Gissing walked down the path with him, and the curate did indeed set ok toward the Chows'.But Gissing wondered, for a little later he heard a cheerful canticle upraised in the open fields.
He himself was far from gay.He longed to tear out this malady from his breast.Poor dreamer, he did not know that to do so is to tear out God Himself."Mrs.Spaniel," he said when the laundress next came up from the village, "you are a widow, aren't you?""Yes, sir," she said."Poor Spaniel was killed by a truck, two years ago April." Her face was puzzled, but beneath her apron Gissing could see her tail wagging.
"Don't misunderstand me," he said quickly."I've got to go away on business.I want you to bring your children and move into this house while I'm gone.I'll make arrangements at the bank about paying all the bills.You can give up your outside washing and devote yourself entirely to looking after this place."Mrs.Spaniel was so much surprised that she could not speak.In her amazement a bright bubble dripped from the end of her curly tongue.Hastily she caught it in her apron, and apologized.
"How long will you be away, sir?" she asked."I don't know.It may be quite a long time.""But all your beautiful things, furniture and everything," said Mrs.Spaniel."I'm afraid my children are a bit rough.They're not used to living in a house like this--""Well," said Gissing, "you must do the best you can.There are some things more important than furniture.It will be good for your children to get accustomed to refined surroundings, and it'll be good for my nephews to have someone to play with.Besides, I don't want them to grow upspoiled mollycoddles.I think I've been fussing over them too much.If they have good stuff in them, a little roughening won't do any permanent harm.""Dear me," cried Mrs.Spaniel, "what will the neighbours think?" "They won't," said Gissing."I don't doubt they'll talk, but they won'tthink.Thinking is very rare.I've got to do some myself, that's one reason why I'm going.You know, Mrs.Spaniel, God is a horizon, not someone sitting on a throne." Mrs.Spaniel didn't understand this--in fact, she didn't seem to hear it.Her mind was full of the idea that she would simply have to have a new dress, preferably black silk, for Sundays.Gissing, very sagacious, had already foreseen this point."Let's not have any argument," he continued."I have planned everything.Here is some money for immediate needs.I'll speak to them at the bank, and they will give you a weekly allowance.I leave you here as caretaker.Later on I'll send you an address and you can write me how things are going."Poor Mrs.Spaniel was bewildered.She came of very decent people, but since Spaniel took to drink, and then left her with a family to support, she had sunk in the world.She was wondering now how she could face it out with Mrs.Chow and Mrs.Fox-Terrier and the other neighbours.
"Oh, dear," she cried, "I don't know what to say, sir.Why, my boys are so disreputable-looking, they haven't even a collar between them.""Get them collars and anything else they need," said Gissing kindly."Don't worry, Mrs.Spaniel, it will be a fine thing for you.There will be a little gossip, I dare say, but we'll have to chance that.Now you had better go down to the village and make your arrangements.I'm leaving tonight."Late that evening, after seeing Mrs.Spaniel and her brood safely installed, Gissing walked to the station with his suitcase.He felt a pang as he lifted the mosquito nettings and kissed the cool moist noses of the sleeping trio.But he comforted himself by thinking that this was no merely vulgar desertion.If he was to raise the family, he must earn some money.His modest income would not suffice for this sudden increase in expenses.Besides, he had never known what freedom meant until it was curtailed.For the past three months he had lived in ceaseless attendance; had even slept with one ear open for the children's cries.Now he owed itto himself to make one great strike for peace.Wealth, he could see, was the answer.With money, everything was attainable: books, leisure for study, travel, prestige--in short, command over the physical details of life.He would go in for Big Business.Already he thrilled with a sense of power and prosperity.
The little house stood silent in the darkness as he went down the path.The night was netted with the weaving sparkle of fireflies.He stood for a moment, looking.Suddenly there came a frightened cry from the nursery.
"Daddy, a keeto, a keeto!"
He nearly turned to run back, but checked himself.No, Mrs.Spaniel was now in charge.It was up to her.Besides, he had only just enough time to catch the last train to the city.
But he sat on the cinder-speckled plush of the smoker in a mood that was hardly revelry."By Jove," he said to himself, "I got away just in time.Another month and I couldn't have done it."It was midnight when he saw the lights of town, panelled in gold against a peacock sky.Acres and acres of blue darkness lay close-pressing upon the gaudy grids of light.Here one might really look at this great miracle of shadow and see its texture.The dulcet air drifted lazily in deep, silent crosstown streets."Ah," he said, "here is where the blue begins."
