_?” But with her self-conscious eyes Mrs. Tams said to the self-conscious eyes of Rachel, “What a staggering world we live in, don’t we?”

II

Rachel sprang from the Chesterfield, smoothed down her frock, shook her hair, and then ran upstairs to the large front bedroom, where Louis, to whom the house was just as much a toy as to Rachel, was about to knock a nail into a wall. Out of breath, she stood close to him very happily. The At Home was over. She was now definitely received as a married woman in a town full of married women and girls waiting to be married women. She had passed successfully through a trying and exhausting experience; the nervous tension was slackened. And therefore it might be expected that she would have a sense of reaction, the vague melancholy which is produced when that which has long been seen before is suddenly seen behind. But it was not so in the smallest degree. Every moment of her existence equally was thrilling and happy. One piquant joy was succeeded immediately by another as piquant. To Rachel it was not in essence more exciting to officiate at an At Home than to watch Louis drive a nail into a wall.

The man winked at her in the dusk; she winked back, and put her hand intimately on his shoulder. She thought, “I am safe with him now in the house.” The feeling of solitude with him, of being barricaded against the world and at the mercy of Louis alone, was exquisite to her. Then Louis raised himself on his toes, and raised his left arm with the nail as high as he could, and stuck the point of the nail against a pencil-mark on the wall. Then he raised the right hand with the hammer; but the mark was just too high to be efficiently reached by both hands simultaneously. Louis might have stood on a chair. This simple device, however, was too simple for them.

Rachel said–

“Shall I stand on a chair and hold the nail for you?” Louis murmured–

“Brainy little thing! Never at a loss!”

She skipped on to a chair and held the nail. Towering thus above him, she looked down on her husband and thought: “This man is mine alone, and he is all mine.” And in Rachel’s fancy the thought itself seemed to caress Louis from head to foot.

“Supposing I catch you one?” said Louis, as he prepared to strike.

“I don’t care,” said Rachel.

And the fact was that really she would have liked him to hit her finger instead of the nail–not too hard, but still smartly. She would have taken pleasure in the pain: such was the perversity of the young wife. But Louis hit the nail infallibly every time.

He took up a picture which had been lying against the wall in a dark corner, and thrust the twisting wire of it over the nail.

Rachel, when in the deepening darkness she had peered into the frame, exclaimed, pouting–

“Oh, darling, you aren’t going to hang that here, are you? It’s so old-fashioned. You said it was old-fashioned yourself. I did want that thing that came this morning to be put somewhere here. Why can’t you stick this in the spare room?… Unless, of course, you _prefer_….” She was being deferential to the art-expert in him, as well as to the husband.

“Not in the least!” said Louis, acquiescent, and unhooked the picture.

Taste changes. The rejected of Rachel was a water-colour by the late Athelstan Maldon, adored by Mrs. Maldon. Already it had been degraded from the parlour to the bedroom, and now it was to be pushed away like a shame into obscurity. It was a view of the celebrated Vale of Llangollen, finicking, tight, and hard in manner, but with a certain sentiment and modest skill. The way in which the initials “A.M.” had been hidden amid the foreground foliage in the left-hand corner disclosed enough of the painter’s quiet and proud temperament to show that he “took after” his mother. Yet a few more years, and the careless observer would miss those initials altogether and would be contemptuously inquiring, “Who did this old daub, I wonder?” And nobody would know who did the old daub, or that the old daub for thirty years had been an altar for undying affection, and also a distinguished specimen–admired by a whole generation of townsfolk–of the art of water-colour.

And the fate of Athelstan’s sketch was symptomatic. Mrs. Maiden’s house had been considered perfect, up to the time of her death. Rachel had at first been even intimidated by it; Louis had sincerely praised it. And indeed its perfection was an axiom of drawing-room conversation. But as soon as Louis and Rachel began to look on the house with the eye of inhabitants, the axiom fell to a dogma, and the dogma was exploded. The dreadful truth came out that Mrs. Maldon had shown a strange indifference to certain aspects of convenience, and that, in short, she must have been a peculiar old lady with ideas of her own. Louis proved unanswerably that in the hitherto faultless parlour the furniture was ill arranged, and suddenly the sideboard and the Chesterfield had changed places, and all concerned had marvelled that Mrs. Maldon had for so long kept the Chesterfield where so obviously the sideboard ought to have been, and the sideboard where so obviously the Chesterfield ought to have been.

And still graver matters had come to light. The house had an attic floor, which was unused and the scene of no activity except spring cleaning. A previous owner, infected by the virus of modernity, had put a bath into one of the attics. Now Mrs. Maldon, as experiments disclosed, had actually had the water cut off from the bath. Eyebrows were lifted at the revelation of this caprice. The restoration of the supply of water and the installing of a geyser were the only expenditures which thrifty Rachel had sanctioned in the way of rejuvenating the house. Rachel had decided that the house must, at any rate for the present, be “made to do.” That such a decision should be necessary astonished Rachel; and Mrs. Maldon would have been more than astonished to learn that the lady help, by fortitude and determination, was making her perfect house “do.” As regards the household inventory, Rachel had been obliged to admit exceptions to her rule of endurance. Perhaps her main reason for agreeing to live in the house had been that there would be no linen to buy. But truly Mrs. Maldon’s notion of what constituted a sufficiency of–for example–towels, was quite too inadequate. Louis protested that he could comfortably use all Mrs. Maldon’s towels in half a day. More towels had to be obtained. There were other shortages, but some of them were set right by means of veiled indications to prospective givers of gifts.

“You mean that ‘Garden of the Hesperides’ affair for up here, do you?” said Louis.

Rachel gazed round the bedchamber. A memory of what it had been shot painfully through her mind. For the room was profoundly changed in character. Two narrow bedsteads given by Thomas Batchgrew, and described by Mrs. Tarns, in a moment of daring, as “flighty,” had taken the place of Mrs. Maldon’s bedstead, which was now in the spare room, the spare-room bedstead having been allotted to Mrs. Tams, and Rachel’s old bedstead sold. Bright crocheted and embroidered wedding-presents enlivened the pale tones of the room. The wardrobe, washstand, dressing-table, chairs, carpet, and ottoman remained. But there were razors on the washstand and boot-trees under it; the wardrobe had been emptied, and filled on strange principles with strange raiment; and the Maldon family Bible, instead of being on the ottoman, was in the ottoman–so as to be out of the dust.

“Perhaps we may as well keep that here, after all,” said Rachel, indicating Athelsan’s water-colour. Her voice was soft. She remembered that the name of Mrs. Maldon, only a little while since a major notability of Bursley and the very mirror of virtuous renown, had been mentioned but once, and even then apologetically, during the afternoon.

Louis asked, sharply–

“Why, if you don’t care for it? _I_ don’t.”

“Well–” said Rachel. “As you like, then, dearest.”

Louis walked out of the room with the water-colour, and in a moment returned with a photogravure of Lord Leighton’s “The Garden of the Hesperides,” in a coquettish gold frame–a gift newly arrived from Louis’ connections in the United States. The marmoreal and academic work seemed wonderfully warm and original in that room at Bycars. Rachel really admired it, and admired herself for admiring it. But when Louis had hung it and flicked it into exact perpendicularity, and they had both exclaimed upon its brilliant effect even in the dusk, Rachel saw it also with the eyes of Mrs. Maldon, and wondered what Mrs. Maldon would have thought of it opposite her bed, and knew what Mrs. Maldon would have thought of it.

And then, the job being done and the progress of civilization assured, Louis murmured in a new appealing voice–

“I say, Louise!”

“Louise” was perhaps his most happy invention, and the best proof that Louis was Louis. Upon hearing that her full Christian names were Rachel Louisa, he had instantly said–“I shall call you Louise.” Rachel was ravished, Louisa is a vulgar name–at least it is vulgar in the Five Towns, where every second general servant bears it. But Louise was full of romance, distinction, and beauty. And it was the perfect complement to Louis. Louis and Louise–ideal coincidence! “But nobody except me is to call you Louise,” he had added. And thus completed her bliss.

“What?” she encouraged him amorously.

“Suppose we go to Llandudno on Saturday for the week-end?”

His tone was gay, gentle, innocent, persuasive. Yet the words stabbed her and her head swam.

“But why?” she asked, controlling her utterance.

“Oh, well! Be rather a lark, wouldn’t it?” It was when he talked in this strain that the inconvenient voice of sagacity within her would question for one agonizing instant whether she was more secure as the proud, splendid wife of Louis Fores than she had been as a mere lady help. And the same insistent voice would repeat the warnings which she had had from Mrs. Maldon and from Thomas Batchgrew, and would remind her of what she herself had said to herself when Louis first kissed her–“This is wrong. But I don’t care. He is mine.”

Upon hearing of his inheritance from Mrs. Maldon, Louis was for throwing up immediately his situation at Horrocleave’s. Rachel had dissuaded him from such irresponsible madness. She had prevented him from running into a hundred expenses during their engagement and in connection with the house. And he had in the end enthusiastically praised her common sense. But that very morning at the midday meal he had surprised her by announcing that on account of the reception he should not go to the works at all in the afternoon, though he had omitted to warn Horrocleave. Ultimately she had managed, by guile, to dispatch him to the works for two hours. And now in the evening he was alarming her afresh. Why go to Llandudno? What point was there in rushing off to Llandudno, and scattering in three days more money than they could save in three weeks? He frightened her ingrained prudence, and her alarm was only increased by his obvious failure to realize the terrible defect in himself. (For to her it was terrible.) The joyous scheme of an excursion to Llandudno had suddenly crossed his mind, exciting the appetite for pleasure. Hence the appetite must be immediately indulged!… Rachel had been brought up otherwise. And as a direct result of Louis’ irresponsible suggestion she had a vision of the house with county-court bailiffs lodged in the kitchen…. She had only to say–“Yes, let’s go,” and they would be off on the absurd and wicked expedition.

“I’d really rather not,” she said, smiling, but serious.

“All serene. But, anyhow, next week’s Easter, and we shall have to go somewhere then, you know.”

She put her hands on his shoulders and looked close at him, knowing that she must use her power and that the heavy dusk would help her.

“Why?” she asked again. “I’d much sooner stay here at Easter. Truly I would!… With you!”

The episode ended with an embrace. She had won.

“Very well! Very well!” said Louis. “Easter in the coal-cellar if you like. I’m on for anything.”

“But don’t you _see_, dearest?” she said.

And he imitated her emphasis, full of teasing good humour–

“Yes, I _see_, dearest.”

She breathed relief, and asked–

“Are you going to give me my bicycle lesson?”

III

Louis had borrowed a bicycle for Rachel to ruin while learning to ride. He said that a friend had lent it to him–a man in Hanbridge whose mother had given up riding on account of stoutness–but who exactly this friend was Rachel knew not, Louis’ information being characteristically sketchy and incomplete; and with his air of candour and good humour he had a strange way of warding off questions; so that already Rachel had grown used to a phrase which she would utter only in her mind, “I don’t like to ask him–“

It pleased Louis to ride this bicycle out of the back yard, down the sloping entry, and then steer it through another narrow gateway, across the pavement, and let it solemnly bump, first with the front wheel and then with the back wheel, from the pavement into the road. During this feat he stood on the pedals. He turned the machine up Bycars Lane, and steadily climbed the steep at Rachel’s walking pace. And Rachel, hurrying by his side, watched in the obscurity the play of his ankles as he put into practice the principles of pedalling which he had preached. He was a graceful rider; every movement was natural and elegant. Rachel considered him to be the most graceful cyclist that ever was. She was fascinated by the revolutions of his feet.

She felt ecstatically happy. The episode of his caprice for the seaside was absolutely forgotten; after all, she asked for nothing more than possession of him, and she had that, though indeed it seemed too marvellous to be true. The bicycle lesson was her hour of magic; and more so on this night than on previous nights.

“I must change my dress,” she had said. “I can’t go in this one.”

“Quick, then!”

His impatience could not wait. He had helped her. He undid hooks, and fastened others…. The rich blue frock lay across the bed and looked lovely on the ivory-coloured counterpane. It seemed indeed to be a part of that in her which was Louise. Then she was in a short skirt which she had devised herself, and he was pushing her out of the room, his hand on her back. And she had feigned reluctance, resisting his pressure, while laughing with gleeful eagerness to be gone. No delay had been allowed. As they passed through the kitchen, not one instant for parley with Mrs. Tams as to the domestic organization of the evening! He was still pushing her…. Thus she had had to confide her precious house and its innumerable treasures to Mrs. Tams. And in this surrender to Louis’ whim there was a fearful joy.

When Louis turned at last into Park Road, and stepped from between the wheels, she exclaimed, a little breathless from quick walking level with him up the hill–

“I can’t bear to see you ride so well. Oh!” She crunched her teeth with a loving, cruel gesture. “I should like to hurt you frightfully!”

“What for?”

“Because I shall never, never be able to ride as well as you do!”

He winked.

“Here! Take hold.”

“I’m not ready! I’m not ready!” she cried.

But he loosed the machine, and she was obliged to seize it as it fell. That was his teasing.

Park Road had been the scene of the lesson for three nights. It was level, and it was unfrequented. “And the doctor’s handy in case you break your neck,” Louis had said. Dr. Yardley’s red lamp shone amicably among yellow lights, and its ray with theirs was lost in the mysterious obscurities of the closed park. Not only was it socially advisable for Rachel to study the perverse nature of the bicycle at night–for not to know how to ride the bicycle was as shameful as not to know how to read and write–but she preferred the night for the romantic feeling of being alone with Louis, in the dark and above the glow of the town. She loved the sharp night wind on her cheek, and the faint clandestine rustling of the low evergreens within the park palisade, and the invisible and almost tangible soft sky, revealed round the horizon by gleams of fire. She had longed to ride the bicycle as some girls long to follow the hunt or to steer an automobile or a yacht. And now her ambition was being attained amid all circumstances of bliss.

And yet she would shrink from beginning the lesson.

“The lamp! You’ve forgotten to light the lamp!” she said.

“Get on,” said he.

“But suppose a policeman comes?”

“Suppose you get on and start! Do you think I don’t know you? Policemen are my affair. Besides, all nice policemen are in bed…. Don’t be afraid. It isn’t alive. I’ve got hold of the thing. Sit well down. No! There are only two pedals. You seem to think there are about nineteen. Right! No, no, _no_! Don’t–do not–cling to those blooming handle-bars as if you were in a storm at sea. Be a nice little cat in front of the fire–all your muscles loose. Now! Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she murmured, with teeth set and dilated eyes staring ahead at the hideous dangers of Park Road.

He impelled. The pedals went round. The machine slid terribly forward.

And in a moment Louis said, mischievously–

“I told you you’d have to go alone to-night. There you are!”

His footsteps ceased.

“Louis!” she cried, sharply and yet sadly upbraiding his unspeakable treason. Her fingers gripped convulsively the handle-bars. She was moving alone. It was inconceivably awful and delightful. She was on the back of a wild pony in the forest. The miracle of equilibrium was being accomplished. The impossible was done, and at the first attempt. She thought very clearly how wondrous was life, and how perfectly happy fate had made her. And then she was lying in a tangle amid dozens of complex wheels, chains, and bars.

“Hurt?” shouted Louis, as he ran up.

She laughed and said “No,” and sat up stiffly, full of secret dolours. Yet he knew and she knew that the accidents of the previous two nights had covered her limbs with blue discolorations, and that the latest fall was more severe than any previous one. Her courage enchanted Louis and filled him with a sense of security. She was not graceful in these exercises. Her ankles were thick and clumsy. Not merely had she no natural aptitude for physical feats–apparently she was not lissom, nor elegant in motion. But what courage! What calm, bright endurance! What stoicism! Most girls would have reproached him for betraying them to destruction, would have pouted, complained, demanded petting and apologies. But not she! She was like a man. And when he helped her to pick herself up he noticed that after all she was both lissom and agile, and exquisitely, disturbingly girlish in her short dusty skirt; and that she did trust him and depend on him. And he realized that he was safe for life with her. She was created for him.

Work was resumed.

“Now don’t let go of me till I tell you,” she enjoined lightly.

“I won’t,” he answered. And it seemed to him that his loyalty to her expanded and filled all his soul.

Later, as she approached the other end of Park Road, near Moorthorne Road, a tram-car hurled itself suddenly down Moorthorne Road and overthrew her. It is true that the tram-car was never less than twenty yards away from her. But even at twenty yards it could overthrow. Rachel sat dazed in the road, and her voice was uncertain as she told Louis to examine the bicycle. One of the pedals was bent, and prevented the back wheel from making a complete revolution.

“It’s nothing,” said Louis. “I’ll have it right in the morning.”

“Who’s that?” Rachel, who had risen, gasping, turned to him excitedly as he was bending over the bicycle. Conscious that somebody had been standing at the corner of the street, he glanced up. A figure was moving quickly down Moorthorne Road in the direction of the station.

“I dun’no,” said he.

“It’s not Julian, is it?”

In a peculiar tone Louis replied–

“Looks like him, doesn’t it?” And then impulsively he yelled “Hi!”

The figure kept on its way.

“Seeing that the inimitable Julian’s still in South Africa, it can’t very well be him. And, anyhow, I’m not going to run after him.”

“No, of course it can’t,” Rachel assented.

Presently the returning procession was re-formed. Louis pushed the bicycle on its front wheel, and Rachel tried to help him to support the weight of the suspended part. He had attempted in vain to take the pedal off the crank.

“It’s perhaps a good thing you fell just then,” said Louis. “Because old Batch is coming in to-night, and we’d better not be late.”

“But you never told me!”

“Didn’t I? I forgot,” he said blandly.

“Oh, Louis!… He’s not coming for supper, I hope?”

“My child, if there’s a chance of a free meal, old Batch will be on the spot.”

The unaccustomed housewife foretold her approaching shame, and proclaimed Louis to be the author of it. She began to quicken her steps.

“You certainly ought to have let me know sooner, dearest,” she said seriously. “You really are terrible.”

Hard knocks had not hurt her. But she was hurt now. And Louis’ smile was very constrained. Her grave manner of saying “dearest” had disquieted him.

CHAPTER X

THE CHASM

I

It is true that Rachel held Councillor Thomas Batchgrew in hatred, that she had never pardoned him for the insult which he had put upon her in the Imperial Cinema de Luxe; and that, indeed, she could never pardon him for simply being Thomas Batchgrew. Nevertheless, there was that evening in her heart a little softening towards him. The fact was that the councillor had been flattering her. She would have denied warmly that she was susceptible to flattery; even if authoritatively informed that no human being whatever is unsusceptible to flattery, she would still have protested that she at any rate was, for, like numerous young and inexperienced women, she had persuaded herself that she was the one exception to various otherwise universal rules.

It remained that Thomas Batchgrew had been flattering her. On arrival he had greeted her with that tinge of deference which from an old man never fails to thrill a girl. Rachel’s pride as a young married woman was tigerishly alert and hungry that evening. Thomas Batchgrew, little by little, tamed and fed it very judiciously at intervals, until at length it seemed to purr content around him like a cat. The phenomenon was remarkable, and the more so in that Rachel was convinced that, whereas she was as critical and inimical as ever, old Batchgrew had slightly improved. He behaved “heartily,” and everybody appreciates such behaviour in the Five Towns. He was by nature far too insensitive to notice that the married lovers were treating each other with that finished courtesy which is the symptom of a tiff or of a misunderstanding. And the married lovers, noticing that he noticed nothing, were soon encouraged to make peace; and by means of certain tones and gestures peace was declared in the very presence of the unperceiving old brute, which was peculiarly delightful to the contracting parties.

Rachel had less difficulty with the supper than she feared, whereby also her good-humour was fostered. With half a cold leg of mutton, some cheeses, and the magnificent fancy remains of an At Home tea, arrayed with the d’oyleys and embroidered cloths which brides always richly receive in the Five Towns, a most handsome and impressive supper can be concocted. Rachel was astonished at the splendour of her own table. Mr. Batchgrew treated this supper with unsurpassable tact. The adjectives he applied to it were short and emphatic and spoken with a full mouth. He ate the supper; he kept on eating it; he passed his plate with alacrity; he refused naught. And as the meal neared its end he emitted those natural inarticulate noises from his throat which in Persia are a sign of high breeding. Useless for Rachel in her heart to call him a glutton–his attitude towards her supper was impeccable.

And now the solid part of the supper was over. One extremity of the Chesterfield had been drawn closer to the fire–an operation easily possible in its new advantageous position–and Louis as master of the house had mended the fire after his own method, and Rachel sat upright (somewhat in the manner of Mrs. Maldon) in the arm-chair opposite Mr. Batchgrew, extended half-reclining on the Chesterfield. And Mrs. Tams entered with coffee.

“You’ll have coffee, Mr. Batchgrew?” said the hostess.

“Nay, missis! I canna’ sleep after it.”

Secretly enchanted by the sweet word “missis,” Rachel was nevertheless piqued by this refusal.

“Oh, but you must have some of Louise’s coffee,” said Louis, standing negligently in front of the fire.

Already, though under a month old as a husband, Louis, following the eternal example of good husbands, had acquired the sure belief that his wife could achieve a higher degree of excellence in certain affairs than any other wife in the world. He had selected coffee as Rachel’s speciality.

“Louise’s?” repeated old Batchgrew, puzzled, in his heavy voice.

Rachel flushed and smiled.

“He calls me Louise, you know,” said she.

“Calls you Louise, does he?” Batchgrew muttered indifferently. But he took a cup of coffee, stirred part of its contents into the saucer and on to the Chesterfield, and began to sup the remainder with a prodigious splutter of ingurgitation.

“And you must have a cigarette, too,” Louis carelessly insisted. And Mr. Batchgrew agreed, though it was notorious that he only smoked once in a blue moon, because all tobacco was apt to be too strong for him.

“You can clear away,” Rachel whispered, in the frigid tones of one accustomed to command cohorts of servants in the luxury of historic castles.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Tams whispered back nervously, proud as a major-domo, though with less than a major-domo’s aplomb.

No pride, however, could have outclassed Rachel’s. She had had a full day, and the evening was the crown of the day, because in the evening she was entertaining privately for the first time. She was the one lady of the party; for these two men she represented woman, and they were her men. They depended on her for their physical well-being, and not in vain. She was the hostess; hers to command; hers the complex responsibility of the house. She had begun supper with painful timidity, but the timidity had now nearly vanished in the flush of social success. Critical as only a young wife can be, she was excellently well satisfied with Louis’ performance in the role of host. She grew more than ever sure that there was only one Louis. See him manipulate a cigarette–it was the perfection of worldliness and agreeable, sensuous grace! See him hold a match to Mr. Batchgrew’s cigarette!

Now Mr. Batchgrew smoked a cigarette clumsily. He seemed not to be able to decide whether a cigarette was something to smoke or something to eat. Mr. Batchgrew was more ungainly than ever, stretched in his characteristic attitude at an angle of forty-five degrees; his long whiskers were more absurdly than ever like two tails of a wire-haired white dog; his voice more coarsely than ever rolled about the room like undignified thunder. He was an old, old man, and a sinister. It was precisely his age that caressed Rachel’s pride. That any man so old should have come to her house for supper, should be treating her as an equal and with the directness of allusion in conversation due to a married woman but improper to a young girl–this was very sweet to Rachel. The subdued stir made by Mrs. Tams in clearing the table was for Rachel a delicious background to the scene. The one flaw in it was her short skirt, which she had not had time to change. Louis had protested that it was entirely in order, and indeed admirably coquettish, but Rachel would have preferred a long train of soft drapery disposed with art round the front of her chair.

“What you want here is electricity,” said Thomas Batchgrew, gazing at the incandescent gas; he could never miss a chance, and was never discouraged in the pursuit of his own advantage.

“You think so?” murmured Louis genially.

“I could put ye in summat as ‘u’d—-“

Rachel broke in a clear, calm decision–

“I don’t think we shall have any electricity just yet.”

The gesture of the economical wife in her was so final that old Batchgrew raised his eyebrows with a grin at Louis, and Louis humorously drew down the corners of his mouth in response. It was as if they had both said, in awe–

“She has spoken!”

And Rachel, still further flattered and happy, was obliged to smile.

When Mrs. Tams had made her last tiptoe journey from the room and closed the door with due silent respect upon those great ones, the expression of Thomas Batchgrew’s face changed somewhat; he looked round, as though for spies, and then drew a packet of papers from his pocket. And the expression of the other two faces changed also. For the true purpose of the executor’s visit was now to be made formally manifest.

“Now about this statement of account–_re_ Elizabeth Maldon, deceased,” he growled deeply.

“By the way,” Louis interrupted him. “Is Julian back?”

“Julian back? Not as I know of,” said Mr. Batchgrew aggressively. “Why?”

“We thought we saw him walking down Moorthorne Road to-night.”

“Yes,” said Rachel. “We both thought we saw him.”

“Happen he is if he aeroplaned it!” said Batchgrew, and fumbled nervously with the papers.

“It couldn’t have been Julian,” said Louis, confidently, to Rachel.

“No, it couldn’t,” said Rachel.

But neither conjured away the secret uneasiness of the other. And as for Rachel, she knew that all through the evening she had, inexplicably, been disturbed by an apprehension that Julian, after his long and strange sojourn in South Africa, had returned to the district. Why the possible advent of Julian should disconcert her, she thought she could not divine. Mr. Batchgrew’s demeanour as he answered Louis’ question mysteriously increased her apprehension. At one moment she said to herself, “Of course it wasn’t Julian.” At the next, “I’m quite sure I couldn’t be mistaken.” At the next, “And supposing it was Julian–what of it?”

II

When Batchgrew and Louis, sitting side by side on the Chesterfield, began to turn over documents and peer into columns, and carry the finger horizontally across sheets of paper in search of figures, Rachel tactfully withdrew, not from the room, but from the conversation, it being her proper role to pretend that she did not and could not understand the complicated details which they were discussing. She expected some rather dazzling revelation of men’s trained methods at this “business interview” (as Louis had announced it), for her brother and father had never allowed her the slightest knowledge of their daily affairs. But she was disappointed. She thought that both the men were somewhat absurdly and self-consciously trying to be solemn and learned. Louis beyond doubt was self-conscious–acting as it were to impress his wife–and Batchgrew’s efforts to be hearty and youthful with the young roused her private ridicule.

Moreover, nothing fresh emerged from the interview. She had known all of it before from Louis. Batchgrew was merely repeating and resuming. And Louis was listening with politeness to recitals with which he was quite familiar. In words almost identical with those already reported to her by Louis, Batchgrew insisted on the honesty and efficiency of the valuer in Hanbridge, a lifelong friend of his own, who had for a specially low fee put a price on the house at Bycars and its contents for the purpose of a division between Louis and Julian. And now, as previously with Louis, Rachel failed to comprehend how the valuer, if he had been favourably disposed towards Louis, as Batchgrew averred, could at the same time have behaved honestly towards Julian. But neither Louis nor Batchgrew seemed to realize the point. They both apparently flattered themselves with much simplicity upon the partiality of the lifelong friend and valuer for Louis, without perceiving the logical deduction that if he was partial he was a rascal. Further, Thomas Batchgrew “rubbed Rachel the wrong way” by subtly emphasizing his own marvellous abilities as a trustee and executor, and by assuring Louis repeatedly that all conceivable books of account, correspondence, and documents were open for his inspection at any time. Batchgrew, in Rachel’s opinion, might as well have said, “You naturally suspect me of being a knave, but I can prove to you that you are wrong.”

Finally, they came to the grand total of Louis’ inheritance, which Rachel had known by heart for several days past; yet Batchgrew rolled it out as a piece of tremendous news, and immediately afterwards hinted that the sum represented less than the true worth of Louis’ inheritance, and that he, Batchgrew, as well as his lifelong friend the valuer, had been influenced by a partiality for Louis. For example, he had contrived to put all the house property, except the house at Bycars, into Julian’s share; which was extremely advantageous for Louis because the federation of the Five Towns into one borough had rendered property values the most capricious and least calculable of all worldly possessions…. And Louis tried to smile knowingly at the knowing trustee and executor with his amiable partiality for one legatee as against the other. Louis’ share, beyond the Bycars house, was in the gilt-edged stock of limited companies which sold water and other necessaries of life to the public on their own terms.

Rachel left the pair for a moment, and returned from upstairs with a grey jacket of Louis’ from which she had to unstitch the black _crepe_ armlet announcing to the world Louis’ grief for his dead great-aunt; the period of mourning was long over, and it would not have been quite nice for Louis to continue announcing his grief.

As she came back into the room she heard the word “debentures,” and that single word changed her mood instantly from bland feminine toleration to porcupinish defensiveness. She did not, as a fact, know what debentures were. She could not for a fortune have defined the difference between a debenture and a share. She only knew that debentures were connected with “limited companies”–not waterworks companies, which she classed with the Bank of England–but just any limited companies, which were in her mind a bottomless pit for the savings of the foolish. She had an idea that a debenture was, if anything, more fatal than a share. She was, of course, quite wrong, according to general principles; but, unfortunately, women, as all men sooner or later learn, have a disconcerting habit of being right in the wrong way for the wrong reasons. In a single moment, without justification, she had in her heart declared war on all debentures. And as soon as she gathered that Thomas Batchgrew was suggesting to Louis the exchange of waterworks stock for seven per cent. debentures in the United Midland Cinemas Corporation, Limited, she became more than ever convinced that her instinct about debentures was but too correct. She sat down primly, and detached the armlet, and removed all the bits of black cotton from the sleeve, and never raised her head nor offered a remark, but she was furious–furious to protect her husband against sharks and against himself.

The conduct and demeanour of Thomas Batchgrew were now explained. His visit, his flattery, his heartiness, his youthfulness, all had a motive. He had safeguarded Louis’ interests under the will in order to rob him afterwards as a cinematograph speculator. The thing was as clear as daylight. And yet Louis did not seem to see it. Louis listened to Batchgrew’s ingenious arguments with naive interest and was obviously impressed. When Batchgrew called him “a business man as smart as they make ’em,” and then proved that the money so invested would be as safe as in a stocking, Louis agreed with a great air of acumen that certainly it would. When Batchgrew pointed out that, under the proposed new investment, Louis would be receiving in income thirty or thirty-five shillings for every pound under the old investments, Louis’ eye glistened–positively glistened! Rachel trembled. She saw her husband beggared, and there was nothing that frightened her more than the prospect of Louis without a reserve of private income. She did not argue the position–she simply knew that Louis without sure resources behind him would be a very dangerous and uncertain Louis, perhaps a tragic Louis. She frankly admitted this to herself. And old Batchgrew went on talking and inveigling until Rachel was ready to believe that the device of debentures had been originally invented by Thomas Batchgrew himself with felonious intent.

An automobile hooted in the street.

“Well, ye’ll think it over,” said Thomas Batchgrew.

“Oh I _will_!” said Louis eagerly.

And Rachel asked herself, almost shaking–“Is it possible that he is such a simpleton?”

“Only I must know by Tuesday,” said Thomas Batchgrew. “I thought I’d give ye th’ chance, but I can’t keep it open later than Tuesday.”

“Thanks, awfully,” said Louis. “I’m very much obliged for the offer. I’ll let you know–before Tuesday.”

Rachel frowned as she folded up the jacket. If, however, the two men could have seen into her mind they would have perceived symptoms of danger more agitating than one little frown.

“Of course,” said Thomas Batchgrew easily, with a short laugh, in the lobby, “if it hadna been for _her_ making away with that nine hundred and sixty-odd pound, you’d ha’ had a round sum o’ thousands to invest. I’ve been thinking o’er that matter, and all I can see for it is as her must ha’ thrown th’ money into th’ fire in mistake for th’ envelope, or with th’ envelope. That’s all as I can see for it.”

Louis flushed slightly as he slapped his thigh.

“Never thought of that!” he cried. “It very probably _was_ that. Strange it never occurred to me!”

Rachel said nothing. She had extreme difficulty in keeping control of herself while old Batchgrew, with numerous senile precautions, took his slow departure. She forgot that she was a hostess and a woman of the world.

III

“Hello! What’s that?” Rachel asked, in a self-conscious voice, when they were in the parlour again.

Louis had almost surreptitiously taken an envelope from his pocket, and was extracting a paper from it.

On finding themselves alone they had not followed their usual custom of bursting into comment, favourable or unfavourable, on the departed–a practice due more to a desire to rouse and enjoy each other’s individualities than to a genuine interest in the third person. Nor had they impulsively or deliberately kissed, as they were liable to do after release from a spell of worldliness. On the contrary, both were still constrained, as if the third person was still with them. The fact was that there were two other persons in the room, darkly discerned by Louis and Rachel–namely, a different, inimical Rachel and a different, inimical Louis. All four, the seen and the half-seen, walked stealthily, like rival beasts in the edge of the jungle.

“Oh!” said Louis with an air of nonchalance. “It came by the last post while old Batch was here, and I just shoved it into my pocket.”

The arrivals of the post were always interesting to them, for during the weeks after marriage letters are apt to be more numerous than usual, and to contain delicate and enchanting surprises. Both of them were always strictly ceremonious in the handling of each other’s letters, and yet both deprecated this ceremoniousness in the beloved. Louis urged Rachel to open his letters without scruple, and Rachel did the same to Louis. But both–Louis by chivalry and Rachel by pride–were prevented from acting on the invitation. The envelope in Louis’ hand did not contain a letter, but only a circular. The fact that the flap of the envelope was unsealed and the stamp a mere halfpenny ought rightly to have deprived the packet of all significance as a subject of curiosity. Nevertheless, the different, inimical Rachel, probably out of sheer perversity, went up to Louis and looked over his shoulder as he read the communication, which was a printed circular, somewhat yellowed, with blanks neatly filled in, and the whole neatly signed by a churchwarden, informing Louis that his application for sittings at St. Luke’s Church (commonly called the Old Church) had been granted. It is to be noted that, though applications for sittings in the Old Church were not overwhelmingly frequent, and might indeed very easily have been coped with by means of autograph replies, the authorities had a sufficient sense of dignity always to circularize the applicants.

This document, harmless enough, and surely a proof of laudable aspirations in Louis, gravely displeased the different, inimical Rachel, and was used by her for bellicose purposes.

“So that’s it, is it?” she said ominously.

“But wasn’t it understood that we were to go to the Old Church?” said the other Louis, full of ingenious innocence.

“Oh! Was it?”

“Didn’t I mention it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I’m sure I did.”

The truth was that Louis had once casually remarked that he supposed they would attend the Old Church. Rachel would have joyously attended any church or any chapel with him. At Knype she had irregularly attended the Bethesda Chapel–sometimes (in the evenings) with her father, oftener alone, never with her brother. During her brief employment with Mrs. Maldon she had been only once to a place of worship, the new chapel in Moorthorne Road, which was the nearest to Bycars and had therefore been favoured by Mrs. Maldon when her limbs were stiff. In the abstract she approved of religious rites. Theologically her ignorance was such that she could not have distinguished between the tenets of church and the tenets of chapel, and this ignorance she shared with the large majority of the serious inhabitants of the Five Towns. Why, then, should she have “pulled a face” (as the saying down there is) at the Old Parish Church?

One reason, which would have applied equally to church or chapel, was that she was disconcerted and even alarmed by Louis’ manifest tendency to settle down into utter correctness. Louis had hitherto been a devotee of joy–never as a bachelor had he done aught to increase the labour of churchwardens–and it was somehow as a devotee of joy that Rachel had married him. Rachel had been settled down all her life, and naturally desired and expected that an unsettling process should now occur in her career. It seemed to her that in mere decency Louis might have allowed at any rate a year or two to pass before occupying himself so stringently with her eternal welfare. She belonged to the middle class (intermediate between the industrial and the aristocratic employing) which is responsible for the Five Towns’ reputation for joylessness, the class which sticks its chin out and gets things done (however queer the things done may be), the class which keeps the district together and maintains its solidity, the class which is ashamed of nothing but idleness, frank enjoyment, and the caprice of the moment. (Its idiomatic phrase for expressing the experience of gladness, “I sang ‘O be joyful,'” alone demonstrates its unwillingness to rejoice.) She had espoused the hedonistic class (always secretly envied by the other), and Louis’ behaviour as a member of that class had already begun to disappoint her. Was it fair of him to say in his conduct: “The fun is over. We must be strictly conventional now”? His costly caprices for Llandudno and the pleasures of idleness were quite beside the point.

Another reason for her objection to Louis’ overtures to the Old Church was that they increased her suspicion of his snobbishness. No person nourished from infancy in chapel can bring himself to believe that the chief motive of church-goers is not the snobbish motive of social propriety. And dissenters are so convinced that, if chapel means salvation in the next world, church means salvation in this, that to this day, regardless of the feelings of their pastors, they will go to church once in their lives–to get married. At any rate, Rachel was positively sure that no anxiety about his own soul or about hers had led Louis to join the Old Church.

“Have you been confirmed?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” Louis replied politely.

She did not like that “of course.”

“Shall I have to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” said she, “I can tell you one thing–I shan’t be.”

IV

Rachel went on–

“You aren’t really going to throw your money away on those debenture things of Mr. Batchgrew’s, are you?”

Louis now knew the worst, and he had been suspecting it. Rachel’s tone fully displayed her sentiments, and completed the disclosure that “the little thing” was angry and aggressive. (In his mind Louis regarded her at moments, as “the little thing.”) But his own politeness was so profoundly rooted that practically no phenomenon of rudeness could overthrow it.

“No,” he said, “I’m not going to ‘throw my money away’ on them.”

“That’s all right, then,” she said, affecting not to perceive his drift. “I thought you were.”

“But I propose to put my money into them, subject to anything you, as a financial expert, may have to say.”

Nervously she had gone to the window and was pretending to straighten a blind.

“I don’t think you need to make fun of me,” she said. “You think I don’t notice when you make fun of me. But I do–always.”

“Look here, young ‘un,” Louis suddenly began to cajole, very winningly.

“I’m about as old as you are,” said she, “and perhaps in some ways a bit older. And I must say I really wonder at you being ready to help Mr. Batchgrew after the way he insulted me in the cinema.”

“Insulted you in the cinema!” Louis cried, genuinely startled, and then somewhat hurt because Rachel argued like a woman instead of like a man. In reflecting upon the excellences of Rachel he had often said to himself that her unique charm consisted in the fact that she combined the attractiveness of woman with the powerful commonsense of man. In common with a whole enthusiastic army of young husbands he had been convinced that his wife was the one female creature on earth to whom you could talk as you would to a male. “Oh!” he murmured.

“Have you forgotten it, then?” she asked coldly. To herself she was saying: “Why am I behaving like this? After all, he’s done no harm yet.” But she had set out, and she must continue, driven by the terrible fear of what he might do. She stared at the blind. Through a slit of window at one side of it she could see the lamp-post and the iron kerb of the pavement.

“But that’s all over long ago,” he protested amiably. “Just look how friendly you were with him yourself over supper! Besides–“

“Besides what? I wasn’t friendly. I was only polite. I had to be. Nobody’s called Mr. Batchgrew worse names than you have. But you forget. Only I don’t forget. There’s lots of things I don’t forget, although I don’t make a song about them. I shan’t forget in a hurry how you let go of my bike without telling me and I fell all over the road. I know I’m lots more black and blue even than I was.”

If Rachel would but have argued according to his rules of debate, Louis was confident that he could have conducted the affair to a proper issue. But she would not. What could he say? In a flash he saw a vista of, say, forty years of conjugal argument with a woman incapable of reason, and trembled. Then he looked again, and saw the lines of Rachel’s figure in her delightful short skirt and was reassured. But still he did not know what to say. Rachel spared him further cogitation on that particular aspect of the question by turning round and exclaiming, passionately, with a break in her voice–

“Can’t you see that he’ll swindle you out of the money?”

It seemed to her that the security of their whole future depended on her firmness and strong sagacity at that moment. She felt herself to be very wise and also, happily, very vigorous. But at the same time she was afflicted by a kind of despair at the thought that Louis had indeed been, and still was, ready to commit the disastrous folly of