CHRISTMAS AND THE FUTURE
I
Mr. Povey was playing a hymn tune on the harmonium, it having been
decided that no one should go to chapel. Constance, in mourning, with a
white apron over her dress, sat on a hassock in front of the fire; and
near her, in a rocking-chair, Mrs. Baines swayed very gently to and
fro. The weather was extremely cold. Mr. Povey's mittened hands were
blue and red; but, like many shopkeepers, he had apparently grown
almost insensible to vagaries of temperature. Although the fire was
immense and furious, its influence, owing to the fact that the
mediaeval grate was designed to heat the flue rather than the room,
seemed to die away at the borders of the fender. Constance could not
have been much closer to it without being a salamander. The era of good
old-fashioned Christmases, so agreeably picturesque for the poor, was
not yet at an end.
Yes, Samuel Povey had won the battle concerning the locus of the family
Christmas. But he had received the help of a formidable ally, death.
Mrs. Harriet Maddack had passed away, after an operation, leaving her
house and her money to her sister. The solemn rite of her interment had
deeply affected all the respectability of the town of Axe, where the
late Mr. Maddack had been a figure of consequence; it had even shut up
the shop in St. Luke's Square for a whole day. It was such a funeral as
Aunt Harriet herself would have approved, a tremendous ceremonial which
left on the crushed mind an ineffaceable, intricate impression of shiny
cloth, crape, horses with arching necks and long manes, the drawl of
parsons, cake, port, sighs, and Christian submission to the inscrutable
decrees of Providence. Mrs. Baines had borne herself with unnatural
calmness until the funeral was over: and then Constance perceived that
the remembered mother of her girlhood existed no longer. For the
majority of human souls it would have been easier to love a virtuous
principle, or a mountain, than to love Aunt Harriet, who was assuredly
less a woman than an institution. But Mrs. Baines had loved her, and
she had been the one person to whom Mrs. Baines looked for support and
guidance. When she died, Mrs. Baines paid the tribute of respect with
the last hoarded remains of her proud fortitude, and weepingly
confessed that the unconquerable had been conquered, the inexhaustible
exhausted; and became old with whitening hair.
She had persisted in her refusal to spend Christmas in Bursley, but
both Constance and Samuel knew that the resistance was only formal. She
soon yielded. When Constance's second new servant took it into her head
to leave a week before Christmas, Mrs. Baines might have pointed out
the finger of Providence at work again, and this time in her favour.
But no! With amazing pliancy she suggested that she should bring one of
her own servants to 'tide Constance over' Christmas. She was met with
all the forms of loving solicitude, and she found that her daughter and
son-in-law had 'turned out of' the state bedroom in her favour.
Intensely flattered by this attention (which was Mr. Povey's
magnanimous idea), she nevertheless protested strongly. Indeed she
'would not hear of it.'
"Now, mother, don't be silly," Constance had said firmly. "You don't
expect us to be at all the trouble of moving back again, do you?" And
Mrs. Baines had surrendered in tears.
Thus had come Christmas. Perhaps it was fortunate that, the Axe servant
being not quite the ordinary servant, but a benefactor where a
benefactor was needed, both Constance and her mother thought it well to
occupy themselves in household work, 'sparing' the benefactor as much
as possible. Hence Constance's white apron.
"There he is!" said Mr. Povey, still playing, but with his eye on the
street.
Constance sprang up eagerly. Then there was a knock on the door.
Constance opened, and an icy blast swept into the room. The postman
stood on the steps, his instrument for knocking (like a drumstick) in
one hand, a large bundle of letters in the other, and a yawning bag
across the pit of his stomach.
"Merry Christmas, ma'am!" cried the postman, trying to keep warm by
cheerfulness.
Constance, taking the letters, responded, while Mr. Povey, playing the
harmonium with his right hand, drew half a crown from his pocket with
the left.
"Here you are!" he said, giving it to Constance, who gave it to the
postman.
Fan, who had been keeping her muzzle warm with the extremity of her
tail on the sofa, jumped down to superintend the transaction.
"Brrr!" vibrated Mr. Povey as Constance shut the door.
"What lots!" Constance exclaimed, rushing to the fire. "Here, mother!
Here, Sam!"
The girl had resumed possession of the woman's body.
Though the Baines family had few friends (sustained hospitality being
little practised in those days) they had, of course, many
acquaintances, and, like other families, they counted their Christmas
cards as an Indian counts scalps. The tale was satisfactory. There were
between thirty and forty envelopes. Constance extracted Christmas cards
rapidly, reading their contents aloud, and then propping them up on the
mantelpiece. Mrs. Baines assisted. Fan dealt with the envelopes on the
floor. Mr. Povey, to prove that his soul was above toys and gewgaws,
continued to play the harmonium.
"Oh, mother!" Constance murmured in a startled, hesitant voice, holding
an envelope.
"What is it, my chuck?"
"It's----"
The envelope was addressed to "Mrs. and Miss Baines" in large,
perpendicular, dashing characters which Constance instantly recognised
as Sophia's. The stamps were strange, the postmark 'Paris.' Mrs. Baines
leaned forward and looked.
"Open it, child," she said.
The envelope contained an English Christmas card of a common type, a
spray of holly with greetings, and on it was written, "I do hope this
will reach you on Christmas morning. Fondest love." No signature, nor
address.
Mrs. Baines took it with a trembling hand, and adjusted her spectacles.
She gazed at it a long time.
"And it has done!" she said, and wept.
She tried to speak again, but not being able to command herself, held
forth the card to Constance and jerked her head in the direction of Mr.
Povey. Constance rose and put the card on the keyboard of the harmonium.
"Sophia!" she whispered.
Mr. Povey stopped playing. "Dear, dear!" he muttered.
Fan, perceiving that nobody was interested in her feats, suddenly stood
still.
Mrs. Baines tried once more to speak, but could not. Then, her ringlets
shaking beneath the band of her weeds, she found her feet, stepped to
the harmonium, and, with a movement almost convulsive, snatched the
card from Mr. Povey, and returned to her chair.
Mr. Povey abruptly left the room, followed by Fan. Both the women were
in tears, and he was tremendously surprised to discover a dangerous
lump in his own throat. The beautiful and imperious vision of Sophia,
Sophia as she had left them, innocent, wayward, had swiftly risen up
before him and made even him a woman too! Yet he had never liked
Sophia. The awful secret wound in the family pride revealed itself to
him as never before, and he felt intensely the mother's tragedy, which
she carried in her breast as Aunt Harriet had carried a cancer.
At dinner he said suddenly to Mrs. Baines, who still wept: "Now,
mother, you must cheer up, you know."
"Yes, I must," she said quickly. And she did do.
Neither Samuel nor Constance saw the card again. Little was said. There
was nothing to say. As Sophia had given no address she must be still
ashamed of her situation. But she had thought of her mother and sister.
She ... she did not even know that Constance was married ... What sort
of a place was Paris? To Bursley, Paris was nothing but the site of a
great exhibition which had recently closed.
Through the influence of Mrs. Baines a new servant was found for
Constance in a village near Axe, a raw, comely girl who had never been
in a 'place.' And through the post it was arranged that this innocent
should come to the cave on the thirty-first of December. In obedience
to the safe rule that servants should never be allowed to meet for the
interchange of opinions, Mrs. Baines decided to leave with her own
servant on the thirtieth. She would not be persuaded to spend the New
Year in the Square. On the twenty-ninth poor Aunt Maria died all of a
sudden in her cottage in Brougham Street. Everybody was duly
distressed, and in particular Mrs. Baines's demeanour under this
affliction showed the perfection of correctness. But she caused it to
be understood that she should not remain for the funeral. Her nerves
would be unequal to the ordeal; and, moreover, her servant must not
stay to corrupt the new girl, nor could Mrs. Baines think of sending
her servant to Axe in advance, to spend several days in idle gossip
with her colleague.
This decision took the backbone out of Aunt Maria's funeral, which
touched the extreme of modesty: a hearse and a one-horse coach. Mr.
Povey was glad, because he happened to be very busy. An hour before his
mother-in-law's departure he came into the parlour with the proof of a
poster.
"What is that, Samuel?" asked Mrs. Baines, not dreaming of the blow
that awaited her.
"It's for my first Annual Sale," replied Mr. Povey with false
tranquillity.
Mrs. Baines merely tossed her head. Constance, happily for Constance,
was not present at this final defeat of the old order. Had she been
there, she would certainly not have known where to look.
II
"Forty next birthday!" Mr. Povey exclaimed one day, with an expression
and in a tone that were at once mock-serious and serious. This was on
his thirty-ninth birthday.
Constance was startled. She had, of course, been aware that they were
getting older, but she had never realized the phenomenon. Though
customers occasionally remarked that Mr. Povey was stouter, and though
when she helped him to measure himself for a new suit of clothes the
tape proved the fact, he had not changed for her. She knew that she too
had become somewhat stouter; but for herself, she remained exactly the
same Constance. Only by recalling dates and by calculations could she
really grasp that she had been married a little over six years and not
a little over six months. She had to admit that, if Samuel would be
forty next birthday, she would be twenty-seven next birthday. But it
would not be a real twenty-seven; nor would Sam's forty be a real
forty, like other people's twenty-sevens and forties. Not long since
she had been in the habit of regarding a man of forty as senile, as
practically in his grave.
She reflected, and the more she reflected the more clearly she saw that
after all the almanacs had not lied. Look at Fan! Yes, it must be five
years since the memorable morning when doubt first crossed the minds of
Samuel and Constance as to Fan's moral principles. Samuel's enthusiasm
for dogs was equalled by his ignorance of the dangers to which a young
female of temperament may be exposed, and he was much disturbed as
doubt developed into certainty. Fan, indeed, was the one being who did
not suffer from shock and who had no fears as to the results. The
animal, having a pure mind, was bereft of modesty. Sundry enormities
had she committed, but none to rank with this one! The result was four
quadrupeds recognizable as fox-terriers. Mr. Povey breathed again. Fan
had had more luck than she deserved, for the result might have been
simply anything. Her owners forgave her and disposed of these fruits of
iniquity, and then married her lawfully to a husband who was so high up
in the world that he could demand a dowry. And now Fan was a
grandmother, with fixed ideas and habits, and a son in the house, and
various grandchildren scattered over the town. Fan was a sedate and
disillusioned dog. She knew the world as it was, and in learning it she
had taught her owners above a bit.
Then there was Maggie Hollins. Constance could still vividly recall the
self-consciousness with which she had one day received Maggie and the
heir of the Hollinses; but it was a long time ago. After staggering
half the town by the production of this infant (of which she nearly
died) Maggie allowed the angels to waft it away to heaven, and
everybody said that she ought to be very thankful--at her age. Old
women dug up out of their minds forgotten histories of the
eccentricities of the goddess Lucina. Mrs. Baines was most curiously
interested; she talked freely to Constance, and Constance began to see
what an incredible town Bursley had always been--and she never
suspected it! Maggie was now mother of other children, and the
draggled, lame mistress of a drunken home, and looked sixty. Despite
her prophecy, her husband had conserved his 'habits.' The Poveys ate
all the fish they could, and sometimes more than they enjoyed, because
on his sober days Hollins invariably started his round at the shop, and
Constance had to buy for Maggie's sake. The worst of the worthless
husband was that he seldom failed to be cheery and polite. He never
missed asking after the health of Mrs. Baines. And when Constance
replied that her mother was 'pretty well considering,' but that she
would not come over to Bursley again until the Axe railway was opened,
as she could not stand the drive, he would shake his grey head and be
sympathetically gloomy for an instant.
All these changes in six years! The almanacs were in the right of it.
But nothing had happened to her. Gradually she had obtained a sure
ascendency over her mother, yet without seeking it, merely as the
outcome of time's influences on her and on her mother respectively.
Gradually she had gained skill and use in the management of her
household and of her share of the shop, so that these machines ran
smoothly and effectively and a sudden contretemps no longer frightened
her. Gradually she had constructed a chart of Samuel's individuality,
with the submerged rocks and perilous currents all carefully marked, so
that she could now voyage unalarmed in those seas. But nothing
happened. Unless their visits to Buxton could be called happenings!
Decidedly the visit to Buxton was the one little hill that rose out of
the level plain of the year. They had formed the annual habit of going
to Buxton for ten days. They had a way of saying: "Yes, we always go to
Buxton. We went there for our honeymoon, you know." They had become
confirmed Buxtonites, with views concerning St. Anne's Terrace, the
Broad Walk and Peel's Cavern. They could not dream of deserting their
Buxton. It was the sole possible resort. Was it not the highest town in
England? Well, then! They always stayed at the same lodgings, and grew
to be special favourites of the landlady, who whispered of them to all
her other guests as having come to her house for their honeymoon, and
as never missing a year, and as being most respectable, superior people
in quite a large way of business. Each year they walked out of Buxton
station behind their luggage on a truck, full of joy and pride because
they knew all the landmarks, and the lie of all the streets, and which
were the best shops.
At the beginning, the notion of leaving the shop to hired custody had
seemed almost fantastic, and the preparations for absence had been very
complicated. Then it was that Miss Insull had detached herself from the
other young lady assistants as a creature who could be absolutely
trusted. Miss Insull was older than Constance; she had a bad
complexion, and she was not clever, but she was one of your reliable
ones. The six years had witnessed the slow, steady rise of Miss Insull.
Her employers said 'Miss Insull' in a tone quite different from that in
which they said 'Miss Hawkins,' or 'Miss Dadd.' 'Miss Insull' meant the
end of a discussion. 'Better tell Miss Insull.' 'Miss Insull will see
to that.' 'I shall ask Miss Insull.' Miss Insull slept in the house ten
nights every year. Miss Insull had been called into consultation when
it was decided to engage a fourth hand in the shape of an apprentice.
Trade had improved into positive excellence. It was now admitted to
be good--a rare honour for trade! The coal-mining boom was at its
height, and colliers, in addition to getting drunk, were buying
American organs and expensive bull-terriers. Often they would come to
the shop to purchase cloth for coats for their dogs. And they would
have good cloth. Mr. Povey did not like this. One day a butty chose for
his dog the best cloth of Mr. Povey's shop--at 12s. a yard. "Will ye
make it up? I've gotten th' measurements," asked the collier. "No, I
won't!" said Mr. Povey, hotly. "And what's more, I won't sell you the
cloth either! Cloth at 12s. a yard on a dog's back indeed! I'll thank
you to get out of my shop!" The incident became historic, in the
Square. It finally established that Mr. Povey was a worthy son-in-law
and a solid and successful man. It vindicated the old pre-eminence of
"Baines's." Some surprise was expressed that Mr. Povey showed no desire
nor tendency towards entering the public life of the town. But he never
would, though a keen satirical critic of the Local Board in private.
And at the chapel he remained a simple private worshipper, refusing
stewardships and trusteeships.
III
Was Constance happy? Of course there was always something on her mind,
something that had to be dealt with, either in the shop or in the
house, something to employ all the skill and experience which she had
acquired. Her life had much in it of laborious tedium--tedium
never-ending and monotonous. And both she and Samuel worked
consistently hard, rising early, 'pushing forward,' as the phrase ran,
and going to bed early from sheer fatigue; week after week and month
after month as season changed imperceptibly into season. In June and
July it would happen to them occasionally to retire before the last
silver of dusk was out of the sky. They would lie in bed and talk
placidly of their daily affairs. There would be a noise in the street
below. "Vaults closing!" Samuel would say, and yawn. "Yes, it's quite
late," Constance would say. And the Swiss clock would rapidly strike
eleven on its coil of resonant wire. And then, just before she went to
sleep, Constance might reflect upon her destiny, as even the busiest
and smoothest women do, and she would decide that it was kind. Her
mother's gradual decline and lonely life at Axe saddened her. The cards
which came now and then at extremely long intervals from Sophia had
been the cause of more sorrow than joy. The naive ecstasies of her
girlhood had long since departed--the price paid for experience and
self-possession and a true vision of things. The vast inherent
melancholy of the universe did not exempt her. But as she went to sleep
she would be conscious of a vague contentment. The basis of this
contentment was the fact that she and Samuel comprehended and esteemed
each other, and made allowances for each other. Their characters had
been tested and had stood the test. Affection, love, was not to them a
salient phenomenon in their relations. Habit had inevitably dulled its
glitter. It was like a flavouring, scarce remarked; but had it been
absent, how they would have turned from that dish!
Samuel never, or hardly ever, set himself to meditate upon the problem
whether or not life had come up to his expectations. But he had, at
times, strange sensations which he did not analyze, and which
approached nearer to ecstasy than any feeling of Constance's. Thus,
when he was in one of his dark furies, molten within and black without,
the sudden thought of his wife's unalterable benignant calm, which
nothing could overthrow, might strike him into a wondering cold. For
him she was astoundingly feminine. She would put flowers on the
mantelpiece, and then, hours afterwards, in the middle of a meal, ask
him unexpectedly what he thought of her 'garden;' and he gradually
divined that a perfunctory reply left her unsatisfied; she wanted a
genuine opinion; a genuine opinion mattered to her. Fancy calling
flowers on a mantelpiece a 'garden'! How charming, how childlike! Then
she had a way, on Sunday mornings, when she descended to the parlour
all ready for chapel, of shutting the door at the foot of the stairs
with a little bang, shaking herself, and turning round swiftly as if
for his inspection, as if saying: "Well, what about this? Will this
do?" A phenomenon always associated in his mind with the smell of kid
gloves! Invariably she asked him about the colours and cut of her
dresses. Would he prefer this, or that? He could not take such
questions seriously until one day he happened to hint, merely hint,
that he was not a thorough-going admirer of a certain new dress--it was
her first new dress after the definite abandonment of crinolines. She
never wore it again. He thought she was not serious at first, and
remonstrated against a joke being carried too far. She said: "It's not
a bit of use you talking, I shan't wear it again." And then he so far
appreciated her seriousness as to refrain, by discretion, from any
comment. The incident affected him for days. It flattered him; it
thrilled him; but it baffled him. Strange that a woman subject to such
caprices should be so sagacious, capable, and utterly reliable as
Constance was! For the practical and commonsense side of her eternally
compelled his admiration. The very first example of it--her insistence
that the simultaneous absence of both of them from the shop for half an
hour or an hour twice a day would not mean the immediate downfall of
the business--had remained in his mind ever since. Had she not been
obstinate--in her benevolent way--against the old superstition which he
had acquired from his employers, they might have been eating separately
to that day. Then her handling of her mother during the months of the
siege of Paris, when Mrs. Baines was convinced that her sinful daughter
was in hourly danger of death, had been extraordinarily fine, he
considered. And the sequel, a card for Constance's birthday, had
completely justified her attitude.
Sometimes some blundering fool would jovially exclaim to them:
"What about that baby?"
Or a woman would remark quietly: "I often feel sorry you've no
children."
And they would answer that really they did not know what they would do
if there was a baby. What with the shop and one thing or another...!
And they were quite sincere.
IV
It is remarkable what a little thing will draw even the most regular
and serious people from the deep groove of their habits. One morning in
March, a boneshaker, an affair on two equal wooden wheels joined by a
bar of iron, in the middle of which was a wooden saddle, disturbed the
gravity of St. Luke's Square. True, it was probably the first
boneshaker that had ever attacked the gravity of St. Luke's Square. It
came out of the shop of Daniel Povey, the confectioner and baker, and
Samuel Povey's celebrated cousin, in Boulton Terrace. Boulton Terrace
formed nearly a right angle with the Baines premises, and at the corner
of the angle Wedgwood Street and King Street left the Square. The
boneshaker was brought forth by Dick Povey, the only son of Daniel, now
aged eleven years, under the superintendence of his father, and the
Square soon perceived that Dick had a natural talent for breaking-in an
untrained boneshaker. After a few attempts he could remain on the back
of the machine for at least ten yards, and his feats had the effect of
endowing St. Luke's Square with the attractiveness of a circus. Samuel
Povey watched with candid interest from the ambush of his door, while
the unfortunate young lady assistants, though aware of the performance
that was going on, dared not stir from the stove. Samuel was
tremendously tempted to sally out boldly, and chat with his cousin
about the toy; he had surely a better right to do so than any other
tradesman in the Square, since he was of the family; but his diffidence
prevented him from moving. Presently Daniel Povey and Dick went to the
top of the Square with the machine, opposite Holl's, and Dick, being
carefully installed in the saddle, essayed to descend the gentle paven
slopes of the Square. He failed time after time; the machine had an
astonishing way of turning round, running uphill, and then lying calmly
on its side. At this point of Dick's life-history every shop-door in
the Square was occupied by an audience. At last the boneshaker
displayed less unwillingness to obey, and lo! in a moment Dick was
riding down the Square, and the spectators held their breath as if he
had been Blondin crossing Niagara. Every second he ought to have fallen
off, but he contrived to keep upright. Already he had accomplished
twenty yards--thirty yards! It was a miracle that he was performing!
The transit continued, and seemed to occupy hours. And then a faint
hope rose in the breast of the watchers that the prodigy might arrive
at the bottom of the Square. His speed was increasing with his 'nack.'
But the Square was enormous, boundless. Samuel Povey gazed at the
approaching phenomenon, as a bird at a serpent, with bulging, beady
eyes. The child's speed went on increasing and his path grew
straighter. Yes, he would arrive; he would do it! Samuel Povey
involuntarily lifted one leg in his nervous tension. And now the hope
that Dick would arrive became a fear, as his pace grew still more
rapid. Everybody lifted one leg, and gaped. And the intrepid child
surged on, and, finally victorious, crashed into the pavement in front
of Samuel at the rate of quite six miles an hour.
Samuel picked him up, unscathed. And somehow this picking up of Dick
invested Samuel with importance, gave him a share in the glory of the
feat itself.
Daniel Povey same running and joyous. "Not so bad for a start, eh?"
exclaimed the great Daniel. Though by no means a simple man, his pride
in his offspring sometimes made him a little naive.
Father and son explained the machine to Samuel, Dick incessantly
repeating the exceedingly strange truth that if you felt you were
falling to your right you must turn to your right and vice versa.
Samuel found himself suddenly admitted, as it were, to the inner
fellowship of the boneshaker, exalted above the rest of the Square. In
another adventure more thrilling events occurred. The fair-haired Dick
was one of those dangerous, frenzied madcaps who are born without fear.
The secret of the machine had been revealed to him in his recent
transit, and he was silently determining to surpass himself.
Precariously balanced, he descended the Square again, frowning hard,
his teeth set, and actually managed to swerve into King Street.
Constance, in the parlour, saw an incomprehensible winged thing fly
past the window. The cousins Povey sounded an alarm and protest and ran
in pursuit; for the gradient of King Street is, in the strict sense,
steep. Half-way down King Street Dick was travelling at twenty miles an
hour, and heading straight for the church, as though he meant to
disestablish it and perish. The main gate of the churchyard was open,
and that affrighting child, with a lunatic's luck, whizzed safely
through the portals into God's acre. The cousins Povey discovered him
lying on a green grave, clothed in pride. His first words were: "Dad,
did you pick my cap up?" The symbolism of the amazing ride did not
escape the Square; indeed, it was much discussed.
This incident led to a friendship between the cousins. They formed a
habit of meeting in the Square for a chat. The meetings were the
subject of comment, for Samuel's relations with the greater Daniel had
always been of the most distant. It was understood that Samuel
disapproved of Mrs. Daniel Povey even, more than the majority of people
disapproved of her. Mrs. Daniel Povey, however, was away from home;
probably, had she not been, Samuel would not even have gone to the
length of joining Daniel on the neutral ground of the open Square. But
having once broken the ice, Samuel was glad to be on terms of growing
intimacy with his cousin. The friendship flattered him, for Daniel,
despite his wife, was a figure in a world larger than Samuel's;
moreover, it consecrated his position as the equal of no matter what
tradesman (apprentice though he had been), and also he genuinely liked
and admired Daniel, rather to his own astonishment.
Every one liked Daniel Povey; he was a favourite among all ranks. The
leading confectioner, a member of the Local Board, and a sidesman at
St. Luke's, he was, and had been for twenty-five years, very prominent
in the town. He was a tall, handsome man, with a trimmed, greying
beard, a jolly smile, and a flashing, dark eye. His good humour seemed
to be permanent. He had dignity without the slightest stiffness; he was
welcomed by his equals and frankly adored by his inferiors. He ought to
have been Chief Bailiff, for he was rich enough; but there intervened a
mysterious obstacle between Daniel Povey and the supreme honour, a
scarcely tangible impediment which could not be definitely stated. He
was capable, honest, industrious, successful, and an excellent speaker;
and if he did not belong to the austerer section of society, if, for
example, he thought nothing of dropping into the Tiger for a glass of
beer, or of using an oath occasionally, or of telling a facetious
story--well, in a busy, broad-minded town of thirty thousand
inhabitants, such proclivities are no bar whatever to perfect esteem.
But--how is one to phrase it without wronging Daniel Povey? He was
entirely moral; his views were unexceptionable. The truth is that, for
the ruling classes of Bursley, Daniel Povey was just a little too
fanatical a worshipper of the god Pan. He was one of the remnant who
had kept alive the great Pan tradition from the days of the Regency
through the vast, arid Victorian expanse of years. The flighty
character of his wife was regarded by many as a judgment upon him for
the robust Rabelaisianism of his more private conversation, for his
frank interest in, his eternal preoccupation with, aspects of life and
human activity which, though essential to the divine purpose, are not
openly recognized as such--even by Daniel Poveys. It was not a question
of his conduct; it was a question of the cast of his mind. If it did
not explain his friendship with the rector of St. Luke's, it explained
his departure from the Primitive Methodist connexion, to which the
Poveys as a family had belonged since Primitive Methodism was created
in Turnhill in 1807.
Daniel Povey had a way of assuming that every male was boiling over
with interest in the sacred cult of Pan. The assumption, though
sometimes causing inconvenience at first, usually conquered by virtue
of its inherent truthfulness. Thus it fell out with Samuel. Samuel had
not suspected that Pan had silken cords to draw him. He had always
averted his eyes from the god--that is to say, within reason. Yet now
Daniel, on perhaps a couple of fine mornings a week, in full Square,
with Fan sitting behind on the cold stones, and Mr. Critchlow ironic at
his door in a long white apron, would entertain Samuel Povey for half
an hour with Pan's most intimate lore, and Samuel Povey would not
blench. He would, on the contrary, stand up to Daniel like a little
man, and pretend with all his might to be, potentially, a perfect
arch-priest of the god. Daniel taught him a lot; turned over the page
of life for him, as it were, and, showing the reverse side, seemed to
say: "You were missing all that." Samuel gazed upwards at the handsome
long nose and rich lips of his elder cousin, so experienced, so
agreeable, so renowned, so esteemed, so philosophic, and admitted to
himself that he had lived to the age of forty in a state of comparative
boobyism. And then he would gaze downwards at the faint patch of flour
on Daniel's right leg, and conceive that life was, and must be, life.
Not many weeks after his initiation into the cult he was startled by
Constance's preoccupied face one evening. Now, a husband of six years'
standing, to whom it has not happened to become a father, is not easily
startled by such a face as Constance wore. Years ago he had frequently
been startled, had frequently lived in suspense for a few days. But he
had long since grown impervious to these alarms. And now he was
startled again--but as a man may be startled who is not altogether
surprised at being startled. And seven endless days passed, and Samuel
and Constance glanced at each other like guilty things, whose secret
refuses to be kept. Then three more days passed, and another three.
Then Samuel Povey remarked in a firm, masculine, fact-fronting tone:
"Oh, there's no doubt about it!"
And they glanced at each other like conspirators who have lighted a
fuse and cannot take refuge in flight. Their eyes said continually,
with a delicious, an enchanting mixture of ingenuous modesty and
fearful joy:
"Well, we've gone and done it!"
There it was, the incredible, incomprehensible future--coming!
Samuel had never correctly imagined the manner of its heralding. He had
imagined in his early simplicity that one day Constance, blushing,
might put her mouth to his ear and whisper--something positive. It had
not occurred in the least like that. But things are so obstinately, so
incurably unsentimental.
"I think we ought to drive over and tell mother, on Sunday," said
Constance.
His impulse was to reply, in his grand, offhand style: "Oh, a letter
will do!"
But he checked himself and said, with careful deference: "You think
that will be better than writing?"
All was changed. He braced every fibre to meet destiny, and to help
Constance to meet it.
The weather threatened on Sunday. He went to Axe without Constance. His
cousin drove him there in a dog-cart, and he announced that he should
walk home, as the exercise would do him good. During the drive Daniel,
in whom he had not confided, chattered as usual, and Samuel pretended
to listen with the same attitude as usual; but secretly he despised
Daniel for a man who has got something not of the first importance on
the brain. His perspective was truer than Daniel's.
He walked home, as he had decided, over the wavy moorland of the county
dreaming in the heart of England. Night fell on him in mid-career, and
he was tired. But the earth, as it whirled through naked space, whirled
up the moon for him, and he pressed on at a good speed. A wind from
Arabia wandering cooled his face. And at last, over the brow of Toft
End, he saw suddenly the Five Towns a-twinkle on their little hills
down in the vast amphitheatre. And one of those lamps was Constance's
lamp--one, somewhere. He lived, then. He entered into the shadow of
nature. The mysteries made him solemn. What! A boneshaker, his cousin,
and then this!
"Well, I'm damned! Well, I'm damned!" he kept repeating, he who never
swore.