The Price of Love | Page 7

still had to "call at Batchgrew's" about mistakes in the bills, which
mistakes, after much argument and asseveration, were occasionally put
right. In spite of their prodigious expenditures, and of a certain failure
on the part of the public to understand "where all the money came
from," the financial soundness of the Batchgrews was never questioned.
In discussing the Batchgrews no bank-manager and no lawyer had ever
by an intonation or a movement of the eyelid hinted that earthquakes
had occurred before in the history of the world and might occur again.
And yet old Batchgrew--admittedly the cleverest of the lot, save
possibly the Valparaiso soaker--could not be said to attend assiduously
to business. He scarcely averaged two hours a day on the premises at
Hanbridge. Indeed the staff there had a sense of the unusual, inciting to
unusual energy and devotion, when word went round: "Guv'nor's in the
office with Mr. John." The Councillor was always extremely busy with
something other than his main enterprise. It was now reported, for
example, that he was clearing vast sums out of picture-palaces in

Wigan and Warrington. Also he was a religionist, being Chairman of
the local Church of England Village Mission Fund. And he was a
politician, powerful in municipal affairs. And he was a reformer, who
believed that by abolishing beer he could abolish the poverty of the
poor--and acted accordingly. And lastly he liked to enjoy himself.
Everybody knew by sight his flying white whiskers and protruding ears.
And he himself was well aware of the steady advertising value of those
whiskers--of always being recognizable half a mile off. He met
everybody unflinchingly, for he felt that he was invulnerable at all
points and sure of a magnificent obituary. He was invariably treated
with marked deference and respect. But he was not an honest man. He
knew it. All his family knew it. In business everybody knew it except a
few nincompoops. Scarcely any one trusted him. The peculiar fashion
in which, when he was not present, people "old Jacked" him--this alone
was enough to condemn a man of his years. Lastly, everybody knew
that most of the Batchgrew family was of a piece with its head.

VI
Now Rachel had formed a prejudice against old Batchgrew. She had
formed it, immutably, in a single second of time. One glance at him in
the street--and she had tried and condemned him, according to the
summary justice of youth. She was in that stage of plenary and
unhesitating wisdom when one not only can, but one must, divide the
whole human race sharply into two categories, the sheep and the goats;
and she had sentenced old Batchgrew to a place on the extreme left. It
happened that she knew nothing against him. But she did not require
evidence. She simply did "not like _that man_"--(she italicized the end
of the phrase bitingly to herself)--and there was no appeal against the
verdict. Angels could not have successfully interceded for him in the
courts of her mind. He never guessed, in his aged self-sufficiency, that
his case was hopeless with Rachel, nor even that the child had dared to
have any opinion about him at all.
She was about to slip off the pinafore-apron and drop it on to the oak

chest that stood in the lobby. But she thought with defiance: "Why
should I take my pinafore off for him? I won't. He shan't see my nice
frock. Let him see my pinafore. I am an independent woman, earning
my own living, and why should I be ashamed of my pinafore? My
pinafore is good enough for him!" She also thought: "Let him wait!"
and went off into the kitchen to get the modern appliance of the match
for lighting the gas in the lobby. When she had lighted the gas she
opened the front door with audacious but nervous deliberation, and the
famous character impatiently walked straight in. He wore prominent
loose black kid gloves and a thin black overcoat.
Looking coolly at her, he said--
"So you're the new lady companion, young miss! Well, I've heard rare
accounts on ye--rare accounts on ye! Missis is in, I reckon?"
His voice was extremely low, rich, and heavy. It descended on the
silence like a thick lubricating oil that only reluctantly abandons the
curves in which it falls.
And Rachel answered, faintly, tremulously--"Yes."
No longer was she the independent woman, censorious and scornful,
but a silly, timid little thing. Though she condemned herself savagely
for school-girlishness, she could do nothing to arrest the swift change
in her. The fact was, she was abashed, partly by the legendary
importance of the renowned Batchgrew, but more by his physical
presence. His mere presence was always disturbing; for when he
supervened into an environment he