________________________________________________
_ When the altercation between the policeman and the musician in the
gutter was at its height, Samuel Povey became restless; but since
he had scarcely stirred through the performances of the bands, it
was probably not the cries of the drunkard that had aroused him.
He had shown very little interest in the preliminaries of the
great demonstration. The flame of his passion for the case of
Daniel Povey seemed to have shot up on the day before the
execution, and then to have expired. On that day he went to
Stafford in order, by permit of the prison governor, to see his
cousin for the last time. His condition then was undoubtedly not
far removed from monomania. 'Unhinged' was the conventional
expression which frequently rose in Constance's mind as a
description of the mind of her husband; but she fought it down;
she would not have it; it was too crude--with its associations.
She would only admit that the case had 'got on' his mind. A
startling proof of this was that he actually suggested taking
Cyril with him to see the condemned man. He wished Cyril to see
Daniel; he said gravely that he thought Cyril ought to see him.
The proposal was monstrous, inexplicable--or explicable only by
the assumption that his mind, while not unhinged, had temporarily
lost its balance. Constance opposed an absolute negative, and
Samuel being in every way enfeebled, she overcame. As for Cyril,
he was divided between fear and curiosity. On the whole, perhaps
Cyril regretted that he would not be able to say at school that he
had had speech with the most celebrated killer of the age on the
day before his execution.
Samuel returned hysterical from Stafford. His account of the
scene, which he gave in a very loud voice, was a most absurd and
yet pathetic recital, obviously distorted by memory. When he came
to the point of the entrance of Dick Povey, who was still at the
hospital, and who had been specially driven to Stafford and
carried into the prison, he wept without restraint. His hysteria
was painful in a very high degree.
He went to bed--of his own accord, for his cough had improved
again. And on the following day, the day of the execution, he
remained in bed till the afternoon. In the evening the Rector sent
for him to the Rectory to discuss the proposed demonstration. On
the next day, Saturday, he said he should not get up. Icy showers
were sweeping the town, and his cough was worse after the evening
visit to the Rector. Constance had no apprehensions about him. The
most dangerous part of the winter was over, and there was nothing
now to force him into indiscretions. She said to herself calmly
that he should stay in bed as long as he liked, that he could not
have too much repose after the cruel fatigues, physical and
spiritual, which he had suffered. His cough was short, but not as
troublesome as in the past; his face flushed, dusky, and settled
in gloom; and he was slightly feverish, with quick pulse and quick
breathing--the symptoms of a renewed cold. He passed a wakeful
night, broken by brief dreams in which he talked. At dawn he had
some hot food, asked what day it was, frowned, and seemed to doze
off at once. At eleven o'clock he had refused food. And he had
intermittently dozed during the progress of the demonstration and
its orgiastic sequel.
Constance had food ready for his waking, and she approached the
bed and leaned over him. The fever had increased somewhat, the
breathing was more rapid, and his lips were covered with tiny
purple pimples. He feebly shook his head, with a disgusted air, at
her mention of food. It was this obstinate refusal of food which
first alarmed her. A little uncomfortable suspicion shot up in
her: Surely there's nothing the MATTER with him?
Something--impossible to say what--caused her to bend still lower,
and put her ear to his chest. She heard within that mysterious box
a rapid succession of thin, dry, crackling sounds: sounds such as
she would have produced by rubbing her hair between her fingers
close to her ear. The crepitation ceased, then recommenced, and
she perceived that it coincided with the intake of his breath. He
coughed; the sounds were intensified; a spasm of pain ran over his
face; and he put his damp hand to his side.
"Pain in my side!" he whispered with difficulty.
Constance stepped into the drawing-room, where Cyril was sketching
by the fire.
"Cyril," she said, "go across and ask Dr. Harrop to come round at
once. And if he isn't in, then his new partner."
"Is it for father?"
"Yes."
"What's the matter?"
"Now do as I say, please," said Constance, sharply, adding: "I
don't know what's the matter. Perhaps nothing. But I'm not
satisfied."
The venerable Harrop pronounced the word 'pneumonia.' It was acute
double pneumonia that Samuel had got. During the three worst
months of the year, he had escaped the fatal perils which await a
man with a flat chest and a chronic cough, who ignores his
condition and defies the weather. But a journey of five hundred
yards to the Rectory had been one journey too many. The Rectory
was so close to the shop that he had not troubled to wrap himself
up as for an excursion to Stafford. He survived the crisis of the
disease and then died of toxsemia, caused by a heart that would
not do its duty by the blood. A casual death, scarce noticed in
the reaction after the great febrile demonstration! Besides,
Samuel Povey never could impose himself on the burgesses. He
lacked individuality. He was little. I have often laughed at
Samuel Povey. But I liked and respected him. He was a very honest
man. I have always been glad to think that, at the end of his
life, destiny took hold of him and displayed, to the observant,
the vein of greatness which runs through every soul without
exception. He embraced a cause, lost it, and died of it. _
Read next: BOOK II CONSTANCE: CHAPTER VI - THE WIDOW: PART I
Read previous: BOOK II CONSTANCE: CHAPTER V - ANOTHER CRIME: PART IV
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