Clara and her husband came immediately into the drawing-room. The wife,
dressed with a certain haste and carelessness, was carrying in her arms
her third child, yet unweaned, and she expected a fourth in the early
autumn. Clara had matured, she had grown stronger; and despite the
asperity of her pretty, pale face there was a charm in the free gestures
and the large body of the young and prolific mother. Albert Benbow wore
the rough, clay-dusted attire of the small earthenware manufacturer who
is away from the works for half an hour. Both of them were electrically
charged with importance.
Amid the general self-consciousness Maggie took the baby, and Clara and
Mrs Hamps kissed each other tenderly, as though saying, "Affliction is
upon us." It was impossible, in the circumstances, to proceed to minute
inquiry about the health of the children, but Mrs Hamps expressed all
her solicitude in a look, a tone, a lingering of lip on lip. The years
were drawing together Mrs Hamps and her namesake. Edwin was often
astonished at the increasing resemblance of Clara to her aunt, with
whom, thanks to the unconscious intermediacy of babies, she was even
indeed quite intimate. The two would discuss with indefatigable gusto
all the most minute physical details of motherhood and infancy: and
Auntie Clara's presents were worthy of her reputation.
As soon as the kiss was accomplished--no other greeting of any kind
occurred--Clara turned sharply to Edwin--
"What's this about father?"
"Oh! He's had a bit of a shock. He's pretty much all right to-day."
"Because Albert's just heard--" She looked at Albert.
Edwin was thunderstruck. Was the tale of his father's indisposition
spread all over the Five Towns? He had thought that the arrival of
Clara and her husband must be due to Auntie Hamps having called at their
house on her way up to Bleakridge. But now he could see, even from his
auntie's affrighted demeanour alone, that the Benbows' visit was an
independent affair.
"Are you sure he's all right?" Albert questioned, in his superiorly
sagacious manner, which mingled honest bullying with a little
good-nature.
"Because Albert just heard--" Clara put in again.
The company then heard what Albert had just heard. At his works before
breakfast an old hollow-ware-presser, who lived at Turnhill, had
casually mentioned that his father-in-law, Mr Clayhanger, had been
cutting a very peculiar figure on the previous evening at Turnhill. The
hollow-ware-presser had seen nothing personally; he had only been told.
He could not or would not particularise. Apparently he possessed in a
high degree the local talent for rousing an apprehension by the offer of
food, and then under ingenious pretexts refusing the food. At any rate,
Albert had been startled, and had communicated his alarm to Clara.
Clara had meant to come up a little later in the morning, but she wanted
Albert to come with her, and Albert, being exceedingly busy, had only
the breakfast half-hour of liberty. Hence they had set out instantly,
although the baby required sustenance; Albert having suggested that
Clara could feed the baby just as well at her father's as at home.
Before the Benbow story was quite finished it became entangled with the
story of Mrs Hamps, and then with Edwin's story. They were all
speaking at once, except Maggie, who was trying to soothe the baby.
Holding forth her arms, Clara, without ceasing to talk rapidly and
anxiously to Mrs Hamps, without even regarding what she did, took the
infant from her sister, held it with one hand, and with the other loosed
her tight bodice, and boldly exposed to the greedy mouth the magnificent
source of life. As the infant gurgled itself into silence, she glanced
with a fleeting ecstatic smile at Maggie, who smiled back. It was
strange how Maggie, now midway between thirty and forty, a tall,
large-boned, plump, mature woman, efficient, kindly, and full of common
sense--it was strange how she always failed to assert herself. She
listened now, not seeking notice and assuredly not receiving it.
Edwin felt again the implication, first rendered by his aunt, and now
emphasised by Clara and Albert, that the responsibility of the situation
was upon him, and that everybody would look to him to discharge it. He
was expected to act, somehow, on his own initiative, and to do
something.
"But what is there to do?" he exclaimed, in answer to a question.
"Well, hadn't he better see a doctor?" Clara asked, as if saying
ironically, "Hasn't it occurred to you even yet that a doctor ought to
be fetched?"