Stifford could hear. Any person who might chance to come into the shop
would hear. But Darius cared neither for his own dignity nor for that
of his son. He was in a passion. The real truth was that this celibate
man, who never took alcohol, enjoyed losing his temper; it was his one
outlet; he gave himself up almost luxuriously to a passion; he looked
forward to it as some men look forward to brandy. And Edwin had never
stopped him by some drastic step. At first, years before, Edwin had
said to himself, trembling with resentment in his bedroom, "The next
time, the very next time, he humiliates me like that in front of other
people, I'll walk out of his damned house and shop, and I swear I won't
come back until he's apologised. I'll bring him to his senses. He
can't do without me. Once for all I'll stop it. What! He forces me
into his business, and then insults me!"
But Edwin had never done it. Always, it was `the very next time'!
Edwin was not capable of doing it. His father had a sort of moral
brute-force, against which he could not stand firm. He soon recognised
this, with his intellectual candour. Then he had tried to argue with
Darius, to `make him see'! Worse than futile! Argument simply put
Darius beside himself. So that in the end Edwin employed silence and
secret scorn, as a weapon and as a defence. And somehow without a word
he conveyed to Stifford and to Big James precisely what his attitude in
these crises was, so that he retained their respect and avoided their
pity. The outbursts still wounded him, but he was wonderfully inured.
As he sat writing under the onslaught, he said to himself, "By God! If
ever I get the chance, I'll pay you out for this some day!" And he
meant it. A peep into his mind, then, would have startled Janet
Orgreave, Mrs Nixon, and other persons who had a cult for the
wistfulness of his appealing eyes.
He steadily maintained silence, and the conflagration burnt itself out.
"Are you going to look after the printing shop, or aren't you?" Darius
growled at length.
Edwin rose and went. As he passed through the shop, Stifford, who had
in him the raw material of fine manners, glanced down, but not too
ostentatiously, at a drawer under the counter.
The printing office was more crowded than ever with men and matter.
Some of the composing was now done on the ground-floor. The whole
organism functioned, but under such difficulties as could not be allowed
to continue, even by Darius Clayhanger. Darius had finally recognised
that.
"Oh!" said Edwin, in a tone of confidential intimacy to Big James, "I
see they're getting on with the cleaning! Good. Father's beginning to
get impatient, you know. It's the bigger cases that had better be done
first."
"Right it is, Mr Edwin!" said Big James. The giant was unchanged. No
sign of grey in his hair; and his cheek was smooth, apparently his
philosophy put him beyond the touch of time.
"I say, Mr Edwin," he inquired in his majestic voice. "When are we
going to rearrange all this?" He gazed around.
Edwin laughed. "Soon," he said.
"Won't be too soon," said Big James.