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Updated: May 25, 2025
She saw Edwin Clayhanger brace himself and rap on the wood; and instead of deploring his diffidence she liked it and found it full of charm. The partition clicked aside, and the ticket-clerk's peering, suspicious head showed in its place, mutely demanding a reason for this extraordinary disturbance of the dream in which the station slumbered between two half-hourly trains.
All the machinery in it had had to be manoeuvred up the rickety stairs, or put through one of the windows on either side of the window that had been turned into a door. When Darius Clayhanger, in his audacity, decided to print by steam, many people imagined that he would at last be compelled to rent the ground-floor or to take other premises. But no!
He had never spoken to Tom Orgreave before, but Tom seemed ready to treat him at once as an established acquaintance. Then Alicia had to come forward and shake hands. She could not get a word out. "Now, baby!" Charlie teased her. She tossed her mane, and found refuge by her mother's side. Mrs Orgreave caressed the mane into order. "This is Miss Lessways. Hilda Mr Edwin Clayhanger."
He was indeed exceedingly old, foolish, and undignified in senility; and the louts were odiously jeering at his defenceless dotage, and a young policeman was obviously with the louts and against the aged, fatuous victim. Hilda gave an exclamation of revolt, and called upon Edwin Clayhanger to go to the rescue of Mr. Shushions.
"I've put the chain on. Good night." "Good night. Thanks." She ascended the stairs, smiling to herself, with the raindrops fresh on her cheek. In her mind were no distinct thoughts, either concerning the non-virtue of belief, or the new epoch, or Edwin Clayhanger, or even the strangeness of her behaviour. But all her being vibrated to the mysterious and beautiful romance of existence.
Hilda had replaced the book in its nest, and gone quickly back to her chair. The entrance of the servant at that moment, to announce Edwin Clayhanger, seemed to her startlingly dramatic. "What," she thought, "I am just reading that and he comes!... He hasn't been here for ages, and, on the very night that I come, he comes!" "Certainly," she replied to Mrs. Orgreave.
They passed Snaggs' Theatre, and from its green, wooden walls came the obscure sound of humanity in emotion. Before the mean and shabby portals stood a small crowd of ragged urchins. Posters printed by Darius Clayhanger made white squares on the front. "It's a meeting of the men," said Edwin. "They're losing, aren't they?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I expect they are."
It was always Edwin who paid wages in the Clayhanger establishment. He was extremely startled by this news, with all that it implied of surrender and of pacific intentions. But he endeavoured to hide what he felt, and only snorted. "He's been talking, then? What did he say?" "Oh! Not much! He told me I could tell you if I liked."
The letter therefore had not been utterly disastrous; sometimes a letter would ruin a breakfast, for Mr Clayhanger, with no consideration for the success of meals, always opened his post before bite or sup. He had had the letter, and still he was ready to talk to his son in the ordinary grim tone of a goose-morrow. Which was to the good.
Clayhanger exhaled impatient scorn and went upstairs. "This your stuff?" the Alderman questioned, pointing with his stick to the kit-bag and strange packages on the hall floor. "Yes," said George, and to the parlourmaid: "You can put it all in the taxi, May. Come along in, uncle." "Don't hurry me, boy. Don't hurry me." "Where are you staying?" "Russell ... Bit awkward, this about Lois!"
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