Arnold Bennett - Why the Clock Stopped

IMr Morfe and Mary Morfe, his sister, were sitting on either sideof their drawing-room fire, on a Friday evening in November, whenthey heard a ring at the front door. They both started, and showedsymptoms of nervous disturbance. They both said aloud that no doubtit was a parcel or something of the kind that had rung at the frontdoor. And they both bent their eyes again on the respective bookswhich they were reading. Then they heard voices in the lobby--theservant's voice and another voice--and a movement of steps over theencaustic tiles towards the door of the drawing-room. And MissMorfe ejaculated: "Really!" As though she was unwilling to believe that somebody on theother side of that drawing-room door contemplated committing asocial outrage, she nevertheless began to fear the possibility. In the ordinary course it is not considered outrageous to entera drawing-room--even at nine o'clock at night--with the permissionand encouragement of the servant in charge of portals. But the caseof the Morfes was peculiar. Mr Morfe was a bachelor aged forty-two,and looked older. Mary Morfe was a spinster aged thirty-eight, andlooked thirty-seven. Brother and sister had kept house together fortwenty years. They were passionately and profoundly attached toeach other--and did not know it. They grumbled at each otherfreely, and practised no more conversation, when they were alone,than the necessities of existence demanded (even at meals theygenerally read), but still their mutual affection was tremendous.Moreover, they were very firmly fixed in their habits. Now one ofthese habits was never to entertain company on Friday night. Fridaynight was their night of solemn privacy. The explanation of thishabit offers a proof of the sentimental relations between them. Mr Morfe was an accountant. Indeed, he was the accountantin Bursley, and perhaps he knew more secrets of the ledgers of theprincipal earthenware manufacturers than some of the manufacturersdid themselves. But he did not live for accountancy. At fiveo'clock every evening he was capable of absolutely forgetting it.He lived for music. He was organist of Saint Luke's Church (with anindustrious understudy--for he did not always rise for breakfast onSundays) and, more important, he was conductor of the BursleyOrpheus Glee and Madrigal Club. And herein lay the origin of thoseFriday nights. A glee and madrigal club naturally comprises womenas well as men; and the women are apt to be youngish, prettyish,and somewhat fond of music. Further, the conductorship of a choirinvolves many and various social encounters. Now Mary Morfe wasjealous. Though Richard Morfe ruled his choir with whips, thoughhis satiric tongue was a scorpion to the choir, though he neverlooked twice at any woman, though she was always saying that shewished he would marry, Mary Morfe was jealous. It was Mary Morfewho had created the institution of the Friday night, and she hadcreated it in order to prove, symbolically and spectacularly, toherself, to him, and to the world, that he and she lived for eachother alone. All their friends, every member of the choir, in factthe whole of the respectable part of barsley, knew quite well thatin the Morfes' house Friday was sacredly Friday. And yet a caller! "It's a woman," murmured Mary. Until her ear had assured her ofthis fact she had seemed to be more disturbed than startled by thestir in the lobby. And it was a woman. It was Miss Eva Harracles, one of theprincipal contraltos in the glee and madrigal club. She enteredrichly blushing, and excusably a little nervous and awkward. Shewas a tall, agreeable creature of fewer than thirty years, dark,almost handsome, with fine lips and eyes, and an effective largehat and a good muff. In every physical way a marked contrast tothethin, prim, desiccated brother and sister. Richard Morfe flushed faintly. Mary Morfe grew more pallid. "I really must apologize for coming in like this," said Eva, asshe shook hands cordially with Mary Morfe. She knew Mary very wellindeed. For Mary was the "librarian" of the glee and madrigal club;Mary never missed a rehearsal, though she cared no more for musicthan she cared for the National Debt. She was a perfect librarian,and very good at unofficially prodding indolent members into a moreregular attendance too. "Not at all!" said Mary. "We were only reading; you aren'tdisturbing us in the least." Which, though polite, was a lie. And Eva Harracles sat down between them. And brother and sisterabandoned their literature. "I can't stop," said she, glancing at the clock immediately infront of her eyes. "I must catch the last car for Silverhays." "You've got twenty minutes yet," said Mr Morfe. "Because," said Eva, "I don't want that walk from Turnhill toSilverhays on a dark night like this." "No, I should think not, indeed!" said Mary Morfe. "You've got a full twenty minutes," Mr Morfe repeated. The clockshowed three minutes past nine. The electric cars to and from the town of Turnhill were rumblingpast the very door of the Morfes every five minutes, and wouldcontinue to do so till midnight. But Silverhays is a mining villagea couple of miles beyond Turnhill, and the service between Turnhilland Silverhays ceases before ten o'clock. Eva's father was acolliery manager who lived on the outskirts of Silverhays. "I've got a piece of news," said Eva. "Yes?" said Mary Morfe Mr Morfe was taciturn. He stooped to nourish the fire. "About Mr Loggerheads," said Eva, and stared straight at MaryMorfe. "About Mr Loggerheads!" Mary Morfe echoed, and stared back atEva. And the atmosphere seemed to have been thrown into a strangepulsation. Here perhaps I ought to explain that it was not the peculiarityof Mr Loggerheads' name that produced the odd effect. Loggerheadsis a local term for a harmless plant called the knapweed(centaurea nigra), and it is also the appellation of a placeand of quite excellent people, and no one regards it as even theleast bit odd. "I'm told," said Eva, "that he's going into the HanbridgeChoir!" Mr Loggerheads was the principal tenor of the Bursley Glee andMadrigal Club. And he was reckoned one of the finest "after-dinnertenors" in the Five Towns. The Hanbridge Choir was a rivalorganization, a vast and powerful affair that fascinated andswallowed promising singers from all the choirs of the vicinity.The Hanbridge Choir had sung at Windsor, and since that event therehad been no holding it. All other choirs hated it with a homicidalhatred. "I'm told," Eva proceeded, "that the Birmingham and SheffieldBank will promote him to the cashiership of the Hanbridge Branch onthe understanding that he joins the Hanbridge Choir. Shows whatinfluence they have! And it shows how badly the Hanbridge Choirwants him." (Mr Loggerheads was cashier of the Bursley branch of theBirmingham and Sheffield Bank.) "Who told you?" asked Mary Morfe, curtly. Richard Morfe said nothing. The machinations of the manager ofthe Hanbridge Choir always depressed and disgusted him intosilence. "Oh!" said Eva Harracles. "It's all about." (By which she meantthat it was in the air.) "Everyone'stalking of it." "And do they say Mr Loggerheads has accepted?" Marydemanded. "Yes," said Eva. "Well," said Mary, "it's not true!... A mistake!" she added. "How do you know it isn't true?" Mr Morfe inquireddoubtfully. "Since you're so curious," said Mary, defiantly, "Mr Loggerheadstold me himself." "When?" "The other day." "You never said anything to me," protested Mr Morfe. "It didn't occur to me," Mary replied. "Well, I'm very glad!" remarked Eva Harracles. "But I thought Iought to let you know at once what was being said." Mary Morfe's expression conveyed the fact that in her opinionEva Harracles' evening call was a vain thing, too lightlyundertaken, and conceivably lacking in the nicest discretion.Whereupon Mr Morfe was evidently struck by the advisability ofcompletely changing the subject. And he did change it. He began totalk about certain difficulties in the choral parts of HavergalBrian's Vision of Cleopatra, a work which he meant theBursley Glee and Madrigal Club to perform though it should perishin the attempt. Growing excited, in his dry way, concerning themerits of this composition, he rose from his easy chair and went tosearch for it. Before doing so he looked at the clock, whichindicated twenty minutes past nine. "Am I all right for time?" asked Eva. "Yes, you're all right," said he. "If you go when that clockstrikes half-past, and take the next car down, you'll make theconnection easily at Turnhill. I'll put you into the car." "Oh, thanks!" said Eva. Mr Morfe kept his modern choral music beneath a broad seat underthe bow window. The music was concealed by a low curtain that ranon a rod--the ingenious device of Mary. He stooped down to find theVision of Cleopatra, and at first he could not find it. Marywalked towards that end of the drawing-room with a vague notion ofhelping him, and then Eva did the same, and then Mary walked back,and then Mr Morfe happily put his hand on the Vision ofCleopatra. He opened the score for Eva's inspection, and began to humpassages and to point out others, and Eva also began to hum, andthey hummed in concert, at intervals exclaiming against thewantonness with which Havergal Brian had invented difficulties. Evaglanced at the clock. "You're all right," Mr Morfe assured her somewhat impatiently.And he, too, glanced at the clock: "You've still nearly tenminutes." And proceeded with his critical and explanatory comments on theVision of Cleopatra. He was capable of becoming almost delirious about music. MaryMorfe had seated herself in silence. At last Eva and Mr Morfe approached the fire and the mantelpieceagain. Mr Morfe shut up the score, dismissed his delirium, andlooked at the clock, quite prepared to see it pointing totwenty-nine and a half minutes past nine. Instead, the clockpointed to only twenty-two minutes past nine. "By Jove!" he exclaimed. He went nearer. "By Jove!" he exclaimed again rather more loudly. "I do believethat clock's stopped!" It had. The pendulum hung perpendicular, motionless, dead. He was astounded. For the clock had never been known to stop. Itwas a presentation clock, of the highest guaranteed quality,offered to him as a small token of regard and esteem by themembersof the Bursley Orpheus Glee and Madrigal Club to celebrate thetwelfth anniversary of his felicitous connection with the saidsociety. It had stood on his mantelpiece for four years and hadearned an absolutely first-class reputation for itself. He wound itup on the last day of every month, for it was a thirty-odd dayclock, specially made by a famous local expert; and he had notknown it to vary more than ten minutes a month at the most. And lo!it had stopped in the very middle of the month. "Did you wind it up last time?" asked Mary. "Of course," he snapped. He had taken out his watch and wasgazing at it. He turned to Eva. "It's twenty to ten," he said."You've missed your connection at Turnhill--that's a certainty. I'mvery sorry." Obviously there was only one course open to a gallant man whoseclock was to blame: namely, to accompany Eva Harracles to Turnhillby car, to accompany her on foot to Silverhays, then to walk backto Turnhill and come home again by car. A young woman could not beexpected to perform that bleak and perhaps dangerous journey fromTurnhill to Silverhays alone after ten o'clock at night inNovember. Such was the clear course. But he dared scarcely suggestit. He dared scarcely suggest it because of his sister. He wasafraid of Mary. The names of Richard Morfe and Eva Harracles hadalready been coupled in the mouth of gossip. And naturally EvaHarracles herself could not suggest that Richard should sally outand leave his sister alone on this night specially devoted tosisterliness and brotherliness. And of course, Eva thought, Marywill never, never suggest it. But Eva was wrong there. To the amazement of both Richard and Eva, Mary calmly said: "Well, Dick, the least you can do now is to see Miss Harracleshome. You'll easily be able to catch the last car back fromTurnhill if you start at once. I daresay I shall go to bed." And in three minutes Richard Morfe and Eva Harracles were beingsped into the night by Mary Morfe. The Morfes' house was at the corner of Trafalgar Road and BeechStreet. The cars stopped at that corner in their wild coursetowards the town and towards Turnhill. A car was just coming. Butinstead of waiting for it Richard Morfe and Eva Harraclesdeliberately turned their backs on Trafalgar Road, and hurried sideby side down Beech Street. Beech Street is a short street, and endsin a nondescript unlighted waste patch of ground. They arrived inthe gloom of this patch, safe from all human inquisitiveness, andthen Richard Morfe warmly kissed Eva Harracles in the mathematicalcentre of those lips of hers. And Eva Harracles showed noresentment of any kind, nor even shame. Yet she had been verycarefully brought up. The sight would have interested Bursleyimmensely; it would have appealed strongly to Bursley's strongsense of the piquant.... That dry old stick Dick Morfe kissing oneof his contraltos in the dark at the bottom end of BeechStreet. "Then you hadn't told her!" murmured Eva Harracles. "No!" said Richard, with a slight hesitation. "I was just goingto begin to tell her when you called." Another woman might have pouted to learn that her lover hadexhibited even a little cowardice in informing his family that hewas engaged to be married. But Eva did not pout. She comprehendedthe situation, and the psychology of the relations between brothersand sisters. (She herself possessed both brothers and sisters.) Allthe courting had been singularly secret and odd. "I shall tell her to-morrow morning at breakfast," said Richard,firmly. "Unless, after all, she isn't gone to bed when I getback."By a common impulse they now returned towards TrafalgarRoad. "I say," said Richard, "what made you call?" "I was passing," said the beloved. "And somehow I couldn't helpit. Of course, I knew it wasn't true about Mr Loggerheads. But Ihad to think of something." Richard was in ecstasy; had never been in such ecstasy. "I say," he said again. "I suppose you didn't put yourfinger against the pendulum of that clock?" "Oh, no!" she replied with emphasis. "Well, I'm jolly glad it did stop, anyway," said Richard. "Whata lark, eh?" She agreed that the lark was ideal. They walked down the roadtill a car should overtake them. "Do you think she suspects anything?" Eva asked. "I'll swear she doesn't," said Richard, positively. "It'll be abit of a startler for the old girl." "No doubt you've heard," said Eva, haltingly, "that MrLoggerheads has cast eyes on Mary." "And do you think there's anything in that?" Richardquestioned sharply. "Well," she said, "I really don't know." Meaning that shedecidedly thought that Mary had been encouraging advancesfrom Mr Loggerheads. "Well," said Richard, superiorly, "you may just take it from methat there's nothing in it at all.... Ha!" He laughed shortly. Heknew Mary. Then they got on a car, and tried to behave as though theirbeing together was a mere accident, as though they had not becomeengaged to one another within the previous twenty-four hours. II Immediately after the departure of Richard Morfe and EvaHarracles, his betrothed, from the front door of the former, MrSimon Loggerheads arrived at the same front door, and rang thereat,and was a little surprised, and also a little unnerved, when thedoor opened instantly, as if by magic. Mr Simon Loggerheads said tohimself, as he saw the door move on its hinges, that Miss Morfemust have discovered a treasure of a servant who, when she hadnothing else to do, spent her time on the inner door-mat waiting toadmit possible visitors--even on Friday night. Nevertheless, MrSimon Loggerheads regretted that prompt opening, as one regrets theprompt opening of the door of a dentist. And it was no servant who stood in front of him, under theflickering beam of the lobby-lamp. It was Mary Morfe herself. Thesimple explanation was that she had just sped her brother and EvaHarracles, and had remained in the lobby for the purpose ofascertaining by means of her finger whether the servant had, asusual, forgotten to dust the tops of the picture-frames. "Oh!" said Mr Loggerheads, when he saw Mary Morfe. For thecashier of the Bursley branch of the Birmingham and Sheffield Bankit was not a very able speech, but it was all he couldaccomplish. And Miss Mary Morfe said: "Oh!" She was thirty-eight, and he was quite that (for the Bankmentioned does not elevate its men to the august situation ofcashier under less than twenty years' service), and yet theyneither of them had enough worldliness to behave in a reasonablemanner. Then Miss Morfe, to whom it did at last occur thatsomething must be done, produced an invitation: "Do come in!" And she added, "Richard has just gone out." "Oh!" commented Mr Simon Loggerheads again. (After all, it mustbe admitted that tenors as a class have never been noted for theirconversational powers.) But he was obviously more at ease, and hewent in, and Mary Morfe shut the door. At this very instant herbrother and Eva were in secret converse at the back end of BeechStreet."Do take your coat off!" Mary suggested to Simon. Simultaneouslythe servant appeared at the kitchen extremity of the lobby, andMary thrust her out of sight again with the cold words: "It's allright, Susan." Mr Loggerheads took his coat off, and Mary Morfe watched him ashe did so. He made a pretty figure. He was something of a dandy. The lapelsof the overcoat would have showed that, not to mention thecorrectly severe necktie. All his clothes, in fact, had "cut andstyle," even to his boots. In the Five Towns many a young man is adandy down to the edge of his trousers, but not down to the ground.Mr Loggerheads looked a young man. The tranquillity of his careerand the quietude of his tastes had preserved his youthfulness. And,further, he had the air of a successful, solid, much-respectedindividual. To be a cashier, though worthy, is not to be a nabob,but a bachelor can save a lot out of over twenty years of regularsalary. And Mr Loggerheads had saved quite a lot. And he had hadopportunities of advantageously investing his savings. Theneverybody knew him, and he knew everybody. He handed out gold atleast once a week to nearly half the town, and you cannot helpvenerating a man who makes a practice of handing out gold to you.And he had thrilled thousands with the wistful beauty of his voicein "The Sands of Dee." In a word, Simon Loggerheads was apersonage, if not talkative. They went into the drawing-room. Mary Morfe closed the doorgently. Simon Loggerheads strolled vaguely and self-consciously upto the fireplace, murmuring: "So he's gone out?" "Yes," said Mary Morfe, in confirmation of her firststatement. "I'm sorry!" said Simon Loggerheads. A statement which wasabsolutely contrary to the truth. Simon Loggerheads was deeplyrelieved and glad that Richard Morfe was out. The pair, aged slightly under and slightly over forty, seemed tohover for a fraction of a second uncertainly near each other, andthen, somehow, mysteriously, Simon Loggerheads had kissed MaryMorfe. She blushed. He blushed. The kiss was repeated. Mary gazedup at him. Mary could scarcely believe that he was hers. She couldscarcely believe that on the previous evening he had proposedmarriage to her--rather suddenly, so it seemed to her, butdelightfully. She could comprehend his conduct no better than herown. They two, staid, settled-down, both of them "old maids,"falling in love and behaving like lunatics! Mary, a year ago, wouldhave been ready to prophesy that if ever Simon Loggerheads--at hisage!--did marry, he would assuredly marry something young,something ingenuous, something cream-and-rose, and probablysomething with rich parents. For twenty years Simon Loggerheads hadbeen marked down for capture by the marriageable spinsters andwidows, and the mothers with daughters, of Bursley. And he hadevaded capture, despite the special temptations to which anafter-dinner tenor is necessarily subject. And now Mary Morfe hadcaught him--caught him, moreover, without having had the slightestintention of catching him. She was one of the most spinsterishspinsters in the Five Towns; and she had often said things aboutmen and marriage of which the recollection now, as an affiancedwoman, was very disturbing to her. However, she did not care. Shedid not understand how Simon Loggerheads had had the wit toperceive that she would be an ideal wife. And she did not care. Shedid not understand how, as a result of Simon Loggerheads falling inlove with her, she had fallen in love with him. And she did notcare. She did not care a fig for anything. She was in lovewith him, and he with her, and she was idiotically joyous, and sowas he. And that was all. On reflection, I have to admit that she did in fact care for onething. That one thing was the look on her brother's face when heshould learn that she, the faithful sardonic sister, havingincomprehensibly become indispensable and all in all to a bankcashier, meant to deserthim. She was afraid of that look. Shetrembled at the fore-vision of it. Still, Richard had to be informed, and the world had to beinformed, for the silken dalliance between Mary and Simon had beenconducted with a discretion and a secrecy more than characteristicof their age and dispositions. It had been arranged between thelovers that Simon should call on that Friday evening, when he wouldbe sure to catch Richard in his easy chair, and should, in presenceof Mary, bluntly communicate to Richard the blunt fact. "What's he gone out for? Anything special?" asked Simon. Mary explained the circumstances. "The truth is," she finished, "that girl is just throwingherself at Dick's head. There's no doubt of it. I never saw suchwork!" "Well," said Simon Loggerheads, "of course, you know, there'sbeen a certain amount of talk about them. Some folks say that yourbrother--er--began--" "And do you believe that?" demanded Mary. "I don't know," said Simon. By which he meant diplomatically toconvey that he had had a narrow escape of believing it, at anyrate. "Well," said Mary, with conviction, "you may take it from methat it isn't so. I know Dick. Eva Harracles may throw herself athis head till there's no breath left in her body, and it'll make nodifference to Dick. Do you see Dick a married man? I don't.I only wish he would take it into his head to get married.It would make me much easier in my mind. But all the same I dothink it's downright wicked that a girl should fling herselfat him, right at him. Fancy her calling to-night!It's the sort of thing that oughtn't to be encouraged." "But I understood you to say that you yourself had told him tosee her home," Simon Loggerheads put in. "Isn't that encouragingher, as it were?" "Ah!" said Mary, with a smile. "I only suggested it to himbecause it came over me all of a sudden how nice it would be tohave you here all alone! He can't be back much before twelve." To such a remark there is but one response. A sofa is, afterall, made for two people, and the chance of the servant calling onthem was small. "And so the clock stopped!" observed Simon Loggerheads. "Yes," said Mary. "If it hadn't been for the sheer accident ofthat clock stopping, we shouldn't be sitting here on this sofa now,and Dick would be in that chair, and you would just be beginning totell him that we are engaged." She sighed. "Poor Dick! What onearth will he do?" "Strange how things happen!" Simon reflected in a low voice."But I'm really surprised at that clock stopping like that. It's aclock that you ought to be able to depend on, that clock is." He got up to inspect the timepiece. He knew all about the clock,because he had been chairman of the presentation committee whichhad gone to Manchester to buy it. "Why!" he murmured, after he had toyed a little with thependulum, "it goes all right. Its tick is as right as rain." "How odd!" responded Mary. Simon Loggerheads set the clock by his own impeccable watch, andthen sat down again. And he drew something from his waistcoatpocket and slid it on to Mary's finger. Mary regarded her finger in silent ecstasy, and then breathed"How lovely!"--not meaning her finger. "Shall I stay till he comes back?" asked Simon. "If I were you I shouldn't do that," said Mary. "But you cansafely stay till eleven-thirty. Then I shall go to bed. He'll betired and short [curt] when he gets back. I'll tell him myselfto-morrow morning at breakfast. And you might come to-morrowafternoon early, for tea."Simon did stay till half-past eleven. He left precisely when theclock, now convalescent, struck the half-hour. At the door Marysaid to him: "I won't have any secrets from you, Simon. It was I who stoppedthat clock. I stopped it while they were bending down looking formusic. I wanted to be as sure as I could of a good excuse for mesuggesting that he ought to take her home. I just wanted to get himout of the house." "But why?" asked Simon. "I must leave that to you to guess," said Mary, with a hint oftartness, but smiling. Loggerheads and Richard Morfe met in Trafalgar Road. "Good-night, Morfe." "'night, Loggerheads!" And each passed on, without having stopped. You can picture for yourself the breakfast of the brother andsister.