He heard voices below. And his soul seemed to shrink back, as if into
the recesses of the shell from which it had been peeping. His soul was
tremendous, in solitude; but even the rumour of society intimidated it.
His father and another were walking about the ground floor; the rough
voice of his father echoed upwards in all its crudity. He listened for
the other voice; it was his Auntie Clara's. Darius too had taken his
Saturday afternoon for a leisurely visit to the house, and somehow he
must have encountered Mrs Hamps, and brought her with him to view.
Without giving himself time to dissipate his courage in reflection, he
walked to the landing, and called down the stairs, "Hello, Auntie!"
Why should his tone have been self-conscious, forced? He was engaged in
no crime. He had told his father where he was going, and his father had
not contradicted his remark that even if both of them happened to be out
together, the shop would take no harm under the sole care of Stifford
for an hour in the quiet of Saturday afternoon.
Mrs Hamps replied, in her coaxing, sweet manner.
"What did ye leave th' front door open for?" his father demanded curtly,
and every room in the house heard the question.
"Was it open?" he said lamely.
"Was it open! All Trafalgar Road could have walked in and made
themselves at home."
Edwin stood leaning with his arms on the rail of the landing. Presently
the visitors appeared at the foot of the stairs, and Darius climbed
carefully, having first shaken the balustrade to make sure that it was
genuine, stout, and well-founded. Mrs Hamps followed, the fripperies
of her elegant bonnet trembling, and her black gown rustling. Edwin
smiled at her, and she returned his smile with usurious interest. There
was now a mist of grey in her fine hair.
"Oh, Edwin!" she began, breathing relief on the top stair. "What a
beautiful house! Beautiful! Quite perfect! The latest of everything!
Do you know what I've been thinking while your dear father has been
showing me all this. So that's the bathroom! Bless us! Hot! Cold!
Waste! That cupboard under the lavatory is very handy, but what a snare
for a careless servant! Maggie will have to look at it every day, or
it'll be used for anything and everything. You tell her what her auntie
says... I was thinking--if but your mother could have seen it all!"
Father and son said nothing. Auntie Hamps sighed. She was the only
person who ever referred to the late Mrs Clayhanger.
The procession moved on from room to room, Darius fingering and
grunting, Mrs Hamps discovering in each detail the fine flower of utter
perfection, and Edwin strolling loosely in the wake of her curls, her
mantle, and her abundant black petticoats. He could detect the odour of
her kid gloves; it was a peculiar odour that never escaped him, and it
reminded him inevitably of his mother's funeral.
He was glad that they had not arrived during the visit of Janet
Orgreave.
In due course Edwin's bedroom was reached, and here Auntie Clara's
ecstasy was redoubled.
"I'm sure you're very grateful to your father, aren't you, Edwin?" she
majestically assumed, when she had admired passionately the window, the
door, the pattern of the hearth-tiles, and the spaciousness.
Edwin could not speak. Inquiries of this nature from Mrs Hamps
paralysed the tongues of the children. They left nothing to be said. A
sheepish grin, preceded by an inward mute curse, was all that Edwin
could accomplish. How in heaven's name could the woman talk in that
strain? His attitude towards his auntie was assuredly hardening with
years.
"What's all this?" questioned his father suddenly, pointing to upright
boards that had been fastened to the walls on either side of the
mantelpiece, to a height of about three feet.
Then Edwin perceived the clumsiness of his tactics in remaining
upstairs. He ought to have gone downstairs to meet his father and
auntie, and left them to go up alone. His father was in an inquisitive
mood.
"It's for shelves," he said.
"Shelves?"
"For my books. It's Mr Orgreave's idea. He says it'll cost less."
"Cost less! Mr Orgreave's got too many ideas--that's what's the matter
with him. He'll idea me into the bankruptcy court if he keeps on."
Edwin would have liked to protest against the savagery of the tone, to
inquire firmly why, since shelves were necessary for books and he had
books, there need be such a display of ill-temper about a few feet of
deal plank. The words were ready, the sentences framed in his mind.
But he was silent. The door was locked on these words, but it was not
Edwin who had turned the key; it was some force within him, over which
he had no control.
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