IN THE STREET
I
A few minutes later, just as Hilda had sealed up the last of the
letters, Mr. Cannon issued somewhat hurriedly out of the inner room,
buttoning his overcoat at the neck.
"Good night," he said, and took his stick from the corner where he had
placed it.
"Mr. Cannon!"
"Well?"
"I wanted to speak to you."
"What is it? I'm in a hurry."
She glanced at the inner door, which he had left open. From beyond that
door came the voices of Arthur Dayson and the old clerk; Hilda lacked
the courage to cross the length of the room and deliberately close it,
and though Mr. Cannon did not seem inclined to move, his eyes followed
the direction of hers and he must have divined her embarrassment. She
knew not what to do. A crisis seemed to rise up monstrous between them,
in an instant. She was trembling, and in acute trouble.
"It's rather important," she said timidly, but not without an
unintentional violence.
"Well, to-morrow afternoon."
He, too, was apparently in a fractious state. The situation was perhaps
perilous. But she could not allow her conduct to be influenced by danger
or difficulty, which indeed nearly always had the effect of confirming
her purpose. If something had to be done, it had to be done--and let
that suffice! He waited, impatient, for her to agree and allow him to
go.
"No," she answered, with positive resentment in her clear voice. "I must
speak to you to-night. It's very important."
He made with his tongue an inarticulate noise of controlled
exasperation.
"If you've finished, put your things on and walk along with me," he
said.
She hurried to obey, and overtook him as he slowly descended the lower
flight of stairs. She had buttoned her jacket and knotted her thick
scarf, and now, with the letters pressed tightly under her arm lest they
should fall, she was pulling on her gloves.
"I have an appointment at the Saracen's," he said mildly, meaning the
Saracen's Head--the central rendezvous of the town, where Conservative
and Liberal met on neutral ground.
II
He turned to the left, toward the High Street and the great cleared
space out of which the cellarage of the new Town Hall had already been
scooped. He carried his thick gloves in his white and elegant hand, as
one who did not feel the frost. She stepped after him. Their breaths
whitened the keen air. She was extremely afraid, and considered herself
an abject coward, but she was determined to the point of desperation. He
ought to know the truth and he ought to know it at once: nothing else
mattered. She reflected in her terror: "If I don't begin right off, he
will be asking me to begin, and that will be worse than ever." She was
like one who, having boastfully undertaken to plunge into deep, cold
water from a height, has climbed to the height, and measured the fearful
distance, and is sick, and dares not leap, but knows that he must leap.
"I suppose you know Miss Gailey is practically starving," she said
abruptly, harshly, staring at the gutter.
She had leapt. Life seemed to leave her. She had not intended to use
such words, nor such a tone. She certainly did not suppose that he knew
about Miss Gailey's condition. She had affirmed to Janet Orgreave her
absolute assurance that he did not know. As for the tone, it was
accusing, it was brutal, it was full of the unconscious and terrible
clumsy cruelty of youth.
"What?" His head moved sharply sideways, to look at her.
"Miss Gailey--she's starving, it seems!" Hilda said timidly now, almost
apologetically. "I felt sure you didn't know. I thought _some_ one
should tell you."
"What do you mean--starving?" he asked gruffly.
"Not enough to eat," she replied, with the direct simplicity of a child.
"And how did this tale get about?"
"It's true," she said. "I was told to-night."
"Who told you?"
"A friend of mine--who's seen her!"
"But who?"
"It wouldn't be right for me to tell you who."
They walked on in an appalling silence to the corner of the Square and
the High Street.
"Here's the letter-box," he said, stopping.
She dropped the letters with nervous haste into the box. Then she looked
up at him appealingly. In the brightness of the starry night she saw
that his face had a sardonic, meditative smile. The middle part of the
lower lip was pushed out, while the corners were pulled down--an
expression of scornful disgust. She burst out:
"Of course, I know very well it's not your fault. I know, if you'd
_known_... but what with her never seeing you, and perhaps people not
caring to--"
"I'm very much obliged to you," he interrupted her quietly, still
meditative. He was evidently sincere. His attitude was dignified. Many
men would have been ashamed, humiliated, even though aware of innocence.
But he contrived to rise above such weakness. She was glad; she admired
him. And she was very glad also that he did not deign to asseverate that
he had been ignorant of his half-sister's plight. Naturally he had been
ignorant!
III
She was suddenly happy; she was inspired by an unreasoning joy. She was
happy because she was so young and fragile and inexperienced, and he so
much older, and more powerful and more capable. She was happy because
she was a mere girl and he a mature and important male. She thought
their relation in that moment exquisitely beautiful. She was happy
because she had been exceedingly afraid and the fear had gone. The dark
Square and far-stretching streets lay placid and void under the night,
surrounding their silence in a larger silence: and because of that also
she was happy. A policeman with his arms hidden under his cloak marched
unhasting downwards from the direction of the Bank.
"Fine night, officer," said Mr. Cannon cordially.
"Yes, sir. Good night, sir," the policeman responded, with respect and
sturdy self-respect, his footsteps ringing onwards.
And the sight and bearing of this hardy, frost-defying policeman
watching over the town, and the greetings between him and Mr. Cannon--
these too seemed strangely beautiful to Hilda. And then a train
reverberated along its embankment in the distance, and the gliding
procession of yellow windows was divided at regular intervals by the
black silhouettes of the scaffolding-poles of the new Town Hall.
Beautiful! She was filled with a delicious sadness. It was Janet's
train. In some first-class compartment Janet and her father were shut
together, side by side, intimate, mutually understanding. Again, a
beautiful relation! From the summit of a high kiln in the middle
distance, flames shot intermittently forth, formidable. Crockery was
being fired in the night: and unseen the fireman somewhere flitted about
the mouths of the kiln. And here and there in the dim faces of the
streets a window shone golden... there were living people behind the
blind! It was all beautiful, joy-giving. The thought of her mother
fidgeting for her return home was delightful. The thought of Mr. Cannon
and Miss Gailey, separated during many years, and now destined to some
kind of reconciliation was indescribably touching, and beautiful in a
way that she could not define.
"I was only thinking the other day," said Mr. Cannon, treating her as an
equal in years and wisdom--"I was only thinking I'd got the very thing
for my half-sister--the very opening for her--a chance in a thousand, if
only she'd..." It was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence.
"And is it too late now?" Hilda asked eagerly.
"No," he said. "It isn't too late. I shall go round and see her
to-morrow morning first thing. It wouldn't do for me to go to-night--you
see--might seem too odd."
"Yes," Hilda murmured. "Well, good night."
They separated. She knew that he was profoundly stirred. Nevertheless,
he had inquired for no further details concerning Miss Gailey. He was
too proud, and beneath his inflexibility too sensitive, to do so. He
meant to discover the truth for himself. He had believed--that was the
essential. His behaviour had been superb. The lying letter to Ezra Brunt
was a mere peccadillo, even if it was that, even if it was not actually
virtuous.
She walked off rapidly, trying to imitate the fine, free, calmly defiant
bearing of Mr. Cannon and the policeman.
IV
"Florrie gone to bed?" she asked briskly of her mother, who was fussing
about her in the parlour, pretending to be fretful, but secretly
enchanted to welcome her, with a warm fire and plenteous food, back
again into the house. And Hilda, too, was enchanted at her reception.
"Florrie gone to bed? I should just think Florrie has gone to bed.
Half-past ten and after! Eh my! This going out after tea. I never heard
of such doings. Now do warm your feet."
"I should have been home sooner, only something happened," said Hilda.
"Oh!" Mrs. Lessways exclaimed indifferently. She had in fact no
curiosity as to the affairs of Dayson and Company. The sole thing that
interested her was Hilda's daily absence and daily return. She seemed
quite content to remain in ignorance of what Hilda did in the mysterious
office. Her conversation, profuse when she was in good spirits, rarely
went beyond the trifling separate events of existence personal and
domestic--the life of the house hour by hour and minute by minute. It
was often astounding to Hilda that her mother never showed any sign of
being weary of these topics, nor any desire to discover other topics.
"Yes," said Hilda. "Miss Gailey--"
Mrs. Lessways became instantly a different creature.
"And does he know?" she asked blankly, when Hilda had informed her of
Janet's visit and news.
"Yes. I told him--of course."
"You?"
"Well, somebody had to tell him," said Hilda, with an affectation of
carelessness. "So I told him myself."
"And how did he take it?"
"Well, how should he take it?" Hilda retorted largely. "He _had_ to take
it! He was much obliged, and he said so."
Mrs. Lessways began to weep.
"What ever's the matter?"
"I was only thinking of poor Sarah!" Mrs. Lessways answered the implied
rebuke of Hilda's brusque question. "I shall go and see her to-morrow
morning."
"But, mother, don't you think you'd better wait?"
Mrs. Lessways spoke up resolutely: "I shall go and see Sarah Gailey
to-morrow morning, and let that be understood! I don't need my daughter
to teach me when I ought to go and see my friends and when I
oughtn't.... I knew Sarah Gailey before your Mr. Cannon was born."
"Oh, very well! Very well!" Hilda soothed her lightly.
"I shall tell Sarah Gailey she's got to reckon with me, whether she
wants to or not! That's what I shall tell Sarah Gailey!" Mrs. Lessways
wiped her eyes.
"Mother," Hilda asked, when they had gone upstairs, "did you wind the
clock?"
"I don't think I did," answered the culprit uncertainly from her bedroom
door.
"Mother, how tiresome you are! Night before last you wouldn't let me
touch it. You said you preferred to do it yourself. And now I shall be
waiting for it to strike to-morrow morning, to get up--lend me that
candle, do!"
She tripped down to the lobby gladly, and opened the big door of the
clock, and put her hand into the dark cavity and, grimacing, hauled up
the heavy weights. This forgetfulness of her mother's somehow increased
her extraordinary satisfaction with life. She remounted the shadowy
stairs on the wings of a pure and ingenuous elation.