The real murderer was having his dinner in the commercial room up at the Tiger, opposite the Town Hall.
IV
Several shutters were put up in the windows of the shop, to indicate a death, and the news instantly became known in trading circles throughout the town. Many people simultaneously remarked upon the coincidence that Mr Baines should have died while there was a show of mourning goods in his establishment. This coincidence was regarded as extremely sinister, and it was apparently felt that, for the sake of the mind’s peace, one ought not to inquire into such things too closely. From the moment of putting up the prescribed shutters, John Baines and his funeral began to acquire importance in Bursley, and their importance grew rapidly almost from hour to hour. The wakes continued as usual, except that the Chief Constable, upon representations being made to him by Mr Critchlow and other citizens, descended upon St Luke’s Square and forbade the activities of Wombwell’s orchestra. Wombwell and the Chief Constable differed as to the justice of the decree, but every well-minded person praised the Chief Constable, and he himself considered that he had enhanced the town’s reputation for a decent propriety. It was noticed, too, not without a shiver of the uncanny, that that night the lions and tigers behaved like lambs, whereas on the previous night they had roared the whole Square out of its sleep.
The Chief Constable was not the only individual enlisted by Mr Critchlow in the service of his friend’s fame. Mr Critchlow spent hours in recalling the principal citizens to a due sense of John Baines’s past greatness. He was determined that his treasured toy should vanish underground with due pomp, and he left nothing undone to that end. He went over to Hanbridge on the still wonderful horse-car, and saw the editor-proprietor of the Staffordshire Signal (then a two-penny weekly with no thought of Football editions), and on the very day of the funeral the Signal came out with a long and eloquent biography of John Baines. This biography, giving details of his public life, definitely restored him to his legitimate position in the civic memory as an ex-chief bailiff, an ex-chairman of the Burial Board, and of the Five Towns Association for the Advancement of Useful Knowledge, and also as a “prime mover” in the local Turnpike Act, in the negotiations for the new Town Hall, and in the Corinthian façade of the Wesleyan Chapel; it narrated the anecdote of his courageous speech from the portico of the Shambles during the riots of 1848, and it did not omit a eulogy of his steady adherence to the wise old English maxims of commerce and his avoidance of dangerous modern methods. Even in the sixties the modern had reared its shameless head. The panegyric closed with an appreciation of the dead man’s fortitude in the terrible affliction with which a divine providence had seen fit to try him; and finally the Signal uttered its absolute conviction that his native town would raise a cenotaph to his honour. Mr Critchlow, being unfamiliar with the word “cenotaph,” consulted Worcester’s Dictionary, and when he found that it meant “a sepulchral monument to one who is buried elsewhere,” he was as pleased with the Signal’s language as with the idea, and decided that a cenotaph should come to pass.
The house and shop were transformed into a hive of preparation for the funeral. All was changed. Mr Povey kindly slept for three nights on the parlour sofa, in order that Mrs Baines might have his room. The funeral grew into an obsession, for multitudinous things had to be performed and done sumptuously and in strict accordance with precedent. There were the family mourning, the funeral repast, the choice of the text on the memorial card, the composition of the legend on the coffin, the legal arrangements, the letters to relations, the selection of guests, and the questions of bell-ringing, hearse, plumes, number of horses, and grave-digging. Nobody had leisure for the indulgence of grief except Aunt Maria, who, after she had helped in the laying-out, simply sat down and bemoaned unceasingly for hours her absence on the fatal morning. “If I hadn’t been so fixed on polishing my candle-sticks,” she weepingly repeated, “he mit ha’ been alive and well now.” Not that Aunt Maria had been informed of the precise circumstances of the death; she was not clearly aware that Mr Baines had died through a piece of neglect. But, like Mr Critchlow, she was convinced that there had been only one person in the world truly capable of nursing Mr Baines. Beyond the family, no one save Mr Critchlow and Dr Harrop knew just how the martyr had finished his career. Dr Harrop, having been asked bluntly if an inquest would be necessary, had reflected a moment and had then replied: “No.” And he added, “Least said soonest mended—mark me!” They had marked him. He was common sense in breeches.
As for Aunt Maria, She was sent about her snivelling business by Aunt Harriet. The arrival in the house of this genuine aunt from Axe, of this majestic and enormous widow whom even the imperial Mrs Baines regarded with a certain awe, set a seal of ultimate solemnity on the whole event. In Mr Povey’s bedroom Mrs Baines fell like a child into Aunt Harriet’s arms and sobbed:
“If it had been anything else but that elephant!”
Such was Mrs Baines’s sole weakness from first to last.
Aunt Harriet was an exhaustless fountain of authority upon every detail concerning interments. And, to a series of questions ending with the word “sister,” and answers ending with the word “sister,” the prodigious travail incident to the funeral was gradually and successfully accomplished. Dress and the repast exceeded all other matters in complexity and difficulty. But on the morning of the funeral Aunt Harriet had the satisfaction of beholding her younger sister the centre of a tremendous cocoon of crape, whose slightest pleat was perfect. Aunt Harriet seemed to welcome her then, like a veteran, formally into the august army of relicts. As they stood side by side surveying the special table which was being laid in the showroom for the repast, it appeared inconceivable that they had reposed together in Mr Povey’s limited bed. They descended from the showroom to the kitchen, where the last delicate dishes were inspected. The shop was, of course, closed for the day, but Mr Povey was busy there, and in Aunt Harriet’s all-seeing glance he came next after the dishes. She rose from the kitchen to speak with him.
“You’ve got your boxes of gloves all ready?” she questioned him.
“Yes, Mrs Maddack.”
“You’ll not forget to have a measure handy?”
“No, Mrs Maddack.”
“You’ll find you’ll want more of seven-and-three-quarters and eights than anything.”
“Yes. I have allowed for that.”
“If you place yourself behind the side-door and put your boxes on the harmonium, you’ll be able to catch every one as they come in.”
“That is what I had thought of, Mrs Maddack.”
She went upstairs. Mrs Baines had reached the showroom again, and was smoothing out creases in the white damask cloth and arranging glass dishes of jam at equal distances from each other.
“Come, sister,” said Mrs Maddack. “A last look.”
And they passed into the mortuary bedroom to gaze at Mr Baines before he should be everlastingly nailed down. In death he had recovered some of his earlier dignity; but even so he was a startling sight. The two widows bent over him, one on either side, and gravely stared at that twisted, worn white face all neatly tucked up in linen.
“I shall fetch Constance and Sophia,” said Mrs Maddack, with tears in her voice. “Do you go into the drawing-room, sister.”
But Mrs Maddack only succeeded in fetching Constance.
Then there was the sound of wheels in King Street. The long rite of the funeral was about to begin. Every guest, after having been measured and presented with a pair of the finest black kid gloves by Mr Povey, had to mount the crooked stairs and gaze upon the carcase of John Baines, going afterwards to the drawing-room to condole briefly with the widow. And every guest, while conscious of the enormity of so thinking, thought what an excellent thing it was that John Baines should be at last dead and gone. The tramping on the stairs was continual, and finally Mr Baines himself went downstairs, bumping against corners, and led a cortège of twenty vehicles.
The funeral tea was not over at
seven o’clock, five hours after the commencement of the rite. It was a gigantic and faultless meal, worthy of John Baines’s distant past. Only two persons were absent from it—John Baines and Sophia. The emptiness of Sophia’s chair was much noticed; Mrs Maddack explained that Sophia was very high-strung and could not trust herself. Great efforts were put forth by the company to be lugubrious and inconsolable, but the secret relief resulting from the death would not be entirely hidden. The vast pretence of acute sorrow could not stand intact against that secret relief and the lavish richness of the food.
To the offending of sundry important relatives from a distance, Mr Critchlow informally presided over that assemblage of grave men in high stocks and crinolined women. He had closed his shop, which had never before been closed on a weekday, and he had a great deal to say about this extraordinary closure. It was due as much to the elephant as to the funeral. The elephant had become a victim to the craze of souvenirs. Already in the night his tusks had been stolen; then his feet disappeared for umbrella-stands, and most of his flesh had departed in little hunks. Everybody in Bursley had resolved to participate in the elephant. One consequence was that all the chemists’ shops in the town were assaulted by strings of boys. “Please a peenorth o’alum to tak’ smell out o’ a bit o’ elephant.” Mr Critchlow hated boys.
“ ‘I’ll alum ye!’ says I, and I did. I alummed him out o’ my shop with a pestle. If there’d been one there’d been twenty between opening and nine o’clock. ‘George,’ I says to my apprentice, ‘shut shop up. My old friend John Baines is going to his long home today, and I’ll close. I’ve had enough o’ alum for one day.’ ”
The elephant fed the conversation until after the second relay of hot muffins. When Mr Critchlow had eaten to his capacity, he took the Signal importantly from his pocket, posed his spectacles, and read the obituary all through in slow, impressive accents. Before he reached the end Mrs Baines began to perceive that familiarity had blinded her to the heroic qualities of her late husband. The fourteen years of ceaseless care were quite genuinely forgotten, and she saw him in his strength and in his glory. When Mr Critchlow arrived at the eulogy of the husband and father, Mrs Baines rose and left the showroom. The guests looked at each other in sympathy for her. Mr Critchlow shot a glance at her over his spectacles and continued steadily reading. After he had finished he approached the question of the cenotaph.
Mrs Baines, driven from the banquet by her feelings, went into the drawing-room. Sophia was there, and Sophia, seeing tears in her mother’s eyes, gave a sob, and flung herself bodily against her mother, clutching her, and hiding her face in that broad crape, which abraded her soft skin.
“Mother,” she wept passionately, “I want to leave the school now. I want to please you. I’ll do anything in the world to please you. I’ll go into the shop if you’d like me to!” Her voice lost itself in tears.
“Calm yourself, my pet,” said Mrs Baines, tenderly, caressing her. It was a triumph for the mother in the very hour when she needed a triumph.
CHAPTER V
THE TRAVELLER
I
“Exquisite, Is. IId.”
These singular signs were being painted in shiny black on an unrectangular parallelogram of white cardboard by Constance one evening in the parlour. She was seated, with her left side to the fire and to the fizzing gas, at the dining-table, which was covered with a checked cloth in red and white. Her dress was of dark crimson; she wore a cameo brooch and a gold chain round her neck; over her shoulders was thrown a white knitted shawl, for the weather was extremely cold, the English climate being much more serious and downright at that day than it is now. She bent low to the task, holding her head slightly askew, putting the tip of her tongue between her lips, and expending all the energy of her soul and body in an intense effort to do what she was doing as well as it could be done.
“Splendid!” said Mr Povey.
Mr Povey was fronting her at the table; he had his elbows on the table, and watched her carefully, with the breathless and divine anxiety of a dreamer who is witnessing the realization of his dream. And Constance, without moving any part of her frame except her head, looked up at him and smiled for a moment, and he could see her delicious little nostrils at the end of her snub nose.
Those two, without knowing or guessing it, were making history—the history of commerce. They had no suspicion that they were the forces of the future insidiously at work to destroy what the forces of the past had created, but such was the case. They were conscious merely of a desire to do their duty in the shop and to the shop; probably it had not even occurred to them that this desire, which each stimulated in the breast of the other, had assumed the dimensions of a passion. It was ageing Mr Povey, and it had made of Constance a young lady tremendously industrious and preoccupied.
Mr Povey had recently been given attention to the question of tickets. It is not too much to say that Mr Povey, to whom heaven had granted a minimum share of imagination, had nevertheless discovered his little parcel of imagination in the recesses of being, and brought it effectively to bear on tickets. Tickets ran in conventional grooves. There were heavy oblong tickets for flannels, shirting, and other stuffs in the piece; there were smaller and lighter tickets for intermediate goods; and there were diamond-shaped tickets (containing nothing but the price) for bonnets, gloves, and flim-flams generally. The legends on the tickets gave no sort of original invention. The words “lasting,” “durable,” “unshrinkable,” “latest,” “cheap,” “stylish,” “novelty,” “choice” (as an adjective), “new,” and “tasteful,” exhausted the entire vocabulary of tickets. Now Mr Povey attached importance to tickets, and since he was acknowledged to be the best window-dresser in Bursley, his views were entitled to respect. He dreamed of other tickets, in original shapes, with original legends. In brief, he achieved, in regard to tickets, the rare feat of ridding himself of preconceived notions, and of approaching a subject with fresh, virginal eyes. When he indicated the nature of his wishes to Mr Chawner, the wholesale stationer who supplied all the Five Towns with shop-tickets, Mr Chawner grew uneasy and worried; Mr Chawner was indeed shocked. For Mr Chawner there had always been certain well-defined genera of tickets, and he could not conceive the existence of other genera. When Mr Povey suggested circular tickets—tickets with a blue and a red line round them, tickets with legends such as “unsurpassable,” “very dainty,” or“please note,” Mr Chawner hummed and hawed, and finally stated that it would be impossible to manufacture these preposterous tickets, these tickets which would outrage the decency of trade.
If Mr Povey had not happened to be an exceedingly obstinate man, he might have been defeated by the crass Toryism of Mr Chawner. But Mr Povey was obstinate, and he had resources of ingenuity which Mr Chawner little suspected. The great tramping march of progress was not to be impeded by Mr Chawner. Mr Povey began to make his own tickets. At first he suffered as all reformers and inventors suffer. He used the internal surface of collar-boxes and ordinary ink and pens, and the result was such as to give customers the idea that Baineses were too poor or too mean to buy tickets like other shops. For bought tickets had an ivory-tinted gloss, and the ink was black and glossy, and the edges were very straight and did not show yellow between two layers of white. Whereas Mr Povey’s tickets were of a bluish-white, without gloss; the ink was neither black nor shiny, and the edges were amateurishly rough: the tickets had an unmistakable air of having been “made out of something else”; moreover, the lettering had not the free, dashing style of Mr Chawner’s tickets.
And did Mrs Baines encourage him in his single-minded enterprise on behalf of her business? Not a bit! Mrs Baines’s attitude, when not disdainful, was inimical! So curious is human nature, so blind is man to his own advantage! Life was very complex for Mr Povey. It might have been less complex had Bristol board and Chinese ink been less expensive; with these materials he could have achieved marvels to silence all prejudice and stupidity; but they were too costly. Still, he persevered
, and Constance morally supported him; he drew his inspiration and his courage from Constance. Instead of the internal surface of collar-boxes, he tried the external surface, which was at any rate shiny. But the ink would not “take” on it. He made as many experiments as Edison was to make, and as many failures. Then Constance was visited by a notion for mixing sugar with ink. Simple, innocent creature—why should providence have chosen her to be the vessel of such a sublime notion? Puzzling enigma, which, however, did not exercise Mr Povey! He found it quite natural that she should save him. Save him she did. Sugar and ink would “take” on anything, and it shone like a “patent leather” boot. Further, Constance developed a “hand” for lettering which outdid Mr Povey’s. Between them they manufactured tickets by the dozen and by the score—tickets which, while possessing nearly all the smartness and finish of Mr Chawner’s tickets, were much superior to these in originality and strikingness. Constance and Mr Povey were delighted and fascinated by them. As for Mrs Baines, she said little, but the modern spirit was too elated by its success to care whether she said little or much. And every few days Mr Povey thought of some new and wonderful word to put on a ticket.
His last miracle was the word “exquisite.” “Exquisite,” pinned on a piece of broad tartan ribbon, appeared to Constance and Mr Povey as the finality of appropriateness. A climax worthy to close the year! Mr Povey had cut the card and sketched the word and figures in pencil, and Constance was doing her executive portion of the undertaking. They were very happy, very absorbed, in this strictly business matter. The clock showed five minutes past ten. Stern duty, a pure desire for the prosperity of the shop, had kept them at hard labour since before eight o’clock that morning!
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