I

It was deep dusk when Mr. Oakroyd’s train arrived at Black Moor Junction. He could see the street lamps twinkling on the hills, and here and there trams crawling up and down like golden beetles. The train stopped several minutes at Black Moor, as it always does, and then, having lost all its enthusiasm, it slowly chuff-chuffed into the gloom until at last it came to a standstill in Bruddersford Station. Mr. Oakroyd stepped out, carrying the small suitcase that for some time had replaced the famous little basket trunk, and made his way to the exit with all the easy dispatch of a travelled man. He could dismiss railway stations with a glance now, having been so long and so far on the road, all the autumn and winter, from Sandybay as far up as Middleford. This was really the first time he had come back to Bruddersford since he began his travels, for though he had visited Ogden Street just after Christmas, he had only gone by tram from Luddenstall, and that did not count. He had often seen himself coming back like this, arriving by train and so on, having a bit of a holiday like, smoking a leisurely pipe in Woolgate long after everybody else had clattered off to work, slipping round to the Working Men’s Club at night to tell some of the chaps where he had been and what he had seen. But now it was all different. This trip had a shaky and darkish look about it. As he crossed the end of Market Street to get into Woolgate, the great black tower of the Town Hall jerkly shook out the notes of Tom Bowling, a very melancholy tune on the chimes. Mr. Oakroyd had never admired it, but now he suddenly decided he hated it. How folk put up with such a din was a mystery.

“Here, lad,” he cried, at the corner of Woolgate, “ ’ave you got t’Evening Express?” Buying a paper made him feel a little more cheerful.

Walking up Woolgate, he had a shock. Buttershaw’s, the tripe and music shop, was closed, empty, to let. Something must have happened there. When was it he had been talking to Mrs. Buttershaw, something about Lily and how she used to go there for pantomime songs? Yes, on a tram, it was, one Saturday. And Joe Buttershaw had been there five-and-twenty year to his knowledge; everybody knew Joe’s; and now it wasn’t there. It made everything look uncertain, strange, as if half the street had gone.

Not a sign of anybody in at 51. It was hardly time for Leonard to be home, if he was still working at Gregson’s, but it did not look as if anybody was there. He knocked, though he knew somehow before he put his hand to the door that it was useless, for the place had a real shut-up look about it.

“Eh, it’s Mr. Oakroyd!” Mrs. Sugden was looking out of the house next door. “Just a minute, Mr. Oakroyd. I’ve got t’key.”

She opened the door and marched in with him. There was a bit of fire in the grate, and the table was laid for a late tea. Mrs. Sugden, happily bustling about the room, talked with gusto. “Did your Leonard send for yer? I told him he’d ’ave to send. And I’ve been doing a bit o’ tidying up for him, an’ getting him his tea. A lad like that can’t look after hissen, can he? An’ I’ve been right sorry for him, I’ave.”

Mr. Oakroyd, very uneasy now, asked where his wife was.

“Eh, didn’t your Leonard tell yer?” cried Mrs. Sugden, staring at him. “She’s in t’Infirmary. They took her away⁠—eh, when was it⁠—Friday or Saturday⁠—ay, it were Friday, ’cos I were just paying me insurance, I’d got t’book in me ’and, when they come for her. They ’ad t’operate right sharp⁠—eh, she were that bad. She’d left it so long. She’d been badly for weeks and weeks. Got a pain ’ere.” Mrs. Sugden put a hand on her ample side. “I could see she were bad. ‘Eh,’ I says, ‘yer can’t let it go like that, yer mun see t’doctor.’ ‘No doctors for me, Mrs. Sugden,’ she says. ‘I can manage.’ Ay, that’s just what she said. ‘I can manage.’ An’ I could see wi’ me own eyes she were bad. At t’upshot, I calls to your Leonard⁠—that were t’beginning o’ last week⁠—an’ I says to ’im, ‘Eh, Leonard, you’ll ha’ to mak’ your mother see t’doctor. It’s no way o’ going on, this isn’t. She’s poorly.’ ‘I think she is,’ he says, ‘though she’s said nowt to me.’ ‘I knaw she is,’ I says. ‘I’ll get one,’ he says. But no doctor come that day nor t’day after. Next morning she couldn’t get up out o’ bed, she were that bad, an’ I come in for a bit an’ your Leonard fetched t’doctor to her, an’ he said they’d ’ave t’operate soon as they could. It were owd Doctor Mackintosh⁠—’im ’at sees ’em at t’club⁠—an’⁠—eh!⁠—he wor in a state about ’er. Nivver seen him in sich a stew. He were fairly boiling an’ sweating.”

“What’s it she’s got?” asked Mr. Oakroyd. His voice was so hoarse that he had to clear his throat and repeat the question.

“It’s summat like appendis,” replied Mrs. Sugden, “only it’s farther on like. Your Leonard said summat about perry⁠—perry-totitis, but I couldn’t quite mak’ it out.”

“And what about this here operation, did it come off all right?”

“Oh, they operated, straight off. They ’ad to. Eh, I believe she’s ’ad another sin’ then, Mr. Oakroyd. I believe she ’as,” Mrs. Sugden added, with mournful gusto.

He stared at her in horror. “She⁠—she mun be bad then,” he stammered finally.

“Eh, she is, poor soul! Your Leonard’s nobbut seen her once, an’ I ’aven’t set eyes on her sin’ she were ta’en away, but Mrs. Flather⁠—her little lass is in⁠—towed me she were in a bad way, one o’ nurses ’ad said summat to her about it. But we mun hope for t’best, that’s all. An’ standin’ here talkin’. Sit yer down, Mr. Oakroyd, an’ I’ll mak’ yer a bit o’ tea. Your Leonard’ll be here in a minute⁠—it’s his time⁠—an’ I allus mak’ him a bit. I’ve been bakin’ today. I’ll fetch a curran’ cake an’ a piece o’ fatty cake in, if you’ll just watch t’kettle a minute.”

Ten minutes later, she had come and gone again, and Mr. Oakroyd was sitting at the table with his son, Leonard, a very subdued Leonard indeed. The dandy huntsman who had marked and captured bright feminine prey in so many social-and-dance halls, cinemas, and cheap cafés, had vanished, and in his place was a troubled, frightened lad with a trembling lower lip, a lad who had caught a glimpse of another and dreadful huntsman. He could add very little to the information already supplied by Mrs. Sugden.

Mr. Oakroyd found relief in a sudden spurt of anger. “Yer gurt fathead,” he cried, “why didn’t you let me know afore ’at your mother was so poorly? Haven’t sense you were born wi’!”

“I couldn’t,” Leonard mumbled miserably.

“Ar, d’you mean you couldn’t? Course you could!”

“I couldn’t. I told you, I didn’t know at first, and then when Mar was taken so bad, she said, ‘Don’t tell yer father.’ It’s last thing she did say to me.”

Mr. Oakroyd’s anger fell away from him. He stared down at the table. “What did she want to say that for?” he asked quietly, at last.

“Nay, I don’t know,” his son muttered. “Except she didn’t want you to know.”

Mr. Oakroyd pushed away his cap, and made a little sad clicking noise. “When I come at Christmas, I knew she were poorly then, an’ I towd her so. An’ I towd our Lily she wor in a letter I wrote. Eh, dear!” For a moment he surveyed in silence the whole melancholy confusion of this life. “Well, I’ll go to t’Infirmary i’ t’morning. Happen they’ll let me see her. What did they say when you asked today?”

“Said she was just about the same. She’s bad. Father; she is bad.” He got up from the table and turned away.

Mr. Oakroyd automatically filled his pipe with Old Salt, but did not light it. He remained where he was at the table, flattening his cheek against his fist, and sank into a troubled reverie. Leonard went upstairs, came down again, smoked a cigarette over the fire.

“Me Aunt Alice came last night,” Leonard remarked, breaking the long silence.

“Ay, she did, did she?” Mr. Oakroyd left the table now and lit his pipe. “An’ ar’s she gettin’ on then?” His wife’s sister, this Alice, was married to a railwayman, and lived at the other side of Bruddersford. Mr. Oakroyd had not seen her for years. As a matter of fact, he disliked both her and her husband.

“All right,” said Leonard indifferently. “Me cousin Mabel’s gettin’ married soon.”

“Well, well! Last time I saw Mabel she were nobbut a bit of a kid wi’ a mucky pinafore, as you might say. And nar she’s gettin’ wed. Who’s t’chap?”

“Johnson, they call him. He works in the railway office⁠—pen-pusher. You might think he owned it, to hear him talk. Lot o’ swank! And Mabel’s no kid now. She’s over a year older than me, nearly as old as our Lily.”

“You haven’t said owt to our Lily yet, have you?” asked Mr. Oakroyd anxiously.

Leonard shook his head. “I haven’t written her a letter for two months. She doesn’t write to me. You’ll be writing, won’t you?”

What was he going to write? The thought chilled him, but warmth returned with the thought of Lily herself. If only she were here with him! But no, she was better out of it. He stared about him, then suddenly remembered something. “Here,” he cried, “where’s Albert? I’d forgotten him.”

“Gone. Went a fortnight since.”

“Well, that’s summat, anyhow. A bit o’ yon Albert’s talk nar ’ud just about put finishing touch on it. An’ what’s happened to him then?”

“Gettin’ married this week.” And Leonard grinned sardonically. “Got caught all right, Mr. Tuggridge did. Told him he would, but he wouldn’t leave her alone. They didn’t give him any option, neither, when they knew. Her father come to see him. Poor old Albert!” Yes, his days as a wandering gallant were over. No more ogling and pursuing and picking up for him. He had picked up once too often. He had “got caught” and would soon be seen with a perambulator.

“Poor owd nothing!” cried Mr. Oakroyd scornfully. “I’m sorry for t’lass as weds him. Gurt clever head⁠—gasbag! An’ that’s no way for you to talk, neither, lad,” he added severely. “ ‘Got caught’! It makes me fair shamed to hear a lad o’ mine talking that way. If I’d said owt o’ that sort in front o’ my father, he’d ha’ ta’en a stick to my back, he would that. D’yer think t’lasses is nobbut for you to go follerin’ round an’ laking wi’? What d’yer think they are⁠—bits o’ toys?” He regarded his son sternly for a moment. “Ar yer doin’ at yer work? Still wi’ Gregson’s?”

“Yes,” Leonard replied, rather sulkily. “Doing all right. Got the second chair now and a lot of reg’lar customers. I’m making nearly four pounds a week.”

“That’s the style. Well, happen you’ll be better off when you ‘get caught’ as you call it. Might knock a bit o’ sense into you if a decent lass gets howd on you. You nivver knaw.”

“Chap offered me a job in Manchester the other day,” Leonard mumbled, “and I’d like to have taken it. More money and a change. I’m getting sick of Bruddersford. If⁠—if owt happens to me mother I shall go.” He swallowed hard.

Mr. Oakroyd relaxed the severity of his expression. “Ay, lad, you mun do whativver you think best. I’ve no call to be tellin’ you what to do. An’ whativver else you’ve done, you’ve noan been a bad lad to your mother.”

Having said this, he cleared his throat, and looked sternly at the evening paper, as if he knew very well he could not believe a word it said. Leonard, muttering something about “a walk round,” disappeared. Mr. Oakroyd read the paper through carefully, unhopefully, smoked a pipe or two and stared solemnly at the fire, then went to bed.

II

The Bruddersford Infirmary could not be mistaken for one of the local factories because it has no tall chimney. Otherwise there is little difference. It is a rambling ugly building, all in blackened stone and surrounded first by an asphalt courtyard, where the smuts drizzle ceaselessly, and then by tall iron railings that would not seem out of place around a prison. Through these railings a nurse may be seen occasionally, and as she flits across those grim spaces of stone and soot she looks like a being from another world, incredibly immaculate. Here, out of the sunlight, far from green shades and blue distances, where no birds sing, but where the lorries and steam-wagons come thundering down and the trams go groaning up the hill, here behind this rusting iron and walls thickened with black grime, the Bruddersfordians have a bout or two, a tussle, or a fight to a finish, with Death.

The last time Mr. Oakroyd had visited the Infirmary was to see a friend of his from Higden’s, a good many years ago. He could hardly remember what it looked like inside. He was familiar enough with the outside, for the place was not quarter of a mile from Ogden Street and for years he had walked past it nearly every day. This morning, however, even the outside seemed strange. His wife was somewhere inside it, behind one of those dark windows.

“Is it special?” asked the porter, “ ’cos this isn’t visiting time, yer knaw.”

“Well, I don’t know fairly,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “I wer sent for, like, an’ I’ve come a long way.”

“If yer’ll howd on a minute, I’ll see. What’s t’name again? All right. Yer can wait in there.” And the porter, after pointing to a door, turned away.

There were several people in the bare little waiting-room. One of them was an enormously fat woman, wrapped in a shawl. The tears were streaming down her face, and she made no attempt to dry her eyes, but repeated over and over again, without any variation of tone: “They nivver owt to ha’ let him come in, nivver.”

On the other side was an oldish man, whose drooping face Mr. Oakroyd dimly recognized. “Fower operations in eighteen months, that’s what she’s had,” he was saying. “Fower operations.” There was mournful pride in his voice. He looked round, nodded vaguely to Mr. Oakroyd, and then began again: “Ay, fower operations.”

The others there, including two children, said nothing at all. They just waited, and Mr. Oakroyd had an obscure conviction that they had been waiting a long time. His heart sank. He wanted to go away.

The porter was standing at the door, beckoning to him. “Oakroyd, isn’t it? That’s Num‑ber Twen‑ty-sev‑en, List‑er Ward. Well, t’sister says she’s very sorry but yer can’t see ’er now but will you come again this afternoon.”

“I see,” said Mr. Oakroyd, and immediately found himself invaded by a feeling of relief. He tried to be disappointed, told himself he must see her as soon as he could, but nevertheless he could not help feeling relieved. He had been in there only a few minutes, had not really been inside, but even so it was comforting to be back again in the bustle of Woolgate. Something dogged him, however, throughout his stroll through the main streets. He was like a chap out on bail.

He called again in the early afternoon, only to be told to return later. Then at last he was admitted. He climbed up four flights of stone steps and then found Lister Ward. A nurse met him at the entrance. “Let me see,” she said, “you’re for Number Seventeen⁠—little Doris Smith⁠—aren’t you?”

When Mr. Oakroyd told her he was wanting Number Twenty-seven, she seemed disappointed, and this made him all the more uncomfortable, as if he had no right to be there.

“Yes, I remember now,” she said, looking all round him but not at him. “Sister said you could see her, didn’t she? You’re the husband, aren’t you? She hasn’t been asking for you. There’s a son, isn’t there? I thought I’d seen him. This way then, and don’t make too much noise. This isn’t the proper visiting day, and you mustn’t disturb the others.”

He crept after her in a fashion that would not have disturbed a fly. He tiptoed so gently that his legs ached. They had to go almost the whole length of the ward, and though he tried to see as little of it as possible, he could not help noticing some things. All the women were in bed and they all seemed to have something blue on; some were old, some very young; some asleep, some staring fiercely; and there were strange things, pulley arrangements, on some of the beds; and one or two were completely surrounded by screens. No moaning and groaning; not a sound, it was all as quiet as a waxwork show; all tidy and polished and still; very queer, frightening.

The nurse suddenly stopped. She turned round, looking right at him this time. “Your wife’s very ill, you know,” she whispered. “You must be very quiet with her. Don’t mind if she’s not very clear, wandering a little. Just a minute.” She walked forward to a bed, and he heard her say: “Now, Twenty-seven, your husband’s come to see you.” What else she said he did not know, but he saw her leaning over the bed, doing something, and then she stepped back and nodded to him. He tiptoed forward, feeling horribly clumsy, uncertain. One hand, held behind him, was tightening, tightening, until its nails were digging into the horny palm. Then he stood by the bedside, looking down into the face of Number Twenty-seven.

“Eh, lass,” he said huskily. He tried to smile, but could only make a grimace. “Nay⁠—nay.” And there seemed nothing more he could say.

Her face was all bone and sharp wrinkles and seemed as brittle as eggshell. Her mouth was a short line, dark, bitter. But her eyes, though they wandered with an awful slowness, still gleamed in their hollows, and there looked out from those eyes the soul, stubborn, unflinching, ironic, of Mrs. Oakroyd. He himself could feel this, though he had no words for it. But an inner voice was saying “Eh, she’ll nivver give in,” and he stared at her in mingled pity and awe.

Her eyes roamed over him. She stirred a little and there came a sickly sweet smell. A hand travelled slowly over the folded sheet, and as he sat down he grasped it. His face working desperately but to no purpose.

“Jess? What⁠—what⁠—you doing here?”

“Our Leonard sent.”

At the mention of Leonard those eyes changed, softened. They would not do that for anything else now, it seemed.

“I didn’t tell him to.” Her voice was clear but slow, a voice speaking out of a dream.

“He thowt he’d better send word. He’s been a good lad. I told him he’s been a good lad to his mother.”

“Time you thowt so,” she said, with a flash of the old sharp spirit. “Ay, ay, a good lad⁠ ⁠… our Leonard. Is he coming soon?”

“Soon as he can or whenivver you want him,” he told her.

She nodded, very slowly, so that it hurt him to watch her doing it. Then she looked away, at nothing it seemed, as if he was no longer there. He waited through a shrinking and numbing silence. At last, however, she looked at him again, and it was as if she had returned from far away and was faintly surprised to find him still there. He tried to think of something to say, but there seemed to be nothing he could say and somehow his voice too had rusted away.

“I’m bad, Jess,” she said finally.

His voice came back. “Eh, lass, why didn’t you tell me afore?”

She did not seem to hear this. “I wish they’d let me alone,” she muttered. “They can do nowt.”

“Nay, they will,” he said, and tried to convince himself that they could do something though in his heart he knew they could not.

“Can’t⁠—can’t I do owt?” he asked desperately.

To this she made no reply beyond looking at him searchingly, with a faint gleam of irony in her eyes. When it faded and she stirred again, it seemed as if he had been dismissed. Her hand crept out of his and moved uneasily over the sheet. When she spoke again, she began wandering. There was something about their Lily, about Higden’s, about a peggy-tub she had borrowed; all a dreamy jumble. The nurse came up quietly and touched him on the shoulder. He stood up, looked on while she gave his wife something to drink.

“You’d better go now,” she told him. But she withdrew for a moment.

His wife looked at him, steadily now. “Going, Jess, now, aren’t yer? Yer managed all right for yersen when yer went away, didn’t yer?”

“I nivver owt to ha’ gone.”

“Nay, lad, I don’t know. You’ve done nowt to be sorry for. Couldn’t be helped. Are yer going on all right?”

He nodded.

“Better so, then,” she went on. “And our Leonard’s doing right well. Eh, he is⁠—right well!” She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at him again, with the wizened ghost of a smile. “Yer mun go and see our Lily some time if yer can get. That’s what you’ve allus wanted, isn’t it? Nay, Jess, I know. Tell our Leonard to come tonight.”

This time, when he found himself outside in Woolgate again, he also found that he had not really left the Infirmary behind. It was the streets and shops, the trams and lorries, the whole noisy bustling business, that seemed grotesque, unreal now. Half of him still went tiptoeing in that long room of beds and blue-covered shoulders, of pulley things and screens. The quiet of it remained with him and conjured away all the solid reality from the traffic of the streets. What was all the commotion about? Mr. Oakroyd did not say all these things to himself; he could not have found words for most of them; but nevertheless he felt them. You could have read them in his wondering glances as you passed him in the street.

When he went the next day, she was obviously weaker. Her eyes had a drugged look; she mumbled in her talk; and nearly everything she said was disconnected, wandering, the old wreckage of dreams and scattered memories. He sat there for an hour, staring sadly, squeezing his fingers, and then crept away, hurt, and frightened.

In the evening, he went again, with Leonard, and they were told they could go up to the ward. They were not admitted, however; the sister said it had been a mistake: Number Twenty-seven could not be seen just then. Perhaps it might be as well if they stayed some time in the waiting-room below. And they caught a glimpse through the door of screens round the bed. They waited an hour, two hours, turning over evening papers that seemed to say nothing, starting up every time the door was opened. It was late. They inquired again, and were told it was useless waiting any longer. There was no change; they must hope for the best; everything that could be done was being done. But next morning, before the earliest buzzers had sounded, Number Twenty-seven was dead.

After he had visited the cold little chapel, where the body would remain until the undertaker wanted it, they put into his hand a parcel wrapped in brown paper, and mechanically he accepted it and took it home, and mechanically he opened it there. Some clothes; a brush and comb; a little envelope, out of which rolled a wedding-ring. There was something else in the envelope. False teeth.

“Eh, well I don’t know!” cried Mrs. Sugden, who was forever in the house now. “What they want to bother yer with them things for? Poor soul! They’ve ner more sense than⁠—nay, I don’t know!”

But Mr. Oakroyd only nodded and then stumped away.

III

He did what had to be done without protest. He helped Leonard to put something in the paper. He saw the undertaker and the insurance man. He sent a cable to Lily, and this alone of all his duties brought about a thaw inside his numbed self. When the man explained how it could be sent and when it would probably get there, he felt a sudden warmth and wanted to cry. For the rest, he did what he had to do, but was so quiet that his wife’s relations, who came pouring in with her sister, Alice Bairstow, at their head, did not know what to make of him. Noisy and red-eyed but secretly rejoicing in their own immortality, they discussed him in corners. It was Mrs. Sugden’s opinion that he was “taking it ’ard,” but though her position as sympathetic neighbour and tea-brewer to the bereaved was recognized, it was held that her opinion on this matter was uncalled-for and therefore of no consequence. Mrs. Bairstow was heard to say that what really troubled her brother-in-law was remorse, as well it might. He had gone off God knows where and left her to it, and this is what had come of it. But she did not go so far as to say this to him. All she did was to deal with him in a spirit of large but strained tolerance, and make a great fuss of Leonard. Once or twice Mr. Oakroyd glowered at her and was obviously on the point of saying something sharp, but most of the time he simply humped about, looking grey and wooden, and nodded agreement to everything she said. What she did say chiefly concerned the funeral, which was to be in the best traditions of Ogden Street. She sent out a host of invitations, and pledged the forthcoming insurance money royally.

It was on the morning of the funeral that Mr. Oakroyd received a letter. For a moment, he thought it must be from Lily, and his heart leaped up, but as soon as he saw it was not, he lost interest at once and stuffed it into his pocket without reading it. There would be plenty of time for that afterwards, when all the black fuss and bustle was over. This being a funeral in the grand tradition, it was a very lengthy affair. The assembly of the carriages and the mourners took some time. Then there was the long slow drive out to Dum Wood Cemetery, where serious Bruddersfordians go walking on fine Sunday afternoons, many a year before they are taken there to await the last trump. Then followed a service in the cemetery chapel, where the Rev. J. Hamilton Morris, B.A., of Woolgate Congregational Chapel, tried to dwell upon the virtues of the deceased and found it very difficult because he knew very little about her. He did what he could, however, looked manfully at the tear-stained or grim faces, and finally asked the grave where its victory was. And when all was done, there was the long drive back, not to 51 Ogden Street, but to Caddy’s in Shuttle Street, where a funeral tea had been ordered. Caddy’s, being old-fashioned, still made a speciality of these repasts, and on their business cards might be seen, sandwiched between Catering and Wedding Cakes the announcement: Funeral Teas. Mourners, mostly relations, still come considerable distances, and not only must they be refreshed but they must also be provided with an opportunity to exchange news, for many scattered families only meet at a funeral. It is not perhaps true to say that these teas are the most jovial functions known to elderly Bruddersfordians, but it must be admitted that they are generally a success, going with a swing that many social events in Bruddersford never know. Everybody has that pleasant feeling of having carried through a painful duty; after a sight of the open grave, it is good to return to life, to eat and drink and swap news with uncles and cousins; and, moreover, what with long rides, services, and standing about in cemeteries, to say nothing of the havoc wrought by the emotions, a mourner develops a real appetite and funeral teas are good solid meat teas. That is the reason why the comedian who plays the Dame in the Bruddersford pantomime never fails⁠—has not failed these last thirty years⁠—to bring down the house with the remark: “I buried ’im with ’am.” On this occasion, Mrs. Bairstow had ordered Caddy’s to provide a sound specimen of their knife-and-fork tea, and they had disappointed neither her nor any of her hopeful guests.

Among those who did full justice to both the ham and the tongue was Mr. Oakroyd’s old friend and our old acquaintance, that independent craftsman and keeper of hens, Mr. Sam Oglethorpe. Here was one person Mr. Oakroyd could talk to, and though actually he did not do much talking, he kept close to Sam from the moment they all tramped up Caddy’s stairs.

“Well, Jess,” said Mr. Oglethorpe, “I’ll ha’ to be off. I’ve getten t’hens to see to, tha knaws. Farls can’t wait if fowk can.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Oakroyd disconsolately. Then he brightened up. “Here, Sam, I’m coming wi’ yer.”

“Won’t they want yer?” said Mr. Oglethorpe. They had wandered away from the tables now.

“If they do, they mun want on. Ther’s nowt I can do here nar.”

“Right, owd lad,” said Mr. Oglethorpe cheerfully. “We’ll get t’tram.”

They said little or nothing, either on the tram or on the walk to Wabley from the terminus, but they smoked companionably all the way, and Mr. Oakroyd did at least lose the feeling that he was wandering in an ugly dream. Sam might not be one of the brightest or have much to say for himself, but he was a comfortable sort of chap to be with at a time like this.

“I’ll tell yer what,” Mr. Oglethorpe suggested, when he had finished attending to his fowls, “we’ll ha’ a sup o’ beer. Tha doesn’t want to go on to T’Anglers? I thowt not. Well, I’ll fetch a sup and we’ll car quiet a bit i’ t’hen-hoil. Nay, don’t you come; I’ll fetch it mysen.”

This was that same combined henhouse and workshop where he had sat and talked to Sam and his nephew Ted, of the lorry, on a Sunday night that now seem years and years away. It was while he was waiting in there that he remembered the letter in his pocket. It was from Miss Trant:

Dear Mr. Oakroyd,

I was so sorry to learn that your wife was ill and that you had to go home. I do hope that by this time you have better news of her. I have some news for you. Mr. Gooch has seen this man Ridvers, and he has frightened him into agreeing to pay the claim for damages. I don’t know whether this is a very legal thing to do⁠—it doesn’t seem like it⁠—but it is only right he should pay for his stupidity. It will cost him a good deal too, which means that I have been saved a good deal⁠—thanks to you. Please remember this when you hear from Mr. Gooch, as you will very shortly. The other news is that Dr. McFarlane and I are to be married very soon. We shall live just outside Gatford for a time. I’m afraid this means that a plan I had for offering you some work at Hitherton won’t be possible now, though it was only vague. But will you please come and talk over your plans⁠—unless you have already fixed something up for yourself? I have just had a very excited letter from Susie in London. She has begun rehearsing already and likes her part.

He read this letter through twice, very carefully. He was glad that Miss Trant would not have to pay. He was also glad that she was marrying the big doctor chap. He told himself he was glad, yet he was conscious of feeling only a vague disappointment. The letter⁠—a fine letter too⁠—ought to have cheered him up, but it did not cheer him up. He was still numb, frozen, with just the tiniest bit of an ache somewhere.

There was a cosy gossiping look about Sam when he returned with his jugful. Mr. Oakroyd wanted to feel like that too, but somehow he couldn’t manage it.

“Well, Jess,” said Mr. Oglethorpe, in his usual slow, meditative Jobbing Work style, “an’ ar yer’ve been finding things down South?”

“Nay,” said Mr. Oakroyd, “we’ve had a bit o’ bother just lately, bit of a mix-up, you might say.” A week ago, he would have plunged at once into an account of the whole affair, but now he couldn’t, not without an effort. It all seemed such a long way off, like a tale in a book.

“Ay, I dare say,” said Mr. Oglethorpe, nodding and frowning judicially. Obviously it would not surprise him what happened down South. “Been i’ the‑ater line, haven’t yer, Jess? I did hear. An’ what is there to do i’ that line o’ business? Be a change from Higden’s, eh? Diff’rent altogether, I’ll be barnd?”

Mr. Oakroyd admitted that it was, and decribed briefly what he had been doing for the past six months. If he had been describing fairyland, his hearer could not have been more astonished and delighted, but though he felt a faint warmth at this reception of his news, a reception long anticipated, often imagined, he could not really be kindled. And it was just the same when they came to talk of his travels.

“An’ Bristol an’ Bedfordsheer, Jess,” cried Mr. Oglethorpe, “did yer ivver get theer?”

“Bristol and Bedfordshire?” he repeated, puzzled.

“Nay, lad, don’t yer remember? I mind it as well as if it wor nobbut yesterda’. Yer come here, it wor t’last time yer ivver wor here, an’ yer wanted to be off somewhere⁠—down South⁠—an’ I says ‘Well, wheer d’yer want to go,’ an’ yer says, ‘Bristol an’ Bedfordsheer,’ an’ I laughs. An’ then⁠—by gow!⁠—afore I can turn rahnd⁠—yer’ve gone. Eh, I’ve had monny a good laugh ower it. I’ve been dahn to Bruddersford, we’ll say, an’ one o’ t’chaps o’ the t’club has assed ‘Where’s Jess Oakroyd, Sam?’ an’ I’ve towd them. ‘Bristol an’ Bedfordsheer,’ I says. ‘Ar d’yer mean?’ they says. ‘Well, he come here,’ I says, ‘an’ he says to me he’d like to go to Bristol an’ Bedfordsheer, an’ t’next minute he wor off,’ I says. Don’t tell me yer nivver went, Jess.”

“I remember,” said Mr. Oakroyd slowly. “Well, I nivver got to Bristol, Sam, though I’ve nivver given it a thowt. I may ha’ seen Bedfordshire, but I don’t knaw fairly. We’ve been all ower t’shop, up an’ down an’ across, on t’road, yer knaw. Ay, I’ve seen a deal.”

“Then yer owt to be satisfied nar, lad,” observed Mr. Oglethorpe, with a suggestion of irony. “Tell us wheer yer’ve been an’ what yer’ve seen.”

Mr. Oakroyd rubbed his chin. “That’s a big order, Sam,” he began doubtfully. “When yer’ve been about, a bit, places⁠—”

Mr. Oglethorpe stopped him at once. He looked very reproachful, though waggish. “Nar, Jess,” he cautioned, “yer not goin’ to tell me ’at places is all alike when yer come to know ’em.”

“Well, summat o’ t’sort,” Mr. Oakroyd muttered.

His friend instantly banged the table. “Them’s t’words, very words, ’at our Ted used i’ this very place that Sunda’,” he roared. “Very words he said. An’ yer said ‘Nay, I’ll be damned if I’ll ha’ that.’ And I backed yer up. Our Ted wor only talking abart it t’other week here, when he wor wondering where yer’d got to. Well, well, well! That caps t’lot. We live an’ we learn, we live an’ we learn. Nay, Jess!”

“Howd thi noise, Sam!” Mr. Oakroyd protested good-humouredly. But he looked, and felt, confused. “I don’t mean all places is alike. Your Ted wor wrong. He went too far, too far bi half, he did. What I think is this⁠—”

“Nay, Jess, leave it, lad, leave it nar. Say ner more. Here, have another sup o’ beer. Bit better ner like, this beer. If they don’t look aht, they’ll be puttin’ some malt an’ hops in it agen, same as they used to, instead o’ just colourin’ t’reservoy watter an’ fillin’ t’barrels wi’ that. Well, what’s t’next job then, lad? Still in t’the‑ater line?”

Mr. Oakroyd did not know, and he hardly seemed to care. He had asked himself this question several times, but somehow had found it quite easy to leave it unanswered. It was as if something inside him had just snapped. “I don’t knaw,” he replied, blowing out his breath in what was recognized to be the Bruddersfordian equivalent of a sigh. “I don’t, Sam. There was a bit o’ talk about me gettin’ summat else i’ t’same line, but I don’t knaw what’ll come of it. I haven’t thowt about it. I suppose I mun be looking round.”

Mr. Oglethorpe nodded sagely. Then he looked very grave. “Keep aht o’ t’Joinery an’ Jobbing i’ this neighbourhood, Jess, that’s all. Way things is nar, it’s nowt⁠—nowt at all, it isn’t. It’s just like t’hens scrattin’ for a bit o’ summat.”

“Is it war ner it wor?” inquired Mr. Oakroyd.

“Nay, trade’s so bad and ther’s so monny either stopped or on short time, they’ll ha’ nowt done, d’yer see, Jess? They’d let t’places go to rack an’ ruin afore they’d have owt done. Sitha, I can’t put me nose in onnywheer withart seeing hawf-a-dozen little jobs ’at wants doing. But fowk hasn’t bit o’ brass to spare. They can’t thoil it, lad. I’ve nearly made as mich aht o’ t’hens. I’ve been keepin’ farls nar for fowerteen year, an’ I shan’t be capped if at finish t’farls is keepin’ me. So don’t set up for thysen on t’Joinery an’ Jobbing i’ these parts, Jess. Might be different dahn South, I dare say, but here⁠—it’s nowt. Keep to t’the‑ater line, I say, ’cos fowk seems to ha’ brass to spend on the‑aters an’ t’animated picters an’ suchlike these days when they haven’t a sixpence for owt beside. Has ta ’ad onny young actresses i’ tow, Jess?”

“Nay, Sam, who d’yer think I am?” But Mr. Oakroyd was not shocked. He had replied almost mechanically.

It occurred to Mr. Oglethorpe then that this was hardly the time for such badinage⁠—the clay of Dum Wood Cemetery being hardly dry on their boots yet⁠—and hastily and awkwardly he changed the subject. But he could not change his friend’s heavy and abstracted mood, and soon their talk dwindled to nothing; Mr. Oakroyd returned home accompanied by a dark confusion of thoughts and memories, in which his adventures on the road, all the ups and downs of the Good Companions, had their place. Yet they were only like shadows flickering on a wall. He wanted to see them all again, these Good Companions; he could dwell affectionately on his thought of them; but nevertheless they were little figures, far away, and he realized, in his own dumb obscure fashion, that it was not they who had the power to wake him back to life. Nor was it anybody or anything in Bruddersford. He walked slowly through the familiar streets, a shrunken figure in an ill-fitting suit of black, solitary beneath the street lamps that only intensified the great dark above, a man alone. No, not entirely alone, for keeping step with him were immense vague shapes, so many configurations of mystery, pain, and death.

“Then we mun sell t’home up,” said Mr. Oakroyd, early the next morning. He was looking disconsolately across the table at Leonard, who had just announced that he had decided to take the job he had been offered in Manchester.

“No good keepin’ it if you’re not going to stop in Bruddersford,” said Leonard.

“Well, I’m not,” his father remarked quietly.

“What are you going to do?”

“Wait a bit, lad, wait a bit. I’ll see.” Mr. Oakroyd was rather irritable now. “We can’t all be barbers wi’ jobs i’ Manchester round t’corner, can we?”

“I was only askin’,” said Leonard, a sulky boy again.

“That’s all right, lad. Tak’ no notice. I’m glad you can look after yersen. Yer doin’ right well, Leonard, an’ if you’d nobbut settle a bit an’ not go malackin’ abart so much wi’ t’girls⁠—”

“I’ve ’ad enough of that,” said Leonard, who believed at the moment that he had.

“That’s all right, then. You’ll do champion,” said Mr. Oakroyd, regarding his son for once with something like approval. “Well, we’ll ha’ to sell up. Ar’s it’s got to be done, that’s t’point? We’re havin’ no auctionin’.”

“Wouldn’t be worth it anyway,” said Leonard, with a glance round the room. “Not enough stuff here.”

“By gow!⁠—we live an’ learn. I thowt once upon a time I’d getten a good home together,” cried Mr. Oakroyd, with some bitterness, “but seemingly it’s not worth sellin’ up nar.”

“Best thing we can do,” said Leonard, wisely disregarding this outburst, “is to get one or two of these secondhand-furniture chaps in, and they’ll offer a price. Albert’ll tell me who’s the best. I’ll go and see him this morning if you like.”

“All right.” Mr. Oakroyd looked about him now. “I wonder if ther’s owt our Lily ’ud like for hersen,” he mused.

“Dare say there might.” Leonard lit a cigarette. “But she’ll have a better place of her own now. Jack Clough gets good money out there.”

“I’ll look abart a bit. Then if ther’s owt I think she could do wi’, I’ll pack it up in a box.” He suddenly remembered something. “Eh, whativver I do. I’ll ha’ to go back to Gatford! I left my tools.”

Leonard stared at him. “Gor, you made me jump, Par! Is that all? Tools!”

“Ay, tools, lad, tools! It’s enough an’ all. I’m a tradesman, I am, an’ I can’t set mysen up wi’ a pair o’ scissors an a pair o’ clippers an’ a drop o’ hair-oil. I want summat to work wi’ when I start. An’ I been using some o’ them tools for twenty year, an’ don’t you forget it. I wouldn’t be wi’out ’em for owt. I’m a tradesman, see⁠—an’ if you ask me, ther’s noan so damn monny on us left.”

“Can you wonder,” said Leonard, with all the scorn of a younger and wiser generation, “wages they pay?”

“Happen not,” said his father gloomily. “For all that, a chap ’at’s learnt his trade an’ can use his hands⁠—he isn’t a machine an’ he isn’t a flippin’ monkey⁠—he’s a man, lad, wages or no wages, a man.” And he gave the table a bang. It was immediately answered by another, at the door. “Hello, who’s this?”

“Postman. I’ll go.” And when Leonard came back, he added: “One for me and one for you.”

Mr. Oakroyd had been told by Miss Trant that he would hear from Mr. Gooch of Gatford, but nevertheless he was astonished. He was even more astonished when the following little bombshell had exploded under his nose:

Dear Sir,

Following the instructions of our client, Miss E. Trant, upon the satisfactory termination of our negotiations with Mr. Ridvers, we have pleasure in handing you herewith our cheque, on behalf of Miss Trant, for £100 (one hundred pounds) receipt of which kindly acknowledge to us as well as to Miss Trant herself.

And there it was, with the letter, a little bit of blue and white paper: Pay Mr. J. Oakroyd or Order. A hundred pounds. Nay!

“Here,” he shouted to Leonard, “I’ve getten a hundred pounds. Eh, it’s aht o’ all reason. A hundred pound! That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Well I’ll be blowed! What you got that for, Par? Let’s have a look at it. That’s right. It’s a cheque, that is. But what you got it for?”

“Well, I did a bit o’ puttin’ two an’ two together for this Miss Trant I been workin’ for. Must ha’ saved a good deal, I dare say, but this is aht o’ all reason. Nay⁠—a hundred pound!”

“Depends what you did, doesn’t it?” said Leonard, looking very knowing.

Mr. Oakroyd explained briefly what he had done.

“Well, that’s it then,” said Leonard. “You might have saved her a right lot⁠—’spect you did⁠—wish I had it.” He inspected the cheque again. “I know a bit about these things. You can’t cash this, y’know, Par, ’cos it’s got Company written on. You’ll have to pay it into t’bank.”

“What bank? Haven’t got a bank, though I once had a bit in t’Post Office. An’ I’d some trade on gettin’ owt aht on ’em an’ all.”

“You goes to bank with this, and you pays it in,” Leonard explained, proud of his knowledge of high finance, “and then if you want it⁠—money, y’know⁠—you take it out again. That’s way you do it.”

“Put it in an’ tak it aht,” cried Mr. Oakroyd, puzzled. “I call that daft. Still, if that’s t’way, I’ll do it. An’ I mun do some o’ this kindly acknowledgin’ too. Eh, but⁠—a hundred pound!” And he stared at his son in bewilderment.

“Come in handy, that little lot,” said Leonard, who was now slipping into the part of the knowing young man. “That and what you’ll get from selling up here, it’ll give you a good old start all right.”

“Nay, I can’t keep all I get from selling t’home up,” Mr. Oakroyd protested. “You mun have half, Leonard. We might get summat for our Lily an’ all. Onny road, we’ll divide an’ make a divvy on it.”

“Our Lily won’t want anything. She’s well off, she is. And I don’t,” added Leonard, who, to give him his due, was not a grasping youth. “Keep it yourself, Par. What there is, is yours all right. But we shan’t get much, I can tell you now. I’ll go and ask Albert.”

As soon as he was left alone, Mr. Oakroyd began rummaging about to see if there was anything that Lily might like. He wandered upstairs, spending quite a time there, looking not at little old possessions but at the very past itself, so that times, seasons, occasions, events, he had almost entirely forgotten returned all clear and bright but very small, part of a melancholy enchantment.

A slight noise from downstairs called him into the immediate present again. He descended quietly, to discover in the living-room, just by the old sofa, what looked like a hillock of dirty blue serge. The next moment it turned itself into Mrs. Sugden rising from her knees, panting, purple-faced, and a trifle confused.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Sugden,” he said, rather dryly, “I couldn’t think what it wor.”

“Eh, Mr. Oakroyd, I ’ope yer don’t mind,” she cried, puffing and blowing. “I looked in to see if there was owt I could do for yer, an’ your Leonard towed me as he was passin’ yer were sellin’ up an’ I were just ’aving a look at t’sofa. I’ve been wantin’ one for some time an’ I thowt I might as well ’ave it, if it’s goin’, just as well as t’next.”

“Ay,” he said, wagging his head at her in a kind of half-mournful, half-humorous resignation. “So you might, Mrs. Sugden. Tak’ a look while you’ve a chance. Here today and gone tomorrow, that’s our motto.” And he left her to it, but now, when he looked round upstairs, there was only so much furniture and odds and ends all worse for wear, just old junk. He had to comfort himself with a pipe of Old Salt.

And then it happened.

“Mr. Oakroyd, Mr. Oakroyd,” she was screaming up the stairs, “there’s summat come for yer.” And when he hurried down, she added, holding something out to him: “Looks like a sort o’ telegram.”

It was a cable. Trembling, Mr. Oakroyd put his pipe down on the table, and even then only opened the envelope with difficulty. He stared, breathing hard. Very grieved all love if you come out here very welcome and good job any time Lily Jack. Again and again he read it, making sure. And then it was as if a huge door had been opened and the sunlight was flooding in, warming him to life again.

“An’ will yer go?” asked Mrs. Sugden, when at last he had satisfied her curiosity. “Eh, it’s a long way off.”

“Long way! Long nowt! If it were from here to t’moon I’d go⁠—”

And Mrs. Sugden, hearing the terrible voice of love triumphant, was silenced. No doubt she knew that when this voice peals out, all other voices in the universe are nothing but reedy whispers, better silent. Perhaps she acquired the sofa as a reward for recognizing these authentic tones.

Another person heard them that morning. This was the young man at Torry’s Shipping Agency in Shuttle Street. He looked up from his book to see a detestable, cheap, black suit, a mouth that was in earnest, and two blue eyes that blazed with excitement.

“Nar, lad,” said this caller, in the usual and regrettable Bruddersford manner, “just tell me how I can get to Canada.”

The young man put away his book and took out a pencil. This sounded like business. “Assisted passage, I suppose?”

“Ar d’you mean?”

The young man began to explain about emigration and government grants and forms to fill in, but he was quickly cut short.

“Nowt o’ that,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “Ther’s no government i’ this. I’m payin’ for mysen. I can manage third class nicely.”

“Then that’s different,” said the young man, who now began to talk about the various routes and steamship lines. “Of course it depends on where you want to go at the other end. But we might begin with this end first. You could go from either Liverpool or Southampton.”

“Champion!” cried Mr. Oakroyd.

“Yes, either Liverpool or Southampton.”

“Good enough!” Then, after some thought, he went on: “Nar I fancy Southampton, an’ I’ll tell yer for why. I’d like to call at a place i’ t’Midlands⁠—Gatford⁠—an’ then I’d like to go to London on t’way, ’cos ther’s some friends o’ mine there ’at I’d like to see afore I go. So we’ll mak’ it Southampton, lad.”

“Good! Southampton.” And the young man flourished his pencil. “What part of Canada are you going to? We could probably arrange to book you right through.”

“Yer a smart young feller, I can see,” said Mr. Oakroyd in great delight. “Just get your map aht an’ I’ll show yer where I want to go. It’s where my dowter lives an’ I can put me finger on t’very place. Yer knaw abaht Canada, do yer? Ay, well, you an’ me’ull mak’ a right good job on it.”

For the next hour that young man of Tony’s never returned to his book. On the other hand, he did not miss it. Life had walked into the shop.

V

It is Saturday afternoon again, and once more something queer is happening in that narrow thoroughfare to the west of the town, Manchester Road. A grey-green tide flows sluggishly down the road a tide of cloth caps, leaving the ground of “t’United,” where Huddersfield have just been defeated by three goals to two. Somewhere in the middle of this thick stream of cloth caps is one that looks newer than most of its neighbours. It belongs to Mr. Jesiah Oakroyd, who has contrived to attend this match before leaving Bruddersford for years, perhaps forever. He is catching a train to Gatford, his first little halt on his long journey, this very evening, and already his suitcase and his big tin trunk are at the station, waiting for the 6:50. Casual talk is easy in such a slowly moving throng and is favoured because it helps to pass the time even when it does not also relieve the feelings. Mr. Oakroyd is engaged in it. We can just overhear a sentence or two.

“Ay,” his neighbour observes, “if they’d nobbut laked like this all t’season they’d ha’ been somewhere at the top instead of being nearly at bottom. They’re just wak’ning up nar it’s nearly over.”

“Well, it’s been a grand match today, it has,” says Mr. Oakroyd dreamily. “I nivver want to see a better. Eh, it were t’owd form all ower agen. Them last two goals⁠—nay, by gow!”

“Ay, them wor a bit of all right.”

“All right! They wor grand!”

And then we hear no more. The tide of caps and men flows on, slowly but gradually gathering speed, like our years. It recedes, shrinks, until at last you do not notice it at all. Manchester Road is now only one of a hundred thoroughfares, for Bruddersford itself, the whole spread of it, has come into view. Holdsworth’s giant mill looms there on the left; the Midland Railway’s station glitters in the sun again, and there is an answering gleam from the glass roof of the Market Hall; a silver streak shows one of the canals; and in the centre of the tall chimneys, shaking the air with its “Lass of Richmond Hill,” is the tower of the Bruddersford Town Hall. It points a finger at us, and then is gone, lost in a faint smudge of smoke. Another moment and Bruddersford is only a grimy crack in the hills. The high moorland between Yorkshire and Lancashire rises steadily, clear in the pearly light of Spring. Once more, the miles and miles of ling and bog and black rock, and the curlews crying above the scattered jewellery of the little tarns. There are the Derbyshire hills, and there, away to the north, are the great fells of Cumberland, and now the whole darkening length of it, from the Peak to Cross Fell, is visible, for this is the Pennine Range, sometimes called the backbone of England.