with lessening congregations and with a shortage of ministers, the Macclesfield District had determined to prove that Wesleyanism was nevertheless spiritually vigorous by the odd method of building more chapels. Mr. Peartree, inventor of Saturday afternoon Bible–Classes for schoolboys, was one of the originators of the bricky scheme, and in fact his lecture upon the “Mantle and Mission of Elijah” was to be in aid of it. The next instant Mr. Peartree had invited Edwin to act as District Treasurer of the Fund, the previous treasurer having died.
More chicane! The parson’s visit, then, was not a mere friendly call, inspired by the moment. It was part of a scheme. It had been planned against him. Did they (he seemed to be asking himself) think him so ingenuous, so simple, as not to see through their dodge? If not, then why the preliminary pretences? He did not really ask himself these questions, for the reason that he knew the answers to them. When a piece of chicane had succeeded Auntie Hamps forgot it, and expected others to forget it,—or at any rate she dared, by her magnificent front, anybody on earth to remind her of it. She was quite indifferent whether Edwin saw through her dodge or not.
“You’re so good at business,” said she.
Ah! She would insist on the business side of the matter, affecting to ignore the immense moral significance which would be attached to Edwin’s acceptance of the office! Were he to yield, the triumph for Methodism would ring through the town. He read all her thoughts. Nothing could break down her magnificent front. She had cornered him by a device; she had him at bay; and she counted on his weak good-nature, on his easy-going cowardice, for a victory.
Mr. Peartree talked. Mr. Peartree expressed his certitude that Edwin was “with them at heart,” and his absolute reliance upon Edwin’s sense of the responsibilities of a man in his, Edwin’s, position. Auntie Hamps recalled with fervour Edwin’s early activities in Methodism—the Young Men’s Debating Society, for example, which met at six o’clock on frosty winter mornings for the proving of the faith by dialectics.
And Edwin faltered in his speech.
“You ought to get Albert,” he feebly suggested.
“Oh, no!” said Auntie. “Albert is grand in his own line. But for this, we want a man like you.”
It was a master-stroke. Edwin had the illusion of trembling, and yet he knew that he did not tremble, even inwardly. He seemed to see the forces of evolution and the forces of reaction ranged against each other in a supreme crisis. He seemed to see the alternative of two futures for himself—and in one he would be a humiliated and bored slave, and in the other a fine, reckless ensign of freedom. He seemed to be doubtful of his own courage. But at the bottom of his soul he was not doubtful. He remembered all the frightful and degrading ennui which when he was young he had suffered as a martyr to Wesleyanism and dogma, all the sinister deceptions which he had had to practise and which had been practised upon him. He remembered his almost life-long intense hatred of Mr. Peartree. And he might have clenched his hands bitterly and said with homicidal animosity: “Now I will pay you out! And I will tell you the truth! And I will wither you up and incinerate you, and be revenged for everything in one single sentence!” But he felt no bitterness, and his animosity was dead. At the bottom of his soul there was nothing but a bland indifference that did not even scorn.
“No,” he said quietly. “I shan’t be your treasurer. You must ask somebody else.”
A vast satisfaction filled him. The refusal was so easy, the opposing forces so negligible.
Auntie Hamps and Mr. Peartree knew nothing of the peculiar phenomena induced in Edwin’s mind by the first sight of the legendary Abel Peartree after twenty years. But Auntie Hamps, though puzzled for an explanation, comprehended that she was decisively beaten. The blow was hard. Nevertheless she did not wince. The superb pretence must be kept up, and she kept it up. She smiled and, tossing her curls, checked Edwin with cheerful, indomitable rapidity.
“Now, now! Don’t decide at once. Think it over very carefully, and we shall ask you again. Mr. Peartree will write to you. I feel sure...”
Appearances were preserved.
The colloquy was interrupted by Hilda, who came in excited, gay, with sparkling eyes, humming an air. She had protested vehemently against an At Home. She had said again and again that the idea of an At Home was abhorrent to her, and that she hated all such wholesale formal hospitalities and could not bear “people.” And yet now she was enchanted with her situation as hostess—delighted with herself and her rich dress, almost ecstatically aware of her own attractiveness and domination. The sight of her gave pleasure and communicated zest. Mature, she was yet only beginning life. And as she glanced with secret condescension at the listless Mr. Peartree she seemed to say: “What is all this talk of heaven and hell? I am in love with life and the senses, and everything is lawful to me, and I am above you.” And even Auntie Hamps, though one of the most self-sufficient creatures that ever lived, envied in her glorious decay the young maturity of sensuous Hilda.
“Well,” said Hilda. “What’s going on here? They’re all gone mad about missing words in the drawing-room.”
She smiled splendidly at Edwin, whose pride in her thrilled him. Her superiority to other women was patent. She made other women seem negative. In fact, she was a tingling woman before she was anything else—that was it! He compared her with Clara, who was now nothing but a mother, and to Maggie, who had never been anything at all.
Mr. Peartree made the mistake of telling her the subject of the conversation. She did not wait to hear what Edwin’s answer had been.
She said curtly, and with finality:
“Oh, no! I won’t have it.”
Edwin did not quite like this. The matter concerned him alone, and he was an absolutely free agent. She ought to have phrased her objection differently. For example, she might have said: “I hope he has refused.”
Still, his annoyance was infinitesimal.
“The poor boy works quite hard enough as it is,” she added, with delicious caressing intonation of the first words.
He liked that. But she was confusing the issue. She always would confuse the issue. It was not because the office would involve extra work for him that he had declined the invitation, as she well knew.
Of course Auntie Hamps said in a flash:
“If it means overwork for him I shouldn’t dream—” She was putting the safety of appearances beyond doubt.
“By the way, Auntie,” Hilda continued. “What’s the trouble about the pew down at chapel? Both Clara and Maggie have mentioned it.”
“Trouble, my dear?” exclaimed Auntie Hamps, justifiably shocked that Hilda should employ such a word in the presence of Mr. Peartree. But Hilda was apt to be headlong.
To the pew originally taken by Edwin’s father, and since his death standing in Edwin’s name, Clara had brought her husband; and although it was a long pew, the fruits of the marriage had gradually filled it, so that if Edwin chanced to go to chapel there was not too much room for him in the pew, which presented the appearance of a second-class railway carriage crowded with season-ticket holders. Albert Benbow had suggested that Edwin should yield up the pew to the Benbows, and take a smaller pew for himself and Hilda and George. But the women had expressed fear lest Edwin “might not like” this break in a historic tradition, and Albert Benbow had been forbidden to put forward the suggestion until the diplomatic sex had examined the ground.
“We shall be only too pleased for Albert to take over the pew,” said Hilda.
“But have you chosen another pew?” Mrs. Hamps looked at Edwin.
“Oh, no!” said Hilda lightly.
“But—”
“Now, Auntie,” the tingling woman warned Auntie Hamps as one powerful individuality may warn another, “don’t worry about us. You know we’re not great chapel-goers.”
She