The Salamanca Corpus: Quality Corner (1901)
QUALITY CORNER
A STUDY OF REMORSE
BY C.L. ANTROBUS
AUTHOR OF ‘WILDERSMOOR’ETC.
G.P. PUTNAM.S SONS
NEW YORK & LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
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‘NORTH WAS THE GARDEN’
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QUALITY CORNER
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Quality Corner
CHAPTER I
WHAT time is it?’ asked the man at the window.
‘Half-past twelve’, carelessly answered the man in the street, walking on with leisurely step.
It was not until he had gone some little way that the strangeness of the question struck him. Why, indeed, should, a man indoors ask the time of a man without? And at past midnight? The stroller stopped, reflected a moment, then turned back.
He was an observant, idly inquisitive man; an artist, and the public was beginning to recognise him as such, honouring him after the fashion of Heliogabalus, with much feasting and final smother. Mark Parfitt liked the feasting, and sat tight, lest any should take his place. He meant to move up higher bye-and-bye, and he did. To-night, however, when he answered that curious question addressed to him from an open window, he was but a new-comer at the feast, a young man of three and twenty, who had had singular success with his first picture. His artist friends said that was owing to its being the apotheosis of ugliness. To which criticism Mark briefly replied, ‘It pays.’
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This summer he was spending his holiday in a manufacturing town in the Midlands, painting the portrait of the mayor. The smoke and grime and squalor did not repel him. On the contrary, he was interested. There were subjects on all sides, and he made a number of sketches that were very useful to him later.
So the oddness of the incident struck him. Here might be another subject. At any rate, it was curious, and Parfitt turned back, as has been said.
The street was not attractive. A row of small houses on the right, a canal on the left, and behind and beyond tall buildings and taller chimneys; all dingy, squalid—the back-yard of King Gold.
Yet, under the black dome of night and smoke, the two magicians, Light and Shadow, threw an unreal picturesqueness on its dull misery. Away against the murky heaven sheet lightning played silently, incessantly, the Handwriting on the Wall. But few observed it, for the waving scarlet flames of yonder furnace leapt up every moment, not illuminating the darkness, but increasing it by bewilderment of olive-black shadows, fantastic, threatening, gigantic. The water in the canal shone glassy olive in the glare; while beyond, the dazzled eye saw nothing save yet blacker depths of gloom. When the flames sank for a minute’s pause, the lightning showed the surroundings with tolerable clearness; and it was noticeable how, of the passers-by, those who walked easily by the lightning stumbled when the furnace flames shot up; whereas those who stepped confidently in the red glare hesitated when only that unheeded Handwriting lit the air.
It was by the swift white light of that Handwriting that Mark Parfitt had seen the face of the man at the
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window. The scarlet flames had sunk, and the lightning—it is more comfortable to call it lightning—had shone suddenly, broadly on the questioner; on the face of a student, a thinker, delicate, wide-browed, thoughtful, dreamy, hesitating. The deep eyes had looked out into the hot airless midnight with a kind of startled wonder; and the clear voice—a gentleman’s voice, Parfitt noted—vibrated with a thrill as of breathless haste passing into apparent repose, like the motionless-seeming of the spinning world.
Mark was no fool. He recognised strong emotion when he met with it, and appreciated it as material that might be made useful to himself, as the sea-tides may furnish power to turn a merry-go-round. Also, he was naturally inquisitive. Here was something happening, something out of the common too, judging from the face revealed by the lightning. But Parfitt had lost the house. Which was it? All the shabby little houses looked alike. The window had been open, and a lamp burning within. Yes, but the night was hot, and people sit up late in manufacturing towns; many windows were open and lights burning downstairs along the street.
‘About half-way, and had dark curtains,’ said Mark to himself, as the red flames rose and fell, and the pallid lightning illumined the dingy dwellings he scrutinised so narrowly as he passed them. The gas lamps, only two in number, were useless, the glasses being hopelessly dirty and blurred, and the feeble flames within showing merely as yellow stars.
He must depend, as the inhabitants did, upon the furnace glare and any light that might shine from heaven. Here was a dark-curtained window, and here
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another and another. His footsteps sounded loudly on the pavement—Parfitt was one of those loosely- built men who walk heavily even in youth. He paused an instant, looking at the third house. Someone, a girl, drew the dark curtain a few inches aside and glanced out; then the curtain fell back in its place. In that moment she had seen Mark distinctly—a tall, narrow-shouldered man, slightly stooping, with sharp features, and pale eyes set too closely together. All this she saw by a quick outburst of scarlet light, while Parfitt, catching only the dim outline of a woman’s head, turned disappointedly away, to search other windows equally in vain for that clear-cut, deep-eyed, pathetic face that had looked out at him so vividly in the lightning’s gleam.
He walked quite to the end of the street, where it joined a main thoroughfare. Opposite was an open space with a large building, the hospital. To the left was a theatre; to the right a church with an illuminated clock. Parfitt glanced up at it; five minutes to one. Twenty minutes since that question, ‘What time is it?’ had been addressed to him. Once more he retraced his steps, walking quickly, his eyes rapidly noting each house as he passed. Again no result. ‘Not worth while spending the night over,’ he reflected, ‘ yet I had a sort of notion that fellow wanted me—wanted help somehow. Perhaps he didn’t want me—didn’t want anybody—rather not! Awful hole, anyway! ’
And thus thinking, Mark turned the corner into another street and walked briskly to his hotel.
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CHAPTER II
THE little town ofRingway sat huddled on its wood-crowned hill side like Puck on a leaf, and its ruler was the strong west wind that blew up from the Irish sea some twenty miles away. This warm wet sweeping wind clothed all the land with unfading green, as emerald in winter as in spring, and gave to Ringway a curious goblin beauty of sudden lights and transient glooms, of quick sparkling showers, of soft colouring of deep green moss and ashen-grey lichen and blue mist—a dusky Arcadia.
Strangers came and called it pretty; then, because they could not see colour, they said it had no colour, and they departed in search of chromolithographic scenery. Ringway cared nothing. For nearly a thousand years it had crouched there on the old red sandstone, watching the forests change into wide pastures, and a dark blur rise in the north-east—the cloud of smoke that hangs ever over busy manufacturing Woffendale. Ringway looked on serenely at the murky patch and thanked Heaven it was not as its neighbour. Yet the near presence of that grimy Publican undoubtedly gave a unique character to the little place, for there was always the underlying consciousness of the rush and clang of that roaring hive of men. Amidst the shrill twittering of the darting swallows one seemed to listen for the throb of engines, to look for the furnace flames in the sunrise. A sense of
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strife emanated from that north-eastern blur—Tubalcain working in his smithy outside green Eden.
Ringway bred a sturdy race, not precisely what is understood by the word ‘rural.’ The people were quiet and stolid, with a slow fire in their veins that flamed up as suddenly as a naphtha well and burnt as inextinguishably. Norse blood is apt to turn Berserk. They felt uneasy about ghosts and the devil, witches and second-sight, and combined with all this a shrewdness in business and a proficiency in drawing eye-teeth that did not wholly please the stranger in Arcadia.
They were a long-memoried folk too, and had usually taken a hand—and that a heavy one—in public matters. Therefore, if you conversed with the elders in friendly fashion, you would bye-and-bye hear how this man’s great-grandfather was ‘ out in the Forty- Five,’ how that man’s grandfather lost a leg at Peterloo, and how the forbears of another helped to kill the last wolf in the country, ‘two mile away over yonder.’
The market-place might be called the heart of Ringway, and just where the high road turned out of it stood Quality Corner. The name was not in the Post Office Directory, but nobody in the town ever called it anything else. Strangers sometimes enquired the whereabouts of High Street, and were regarded with suspicion in consequence. But to ask for Quality Corner was a proof that you had belongings in Ringway, and were therefore probably respectable, even though you were personally unknown. The local name too, as natives pointed out, was accurately descriptive, which the other appellation was not; for Quality Corner was not a street, but a corner, and quality had always lived there—witness the tall old houses, four in
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number, two on each side, their front doors opening on the street, and their long sunny back gardens spreading out down the slope of the hill like a peacock’s tail. If you turned to the right out of the Corner, you were in the market-place; if to the left, you were on the wide white road that climbed the hill to Ringway woods, and then turned sharply west, winding by hamlet and town to an old walled city that had seen the Roman standards glitter against the blue. This last state of the high-road was better than its first, for it started from Woffendale, that dark blur on Ringway’s north-eastern horizon. In summer the blur was grey, and the heaven above it grey too. In winter the blur was a darker stain, a blacker shadow on the sky; the smoke of the burning of health and life and fair peace and rest.
Quality Corner was neighbourly. It did not hold itself aloof. It liked looking out upon the market-place and the market-place reciprocated the interest, duly discussing the affairs of Quality Corner after it had settled its own, and before it turned to those of the nation. True, there were other clusters of houses— some old, embowered in greenery; some new, big stone villas built by Woffendale merchants; that claimed occasional attention from Ringway gossip. But all these were scattered outside the town, were not a part of it, as was Quality Corner.
This golden June day there chanced to be more to talk about than usual. Also, being market day, there were more people to talk, which was another advantage. That time in the afternoon when business is over, and the farmers are lounging about while their horses are being brought out, is the time when the
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thoughts of men turn lightly towards their neighbours’ doings. Ringway market-place possessed two centres of gossip—the principal inn and old Solomon Ingers’ shop. Solomon was a seedsman of repute, and supplied the town and the farmers round, as his father and grandfather had done before him. He was a little shrivelled old man, who looked as though the strong sun of life had bleached him, changing the ruddy tints to faint greys, ivory yellows, silver whites. His hair was silver, his eyes pale blue, his face colourless; and always he wore, summer and winter, a suit of lightest grey; with a long white seedsman’s apron tied round him; and in his thin yellow fingers he carried an ancient snuff-box of wood, polished by constant use, and bearing on its lid a roughly carved profile of Prince Charlie. Old Sol was proud of this Jacobite relic. His people had been, in the phrase of the country-side, ‘out in the Forty-Five,’ and from one of these faithful enthusiasts the box had descended to him.
‘Fur Church an’ King,’ he would say, tapping the lid, ‘an’ land,’ taking a pinch, ‘an’ respectable folk.’
Other forms of tobacco he disdained:
‘A pipe dunnot tell what a mon is. He con talk treason with it in’s teeth, or waving it in’s hond like a jackass’s ear; but snuff is fur gentlemen an’ them as holds with gentlemen. Did tha ever see a chap talk treason wi’ a snuff-box in’s hond? No, an’ tha never will.’
He was rarely contradicted, for he possessed a tongue, and an intimate knowledge of the family history of every man in Ringway for three generations back, and more. Those who have lived in a country town
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will appreciate the strength of this combination. His forbears had lived and died in the same house which he now occupied in his turn—a small two-storeyed building with an oriel window, behind the panes of which bags of seed were piled high. Over this was the window of Sol’s bedroom, whence he had almost as good a view of the market-place as from the steps. In fact, he lived in the market-place. From the time he was a tiny lad his eyes dwelt on those familiar stones, those familiar houses. He had broken his knees on the cobbles and barked his shins on the steps; on the worn pavement he had played marbles in summer and thrown snowballs in winter; and had been whipped in public by his grandfather for sliding thereon. All the familiar faces, gradually growing older, passed and re-passed before him daily. Now and then one disappeared, and instead, the familiar name was to be read in the old churchyard overlooking the valley— the dead town near the living one, in friendly wise. Few Ringway folk went far away, and they who did usually returned. The place had a curious fascination for all whose childish feet had trodden its paths.
In his youth Solomon Ingers had been crossed in love, a more serious matter north than south; consequently he had not married till late in life, when he had chosen an elderly widow with some property. As befitted a man of Sol’s opinions, his cronies were men of substance; sturdy farmers, well-to-do tradesmen, and often ‘th’ better end,’ i. e. the gentry, might be seen lingering on old Sol’s steps. So old-world was he, and therefore so companionable.
This afternoon the June sun shone on his silver head as he stood on the top step, snuff-box in hand,
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the warm light seeming only to accentuate his shrivelled paleness, to glance off the surface as it were; whereas those same sunbeams rested genially, penetratingly on the group of ruddy-faced farmers just below him. They were discussing the unusual circumstance of Number One Quality Corner, changing its tenant. Three of the residents were the owners also, but Number One was occasionally to let, and had always been occupied by a doctor. The man who had now taken the practice and home of his predecessor was a stranger, therefore the minds of the Ringway people were much exercised respecting him.
‘ It isna th’ house fur luck, that theer Number One,’ remarked a sturdy farmer, gazing meditatively across the market-place at Quality Corner.
‘ Happen this new chap’ll change th’ luck, being a stranger,’ suggested another. For Ringwaybelieved in the superior luck of a stranger as against that of a native.
‘ Dr. Smith wurna a stranger,’ said Sol, mentioning the last occupant of Number One.
‘ No more he wur! I’d forgot. Well, he got offbetter nor most. He isna dead o’ th’ house.’
‘ He said he’d dee if he stopped in it. But he wur a queer lot.’
‘ Ay, he wur,’ acquiesced a bystander. ‘He wouldna take any soide in politics. He said he didna know which soide had getten th’ biggest fools.’
‘ Why th’ soide he wur on hissen, o’ course,’ observed another farmer.
‘ Ay, but tha sees, he were on no soide.’