On the Tuesday evening Edwin came home from business at six o'clock, and
found that he was to eat alone. The servant anxiously explained that
Miss Clayhanger had gone across to the Orgreaves' to assist Miss
Orgreave. It was evident that before going Miss Clayhanger had inspired
the servant with a full sense of the importance of Mr Clayhanger's
solitary meal, and of the terrible responsibility lying upon the person
in charge of it. The girl was thrillingly alive; she would have liked
some friend or other of the house to be always seriously ill, so that
Miss Clayhanger might often leave her to the voluptuous savouring of
this responsibility whose formidableness surpassed words. Edwin, as he
went upstairs and as he came down again, was conscious of her excited
presence somewhere near him, half-visible in the warm gas-lit house,
spying upon him in order to divine the precise moment for the final
service of the meal.
And in the dining-room the table was laid differently, so that he might
be well situated, with regard to the light, for reading. And by the
side of his plate were the newspaper, the magazines, and the book, among
which Maggie had well guessed that he would make his choice for perusal.
He was momentarily touched. He warmed his hands at the splendid fire,
and then he warmed his back, watching the servant as with little
flouncings and perkings she served, and he was touched by the placid and
perfect efficiency of Maggie as a housekeeper. Maggie gave him
something that no money could buy.
The servant departed and shut the door.
When he sat down he minutely changed the situation of nearly everything
on the table, so that his magazine might be lodged at exactly the right
distance and angle, and so that each necessary object might be quite
handy. He was in luxury, and he yielded himself to it absolutely. The
sense that unusual events were happening, that the course of social
existence was disturbed while his comfort was not disturbed, that danger
hung cloudy on the horizon--this sense somehow intensified the
appreciation of the hour, and positively contributed to his pleasure.
Moreover, he was agreeably excited by a dismaying anticipation affecting
himself alone.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two.
The door opened again, and Auntie Hamps was shown in by the servant.
Before he could move the old lady had with overwhelming sweet
supplications insisted that he should not move--no, not even to shake
hands! He rose only to shake hands, and then fell back into his
comfort. Auntie Hamps fixed a chair for herself opposite him, and
drummed her black-gloved hands on the white table-cloth. She was
steadily becoming stouter, and those chubby little hands seemed
impossibly small against the vast mountain of fur which was crowned by
her smirking crimson face and the supreme peak of her bonnet.
"They keep very friendly--those two," she remarked, with a strangely
significant air, when he told her where Maggie was. She had shown no
surprise at finding him alone, for the reason that she had already
learnt everything from the servant in the hall.
"Janet and Maggie? They're friendly enough when they can be of use to
each other."
"How _kind_ Miss Janet was when your father was ill! I'm sure Maggie
feels she must do all she can to return her kindness," Mrs Hamps
murmured, with emotion. "I shall always be grateful for her
helpfulness! She's a grand girl, a grand girl!"
"Yes," said Edwin awkwardly.
"She's still waiting for you," said Mrs Hamps, not archly, but sadly.
Edwin restively poohed. At the first instant of her arrival he had been
rather glad to see her, for unusual events create a desire to discuss
them; but if she meant to proceed in that strain unuttered curses would
soon begin to accumulate for her in his heart.
"I expect the kid must be pretty bad," he said.
"Yes," sighed Mrs Hamps. "And probably poor Mrs Orgreave is more in
the way than anything else. And Mr Orgreave only just out of bed, as
you may say! ... That young lady must have her hands full! My word!
What a blessing it is she _has_ made such friends with Maggie!"
Mrs Hamps had the peculiar gift, which developed into ever-increasing
perfection as her hair grew whiter, of being able to express ideas by
means of words which had no relation to them at all. Within three
minutes, by three different remarks whose occult message no stranger
could have understood but which forced itself with unpleasant clearness
upon Edwin, Mrs Hamps had conveyed, "Janet Orgreave only cultivates
Maggie because Maggie is the sister of Edwin Clayhanger."
"You're all very devoted to that child," she said, meaning, "There is
something mysterious in that quarter which sooner or later is bound to
come out." And the meaning was so clear that Edwin was intimidated.
What did she guess? Did she know anything? To-night Auntie Hamps was
displaying her gift at its highest.
"I don't know that Maggie's so desperately keen on the infant!" he said.
"She's not like you about him, that's sure!" Mrs Hamps admitted. And
she went on, in a tone that was only superficially casual, "I wonder the
mother doesn't come down to him!"
Not `his' mother--`the' mother. Odd, the effect of that trifle! Mrs
Hamps was a great artist in phrasing.
"Oh!" said Edwin. "It's not serious enough for that."
"Well, I'm not so sure," Auntie Hamps gravely replied. "_The Vicar is
dead._"
The emphasis which she put on these words was tremendous.
"Is he," Edwin stammered. "But what's that got to do with it?"
He tried to be condescending towards her absurdly superstitious
assumption that the death of the Vicar of Saint Peter's could increase
the seriousness of George's case. And he feebly succeeded in being
condescending. Nevertheless he could not meet his auntie's gaze without
self-consciousness. For her emphasis had been double, and he knew it.
It had implied, secondly, that the death of the Vicar was an event
specially affecting Edwin's household. The rough sketch of a romance
between the Vicar and Maggie had never been completed into a picture,
but on the other hand it had never been destroyed. The Vicar and Maggie
had been supposed to be still interested in each other, despite the
Vicar's priestliness, which latterly had perhaps grown more marked, just
as his church had grown more ritualistic. It was a strange affair,
thin, elusive; but an affair it was. The Vicar and Maggie had seldom
met of recent years, they had never--so far as anyone knew--met alone;
and yet, upon the news of the Vicar's death, the first thought of nearly
everybody was for Maggie Clayhanger.
Mrs Hamps's eyes, swimming in the satisfaction of several simultaneous
woes, said plainly, "What about poor Maggie?"
"When did you hear?" Edwin asked. "It isn't in this afternoon's
paper."
"I've only just heard. He died at four o'clock."
She had come up immediately with the news as fresh as orchard fruit.
"And the Duke of Clarence is no better," she said, in a luxurious
sighing gloom. "And I'm afraid it's all over with Cardinal Manning."
She made a peculiar noise in her throat, not quite a sigh; rather a
brave protest against the general fatality of things, stiffened by a
determination to be strong though melancholy in misfortune.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three.
Maggie suddenly entered, hatted, with a jacket over her arm.
"Hello, auntie, you here!" They had already met that morning.
"I just called," said Mrs Hamps guiltily. Edwin felt as though Maggie
had surprised them both in some criminal act. They knew that Mr Heve
was dead. She did not know. She had to be told. He wished violently
that Auntie Hamps had been elsewhere.
"Everything all right?" Maggie asked Edwin, surveying the table. "I
gave particular orders about the eggs."
"As right as rain," said Edwin, putting into his voice a note of true
appreciation. He saw that her sense of duty towards him had brought her
back to the house. She had taken every precaution to ensure his
well-being, but she could not be content without seeing for herself that
the servant had not betrayed the trust.
"How are things--across?" he inquired.
"Well," said Maggie, frowning, "that's one reason why I came back sooner
than I meant. The doctor's just been. His temperature is getting
higher and higher. I wish you'd go over as soon as you've finished. If
you ask me, I think they ought to telegraph to his mother. But Janet
doesn't seem to think so. Of course it's enough when Mrs Orgreave
begins worrying about telegraphing for Janet to say there's no need to
telegraph. She's rather trying, Mrs Orgreave is, I must admit. All
that _I_'ve been doing is to keep her out of the bedroom. Janet has
everything on her shoulders. Mr Orgreave is just about as fidgety as
Mrs. And of course the servants have their own work to do. Naturally
Johnnie isn't in!" Her tone grew sarcastic and bitter.
"What does Stirling say about telegraphing?" Edwin demanded. He had
intended to say `telegraphing for Mrs Cannon,' but he could not utter
the last words; he could not compel his vocal organs to utter them. He
became aware of the beating of his heart. For twenty-four hours he had
been contemplating the possibility of a summons to Hilda. Now the
possibility had developed into a probability. Nay, a certainty! Maggie
was the very last person to be alarmist.
Maggie replied: "He says it might be as well to wait till to-morrow.
But then you know he is like that--a bit."
"So they say," Auntie Hamps agreed.
"Have you seen the kid?" Edwin asked.
"About two minutes," said Maggie. "It's pitiable to watch him."
"Why? Is he in pain?"
"Not what you'd call pain. No! But he's so upset. Worried about
himself. He's got a terrific fever on him. I'm certain he's delirious
sometimes. Poor little thing!"
Tears gleamed in her eyes. The plight of the boy had weakened her
prejudices against him. Assuredly he was not `rough' now.
Astounded and frightened by those shimmering tears, Edwin exclaimed,
"You don't mean to say there's actual danger?"
"Well--" Maggie hesitated, and stopped.
There was silence for a moment. Edwin felt that the situation was now
further intensified.
"I expect you've heard about the poor Vicar," Mrs Hamps funereally
insinuated. Edwin mutely damned her.