of Christmas. And by good fortune he saw the vast oblong of the picture, carefully enveloped in sheets, being passed by a couple of dark figures through the dining-room window to the garden outside. William Smith had a colleague, then, and he was taking the frame as well as the canvas. Sir Jee watched the men disappear down the avenue, and they did not reappear. Sir Jee returned to bed.
Yes, he felt himself equal to facing it out with his family and friends. He felt himself equal to pretending that he had no knowledge of the burglary.
Having slept a few hours, he got up early and, half-dressed, descended to the dining-room just to see what sort of a mess William Smith had made.
The canvas of the portrait lay flat on the hearthrug, with the following words written on it in chalk: ‘This is no use to me.’ It was the massive gold frame that had gone.
Further, as was later discovered, all the silver had gone. Not a spoon was left in the castle.
NEWS OF THE ENGAGEMENT
My mother never came to meet me at Bursley station when I arrived in the Five Towns from London; much less did she come as far as Knype station, which is the great traffic centre of the district, the point at which one changes from the express into the local train. She had always other things to do; she was ‘preparing’ for me. So I had the little journey from Knype to Bursley, and then the walk up Trafalgar Road, amid the familiar high chimneys and the smoke and the clayey mud and the football posts and the Midland accent, all by myself. And there was leisure to consider anew how I should break to my mother the tremendous news I had for her. I had been considering that question ever since getting into the train at Euston, where I had said goodbye to Agnes; but in the atmosphere of the Five Towns it seemed just slightly more difficult; though, of course, it wasn’t difficult, really.
You see, I wrote to my mother regularly every week, telling her most of my doings. She knew all my friends by name. I dare say she formed in her mind notions of what sort of people they were. Thus I had frequently mentioned Agnes and her family in my letters. But you can’t write even to your mother and say in cold blood: ‘I think I am beginning to fall in love with Agnes,’ ‘I think Agnes likes me,’ ‘I am mad on her,’ ‘I feel certain she likes me,’ ‘I shall propose to her on such a day.’ You can’t do that. At least I couldn’t. Hence it had come about that on the 20th of December I had proposed to Agnes and been accepted by Agnes, and my mother had no suspicion that my happiness was so near. And on the 22nd, by a previous and unalterable arrangement, I had come to spend Christmas with my mother.
I was the only son of a widow; I was all that my mother had. And lo! I had gone and engaged myself to a girl she had never seen, and I had kept her in the dark! She would certainly be extremely surprised, and she might be a little bit hurt—just at first. Anyhow, the situation was the least in the world delicate.
I walked up the whitened front steps of my mother’s little house, just opposite where the electric cars stop, but before I could put my hand on the bell my little plump mother, in her black silk and her gold brooch and her auburn hair, opened to me, having doubtless watched me down the road from the bay-window, as usual, and she said, as usual kissing me—
‘Well, Philip! How are you?’
And I said—
‘Oh! I’m all right, mother. How are you?’
I perceived instantly that she was more excited than my arrival ordinarily made her. There were tears in her smiling eyes, and she was as nervous as a young girl. She did indeed look remarkably young for a woman of forty- five, with twenty-five years of widowhood and a brief but too tempestuous married life behind her.
The thought flashed across my mind: ‘By some means or other she has got wind of my engagement. But how?’
But I said nothing. I, too, was naturally rather nervous. Mothers are kittle cattle.
‘I’ll tell her at supper,’ I decided.
And she hovered round me, like a sea-gull round a steamer, as I went upstairs.
There was a ring at the door. She flew, instead of letting the servant go. It was a porter with my bag.
Just as I was coming downstairs again there was another ring at the door. And my mother appeared magically out of the kitchen, but I was beforehand with her, and with a laugh I insisted on opening the front door myself this time. A young woman stood on the step.
‘Please, Mrs Dawson wants to know if Mrs Durance can kindly lend her half-a-dozen knives and forks?’
‘Eh, with pleasure,’ said my mother, behind me. ‘Just wait a minute, Lucy. Come inside on the mat.’
I followed my mother into the drawing-room, where she kept her silver in a cabinet.
‘That’s Mrs Dawson’s new servant,’ my mother whispered. ‘But she needn’t think I’m going to lend her my best, because I’m not.’
‘I shouldn’t, if I were you,’ I supported her.
And she went out with some second-best in tissue paper, and beamed on Mrs Dawson’s servant with an assumed benevolence.
‘There!’ she exclaimed. ‘And the compliments of the season to your mistress, Lucy.’
After that my mother disappeared into the kitchen to worry an entirely capable servant. And I roamed about, feeling happily excited, examining the drawing-room, in which nothing was changed except the incandescent light and the picture postcards on the mantelpiece. Then I wandered into the dining-room, a small room at the back of the house, and here an immense surprise awaited me.
Supper was set for three!
‘Well,’ I reflected. ‘Here’s a nice state of affairs! Supper for three, and she hasn’t breathed a word!’
My mother was so clever in social matters, and especially in the planning of delicious surprises, that I believed her capable even of miracles. In some way or other she must have discovered the state of my desires towards Agnes. She had written, or something. She and Agnes had been plotting together by letter to startle me, and perhaps telegraphing. Agnes had fibbed in telling me that she could not possibly come to Bursley for Christmas; she
