Tales of the Five Towns | Page 4

mun put th' horse in the trap and fetch the
rest thysen.'
'Yes, sir.'
'One's dead. A roadman's takkin' care on it in Oldcastle Street. He'll
wait for thee. Give him sixpence.'
'Yes, sir.'
'There's another got into th' cut [canal].'
'Yes, sir.'
'There's another strayed on the railway-line--happen it's run over by
this.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And one's making the best of her way to Oldcastle. I couldna coax her
in here.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Collect 'em.'
'Yes, sir.'
Mr. Curtenty walked away towards the house.

'Mester!' Pond called after him, flashing the lantern.
'Well, lad?'
'There's no gander i' this lot.'
'Hast forgotten to count thysen?' Mr. Curtenty answered blithely from
the shelter of the side-door.
But within himself he was a little crest-fallen to think that the surviving
gander should have escaped his vigilance, even in the darkness. He had
set out to drive the geese home, and he had driven them home, most of
them. He had kept his temper, his dignity, his cheerfulness. He had got
a bargain in geese. So much was indisputable ground for satisfaction.
And yet the feeling of an anticlimax would not be dismissed. Upon the
whole, his transit lacked glory. It had begun in splendour, but it had
ended in discomfort and almost ignominy. Nevertheless, Mr. Curtenty's
unconquerable soul asserted itself in a quite genuine and tuneful
whistle as he entered the house.
The fate of the Brent gander was never ascertained.

II
The dining-room of The Firs was a spacious and inviting refectory,
which owed nothing of its charm to William Morris, Regent Street, or
the Arts and Crafts Society. Its triple aim, was richness, solidity, and
comfort, but especially comfort; and this aim was achieved in new oak
furniture of immovable firmness, in a Turkey carpet which swallowed
up the feet like a feather bed, and in large oil-paintings, whose
darkly-glinting frames were a guarantee of their excellence. On a
winter's night, as now, the room was at its richest, solidest, most
comfortable. The blue plush curtains were drawn on their stout brass
rods across door and French window. Finest selected silkstone fizzed
and flamed in a patent grate which had the extraordinary gift of
radiating heat into the apartment instead of up the chimney. The shaded
Welsbach lights of the chandelier cast a dazzling luminance on the

tea-table of snow and silver, while leaving the pictures in a gloom so
discreet that not Ruskin himself could have decided whether these were
by Whistler or Peter Paul Rubens. On either side of the marble
mantelpiece were two easy-chairs of an immense, incredible capacity,
chairs of crimson plush for Titans, chairs softer than moss, more pliant
than a loving heart, more enveloping than a caress. In one of these
chairs, that to the left of the fireplace, Mr. Curtenty was accustomed to
snore every Saturday and Sunday afternoon, and almost every evening.
The other was usually empty, but to-night it was occupied by Mrs.
Curtenty, the jewel of the casket. In the presence of her husband she
always used a small rocking-chair of ebonized cane.
To glance at this short, slight, yet plump little creature as she reclined
crosswise in the vast chair, leaving great spaces of the seat unfilled,
was to think rapturously to one's self: This is a woman. Her fluffy head
was such a dot against the back of the chair, the curve of her chubby
ringed hand above the head was so adorable, her black eyes were so
provocative, her slippered feet so wee--yes, and there was something so
mysteriously thrilling about the fall of her skirt that you knew instantly
her name was Clara, her temper both fiery and obstinate, and her
personality distracting. You knew that she was one of those women of
frail physique who can endure fatigues that would destroy a camel; one
of those dæmonic women capable of doing without sleep for ten nights
in order to nurse you; capable of dying and seeing you die rather than
give way about the tint of a necktie; capable of laughter and tears
simultaneously; capable of never being in the wrong except for the idle
whim of so being. She had a big mouth and very wide nostrils, and her
years were thirty-five. It was no matter; it would have been no matter
had she been a hundred and thirty-five. In short....
Clara Curtenty wore tight-fitting black silk, with a long gold chain that
descended from her neck nearly to her waist, and was looped up in the
middle to an old-fashioned gold brooch. She was in mourning for a
distant relative. Black pre-eminently suited her. Consequently her
distant relatives died at frequent intervals.
The basalt clock on the mantelpiece trembled and burst into the song of

six. Clara Curtenty rose swiftly from the easy-chair, and