|ON general grounds--on the grounds, for instance, of anything so
out-of-date and out of reason as filial piety--Ada was quite indifferent
to Peter’s “consent,” and wanted it only to shackle Sam more firmly. She
had not much doubt that Peter would consent, as in fact he did, though
not so readily as she had anticipated. She did not exhibit an engagement
ring at church next day for the reason that she had none to exhibit.
Peter kept Sam too late for that.
Of course Ada was wrong about Peter: she thought him a good man and
consequently a perfect fool, whereas his foolishness was imperfect, and
he was subject, like most unworldly people, to streaks of acumen about
worldly affairs. They come sometimes, these disconcerting fits
of perception, as if a dam had burst, and usually the times are
inconvenient to those who have reckoned on the unworldliness.
Peter answered her expectation so far as to say, “Bless my soul,” and
so far only. After that, he began an elaborate and skilful catechism of
Sam, which pretended to be a friendly talk about books, but was really
an examination of Sam Branstone, his character and disposition. At the
beginning Peter knew little of Sam beyond what his observations at the
Concentrics had told him, and Sam’s volunteered remarks about his salary
and his prospects interested Peter to a very slight extent. At the end
Peter decided that Sam was to be trusted to make things easy for Ada on
the material side, and that spiritually he was not beyond hope.
But he had not, spiritually, been touched as yet. Would Ada touch him?
That was the question for Peter, who knew his Ada. Ada could be led. He
admitted that he himself had failed with her, but he was not a strong
man. A strong man, with love as his ally, could lead Ada, could form
her, and Sam had strength, and, Peter thought, love. It depended, then,
on whether Sam’s love for Ada, reacting on him, would quicken his latent
spirituality so that the lead he gave to Ada would be good. And on the
whole Peter thought there was a reasonable chance. He believed in
the power of love, he believed that love is God and God is love, and
confronted with his pair of self-confessed lovers he read their future
optimistically in the light of his belief. What else could Peter do?
They said they were in love, they appeared to be in love, they had
the symptoms of the state of love. He could only judge the case on the
evidence before the court.
He could not know that with Sam the symptoms, though real, were
temporary, and with Ada an intelligent mimicry. He gave his assent to
their engagement formally and very solemnly.
Sam left the house late, thrilling with Ada’s “Good-night” kiss, but the
glow was quick to fade, and he found himself thinking rather of Peter
than of Ada, whom of course, he loved. If ever probe was gentle, it was
Peter’s: nevertheless, Sam had felt the probe antagonistically. He had
shivered naked before Peter’s inquisition, he had understood that he
was under examination, and resented it. It was, however disguisedly,
opposition, and the thought of that kindly opponent led him to think of
one from whom, also, opposition was to be expected, and, probably, less
tactfully. It led to Anne.
Well, that was the fate of lovers: it was the way to deepen love and,
perhaps already a little doubtful of his love, he welcomed the idea of
Anne in opposition. It was curious that, while he thought of Ada as the
one woman in the world, he should expect Anne to be hostile not merely
to the idea of his marriage in general, but to marriage with Ada
in particular. It was hardly loyal to Ada, who should have reigned
unchallengably queen; and he could offer Anne the argument of the
advantages of being Peter Struggles’ son-in-law. But, with it all, he
looked for friction, and Anne was not to disappoint him there, although
at first she took it with a calmness which disarmed him.
He came in, of course, late, and ate his supper, silently hoping that
she would give him an opening, but Anne asked no questions, though she
had not seen him since early morning, and Sam was not often out for
meals. She asked no questions because she wanted to watch him first. It
was clear to her at a glance that he was in one of two conditions: he
was drunk or he was in love, and she wanted to make no mistake. If it
was drink she would move very promptly and directly: if love, cannily
and by devious ways. She found quickly that it was not drink. It was
more serious.
Her silence awed him. “Mother,” he asked by way of breaking it, “aren’t
you well?”
“Aye,” she said grimly, “I’m well. Are you?”
“I’ve eaten a good supper.”
“I noticed that. I’ll clear away now.”
“Wait a bit. I’ve something to tell you.”
“I reckon it’ll keep till morning. You mayn’t have known it, but you
came in late. It’s bed-time and beyond.”
“Still,” he said, “I’d like you to hear this tonight.”
“You sound serious,” said Anne, and sat. “What is it, Sam?”
“It’s something rather wonderful, mother.”
“It would be,” said Anne. “What’s her name?”
Sam rose, astonished at her perspicacity. “You guessed!”
“I’m none in my dotage yet.” Anne was grim.
“Mother, I hope you’re pleased. You must be pleased. It’s all so
wonderful to me.”
“I asked you her name,” said Anne.
“It’s Ada Struggles. You know,” he went on hurriedly, “how much we all
admire her father.”
“I know, but I don’t know Ada.”
“You will soon,” said Sam enthusiastically.
“I will that,” said Anne, and there was menace in her voice. She took
her candle. “Good-night, my son,” she said, kissing him, which was not
habitual.
“Is that all?” he asked. “All that you have to say?”
“I don’t know Ada yet,” she said, and so was gone to bed.
Peter and Anne went opposite ways in their search to know whether this
marriage was the right thing for their children’s happiness. Peter
ignored the bread and butter problem, or took it for granted: and his
was the higher wisdom. He knew that Sam was not made of the stuff that
starves for bread; not in his body but in his soul was Sam likely to be
pinched.
Anne took the earthlier view that happiness resulted from home comforts.
Ada, as she knew, was no shining beauty, and the better for that. Beauty
is skin-deep. But she looked frail, only so, for the matter of that,
did some of the toughest girls, and she took it that Sam had had the
horse-sense to make some preliminary inquiries before he committed
himself. Sam, it appeared, had not.
Was Ada strong and healthy? Was she economical? Could she cook? Was she
her own dressmaker? And when she found that Sam could answer none of
these questions, she said ironically: “Well, at least, you’ve eyes in
your head. Is their house clean?”
Sam could only say that he supposed so, and Anne looked witheringly at
him. “Yes, you’re in love all right,” she said. “They say love’s blind.
You’re leaving a lot to me.”
“Mother,” he said, alarmed, “what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get acquainted with Ada,” she said. “One of us must know
her, and you don’t.”
“If you’ll be fair to her,” said Sam. “I’m not afraid.”
“I’ll be fair,” said Anne, and meant to be; but is a mother ever fair to
the prospective wife of her only son? Perhaps, and in that case Anne
went to Ada with an open mind. “After all,” she reflected, “I daresay
Tom Branstone’s mother didn’t think much of me, though Tom was one of
ten and it makes a difference. It oughtn’t to, though”----she pulled
herself up. “Anne, you’ll be fair to the girl.” She looked indulgently
at Ada’s curtains and rang Ada’s bell.
But Ada was wearing silver bangles on her wrists and her shoes were made
for show. Anne had the sort of pleasure which comes from having one’s
worst fears realized. She may have generalized too sweepingly, but she
held that only shallow people wear silver bangles and shoes whose aim is
daintiness and not durability.
First impressions, at any rate, went heavily against Ada, but Anne
remembered her promise to be fair. It was possible that when Tom
Branstone took Anne to see his mother, that lady did not like Anne’s
way of doing her hair. To each generation the symbols of its youth and
perhaps bangles on Ada were not more skittish than a cairngorn brooch
had been on Anne.
“I have tea ready, Mrs. Branstone,” said Ada. “Sam told me you were
coming.”
“Did he?” Anne was surprised into saying. She had not told Sam of her
intention and his guess at it and his warning of Ada had spoilt her plan
of coming upon Ada unawares. She wanted Ada unprepared and unadorned:
Ada at home, not Ada “at home.” And Ada was very much “at home.” The
room had been “turned out”--and so had Peter that it might be--company
manners and the company tea-pot were on exhibition, and everything was
formal and obviously thought out. And, as Anne had to admit, not badly
thought out either. Ada had not been to that expensive boarding school
for nothing; she had an air to awe a porter’s widow. Anne didn’t like
her trick of putting the milk in the cup before she poured the tea,
nor her dogmatic way of asserting that it improved the flavour and that
“everybody did it now.” Everybody, did not do it, Anne did not do it;
but, again, perhaps this was the modern touch, and Anne had come to be
fair.
She made her first score when Ada left the room for hot water. “This
room’s been dusted to-day,” thought Anne. “I’ll see what her dusting is
worth.” She put it to the test by running her finger along the top of
the books on one of the shelves, and her finger was very black.
The only way to keep books clean in Manchester is the way taken by nine
out of ten people: they have no books. Some of the others put books
behind glass, like orchids, the rest have the habit of blowing hard at a
book when they take it from its shelf, and of washing their hands before
opening it.
Anne did not know that. She kept Sam’s few books clean by daily
elbow-grease, and now furtively wiped her dirty finger on her stocking
with the feeling that she had found out Ada. The dust on the books (and
certainly it was thick) confirmed the impression left by the bangles,
and Anne was not in the least ashamed of her spying. Sam had stolen a
march on her by warning Ada and she paid him in his own coin.
And from then onwards the score rose steadily against Ada. There were
cakes for tea. Now the only excuse for cakes was that one baked them
oneself and Ada confessed that they came from Mrs. Stubbins and made the
further mistake of showing an expert’s knowledge in the productions of
Mrs. Stubbins’ confectionery shop. “Frivolous in food as well as dress,”
was Anne’s comment. Her dress, Anne learnt, had been made by Madame
Robinson.
“She’s dear,” said Ada, “but quite French. And, of course, she comes to
church.”
No Nonconformists need apply; but Anne was thinking not of Madame’s
religion but her bills. The employer of a quite French dressmaker called
Robinson, born Duff, was no wife for Sam Branstone.
And by way of making Anne’s assurance doubly sure, Ada let slip
something about being under the doctor.
But Anne was not sanguine. She saw clearly enough that it was precisely
Ada’s weakness which was her strength with Sam. Sam had been leant upon
by Madge and George, and liked it, as Anne herself, in that case, had
liked it. But that was a different case from this. Madge had the claim
of sisterhood; Anne could see nothing in Ada and Ada’s weakness to give
her the claim to lean on Sam: and the leaning in marriage should not be
one-sided. Ada could give Sam nothing except herself, and Anne did not
think that gift worth having.
Sam, unfortunately, did and Anne doubted her power of changing his mind.
Her first attempt, at all events, must be with Ada, and she felt cramped
in Ada’s house, for the reason, perhaps, that it was Peter’s house, the
shrine of his simplicity. She wanted Ada cut off from the defences of
the tea-table and her own familiar surroundings, and saying something
about the warmth of the evening, suggested a ride on the top of a
tram-car.
“I often do it myself,” said Anne. “It blows the cobwebs away.”
She did it as a matter of fact not often, for so it would have lost its
quality of a dissipation, but with a wise irregularity she escaped the
thraldom of her house on a tram-car. Tram rides were her romance, her
safety-valve, her glimpse at life. Six-pennyworth of tram is cheaper in
the long run than fourpennyworth of gin: both carry one away, but the
tram-car brings one safely back.
Anne’s lip tightened when she saw that Ada did not change the flimsy
shoes and that her hat eclipsed their flimsiness. A “baby” hat, of
imitation lace, from which her face peeped out like a drooping, sapless
flower. “Yes,” thought Anne. “Men being men, that hat is clever. It’s a
trap for fools and it caught my fool. Ada Struggles, you’re dangerous.”
They took the front seat on the tram and aloud she said, using purposely
her roughest accent: “It’s queer to think of our Sam marrying a lady.
I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it, but his father were a railway
porter and mine were a policeman. His sister was in service.”
“Sam wall get on,” said Ada, with conviction.
“I’m none doubting it,” said Anne. “But he’s had luck and it’s a
question if the luck’ll hold. Mr. Travers took him up and sent him to
Grammar School, and Sam didn’t do too well there. He disappointed me and
he’s not gone on as he might have done. The fight’s ahead of him yet and
he’ll need a fighter by his side. I’ve done my share for him this long
while and I’m getting old. I shall be glad of a rest, Ada. Sam’s an
early riser and it’s weary work getting up on a winter’s morning to
light the fire and get his breakfast ready. Only that won’t trouble you.
You’re young.”
“Of course,” said Ada, “we shall have a servant.”
“What!” exclaimed Anne, “on two pounds ten a week, with me to keep and
all? I wouldn’t reckon on that, if I were you. Later on, perhaps. But I
know it can’t be done at present, or Sam would have done it for me.”
The idea of Anne Branstone with a wench about her house struck her as
humorous. Anne might have help some day--when she was bed-ridden: till
then, her house was her house. “No,” she went on, “you can take it from
me that it’ll not run to a servant. I don’t know what his idea is about
me, whether he will want me to live with you or not. Likely not. A man
doesn’t want his mother about when he’s wed.”
“No,” agreed Ada hopefully. Anne oppressed her.
“No. And I can get on with a pound a week from him. That’ll leave you
thirty shillings. Well, I’ve done it, so I know it can be done, though
mind you, it’s a struggle all the time and double tides when the babies
begin to come. But of course I’ll help you--with advice. I’m not for
forcing myself on you, but naturally I know Sam’s ways and his likings
about food. He’s a bit difficult at times, too, but that’s nothing. All
men are and you’ll know that, having had your father to do for. I don’t
say Sam’s finicky, but he likes what he likes and I hope you’re fond of
the same things. It always turned me up to clean a rabbit, and I never
liked the smell of onions, but that’s a favourite dish of Sam’s and so
I’d just to grin and bear it. And I know you’ll do the same for Sam.”
Ada squirmed helplessly. She could have screamed. Anne sat at the
outside of the seat and pinned her to it. The tram seemed a Juggernaut
car which drove implacably over her dreams: a prison where she was
tortured by a coarse old woman with work-roughened hands and an endless
flow of vitriol. She wanted to tell Anne that she lied, that the more
she deprecated Sam the more desirable Ada knew him to be, that her
grapes were neither sour nor to be soured by Anne’s insane jealousy;
and she could not do it. The ride seemed more of a nightmare with every
moment that passed. The tram was a mad wheeled cage with a mad driver
and a mad guard. It left the lines and careered wildly into desolation,
and she was fettered in it to an avenging fury who would not stop
talking, but with ruthless common sense pricked all the bubbles of her
hopes. She shut her eyes and abandoned herself to misery. Each minute
seemed an hour. She thought that somebody was throttling her, that the
flying cage was her tomb, that vampires sucked her blood, and her naked,
drained body was shackled to her seat until the car, driving inevitably
through black space, bumped finally against a star in one consuming
smash. She opened her eyes to find that the tram had stopped at its
suburban terminus and that Anne was asking: “Shall we get down for a
walk or shall we go back by the same car?”
So she was still in the living world, and with the consciousness of
it courage returned to her. For a minute she was silent, fighting her
demons off, catching at facts and weighing them. Anne was not a
vampire, but an old worn woman who had, curiously, the right to call Sam
Branstone son--Ada’s future mother-in-law, and a quaint one too; one to
be put firmly and haughtily in her place and kept there.
“We’ll stay on this car,” she replied. Its madness had departed. It was
a tram, quite eminently sane and usual. “I think,” she went on, “that
you exaggerate the difficulties. I’ve no doubt that Sam will have more
money by the time we’re married. You see, he has me to work for now.”
Not a simper with it either. Pure matter-of-fact statement, and the
truth of it hit Anne, the cool assumption that Ada as a spur to effort
was more competent than Anne. And this to Anne who had learnt algebra
for Sam, to Anne who had underfed herself that he might wear the clothes
a Grammar School boy ought to wear, to Anne who--oh, it was ineffable,
but it defeated her because she knew, bitterly, gallingly, but
undeniably, that it was true. This baby-faced chit, this fool in
petticoats was more to Sam than the mother who bore him. Queen Anne was
dead and Ada Struggles reigned in place of her.