_ The drawing-room was full of visitors, in frocks of ceremony. The
old drawing-room, but newly and massively arranged with the finest
Victorian furniture from dead Aunt Harriet's house at Axe; two
"Canterburys," a large bookcase, a splendid scintillant table
solid beyond lifting, intricately tortured chairs and armchairs!
The original furniture of the drawing-room was now down in the
parlour, making it grand. All the house breathed opulence; it was
gorged with quiet, restrained expensiveness; the least
considerable objects, in the most modest corners, were what Mrs.
Baines would have termed 'good.' Constance and Samuel had half of
all Aunt Harriet's money and half of Mrs. Baines's; the other half
was accumulating for a hypothetical Sophia, Mr. Critchlow being
the trustee. The business continued to flourish. People knew that
Samuel Povey was buying houses. Yet Samuel and Constance had not
made friends; they had not, in the Five Towns phrase, 'branched
out socially,' though they had very meetly branched out on
subscription lists. They kept themselves to themselves
(emphasizing the preposition). These guests were not their guests;
they were the guests of Cyril.
He had been named Samuel because Constance would have him named
after his father, and Cyril because his father secretly despised
the name of Samuel; and he was called Cyril; 'Master Cyril,' by
Amy, definite successor to Maggie. His mother's thoughts were on
Cyril as long as she was awake. His father, when not planning
Cyril's welfare, was earning money whose unique object could be
nothing but Cyril's welfare. Cyril was the pivot of the house;
every desire ended somewhere in Cyril. The shop existed now solely
for him. And those houses that Samuel bought by private treaty, or
with a shamefaced air at auctions--somehow they were aimed at
Cyril. Samuel and Constance had ceased to be self-justifying
beings; they never thought of themselves save as the parents of
Cyril.
They realized this by no means fully. Had they been accused of
monomania they would have smiled the smile of people confident in
their commonsense and their mental balance. Nevertheless, they
were monomaniacs. Instinctively they concealed the fact as much as
possible; They never admitted it even to themselves. Samuel,
indeed, would often say: "That child is not everybody. That child
must be kept in his place." Constance was always teaching him
consideration for his father as the most important person in the
household. Samuel was always teaching him consideration for his
mother as the most important person in the household. Nothing was
left undone to convince him that he was a cipher, a nonentity, who
ought to be very glad to be alive. But he knew all about his
importance. He knew that the entire town was his. He knew that his
parents were deceiving themselves. Even when he was punished he
well knew that it was because he was so important. He never
imparted any portion of this knowledge to his parents; a primeval
wisdom prompted him to retain it strictly in his own bosom.
He was four and a half years old, dark, like his father; handsome
like his aunt, and tall for his age; not one of his features
resembled a feature of his mother's, but sometimes he 'had her
look.' From the capricious production of inarticulate sounds, and
then a few monosyllables that described concrete things and
obvious desires, he had gradually acquired an astonishing
idiomatic command over the most difficult of Teutonic languages;
there was nothing that he could not say. He could walk and run,
was full of exact knowledge about God, and entertained no doubt
concerning the special partiality of a minor deity called Jesus
towards himself.
Now, this party was his mother's invention and scheme. His father,
after flouting it, had said that if it was to be done at all, it
should be done well, and had brought to the doing all his
organizing skill. Cyril had accepted it at first--merely accepted
it; but, as the day approached and the preparations increased in
magnitude, he had come to look on it with favour, then with
enthusiasm. His father having taken him to Daniel Povey's
opposite, to choose cakes, he had shown, by his solemn and
fastidious waverings, how seriously he regarded the affair.
Of course it had to occur on a Thursday afternoon. The season was
summer, suitable for pale and fragile toilettes. And the eight
children who sat round Aunt Harriet's great table glittered like
the sun. Not Constance's specially provided napkins could hide
that wealth and profusion of white lace and stitchery. Never in
after-life are the genteel children of the Five Towns so richly
clad as at the age of four or five years. Weeks of labour,
thousands of cubic feet of gas, whole nights stolen from repose,
eyesight, and general health, will disappear into the manufacture
of a single frock that accidental jam may ruin in ten seconds.
Thus it was in those old days; and thus it is to-day. Cyril's
guests ranged in years from four to six; they were chiefly older
than their host; this was a pity, it impaired his importance; but
up to four years a child's sense of propriety, even of common
decency, is altogether too unreliable for a respectable party.
Round about the outskirts of the table were the elders, ladies the
majority; they also in their best, for they had to meet each
other. Constance displayed a new dress, of crimson silk; after
having mourned for her mother she had definitely abandoned the
black which, by reason of her duties in the shop, she had
constantly worn from the age of sixteen to within a few months of
Cyril's birth; she never went into the shop now, except casually,
on brief visits of inspection. She was still fat; the destroyer of
her figure sat at the head of the table. Samuel kept close to her;
he was the only male, until Mr. Critchlow astonishingly arrived;
among the company Mr. Critchlow had a grand-niece. Samuel, if not
in his best, was certainly not in his everyday suit. With his
large frilled shirt-front, and small black tie, and his little
black beard and dark face over that, he looked very nervous and
self-conscious. He had not the habit of entertaining. Nor had
Constance; but her benevolence ever bubbling up to the calm
surface of her personality made self-consciousness impossible for
her. Miss Insull was also present, in shop-black, 'to help.'
Lastly there was Amy, now as the years passed slowly assuming the
character of a faithful retainer, though she was only twenty-
three. An ugly, abrupt, downright girl, with convenient notions of
pleasure! For she would rise early and retire late in order to
contrive an hour to go out with Master Cyril; and to be allowed to
put Master Cyril to bed was, really, her highest bliss.
All these elders were continually inserting arms into the fringe
of fluffy children that surrounded the heaped table; removing
dangerous spoons out of cups into saucers, replacing plates,
passing cakes, spreading jam, whispering consolations,
explanations, and sage counsel. Mr. Critchlow, snow-white now but
unbent, remarked that there was 'a pretty cackle,' and he sniffed.
Although the window was slightly open, the air was heavy with the
natural human odour which young children transpire. More than one
mother, pressing her nose into a lacy mass, to whisper, inhaled
that pleasant perfume with a voluptuous thrill.
Cyril, while attending steadily to the demands of his body, was in
a mood which approached the ideal. Proud and radiant, he combined
urbanity with a certain fine condescension. His bright eyes, and
his manner of scraping up jam with a spoon, said: "I am the king
of this party. This party is solely in my honour. I know that. We
all know it. Still, I will pretend that we are equals, you and I."
He talked about his picture-books to a young woman on his right
named Jennie, aged four, pale, pretty, the belle in fact, and Mr.
Critchlow's grand-niece. The boy's attractiveness was
indisputable; he could put on quite an aristocratic air. It was
the most delicious sight to see them, Cyril and Jennie, so soft
and delicate, so infantile on their piles of cushions and books,
with their white socks and black shoes dangling far distant from
the carpet; and yet so old, so self-contained! And they were
merely an epitome of the whole table. The whole table was bathed
in the charm and mystery of young years, of helpless fragility,
gentle forms, timid elegance, unshamed instincts, and waking
souls. Constance and Samuel were very satisfied; full of praise
for other people's children, but with the reserve that of course
Cyril was hors concours. They both really did believe, at that
moment, that Cyril was, in some subtle way which they felt but
could not define, superior to all other infants.
Some one, some officious relative of a visitor, began to pass a
certain cake which had brown walls, a roof of cocoa-nut icing, and
a yellow body studded with crimson globules. Not a conspicuously
gorgeous cake, not a cake to which a catholic child would be
likely to attach particular importance; a good, average cake! Who
could have guessed that it stood, in Cyril's esteem, as the cake
of cakes? He had insisted on his father buying it at Cousin
Daniel's, and perhaps Samuel ought to have divined that for Cyril
that cake was the gleam that an ardent spirit would follow through
the wilderness. Samuel, however, was not a careful observer, and
seriously lacked imagination. Constance knew only that Cyril had
mentioned the cake once or twice. Now by the hazard of destiny
that cake found much favour, helped into popularity as it was by
the blundering officious relative who, not dreaming what volcano
she was treading on, urged its merits with simpering enthusiasm.
One boy took two slices, a slice in each hand; he happened to be
the visitor of whom the cake-distributor was a relative, and she
protested; she expressed the shock she suffered. Whereupon both
Constance and Samuel sprang forward and swore with angelic smiles
that nothing could be more perfect than the propriety of that dear
little fellow taking two slices of that cake. It was this
hullaballoo that drew Cyril's attention to the evanescence of the
cake of cakes. His face at once changed from calm pride to a
dreadful anxiety. His eyes bulged out. His tiny mouth grew and
grew, like a mouth in a nightmare. He was no longer human; he was
a cake-eating tiger being balked of his prey. Nobody noticed him.
The officious fool of a woman persuaded Jennie to take the last
slice of the cake, which was quite a thin slice.
Then every one simultaneously noticed Cyril, for he gave a yell.
It was not the cry of a despairing soul who sees his beautiful
iridescent dream shattered at his feet; it was the cry of the
strong, masterful spirit, furious. He turned upon Jennie, sobbing,
and snatched at her cake. Unaccustomed to such behaviour from
hosts, and being besides a haughty put-you-in-your-place beauty of
the future, Jennie defended her cake. After all, it was not she
who had taken two slices at once. Cyril hit her in the eye, and
then crammed most of the slice of cake into his enormous mouth. He
could not swallow it, nor even masticate it, for his throat was
rigid and tight. So the cake projected from his red lips, and big
tears watered it. The most awful mess you can conceive! Jennie
wept loudly, and one or two others joined her in sympathy, but the
rest went on eating tranquilly, unmoved by the horror which
transfixed their elders.
A host to snatch food from a guest! A host to strike a guest! A
gentleman to strike a lady!
Constance whipped up Cyril from his chair and flew with him to his
own room (once Samuel's), where she smacked him on the arm and
told him he was a very, very naughty boy and that she didn't know
what his father would say. She took the food out of his disgusting
mouth--or as much of it as she could get at--and then she left
him, on the bed. Miss Jennie was still in tears when, blushing
scarlet and trying to smile, Constance returned to the drawing-
room. Jennie would not be appeased. Happily Jennie's mother (being
about to present Jennie with a little brother--she hoped) was not
present. Miss Insull had promised to see Jennie home, and it was
decided that she should go. Mr. Critchlow, in high sardonic
spirits, said that he would go too; the three departed together,
heavily charged with Constance's love and apologies. Then all
pretended, and said loudly, that what had happened was naught,
that such things were always happening at children's parties. And
visitors' relatives asseverated that Cyril was a perfect darling
and that really Mrs. Povey must not ...
But the attempt to keep up appearance was a failure.
The Methuselah of visitors, a gaping girl of nearly eight years,
walked across the room to where Constance was standing, and said
in a loud, confidential, fatuous voice:
"Cyril HAS been a rude boy, hasn't he, Mrs. Povey?"
The clumsiness of children is sometimes tragic.
Later, there was a trickling stream of fluffy bundles down the
crooked stairs and through the parlour and so out into King
Street. And Constance received many compliments and sundry appeals
that darling Cyril should be forgiven.
"I thought you said that boy was in his bedroom," said Samuel to
Constance, coming into the parlour when the last guest had gone.
Each avoided the other's eyes.
"Yes, isn't he?"
"No."
"The little jockey!" ("Jockey," an essay in the playful, towards
making light of the jockey's sin!) "I expect he's been in search
of Amy."
She went to the top of the kitchen stairs and called out: "Amy, is
Master Cyril down there?"
"Master Cyril? No, mum. But he was in the parlour a bit ago, after
the first and second lot had gone. I told him to go upstairs and
be a good boy."
Not for a few moments did the suspicion enter the minds of Samuel
and Constance that Cyril might be missing, that the house might
not contain Cyril. But having once entered, the suspicion became a
certainty. Amy, cross-examined, burst into sudden tears, admitting
that the side-door might have been open when, having sped 'the
second lot,' she criminally left Cyril alone in the parlour in
order to descend for an instant to her kitchen. Dusk was
gathering. Amy saw the defenceless innocent wandering about all
night in the deserted streets of a great city. A similar vision
with precise details of canals, tramcar-wheels, and cellar-flaps,
disturbed Constance. Samuel said that anyhow he could not have got
far, that some one was bound to remark and recognize him, and
restore him. "Yes, of course," thought sensible Constance. "But
supposing--"
They all three searched the entire house again. Then, in the
drawing-room (which was in a sad condition of anticlimax) Amy
exclaimed:
"Eh, master! There's town-crier crossing the Square. Hadn't ye
better have him cried?"
"Run out and stop him," Constance commanded.
And Amy flew.
Samuel and the aged town-crier parleyed at the side door, the
women in the background.
"I canna' cry him without my bell," drawled the crier, stroking
his shabby uniform. "My bell's at wum (home). I mun go and fetch
my bell. Yo' write it down on a bit o' paper for me so as I can
read it, and I'll foot off for my bell. Folk wouldna' listen to me
if I hadna' gotten my bell."
Thus was Cyril cried.
"Amy," said Constance, when she and the girl were alone, "there's
no use in you standing blubbering there. Get to work and clear up
that drawing-room, do! The child is sure to be found soon. Your
master's gone out, too."
Brave words! Constance aided in the drawing-room and kitchen.
Theirs was the woman's lot in a great crisis. Plates have always
to be washed.
Very shortly afterwards, Samuel Povey came into the kitchen by the
underground passage which led past the two cellars to the yard and
to Brougham Street. He was carrying in his arms an obscene black
mass. This mass was Cyril, once white.
Constance screamed. She was at liberty to give way to her
feelings, because Amy happened to be upstairs.
"Stand away!" cried Mr. Povey. "He isn't fit to touch."
And Mr. Povey made as if to pass directly onward, ignoring the
mother.
"Wherever did you find him?"
"I found him in the far cellar," said Mr. Povey, compelled to
stop, after all. "He was down there with me yesterday, and it just
occurred to me that he might have gone there again."
"What! All in the dark?"
"He'd lighted a candle, if you please! I'd left a candle-stick and
a box of matches handy because I hadn't finished that shelving."
"Well!" Constance murmured. "I can't think how ever he dared go
there all alone!"
"Can't you?" said Mr. Povey, cynically. "I can. He simply did it
to frighten us."
"Oh, Cyril!" Constance admonished the child. "Cyril!"
The child showed no emotion. His face was an enigma. It might have
hidden sullenness or mere callous indifference, or a perfect
unconsciousness of sin.
"Give him to me," said Constance.
"I'll look after him this evening," said Samuel, grimly.
"But you can't wash him," said Constance, her relief yielding to
apprehension.
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Povey. And he moved off.
"But Sam--"
"I'll look after him, I tell you!" Mr. Povey repeated,
threateningly.
"But what are you going to do?" Constance asked with fear.
"Well," said Mr. Povey, "has this sort of thing got to be dealt
with, or hasn't it?" He departed upstairs.
Constance overtook him at the door of Cyril's bedroom.
Mr. Povey did not wait for her to speak. His eyes were blazing.
"See here!" he admonished her cruelly. "You get away downstairs,
mother!"
And he disappeared into the bedroom with his vile and helpless
victim.
A moment later he popped his head out of the door. Constance was
disobeying him. He stepped into the passage and shut the door so
that Cyril should not hear.
"Now please do as I tell you," he hissed at his wife. "Don't let's
have a scene, please."
She descended, slowly, weeping. And Mr. Povey retired again to the
place of execution.
Amy nearly fell on the top of Constance with a final tray of
things from the drawing-room. And Constance had to tell the girl
that Cyril was found. Somehow she could not resist the instinct to
tell her also that the master had the affair in hand. Amy then
wept.
After about an hour Mr. Povey at last reappeared. Constance was
trying to count silver teaspoons in the parlour.
"He's in bed now," said Mr. Povey, with a magnificent attempt to
be nonchalant. "You mustn't go near him."
"But have you washed him?" Constance whimpered.
"I've washed him," replied the astonishing Mr. Povey.
"What have you done to him?"
"I've punished him, of course," said Mr. Povey, like a god who is
above human weaknesses. "What did you expect me to do? Someone had
to do it."
Constance wiped her eyes with the edge of the white apron which
she was wearing over her new silk dress. She surrendered; she
accepted the situation; she made the best of it. And all the
evening was spent in dismally and horribly pretending that their
hearts were beating as one. Mr. Povey's elaborate, cheery
kindliness was extremely painful.
They went to bed, and in their bedroom Constance, as she stood
close to Samuel, suddenly dropped the pretence, and with eyes and
voice of anguish said:
"You must let me look at him."
They faced each other. For a brief instant Cyril did not exist for
Constance. Samuel alone obsessed her, and yet Samuel seemed a
strange, unknown man. It was in Constance's life one of those
crises when the human soul seems to be on the very brink of
mysterious and disconcerting cognitions, and then, the wave
recedes as inexplicably as it surged up.
"Why, of course!" said Mr. Povey, turning away lightly, as though
to imply that she was making tragedies out of nothing.
She gave an involuntary gesture of almost childish relief.
Cyril slept calmly. It was a triumph for Mr. Povey.
Constance could not sleep. As she lay darkly awake by her husband,
her secret being seemed to be a-quiver with emotion. Not exactly
sorrow; not exactly joy; an emotion more elemental than these! A
sensation of the intensity of her life in that hour; troubling,
anxious, yet not sad! She said that Samuel was quite right, quite
right. And then she said that the poor little thing wasn't yet
five years old, and that it was monstrous. The two had to be
reconciled. And they never could be reconciled. Always she would
be between them, to reconcile them, and to be crushed by their
impact. Always she would have to bear the burden of both of them.
There could be no ease for her, no surcease from a tremendous
preoccupation and responsibility. She could not change Samuel;
besides, he was right! And though Cyril was not yet five, she felt
that she could not change Cyril either. He was just as
unchangeable as a growing plant. The thought of her mother and
Sophia did not present itself to her; she felt, however, somewhat
as Mrs. Baines had felt on historic occasions; but, being more
softly kind, younger, and less chafed by destiny, she was
conscious of no bitterness, conscious rather of a solemn
blessedness. _