"It's freezing, I think," said Mr Swann, when he came home at six
o'clock from his day's majestic work at Toft End. This was in the
bedroom. Mrs Swann, a comely little thing of thirty-nine, was making
herself resplendent for the inaugural solemnity of the Festival, which
began at eight. The news of the frost disturbed her.
"How annoying!" she said.
"Annoying?" he questioned blandly. "Why?"
"Now you needn't put on any of your airs, John!" she snapped. She had a
curt way with her at critical times. "You know as well as I do that I'm
thinking of Gilbert's hands.... No! you must wear your frock-coat, of
course!... All that drive from the other end of the town right to
Hanbridge in a carriage! Perhaps outside the carriage, because of the
'cello! There'll never be room for two of them and the 'cello and Mrs
Clayton Vernon in her carriage! And he can't keep his hands in his
pockets because of holding the 'cello. And he's bound to pretend he
isn't cold. He's so silly. And yet he knows perfectly well he won't do
himself justice if his hands are cold. Don't you remember last year at
the Town Hall?"
"Well," said Mr Swann, "we can't do anything; anyway, we must hope for
the best."
"That's all very well," said Mrs Swann. And it was.
Shortly afterwards, perfect in most details of her black silk, she left
the bedroom, requesting her husband to be quick, as tea was ready. And
she came into the little dining-room where the youthful servant was
poking up the fire.
"Jane," she said, "put two medium-sized potatoes in the oven to bake."
"Potatoes, mum?"
"Yes, potatoes," said Mrs Swann, tartly.
It was an idea of pure genius that had suddenly struck her; the genius
of common sense.
She somewhat hurried the tea; then rang.
"Jane," she inquired, "are those potatoes ready?"
"Potatoes?" exclaimed Mr Swann.
"Yes, hot potatoes," said Mrs Swann, tartly. "I'm going to run up with
them by car to Mrs Vernon's. I can slip them quietly over to Gil. They
keep your hands warm better than anything. Don't I remember when I was a
child! I shall leave Mrs Vernon's immediately, of course, but perhaps
you'd better give me my ticket and I will meet you at the hall. Don't
you think it's the best plan, John?"
"As you like," said Mr Swann, with the force of habit.
He was supreme in most things, but in the practical details of their
son's life and comfort she was supreme. Her decision in such matters had
never been questioned. Mr Swann had a profound belief in his wife as a
uniquely capable and energetic woman. He was tremendously loyal to her,
and he sternly inculcated the same loyalty to her in Gilbert.
V
Just as the car had stopped at the end of the street for Gilbert and his
violoncello, so--more than an hour later--it stopped for Mrs Swann and
her hot potatoes.
They were hot potatoes--nay, very hot potatoes--of a medium size,
because Mrs Swann's recollections of youth had informed her that if a
potato is too large one cannot get one's fingers well around it, and if
it is too small it cools somewhat rapidly. She had taken two, not in the
hope that Gilbert would be able to use two at once, for one cannot
properly nurse either a baby or a 'cello with two hands full of
potatoes, but rather to provide against accident. Besides, the inventive
boy might after all find a way of using both simultaneously, which would
be all the better for his playing at the concert, and hence all the
better for the success of the Musical Festival.
It never occurred to Mrs Swann that she was doing anything in the least
unusual. There she was, in her best boots, and her best dress, and her
best hat, and her sealskin mantle (not easily to be surpassed in the
town), and her muff to match (nearly), and concealed in the muff were
the two very hot potatoes. And it did not strike her that women of
fashion like herself, wives of secretaries of flourishing companies, do
not commonly go about with hot potatoes concealed on their persons. For
she was a self-confident woman, and after a decision she did not
reflect, nor did she heed minor consequences. She was always sure that
what she was doing was the right and the only thing to do. And, to give
her justice, it was; for her direct, abrupt common sense was indeed
remarkable. The act of climbing up into the car warned her that she must
be skilful in the control of these potatoes; one of them nearly fell out
of the right end of her muff as she grasped the car rail with her right
hand. She had to let go and save the potato, and begin again, while the
car waited. The conductor took her for one of those hesitating,
hysterical women who are the bane of car conductors. "Now, missis!" he
said. "Up with ye!" But she did not care what manner of woman the
conductor took her for.
The car was nearly full of people going home from their work, of people
actually going in a direction contrary to the direction of the Musical
Festival. She sat down among them, shocked by this indifference to the
Musical Festival. At the back of her head had been an idea that all the
cars for Hanbridge would be crammed to the step, and all the cars from
Hanbridge forlorn and empty. She had vaguely imagined that the thoughts
of a quarter of a million of people would that evening be centred on the
unique Musical Festival. And she was shocked also by the
conversation--not that it was in the slightest degree improper--but
because it displayed no interest whatever in the Musical Festival. And
yet there were several Festival advertisements adhering to the roof of
the car. Travellers were discussing football, soap, the weather, rates,
trade; travellers were dozing; travellers were reading about starting
prices; but not one seemed to be occupied with the Musical Festival.
"Nevertheless," she reflected with consoling pride, "if they knew that
our Gilbert was playing 'cello in the orchestra and dining at this very
moment with Mr Millwain, some of them would be fine and surprised, that
they would!" No one would ever have suspected, from her calm, careless,
proud face, that such vain and two-penny thoughts were passing through
her head. But the thoughts that do pass through the heads of even the
most common-sensed philosophers, men and women, are truly astonishing.
In four minutes she was at Bursley Town Hall, where she changed into
another car--full of people equally indifferent to the Musical
Festival--for the suburb of Hillport, where Mrs Clayton Vernon lived.
"Put me out opposite Mrs Clayton Vernon's, will you?" she said to the
conductor, and added, "you know the house?"
He nodded as if to say disdainfully in response to such a needless
question: "Do I know the house? Do I know my pocket?"
As she left the car she did catch two men discussing the Festival, but
they appeared to have no intention of attending it. They were
earthenware manufacturers. One of them raised his hat to her. And she
said to herself: "He at any rate knows how important my Gilbert is in
the Festival!"
It was at the instant she pushed open Mrs Clayton Vernon's long and
heavy garden gate, and crunched in the frosty darkness up the short
winding drive, that the notion of the peculiarity of her errand first
presented itself to her. Mrs Clayton Vernon was a relatively great lady,
living in a relatively great house; one of the few exalted or peculiar
ones who did not dine in the middle of the day like other folk. Mrs
Clayton Vernon had the grand manner. Mrs Clayton Vernon instinctively
and successfully patronized everybody. Mrs Clayton Vernon was a
personage with whom people did not joke. And lo! Mrs Swann was about to
invade her courtly and luxurious house, uninvited, unauthorized, with a
couple of hot potatoes in her muff. What would Mrs Clayton Vernon think
of hot potatoes in a muff? Of course, the Swanns were "as good as
anybody." The Swanns knelt before nobody. The Swanns were of the cream
of the town, combining commerce with art, and why should not Mrs Swann
take practical measures to keep her son's hands warm in Mrs Clayton
Vernon's cold carriage? Still, there was only one Mrs Clayton Vernon in
Bursley, and it was impossible to deny that she inspired awe, even in
the independent soul of Mrs Swann.
Mrs Swann rang the bell, reassuring herself. The next instant an
electric light miraculously came into existence outside the door,
illuminating her from head to foot. This startled her. But she said to
herself that it must be the latest dodge, and that, at any rate, it was
a very good dodge, and she began again the process of reassuring
herself. The door opened, and a prim creature stiffly starched stood
before Mrs Swann. "My word!" reflected Mrs Swann, "she must cost her
mistress a pretty penny for getting up aprons!" And she said aloud
curtly:
"Will you please tell Mr Gilbert Swann that someone wants to speak to
him a minute at the door?"
"Yes," said the servant, with pert civility. "Will you please step in?"
She had not meant to step in. She had decidedly meant not to step in,
for she had no wish to encounter Mrs Clayton Vernon; indeed, the
reverse. But she immediately perceived that in asking to speak to a
guest at the door she had socially erred. At Mrs Clayton Vernon's
refined people did not speak to refined people at the door. So she
stepped in, and the door was closed, prisoning her and her potatoes in
the imposing hall.
"I only want to see Mr Gilbert Swann," she insisted.
"Yes," said the servant. "Will you please step into the breakfast-room?
There's no one there. I will tell Mr Swann."