Читать книгу The Complete Clayhanger Family Novels (Clayhanger + Hilda Lessways + These Twain + The Roll Call) - Arnold Bennett - Страница 183

Clara and her husband came immediately into the drawing-room. The wife, dressed with a certain haste and carelessness, was carrying in her arms her third child, yet unweaned, and she expected a fourth in the early autumn. Clara had matured, she had grown stronger; and despite the asperity of her pretty, pale face there was a charm in the free gestures and the large body of the young and prolific mother. Albert Benbow wore the rough, clay-dusted attire of the small earthenware manufacturer who is away from the works for half an hour. Both of them were electrically charged with importance.

Amid the general self-consciousness Maggie took the baby, and Clara and Mrs Hamps kissed each other tenderly, as though saying, “Affliction is upon us.” It was impossible, in the circumstances, to proceed to minute inquiry about the health of the children, but Mrs Hamps expressed all her solicitude in a look, a tone, a lingering of lip on lip. The years were drawing together Mrs Hamps and her namesake. Edwin was often astonished at the increasing resemblance of Clara to her aunt, with whom, thanks to the unconscious intermediacy of babies, she was even indeed quite intimate. The two would discuss with indefatigable gusto all the most minute physical details of motherhood and infancy: and Auntie Clara’s presents were worthy of her reputation.

As soon as the kiss was accomplished—no other greeting of any kind occurred—Clara turned sharply to Edwin—

“What’s this about father?”

“Oh! He’s had a bit of a shock. He’s pretty much all right today.”

“Because Albert’s just heard—” She looked at Albert.

Edwin was thunderstruck. Was the tale of his father’s indisposition spread all over the Five Towns? He had thought that the arrival of Clara and her husband must be due to Auntie Hamps having called at their house on her way up to Bleakridge. But now he could see, even from his auntie’s affrighted demeanour alone, that the Benbows’ visit was an independent affair.

“Are you sure he’s all right?” Albert questioned, in his superiorly sagacious manner, which mingled honest bullying with a little good-nature.

“Because Albert just heard—” Clara put in again.

The company then heard what Albert had just heard. At his works before breakfast an old hollow-ware-presser, who lived at Turnhill, had casually mentioned that his father-in-law, Mr Clayhanger, had been cutting a very peculiar figure on the previous evening at Turnhill. The hollow-ware-presser had seen nothing personally; he had only been told. He could not or would not particularise. Apparently he possessed in a high degree the local talent for rousing an apprehension by the offer of food, and then under ingenious pretexts refusing the food. At any rate, Albert had been startled, and had communicated his alarm to Clara. Clara had meant to come up a little later in the morning, but she wanted Albert to come with her, and Albert, being exceedingly busy, had only the breakfast half-hour of liberty. Hence they had set out instantly, although the baby required sustenance; Albert having suggested that Clara could feed the baby just as well at her father’s as at home.

Before the Benbow story was quite finished it became entangled with the story of Mrs Hamps, and then with Edwin’s story. They were all speaking at once, except Maggie, who was trying to soothe the baby.

Holding forth her arms, Clara, without ceasing to talk rapidly and anxiously to Mrs Hamps, without even regarding what she did, took the infant from her sister, held it with one hand, and with the other loosed her tight bodice, and boldly exposed to the greedy mouth the magnificent source of life. As the infant gurgled itself into silence, she glanced with a fleeting ecstatic smile at Maggie, who smiled back. It was strange how Maggie, now midway between thirty and forty, a tall, large-boned, plump, mature woman, efficient, kindly, and full of common sense—it was strange how she always failed to assert herself. She listened now, not seeking notice and assuredly not receiving it.

Edwin felt again the implication, first rendered by his aunt, and now emphasised by Clara and Albert, that the responsibility of the situation was upon him, and that everybody would look to him to discharge it. He was expected to act, somehow, on his own initiative, and to do something.

“But what is there to do?” he exclaimed, in answer to a question.

“Well, hadn’t he better see a doctor?” Clara asked, as if saying ironically, “Hasn’t it occurred to you even yet that a doctor ought to be fetched?”

Edwin protested with a movement of impatience—

“What on earth for? He’s walking about all right.”

They had all been surreptitiously watching Darius from behind the curtains.

“Doesn’t seem to be much the matter with him now! That I must say!” agreed Albert, turning from the window.

Edwin perceived that his brother-in-law was ready to execute one of those changes of front which lent variety to his positiveness, and he addressed himself particularly to Albert, with the persuasive tone and gesture of a man to another man in a company of women—

“Of course there doesn’t! No doubt he was upset last night. But he’s getting over it. You don’t think there’s anything in it, do you, Maggie?”

“I don’t,” said Maggie calmly.

These two words had a great effect.

“Of course if we’re going to listen to every tale that’s flying about a potbank,” said Edwin.

“You’re right there, Teddy!” the brother-in-law heartily concurred. “But Clary thought we’d better—”

“Certainly,” said Edwin pacifically, admitting the entire propriety of the visit.

“Why’s he wearing his best clothes?” Clara demanded suddenly. And Mrs Hamps showed a sympathetic appreciation of the importance of the question.

“Ask me another!” said Edwin. “But you can’t send for a doctor because a man’s wearing his best clothes.”

Maggie smiled, scarce perceptibly. Albert gave a guffaw. Clara was slightly irritated.

“Poor little dear!” murmured Mrs Hamps, caressing the baby. “Well, I must be going,” she sighed.

“We shall see how he goes on,” said Edwin, in his role of responsible person.

“Perhaps it will be as well if you say nothing about us calling,” whispered Mrs Hamps. “We’ll just go quietly away. You can give a hint to Mrs Nixon. Much better he shouldn’t know.”

“Oh! much better!” said Clara.

Edwin could not deny this. Yet he hated the chicane. He hated to observe on the face of the young woman and of the old their instinctive impulses towards chicane, and their pleasure in it. The whole double visit was subtly offensive to him. Why should they gather like this at the first hint that his father was not well? A natural affectionate anxiety... Yes, of course, that motive could not be denied. Nevertheless, he did not like the tones and the gestures and the whisperings and oblique glances of their gathering.