“Goo’ night, sir,” said the policeman, after recognizing him.
“What time is it?” asked Samuel, bold.
“A quarter-past one, sir.”
The policeman, leaving Samuel at the little open door, went forward across the lamplit Square, and Samuel entered his cousin’s shop.
Daniel Povey was standing behind the door, and as Samuel came in he shut the door with a startling sudden movement. Save for the twinkle of gas, the shop was in darkness. It had the empty appearance which a well-managed confectioner’s and baker’s always has at night. The large brass scales near the flour-bins glinted; and the glass cake-stands, with scarce a tart among them, also caught the faint flare of the gas.
“What’s the matter, Daniel? Anything wrong?” Samuel asked, feeling boyish as he usually did in the presence of Daniel.
The well-favoured white-haired man seized him with one hand by the shoulder in a grip that convicted Samuel of frailty.
“Look here, Sam’l,” said he in his low, pleasant voice, somewhat altered by excitement. “You know as my wife drinks?”
He stared defiantly at Samuel.
“N—no,” said Samuel. “That is—no one’s ever said—”
This was true. He did not know that Mrs. Daniel Povey, at the age of fifty, had definitely taken to drink. There had been rumours that she enjoyed a glass with too much gusto; but “drinks” meant more than that.
“She drinks,” Daniel Povey continued. “And has done this last two year!”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” said Samuel, tremendously shocked by this brutal rending of the cloak of decency.
Always, everybody had feigned to Daniel, and Daniel had feigned to everybody, that his wife was as other wives. And now the man himself had torn to pieces in a moment the veil of thirty years’ weaving.
“And if that was the worst!” Daniel murmured reflectively, loosening his grip.
Samuel was excessively disturbed. His cousin was hinting at matters which he himself, at any rate, had never hinted at even to Constance, so abhorrent were they; matters unutterable, which hung like clouds in the social atmosphere of the town, and of which at rare intervals one conveyed one’s cognizance, not by words, but by something scarce perceptible in a glance, an accent. Not often is a town such as Bursley starred with such a woman as Mrs. Daniel Povey.
“But what’s wrong?” Samuel asked, trying to be firm.
And, “What is wrong?” he asked himself. “What does all this mean, at after one o’clock in the morning?”
“Look here, Sam’l,” Daniel recommenced, seizing his shoulder again. “I went to Liverpool corn market today, and missed the last train, so I came by mail from Crewe. And what do I find? I find Dick sitting on the stairs in the dark pretty high naked.”
“Sitting on the stairs? Dick?”
“Ay! This is what I come home to!”
“But—”
“Hold on! He’s been in bed a couple of days with a feverish cold, caught through lying in damp sheets as his mother had forgot to air. She brings him no supper tonight. He calls out. No answer. Then he gets up to go downstairs and see what’s happened, and he slips on th’ stairs and breaks his knee, or puts it out or summat. Sat there hours, seemingly! Couldn’t walk neither up nor down.”
“And was your—wife—was Mrs.—?”
“Dead drunk in the parlour, Sam’l.”
“But the servant?”
“Servant!” Daniel Povey laughed. “We can’t keep our servants. They won’t stay. You know that.”
He did. Mrs. Daniel Povey’s domestic methods and idiosyncrasies could at any rate be freely discussed, and they were.
“And what have you done?”
“Done? Why, I picked him up in my arms and carried him upstairs again. And a fine job I had too! Here! Come here!”
Daniel strode impulsively across the shop—the counterflap was up—and opened a door at the back. Samuel followed. Never before had he penetrated so far into his cousin’s secrets. On the left, within the doorway, were the stairs, dark; on the right a shut door; and in front an open door giving on to a yard. At the extremity of the yard he discerned a building, vaguely lit, and naked figures strangely moving in it.
“What’s that? Who’s there?” he asked sharply.
“That’s the bakehouse,” Daniel replied, as if surprised at such a question. “It’s one of their long nights.”
Never, during the brief remainder of his life, did Samuel eat a mouthful of common bread without recalling that midnight apparition. He had lived for half a century, and thoughtlessly eaten bread as though loaves grew ready-made on trees.
“Listen!” Daniel commanded him.
He cocked his ear, and caught a feeble, complaining wail from an upper floor.
“That’s Dick! That is!” said Daniel Povey.
It sounded more like the distress of a child than of an adventurous young man of twenty-four or so.
“But is he in pain? Haven’t you fetched the doctor?”
“Not yet,” answered Daniel, with a vacant stare.
Samuel gazed at him closely for a second. And Daniel seemed to him very old and helpless and pathetic, a man unequal to the situation in which he found himself; and yet, despite the dignified snow of his age, wistfully boyish. Samuel thought swiftly: “This has been too much for him. He’s almost out of his mind. That’s the explanation. Someone’s got to take charge, and I must.” And all the courageous resolution of his character braced itself to the crisis. Being without a collar, being in slippers, and his suspenders imperfectly fastened anyhow—these things seemed to be a part of the crisis.
“I’ll just run upstairs and have a look at him,” said Samuel, in a matter-of-fact tone.
Daniel did not reply.
There was a glimmer at the top of the stairs. Samuel mounted, found the gas-jet, and turned it on full. A dingy, dirty, untidy passage was revealed, the very antechamber of discomfort. Guided by the moans, Samuel entered a bedroom, which was in a shameful condition of neglect, and lighted only by a nearly expired candle. Was it possible that a house-mistress could so lose her self-respect? Samuel thought of his own abode, meticulously and impeccably “kept,” and a hard bitterness against Mrs. Daniel surged up in
