His features showed less of the tedium of life.
“Eh, yes! Eh, yes!” breathed Auntie Hamps in ecstasy.
Edwin, diffident and ill-pleased, was about to suggest that the family might advantageously separate, when George came after him into the room.
“Oh!” cried George.
“Well, little jockey!” Clara began instantly to him with an exaggerated sweetness that Edwin thought must nauseate the child, “would you like Bert to come up and play with you one of these afternoons?”
George stared at her, and slowly flushed.
“Yes,” said George. “Only—”
“Only what?”
“Supposing I was doing something else when he came?”
Without waiting for possible developments George turned to leave the room again.
“You’re a caution, you are!” said Albert Benbow; and to the adults: “Hates to be disturbed, I suppose.”
“That’s it,” said Edwin responsively, as brother-in-law to brother-in-law. But he felt that he, with a few months’ experience of another’s child, appreciated the exquisite strange sensibility of children infinitely better than Albert were he fifty times a father.
“What is a caution, Uncle Albert?” asked George, peeping back from the door.
Auntie Hamps good-humouredly warned the child of the danger of being impertinent to his elders:
“George! George!”
“A caution is a caution to snakes,” said Albert. “Shoo!” Making a noise like a rocket, he feinted to pursue the boy with violence.
Mr. Peartree laughed rather loudly, and rather like a human being, at the word “snakes.” Albert Benbow’s flashes of humour, indeed, seemed to surprise him, if only for an instant, out of his attitudinarianism.
Clara smiled, flattered by the power of her husband to reveal the humanity of the parson.
“Albert’s so good with children,” she said. “He always knows exactly...” She stopped, leaving what he knew exactly to the listeners’ imagination.
Uncle Albert and George could be heard scuffling in the hall.
Auntie Hamps rose with a gentle sigh, saying:
“I suppose we ought to join the others.”
Her social sense, which was pretty well developed, had at last prevailed.
The sisters Maggie and Clara, one in light and the other in dark green, walked out of the room. Maggie’s face had already stiffened into mute constraint, and Clara’s into self-importance, at the prospect of meeting the general company.
iii
Auntie Hamps held back, and Edwin at once perceived from the conspiratorial glance in her splendid eyes that in suggesting a move she had intended to deceive her fellow-conspirator in life, Clara. But Auntie Hamps could not live without chicane. And she was happiest when she had superimposed chicane upon chicane in complex folds.
She put a ringed hand softly but arrestingly upon Edwin’s arm, and pushed the door to. Alone with her and the parson, Edwin felt himself to be at bay, and he drew back before an unknown menace.
“Edwin, dear,” said she, “Mr. Peartree has something to suggest to you. I was going to say ‘a favour to ask,’ but I won’t put it like that. I’m sure my nephew will look upon it as a privilege. You know how much Mr. Peartree has at heart the District Additional Chapels Fund—”
Edwin did not know how much; but he had heard of the Macclesfield District Additional Chapels Fund, Bursley being one of the circuits in the Macclesfield District. Wesleyanism finding itself confronted with lessening congregations and with a shortage of ministers, the Macclesfield District had determined to prove that Wesleyanism was nevertheless spiritually vigorous by the odd method of building more chapels. Mr. Peartree, inventor of Saturday afternoon Bible–Classes for schoolboys, was one of the originators of the bricky scheme, and in fact his lecture upon the “Mantle and Mission of Elijah” was to be in aid of it. The next instant Mr. Peartree had invited Edwin to act as District Treasurer of the Fund, the previous treasurer having died.
More chicane! The parson’s visit, then, was not a mere friendly call, inspired by the moment. It was part of a scheme. It had been planned against him. Did they (he seemed to be asking himself) think him so ingenuous, so simple, as not to see through their dodge? If not, then why the preliminary pretences? He did not really ask himself these questions, for the reason that he knew the answers to them. When a piece of chicane had succeeded Auntie Hamps forgot it, and expected others to forget it,—or at any rate she dared, by her magnificent front, anybody on earth to remind her of it. She was quite indifferent whether Edwin saw through her dodge or not.
“You’re so good at business,” said she.
Ah! She would insist on the business side of the matter, affecting to ignore the immense moral significance which would be attached to Edwin’s acceptance of the office! Were he to yield, the triumph for Methodism would ring through the town. He read all her thoughts. Nothing could break down her magnificent front. She had cornered him by a device; she had him at bay; and she counted on his weak good-nature, on his easy-going cowardice, for a victory.
Mr. Peartree talked. Mr. Peartree expressed his certitude that Edwin was “with them at heart,” and his absolute reliance upon Edwin’s sense of the responsibilities of a man in his, Edwin’s, position. Auntie Hamps recalled with fervour Edwin’s early activities in Methodism—the Young Men’s Debating Society, for example, which met at six o’clock on frosty winter mornings for the proving of the faith by dialectics.
And Edwin faltered in his speech.
“You ought to get Albert,” he feebly suggested.
“Oh, no!” said Auntie. “Albert is grand in his own line. But for this, we want a man like you.”
It was a master-stroke. Edwin had the illusion of trembling, and yet he knew that he did not tremble, even inwardly. He seemed to see the forces of evolution and the forces of reaction ranged against each other in a supreme crisis. He seemed to see the alternative of two futures for himself—and in one he would be a humiliated and bored slave, and in the other a fine, reckless ensign of freedom. He seemed to be doubtful of his own courage. But at the bottom of his soul he was not doubtful. He remembered all the frightful and degrading ennui which when he was young he had suffered as a martyr to Wesleyanism and dogma, all the sinister deceptions which he had had to practise and which had been practised upon him. He remembered his almost life-long intense hatred of Mr. Peartree. And he might have clenched his hands bitterly and said with homicidal animosity: “Now I will pay you out! And I will tell you the truth! And I will wither you up and incinerate you, and be revenged for everything in one single sentence!” But he felt no bitterness, and his animosity was dead. At the bottom of his soul there was nothing but a bland indifference that did not even scorn.
“No,” he said quietly. “I shan’t be your treasurer. You must ask somebody else.”
A
