If Hannah had chosen to look for them, she could have found as many
reasons and excuses for Robert Corder's peculiarities as for those
of Ethel and Ruth. Robert Corder himself did not seek excuses; he
saw his troubles as the faults of other people and it did not occur
to him that the chief of his difficulties was that he had been
born too late. Thirty or forty years earlier, he would have been a
happier man. It would not have been necessary, then, to make the
mental compromises he found so bewildering; he would have been set
firmly on the infallibility of his creed and his authority as its
exponent would have been unquestioned. Life would have been simpler
to direct and consequently simpler to live. It was the knowledge that
infallibility of book, of man and of creed was increasingly denied,
and with a strength under which one must bend or break, that took the
full sweetness out of his position, and being a man of great energy
but no intellect, he felt bound to give the appearance of keeping
abreast of modern thought, while his mind resented, and did not really
make, the effort. In the days when to doubt or to question was bad
manners, if it was not sin, his work would have offered him everything
he wanted, adulation, security of mind and station and the loyal
following of that army of men and boys it had always been his ambition
to lead. Self-confidence, physical strength, a manly exterior were
his, but the army was merely a handful of old soldiers, suspicious
of changes, and raw recruits, and of this disappointment, with its
implication of failure in himself or his teaching, his encounter with
Samuel Blenkinsop had reminded him. Those people in his chapel who
kept the old simplicity and to whom he was God's vice-regent, were his
inferiors, as he knew too well: most of his flock were his inferiors
and this contributed to his comfort, but a few were his equals in
ability, if not in state, and these accepted new ideas rather too
quickly for the Reverend Robert, who liked to point the way himself, or
else they took the Gospel with a literalness which was not practical.
If Mrs. Spenser-Smith had not been a level-headed woman, her husband
would have given all he had to the poor, without considering their
deserts. Fortunately, Mrs. Spenser-Smith and the Reverend Robert were
of one mind about deserts, of which agreement a luxurious armchair in
his study and a son at Oxford were proofs. There is no union, however,
which does not involve chafing at times, and the pride he took in
casually mentioning the son at Oxford was offset by his annoyance that
Howard should have a privilege his father had missed and could have put
to better use. Undeniably, a part of Howard's life was an unknown world
to Robert Corder, and while this did not prevent him from criticism and
informatory observations, it put him at a disadvantage for which he
blamed his benefactress and subtly punished Howard.
And now Mrs. Spenser-Smith's anxiety for the general welfare of the
family had brought Miss Mole into the house.
He glanced with a frown, to which he quickly added a sigh, at
the handsomely framed photograph on his desk, another of Mrs.
Spenser-Smith's gifts. He did not like that representation of his wife.
He preferred the little one on his bedroom mantelpiece in which her
soft face looked at him hopefully above the stiff collar and tie, and
under the hard straw hat of her youth. It told him that he was indeed
the man he believed himself to be, while this photograph, of a much
later date, had suffered some distortion of expression in the enlarging
process on which Mrs. Spenser-Smith had insisted. It vexed him that
people who had not known her should imagine that faintly humorous,
patient look was hers. Miss Mole, for instance, must have received a
false impression, if she was capable of receiving any impression at
all, and about this Mr. Corder's opinion wavered. She seemed stupid,
outside her sphere. She had been stupidly frivolous--or was it merely
tactless?--to-night, but he was disturbed by her remark, ridiculous in
itself, that it would be out of Samuel Blenkinsop's character to rob a
bank. They were unlikely words from the Miss Mole he knew and they had
been uttered with a crispness and an assurance which, to quote her own
expression, were out of character.
He turned to the letters on his desk. He was wasting time over a matter
to which he would not have given a thought if Wilfrid's idleness and
Blenkinsop's desertion had not upset him. He was, of course, well
abreast of his times in his views about women, and it would have
horrified him to learn that he could not judge a clever or a plain
woman fairly. A clever one challenged him to a combat in which he might
not be the victor and a plain one roused in him a primitive antagonism.
In failing to please him, a woman virtually denied her sex and became
offensive to those instincts which he did his best to ignore.
His letters were soon answered. He might have prepared a sermon, but
he was in no mood for it. His interview with the Dean rankled in his
memory, his interview with Wilfrid had not given him the satisfaction
he expected. Wilfrid, even when submissive, suggested an amused
superiority, impossible to notice and therefore impossible to deal
with. Samuel had been heavily courteous, but uncommunicative, in
reply to the rallying reproaches with which Mr. Corder had met him.
In these days a young man showed no pleasure at being treated as an
equal, he seemed to expect it, and, after all, Mr. Corder reflected,
Blenkinsop must be well on in the thirties. A different method might
have been better, he decided, and he had no desire to be another man's
conscience. He had done his duty in the way of reminder, but he was
not a tradesman seeking custom, and that brought his thoughts back to
Wilfrid, his sister's son. She had made a marriage to which her father
was opposed and it had turned out badly, but the surprisingly snug
profits of the parental drapery business had been left to her. The
elder Corder had been just as strongly opposed to Robert's entering the
ministry: to the small tradesman, it seemed a costly business, with
years of paying out money for which he would get no return, and Robert,
as stubborn as his sister, had financed himself with immense difficulty
and labour and some timely help from good Nonconformists who were
attracted by the handsome, eager young man. Robert Corder considered
his rebellion, unlike his sister's, justified by its intention and its
results which his father had not had the generosity to acknowledge,
while he had rewarded her, who had merely followed her inclination,
and left her in a position to pay her brother for his care of her son.
Irritated that he could not afford to get rid of Wilfrid and lose the
money, he took a turn up and down the room, glancing at the clock. Ruth
must have forgotten to say good night to him. Hurt by his favourite
daughter, angry with Wilfrid, Blenkinsop and Miss Mole, he could not
settle down to read or to write, and Hannah, entering punctually with
the tea-tray, found him standing in front of the fire with his hands in
his pockets.
'Always punctual!' he said with deceptive cordiality.
'I try to be,' Hannah said modestly, putting down the tray. 'But what
a miserable little fire!' She knelt down to replenish it. 'Men,' she
said, as though to herself, while she was busy with poker and tongs,
'are chillier creatures than women, but I've never met one yet who
could keep a fire in. There must be some reason for it.'
'Perhaps we have other things to think of.'
'I hope so,' said Hannah easily.
He wished he had neglected her remark. He did not want to make a
precedent of this conversation, but he could not let her have the last
word. 'And then, we pay for the coal,' he said.
Still on her knees, she turned and looked at him and, suspecting a hint
of amusement on her foreshortened face, he went on, with authority.
'And, in this household, we have to be economical. I notice that, for
some reason or other, Ruth has a night-light in her bedroom.' He was
glad to have a definite fault to find. 'That seems to me both pampering
and wasteful. I don't understand this innovation. She has been used to
going to sleep in the dark.'
'Yes,' said Hannah quietly, 'and waking up in it.'
'And waking up in it--certainly,' he said.
'It's not good for her,' Hannah said, decidedly.
He did not like her familiarity with his hearthrug. 'Won't you sit
down?' he asked. 'I think we had better discuss this matter.'
'I'll just sweep up the hearth first,' she said, and he thought it was
extraordinary that no woman could give her whole attention to a subject.
But it appeared that Miss Mole had been thinking while she swept, for
when she had finished and sat down, she said at once, 'You have made
me responsible for the expenses of the house. If I keep within my
allowance, as I have done, so far, I don't think it's fair to criticize
details.'
'It's not really a question of the money, Miss Mole,' he said
irritably. 'It's a question of training. I don't want Ruth encouraged
in her nervousness. I hoped she was growing out of it. Often,
when--when her mother was with us, she would come into our room and
wake us, saying she was frightened. What is she afraid of?'
'Bears, perhaps,' Hannah said thoughtfully. 'When I was a child, I was
troubled by a most persistent and accomplished bear. And there was
no way of escaping him. He could climb perpendicular walls; he could
unlock doors. It's no good pitting reason against things that are not
reasonable in themselves--like fears.'
'So,' he said, 'you are a student of psychology!'
Hannah let that sneer pass. 'Bears,' she said, still in her quiet tone
and looking at the fire, 'or wolves. There was another time when I knew
a wolf would catch me if I wasn't on a certain stair before my bedroom
door banged behind me. The wolf was half a game, but the bear was a
real bear.'
'But this is ridiculous, Miss Mole. You're not going to tell me Ruth
fancies there are wild animals in her bedroom!'
'In the middle of the night? I could fancy it myself! And Ruth's
young--and old--for her age.' She looked up at him. 'What about
ghosts?' she asked. There was another question on the tip of her tongue
but, in loyalty to Ruth, she would not ask it. Not once had Ruth spoken
of her mother, there was no photograph of her in the dressing-room, and
what Hannah wanted to know was whether Ruth had loved or feared the
dead woman who had known, perhaps with love, perhaps with sternness,
how to manage her.
'Ghosts!' Robert Corder snorted. 'I would rather it was bears!'
'I expect she would, too,' Hannah said promptly, and stood up. 'Bears
or ghosts, the night-light will keep them off.'
'I'm not satisfied about it,' he said. Miss Mole was taking too much
for granted. 'And Ruth knows I'm near her.'
Hannah loosed her folded hands and raised her shoulders. 'You are
the master of the house,' she said, quite unnecessarily, he thought,
'but I ask you,' her hands came together again, 'to let her have the
night-light. I warn you not to take it from her. Ruth isn't strong, but
I can look after her if I'm given the chance.'
'That is partly what you are here for.'
'Then give me the chance,' she said, smiling, rather startlingly, for
the first time.
'I'll think it over,' he said, turning towards his tea-tray.
'Thank you,' she said quietly, and he was vexed that she should thank
him. Had there been something ironical in her tone?
He sat, stirring his tea, considering their conversation and searching
for offence in her share of it. She had been a little too talkative
with her stories of her childhood. She was gaining confidence, he
supposed, and might prove to be one of those chattering women if she
was encouraged. Her hint of understanding Ruth better than he did was
annoying. But it was true that Ruth was not strong. She caught cold
easily--like her mother. He would think it over, he told himself, but
he knew that Miss Mole would have her way. He was not going to run a
risk and be blamed if harm came of it, and she might be right. Mrs.
Spenser-Smith had spoken of her experience. He felt puzzled about Miss
Mole and wished he had not mentioned money. Parsimony was not one of
his failings and it had been unfair to himself--the result of his
upsetting day--to talk as though it were.