Miss Mole

and the same threatenings of danger from outside. It had its acknowledged head in Robert Corder who, sure of himself and his position, had no suspicion that his rule was criticised by his second-in-command, or that his subjects might rebel. In one of his public speeches, or in a sermon, he would have described the home just as Hannah saw it, as a small community in which personalities were stronger than theories of conduct, resilience more enduring than rigidity; he would have said there was no life without change and struggle, and, becoming metaphorical⁠—Hannah enjoyed composing sermons for him⁠—he would have likened young people to plants which must be given space and air, and their elders to the wise gardeners who would not confine or clip until the growth had attained a certain sturdiness, and he would have meant everything he said, and believed he followed his own counsels, but in his home he had planted his seedlings within a narrow compass and assumed that all was well with them. It was enough that he had given them good ground and it was their privilege and duty to prosper. He cast an eye on them, now and then, saw they were still where he had put them, took submission for content and closeness for companionship. Doubtless, he wanted them to grow⁠—Hannah gave him credit for that⁠—but he would have resented any divergence from the shape he liked himself and though he did not flourish his shears openly, everyone knew they were in his pocket. There was a general conspiracy to keep them there; and the struggles took place underground. He was a busy man and he was not likely to look for what was hidden.

Other people, as usual, knew more about his family than he did, and he took his place at the supper-table one evening, wearing an expression that boded trouble. He always tried to translate his anger into grief and this produced a look which demanded recognition, or threatened to turn sour and, as it was better to meet him halfway than to sit in an awed silence, Ethel asked anxiously if he felt unwell.

“If I did,” he said, “I hope I should be able to hide it. I have had a distressing experience. Two, in fact.”

“But it was the Education Committee Meeting this evening, wasn’t it?” Ethel asked.

“Exactly,” he said. He looked coldly at Wilfrid. “I want to talk to you after supper. And as though one misfortune were not enough, I met Samuel Blenkinsop on my way home. I had not seen him since he gave his very dull paper on Charles Lamb, and I must own that he had the decency to seem embarrassed.” He looked round the table, waiting for his cue, but no one risked a question or a comment. To ask why Mr. Blenkinsop looked embarrassed would be to admit stupidity: a comment made at this dangerous moment when some disaster was hanging over Wilfrid’s handsome head, would certainly be the wrong one, to be silent was almost an affront, and if the younger people heard, in Hannah’s voice, a gallant attempt to save the situation, she knew it herself as the result of an irresistible curiosity.

“You mean,” she suggested, “he was ashamed of his paper. He’d been trying to forget it and when he saw you the horror swooped on him. I know the feeling.”

“I mean nothing of the sort, Miss Mole.” He paused to look a little inquisitively, but more repressingly, at the maker of this rather surprising speech. “He would be fortunate if he had nothing else to be ashamed of.”

Swiftly she had to readjust her view of that stolid young man, working out chess problems in his quiet room, and, before she knew it, she had said incredulously, not unhopefully, “Has he robbed the bank?”

She was conscious, at once, of consternation in the room, like a thin fog through which the familiar appeared slightly distorted. With a stealthy movement, Wilfrid had taken his handkerchief from his sleeve and was wiping his nose very thoroughly and Ethel was looking from her father to Miss Mole, uncertain and frightened of his reaction, half-suspicious of her intention; the quick little frown of Ruth’s anxieties had come and gone. Evidently, this was considered a frivolous question to ask of a man who was in earnest; it had a levity unsuitable in Miss Mole and to the occasion and all she could do now was to look enquiringly stupid.

Mr. Corder’s grief had been retranslated into an astonished anger. “If that was meant to be humorous, Miss Mole, I’m afraid it is not successful.”

“No, no, it wasn’t!” Hannah protested. “But⁠—” now that she was attacked, she was at liberty to strike back and there was a gurgle of laughter under her voice, “it would have been funny if he’d really done it!”

“Oh, Miss Mole!” Ethel gasped.

“Out of character,” Miss Mole explained neatly, holding up her small head.

“So you are acquainted with Mr. Blenkinsop?” Robert Corder asked slowly, as though he were on the track of a crime.

“I’ve seen him⁠—” Hannah began, and Robert Corder interrupted her with a betraying sharpness.

“Not in the chapel!” he said, and she knew it was only pride that prevented him from asking the questions she did not mean to answer.

She had had her little fling and it had done her good, though she feared Wilfrid would suffer for it, and while the interview in the study was taking place Ethel was looking at her resentfully.

“You shouldn’t make Father angry!” she exclaimed.

“Did I?” said Hannah. She was holding out a spoonful of a treacly concoction of malt she had persuaded Ruth to take and, under her little air of command, she was afraid Ruth would refuse it, in token of loyalty to her father. She was wonderfully relieved when Ruth docilely put her lips to the spoon. “Good girl!” she said. “I always used to spit it out. Dozens of bottles were bought for me and not a speck of