We now approach the more picturesque part of Edwin's career. Seven
years passed. Towards the end of April 1880, on a Saturday morning,
Janet Orgreave, second daughter of Osmond Orgreave, the architect,
entered the Clayhanger shop.
All night an April shower lasting ten hours had beaten with persistent
impetuosity against the window-panes of Bursley, and hence half the town
had slept ill. But at breakfast-time the clouds had been mysteriously
drawn away, the winds had expired, and those drenched streets began to
dry under the caressing peace of bright soft sunshine; the sky was pale
blue of a delicacy unknown to the intemperate climes of the south.
Janet Orgreave, entering the Clayhanger shop, brought into it with her
the new morning weather. She also brought into it Edwin's fate, or part
of it, but not precisely in the sense commonly understood when the word
`fate' is mentioned between a young man and a young woman.
A youth stood at the left-hand or `fancy' counter, very nervous. Miss
Ingamells (that was) was married and the mother of three children, and
had probably forgotten the difference between `demy' and `post' octavos;
and this youth had taken her place and the place of two unsatisfactory
maids in black who had succeeded her. None but males were now employed
in the Clayhanger business, and everybody breathed more freely; round,
sound oaths were heard where never oaths had been heard before. The
young man's name was Stifford, and he was addressed as `Stiff.' He was
a proof of the indiscretion of prophesying about human nature. He had
been the paper boy, the minion of Edwin, and universally regarded as
unreliable and almost worthless. But at sixteen a change had come over
him; he parted his hair in the middle instead of at the side, arrived in
the morning at 7:59 instead of at 8:05, and seemed to see the
earnestness of life. Every one was glad and relieved, but every one
took the change as a matter of course; the attitude of every one to the
youth was: "Well, it's not too soon!" No one saw a romantic miracle.
"I suppose you haven't got `The Light of Asia' in stock?" began Janet
Orgreave, after she had greeted the youth kindly.
"I'm afraid we haven't, miss," said Stifford. This was an
understatement. He knew beyond fear that "The Light of Asia" was not in
stock.
"Oh!" murmured Janet.
"I think you said `The Light of Asia'?"
"Yes. `The Light of Asia,' by Edwin Arnold." Janet had a persuasive
humane smile.
Stifford was anxious to have the air of obliging this smile, and he
turned round to examine a shelf of prize books behind him, well aware
that "The Light of Asia" was not among them. He knew "The Light of
Asia," and was proud of his knowledge; that is to say, he knew by
visible and tactual evidence that such a book existed, for it had been
ordered and supplied as a Christmas present four months previously, soon
after its dazzling apparition in the world.
"Yes, by Edwin Arnold--Edwin Arnold," he muttered learnedly, running his
finger along gilded backs.
"It's being talked about a great deal," said Janet as if to encourage
him.
"Yes, it is... No, I'm very sorry, we haven't it in stock." Stifford
faced her again, and leaned his hands wide apart on the counter.
"I should like you to order it for me," said Janet Orgreave in a low
voice.
She asked this exactly as though she were asking a personal favour from
Stifford the private individual. Such was Janet's way. She could not
help it. People often said that her desire to please, and her methods
of pleasing, were unconscious. These people were wrong. She was
perfectly conscious and even deliberate in her actions. She liked to
please. She could please easily and she could please keenly. Therefore
she strove always to please. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror,
and saw that charming, good-natured face with its rich vermilion lips
eager to part in a nice, warm, sympathetic smile, she could accuse
herself of being too fond of the art of pleasing. For she was a
conscientious girl, and her age being twenty-five her soul was at its
prime, full, bursting with beautiful impulses towards perfection. Yes,
she would accuse herself of being too happy, too content, and would
wonder whether she ought not to seek heaven by some austerity of
scowling. Janet had everything: a kind disposition, some brains, some
beauty, considerable elegance and luxury for her station, fine shoulders
at a ball, universal love and esteem.
Stifford, as he gazed diffidently at this fashionable, superior, and yet
exquisitely beseeching woman on the other side of the counter, was in a
very unpleasant quandary. She had by her magic transformed him into a
private individual, and he acutely wanted to earn that smile which she
was giving him. But he could not. He was under the obligation to say
`No' to her innocent and delightful request; and yet could he say `No'?
Could he bring himself to desolate her by a refusal? (She had produced
in him the illusion that a refusal would indeed desolate her, though she
would of course bear it with sweet fortitude.) Business was a barbaric
thing at times.
"The fact is, miss," he said at length, in his best manner, "Mr
Clayhanger has decided to give up the new book business. I'm very
sorry."
Had it been another than Janet he would have assuredly said with pride:
"We have decided--"
"Really!" said Janet. "I see!"
Then Stifford directed his eyes upon a square glazed structure of
ebonised wood that had been insinuated and inserted into the opposite
corner of the shop, behind the ledger-window. And Janet's eyes followed
his.
"I don't know if--" he hesitated.
"Is Mr Clayhanger in?" she demanded, as if wishful to help him in the
formulation of his idea, and she added: "Or Mr Edwin?" Deliciously
persuasive!
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