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_ Towards dusk a stout old lady, with grey hair, and a dowdy bonnet,
and an expensive mantle, passed limping, very slowly, along
Wedgwood Street and up the Cock Yard towards the Town Hall. Her
wrinkled face had an anxious look, but it was also very
determined. The busy, joyous Federationists and Anti-
Federationists who knew her not saw merely a stout old lady
fussing forth, and those who knew her saw merely Mrs. Povey and
greeted her perfunctorily, a woman of her age and gait being
rather out of place in that feverish altercation of opposed
principles. But it was more than a stout old lady, it was more
than Mrs. Povey. that waddled with such painful deliberation
through the streets--it was a miracle.
In the morning Constance had been partially incapacitated by her
sciatica; so much so, at any rate, that she had perceived the
advisability of remaining on the bedroom floor instead of
descending to the parlour. Therefore Mary had lighted the drawing-
room fire, and Constance had ensconced herself by it, with
Fossette in a basket. Lily Holl had called early, and had been
very sympathetic, but rather vague. The truth was that she was
concealing the imminent balloon ascent which Dick Povey, with his
instinct for the picturesque, had somehow arranged, in conjunction
with a well-known Manchester aeronaut, for the very day of the
poll. That was one of various matters that had to be 'kept from'
the old lady. Lily herself was much perturbed about the balloon
ascent. She had to run off and see Dick before he started, at the
Football Ground at Bleakridge, and then she had to live through
the hours till she should receive a telegram to the effect that
Dick had come down safely or that Dick had broken his leg in
coming down, or that Dick was dead. It was a trying time for Lily.
She had left Constance after a brief visit, with a preoccupied
unusual air, saying that as the day was a special day, she should
come in again 'if she could.' And she did not forget to assure
Constance that Federation would beyond any question whatever be
handsomely beaten at the poll; for this was another matter as to
which it was deemed advisable to keep the old lady 'in the dark,'
lest the foolish old lady should worry and commit indiscretions.
After that Constance had been forgotten by the world of Bursley,
which could pay small heed to sciatical old ladies confined to
sofas and firesides. She was in acute pain, as Mary could see when
at intervals she hovered round her. Assuredly it was one of
Constance's bad days, one of those days on which she felt that the
tide of life had left her stranded in utter neglect. The sound of
the Bursley Town Silver Prize Band aroused her from her mournful
trance of suffering. Then the high treble of children's voices
startled her. She defied her sciatica, and, grimacing, went to the
window. And at the first glimpse she could see that the Federation
Poll was going to be a much more exciting affair than she had
imagined. The great cards swinging from the wagonettes showed her
that Federation was at all events still sufficiently alive to make
a formidable impression on the eye and the ear. The Square was
transformed by this clamour in favour of Federation; people
cheered, and sang also, as the procession wound down the Square.
And she could distinctly catch the tramping, martial syllables,
"Vote, vote, vote." She was indignant. The pother, once begun,
continued. Vehicles flashed frequently across the Square, most of
them in the crimson livery. Little knots and processions of
excited wayfarers were a recurring feature of the unaccustomed
traffic, and the large majority of them flaunted the colours of
Federation. Mary, after some errands of shopping, came upstairs
and reported that 'it was simply "Federation" everywhere,' and
that Mr. Brindley, a strong Federationist, was 'above a bit above
himself'; further, that the interest in the poll was tremendous
and universal. She said there were 'crowds and crowds' round the
Town Hall. Even Mary, generally a little placid and dull, had
caught something of the contagious vivacity.
Constance remained at the window till dinner, and after dinner she
went to it again. It was fortunate that she did not think of
looking up into the sky when Dick's balloon sailed westwards; she
would have guessed instantly that Dick was in that balloon, and
her grievances would have been multiplied. The vast grievance of
the Federation scheme weighed on her to the extremity of her power
to bear. She was not a politician; she had no general ideas; she
did not see the cosmic movement in large curves. She was incapable
of perceiving the absurdity involved in perpetuating municipal
divisions which the growth of the district had rendered
artificial, vexatious, and harmful. She saw nothing but Bursley,
and in Bursley nothing but the Square. She knew nothing except
that the people of Bursley, who once shopped in Bursley, now
shopped in Hanbridge, and that the Square was a desert infested by
cheap-jacks. And there were actually people who wished to bow the
neck to Hanbridge, who were ready to sacrifice the very name of
Bursley to the greedy humour of that pushing Chicago! She could
not understand such people. Did they know that poor Maria
Critchlow was in a lunatic asylum because Hanbridge was so
grasping? Ah, poor Maria was al-ready forgotten! Did they know
that, as a further indirect consequence, she, the daughter of
Bursley's chief tradesman, was to be thrown out of the house in
which she was born? She wished, bitterly, as she stood there at
the window, watching the triumph of Federation, that she had
bought the house and shop at the Mericarp sale years ago. She
would have shown them, as owner, what was what! She forgot that
the property which she already owned in Bursley was a continual
annoyance to her, and that she was always resolving to sell it at
no matter what loss.
She said to herself that she had a vote, and that if she had been
'at all fit to stir out' she would certainly have voted. She said
to herself that it had been her duty to vote. And then by an
illusion of her wrought nerves, tightened minute by minute
throughout the day, she began to fancy that her sciatica was
easier. She said: "If only I could go out!" She might have a cab,
of any of the parading vehicles would be glad to take her to the
Town Hall, and, perhaps, as a favour, to bring her back again. But
no! She dared not go out. She was afraid, really afraid that even
the mild Mary might stop her. Otherwise, she could have sent Mary
for a cab. And supposing that Lily returned, and caught her going
out or coming in! She ought not to go out. Yet her sciatica was
strangely better. It was folly to think of going out. Yet ...! And
Lily did not come. She was rather hurt that Lily had not paid her
a second visit. Lily was neglecting her. ... She would go out. It
was not four minutes' walk for her to the Town Hall, and she was
better. And there had been no shower for a long time, and the wind
was drying the mud in the roadways. Yes, she would go.
Like a thief she passed into her bedroom and put on her things;
and like a thief she crept downstairs, and so, without a word to
Mary, into the street. It was a desperate adventure. As soon as
she was in the street she felt all her weakness, all the fatigue
which the effort had already cost her. The pain returned. The
streets were still wet and foul, the wind cold, and the sky
menacing. She ought to go back. She ought to admit that she had
been a fool to dream of the enterprise. The Town Hall seemed to be
miles off, at the top of a mountain. She went forward, however,
steeled to do her share in the killing of Federation. Every step
caused her a gnashing of her old teeth. She chose the Cock Yard
route, because if she had gone up the Square she would have had to
pass Holl's shop, and Lily might have spied her.
This was the miracle that breezy politicians witnessed without
being aware that it was a miracle. To have impressed them,
Constance ought to have fainted before recording her vote, and
made herself the centre of a crowd of gapers. But she managed,
somehow, to reach home again on her own tortured feet, and an
astounded and protesting Mary opened the door to her. Rain was
descending. She was frightened, then, by the hardihood of her
adventure, and by its atrocious results on her body. An appalling
exhaustion rendered her helpless. But the deed was done. _
Read next: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER V - END OF CONSTANCE: PART V
Read previous: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER V - END OF CONSTANCE: PART III
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