He seized his overcoat and hat, and putting them on anyhow, strode out.
The kitchen clock struck half-past seven as he left. Chapel-goers would
soon be returning in a thin procession of twos and threes up Trafalgar
Road. To avoid meeting acquaintances he turned down the side street,
towards the old road which was a continuation of Aboukir Street. There
he would be safe. Letting his overcoat fly open, he thrust his hands
into the pockets of his trousers. It was a cold night of mist.
Humanity was separated from him by the semi-transparent blinds of the
cottage windows, bright squares in the dark and enigmatic facades of the
street. He was alone.
All along he had felt and known that this disgusting crisis would come
to pass. He had hoped against it, but not with faith. And he had no
remedy for it. What could he immediately and effectively do? He was
convinced that his father would not yield. There were frequent
occasions when his father was proof against reason, when his father
seemed genuinely unable to admit the claim of justice, and this occasion
was one of them. He could tell by certain peculiarities of tone and
gesture. A pound a week! Assuming that he cut loose from his father,
in a formal and confessed separation, he might not for a long time be in
a position to earn more than a pound a week. A clerk was worth no more.
And, except as responsible manager of a business, he could only go into
the market as a clerk. In the Five Towns how many printing offices were
there that might at some time or another be in need of a manager?
Probably not one. They were all of modest importance, and directed
personally by their proprietary heads. His father's was one of the
largest... No! His father had nurtured and trained, in him, a helpless
slave.
And how could he discuss such a humiliating question with Hilda? Could
he say to Hilda: "See here, my father won't allow me more than a pound a
week. What are we to do?" In what terms should he telegraph to her
to-morrow?
He heard the rapid firm footsteps of a wayfarer overtaking him. He had
no apprehension of being disturbed in his bitter rage. But a hand was
slapped on his shoulder, and a jolly voice said--
"Now, Edwin, where's this road leading you to on a Sunday night?"
It was Osmond Orgreave who, having been tramping for exercise in the
high regions beyond the Loop railway line, was just going home.
"Oh! Nowhere particular," said Edwin feebly.
"Working off Sunday dinner, eh?"
"Yes." And Edwin added casually, to prove that there was nothing
singular in his mood: "Nasty night!"
"You must come in a bit," said Mr Orgreave.
"Oh no!" He shrank away.
"Now, now!" said Mr Orgreave masterfully. "You've got to come in, so
you may as well give up first as last. Janet's in. She's like you and
me, she's a bad lot,--hasn't been to church." He took Edwin by the arm,
and they turned into Oak Street at the lower end.
Edwin continued to object, but Mr Orgreave, unable to scrutinise his
face in the darkness, and not dreaming of an indiscretion, rode over his
weak negatives, horse and foot, and drew him by force into the garden;
and in the hall took his hat away from him and slid his overcoat from
his shoulders. Mr Orgreave, having accomplished a lot of forbidden
labour on that Sabbath, was playful in his hospitality.
"Prisoner! Take charge of him!" exclaimed Mr Orgreave shortly, as he
pushed Edwin into the breakfast-room and shut the door from the outside.
Janet was there, exquisitely welcoming, unconsciously pouring balm from
her eyes. But he thought she looked graver than usual. Edwin had to
enact the part of a man to whom nothing has happened. He had to behave
as though his father was the kindest and most reasonable of fathers, as
though Hilda wrote fully to him every day, as though he were not even
engaged to Hilda. He must talk, and he scarcely knew what he was
saying.
"Heard lately from Miss Lessways?" he asked lightly, or as lightly as he
could. It was a splendid effort. Impossible to expect him to start
upon the weather or the strike! He did the best he could.
Janet's eyes became troubled. Speaking in a low voice she said, with a
glance at the door--
"I suppose you've not heard. She's married."
He did not move.
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