Mrs Hamps nodded twice.
The tears vanished from Maggie's eyes, forced backwards by all the
secret pride that was in her. It was obvious that not the news of the
Vicar had originally caused those tears; but nevertheless there should
be no shadow of misunderstanding. The death of the Vicar must be
associated with no more serious sign of distress in Maggie than in
others. She must be above suspicion. For one acute moment, as he read
her thoughts and as the profound sacrificial tragedy of her entire
existence loomed less indistinctly than usual before him, Edwin ceased
to think about himself and Hilda.
She made a quick hysterical movement.
"I wish you'd go across, Edwin," she said harshly.
"I'll go now," he answered, with softness. And he was glad to go.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four.
It was Osmond Orgreave who opened to him the front door of Lane End
House. Maggie had told the old gentleman that she should send Edwin
over, and he was wandering vaguely about in nervous expectation. In an
instant they were discussing George's case, and the advisability of
telegraphing to Hilda. Mrs Orgreave immediately joined them in the
hall. Both father and mother clearly stood in awe of the gentle but
powerful Janet. And somehow the child was considered as her private
affair, into which others might not thrust themselves save on
sufferance. Perceiving that Edwin was slightly inclined to the course
of telegraphing, they drew him towards them as a reinforcement, but
while Mrs Orgreave frankly displayed her dependence on him, Mr
Orgreave affected to be strong, independent, and judicial.
"I wish you'd go and speak to her," Mrs Orgreave entreated.
"Upstairs?"
"It won't do any harm, anyhow," said Osmond, finely indifferent.
They went up the stairs in a procession. Edwin did not wish to tell
them about the Vicar. He could see no sense in telling them about the
Vicar. And yet, before they reached the top of the stairs, he heard
himself saying in a concerned whisper--
"You know about the Vicar of Saint Peter's?"
"No."
"Died at four o'clock."
"Oh dear me! Dear me!" murmured Mrs Orgreave, agonised.
Most evidently George's case was aggravated by the Vicar's death--and
not only in the eyes of Mrs Orgreave and her falsely stoic husband, but
in Edwin's eyes too! Useless for him to argue with himself about
idiotic superstitiousness! The death of the Vicar had undoubtedly
influenced his attitude towards George.
They halted on the landing, outside a door that was ajar. Near them
burned a gas jet, and beneath the bracket was a large framed photograph
of the bridal party at Alicia's wedding. Farther along the landing were
other similar records of the weddings of Marion, Tom, and Jimmie.
Mr Orgreave pushed the door half open.
"Janet," said Mr Orgreave conspiratorially.
"Well?" from within the bedroom.
"Here's Edwin."
Janet appeared in the doorway, pale. She was wearing an apron with a
bib.
"I--I thought I'd just look in and inquire," Edwin said awkwardly,
fiddling with his hat and a pocket of his overcoat. "What's he like
now?"
Janet gave details. The sick-room lay hidden behind the face of the
door, mysterious and sacred.
"Mr Edwin thinks you ought to telegraph," said Mrs Orgreave timidly.
"Do you?" demanded Janet. Her eyes seemed to pierce him. Why did she
gaze at him with such particularity, as though he possessed a special
interest in Hilda?
"Well--" he muttered. "You might just wire how things are, and leave it
to her to come as she thinks fit."
"Just so," said Mr Orgreave quickly, as if Edwin had expressed his own
thought.
"But the telegram couldn't be delivered to-night," Janet objected.
"It's nearly half-past seven now."
It was true. Yet Edwin was more than ever conscious of a keen desire to
telegraph at once.
"But it would be delivered first thing in the morning," he said. "So
that she'd have more time to make arrangements if she wanted to."
"Well, if you think like that," Janet acquiesced.
The visage of Mrs Orgreave lightened.
"I'll run down and telegraph myself, if you like," said Edwin. "Of
course you've written to her. She knows--"
"Oh yes!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five.
In a minute he was walking rapidly, with his ungainly, slouching stride,
down Trafalgar Road, his overcoat flying loose. Another crisis was
approaching, he thought. As he came to Duck Square, he met a newspaper
boy shouting shrilly and wearing the contents bill of a special edition
of the "Signal" as an apron: "Duke of Clarence. More serious bulletin."
The scourge and fear of influenza was upon the town, upon the
community, tangible, oppressive, tragic.
In the evening calm of the shabby, gloomy post-office, holding a stubby
pencil that was chained by a cable to the wall, he stood over a blank
telegraph-form, hesitating how to word the message. Behind the counter
an instrument was ticking unheeded, and far within could be discerned
the vague bodies of men dealing with parcels. He wrote, "Cannon, 59
Preston Street, Brighton. George's temperature 104." Then he paused,
and added, "Edwin." It was sentimental. He ought to have signed
Janet's name. And, if he was determined to make the telegram personal,
he might at least have put his surname. He knew it was sentimental, and
he loathed sentimentality. But that evening he wanted to be
sentimental.
He crossed to the counter, and pushed the form under the wire-netting.
A sleepy girl accepted it, and glanced mechanically at the clock, and
then wrote the hour 7:42.
"It won't be delivered to-night," she said, looking up, as she counted
the words.
"No, I know," said Edwin.
"Sixpence, please."
As he paid the sixpence he felt as though he had accomplished some
great, critical, agitating deed. And his heart asserted itself again,
thunderously beating.