Helen with the High Hand

錚
with the High Hand (2nd ed.), by Arnold Bennett

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Title: Helen with the High Hand (2nd ed.)
Author: Arnold Bennett
Release Date: June 29, 2004 [EBook #12779]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR
NOVELS
A MAN FROM THE NORTH ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS LEONORA A GREAT MAN SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE WHOM GOD HATH JOINED BURIED ALIVE THE OLD WIVES' TALE THE GLIMPSE HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND CLAYHANGER THE CARD HILDA LESSWAYS THE REGENT THE PRICE OF LOVE
FANTASIAS
THE GRAND BABYLON HOTEL THE GATES OF WRATH TERESA OF WATLING STREET THE LOOT OF CITIES HUGO THE GHOST THE CITY OF PLEASURE
SHORT STORIES
TALES OF THE FIVE TOWNS THE GRIM SMILE OF THE FIVE TOWNS THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS
BELLES-LETTRES
JOURNALISM FOR WOMEN FAME AND FICTION HOW TO BECOME AN AUTHOR THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR THE REASONABLE LIFE HOW TO LIVE ON 24 HOURS A DAY THE HUMAN MACHINE LITERARY TASTE THE FEAST OF ST. FRIEND THOSE UNITED STATES THE PLAIN MAN AND HIS WIFE PARIS NIGHTS THE AUTHOR'S CRAFT LIBERTY
DRAMA
POLITE FARCES CUPID AND COMMON SENSE WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS THE HONEYMOON THE GREAT ADVENTURE
(In collaboration with Eden Phillpotts)
THE SINEWS OF WAR: A Romance THE STATUE: A Romance
(In collaboration with Edward Knoblauch)
MILESTONES

HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND
IDYLLIC DIVERSION
BY ARNOLD BENNETT
AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WIVES TALE," ETC.
A NEW EDITION
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
1915

CONTENTS
CHAP.
I BEGINNING OF THE IDYLL
II AN AFFAIR OF THE SEVENTIES
III MARRYING OFF A MOTHER
IV INVITATION TO TEA
V A SALUTATION
VI MRS. BUTT'S DEPARTURE
VII THE NEW COOK
VIII OMELETTE
IX A GREAT CHANGE
X A CALL
XI ANOTHER CALL
XII BREAKFAST
XIII THE WORLD
XIV SONG, SCENE AND DANCE
XV THE GIFT
XVI THE HALL AND ITS RESULT
XVII DESCENDANTS OF MACHIAVELLI
XVIII CHICANE
XIX THE TOSSING
XX THE FLITTING
XXI SHIP AND OCEAN
XXII CONFESSIONAL
XXIII NOCTURNAL
XXIV SEEING A LADY HOME
XXV GIRLISH CONFIDENCES
XXVI THE CONCERT
XXVII UNKNOTTING AND KNOTTING
CHAPTER I
BEGINNING OF THE IDYLL
In the Five Towns human nature is reported to be so hard that you can break stones on it. Yet sometimes it softens, and then we have one of our rare idylls of which we are very proud, while pretending not to be. The soft and delicate South would possibly not esteem highly our idylls, as such. Nevertheless they are our idylls, idyllic for us, and reminding us, by certain symptoms, that though we never cry there is concealed somewhere within our bodies a fount of happy tears.
The town park is an idyll in the otherwise prosaic municipal history of the Borough of Bursley, which previously had never got nearer to romance than a Turkish bath. It was once waste ground covered with horrible rubbish-heaps, and made dangerous by the imperfectly-protected shafts of disused coal-pits. Now you enter it by emblazoned gates; it is surrounded by elegant railings; fountains and cascades babble in it; wild-fowl from far countries roost in it, on trees with long names; tea is served in it; brass bands make music on its terraces, and on its highest terrace town councillors play bowls on billiard-table greens while casting proud glances on the houses of thirty thousand people spread out under the sweet influence of the gold angel that tops the Town Hall spire. The other four towns are apt to ridicule that gold angel, which for exactly fifty years has guarded the borough and only been regilded twice. But ask the plumber who last had the fearsome job of regilding it whether it is a gold angel to be despised, and--you will see!
The other four towns are also apt to point to their own parks when Bursley mentions its park (especially Turnhill, smallest and most conceited of the Five); but let them show a park whose natural situation equals that of Bursley's park. You may tell me that the terra-cotta constructions within it carry ugliness beyond a joke; you may tell me that in spite of the park's vaunted situation nothing can be seen from it save the chimneys and kilns of earthenware manufactories, the scaffoldings of pitheads, the ample dome of the rate-collector's offices, the railway, minarets of non-conformity, sundry undulating square miles of monotonous house-roofs, the long scarves of black smoke which add such interest to the sky of the Five Towns--and, of course, the gold angel. But I tell you that before the days of the park lovers had no place to walk in but the cemetery; not the ancient churchyard of St. Luke's (the rector would like to catch them at it!)--the borough