Clayhanger Part 88

He tried to be condescending towards her absurdly superst.i.tious a.s.sumption 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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. a.s.suredly he was not 'rough' now.

Astounded and frightened by those s.h.i.+mmering 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 d.a.m.ned her.

Maggie looked up sharply. "No! ... He's not--"

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 a.s.sociated 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 superst.i.tiousness! The death of the Vicar had undoubtedly influenced his att.i.tude 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.