Why the Clock Stopped

by Arnold Bennett

IMr Morfe and Mary Morfe, his sister, were sitting on either side oftheir drawing-room fire, on a Friday evening in November, when theyheard a ring at the front door. They both started, and showed symptomsof nervous disturbance. They both said aloud that no doubt it was aparcel or something of the kind that had rung at the front door. Andthey both bent their eyes again on the respective books which they werereading. Then they heard voices in the lobby--the servant's voice andanother voice--and a movement of steps over the encaustic tiles towardsthe door of the drawing-room. And Miss Morfe ejaculated:"Really!"As though she was unwilling to believe that somebody on the other sideof that drawing-room door contemplated committing a social outrage, shenevertheless began to fear the possibility.In the ordinary course it is not considered outrageous to enter adrawing-room--even at nine o'clock at night--with the permission andencouragement of the servant in charge of portals. But the case of theMorfes was peculiar. Mr Morfe was a bachelor aged forty-two, and lookedolder. Mary Morfe was a spinster aged thirty-eight, and lookedthirty-seven. Brother and sister had kept house together for twentyyears. They were passionately and profoundly attached to each other--anddid not know it. They grumbled at each other freely, and practised nomore conversation, when they were alone, than the necessities ofexistence demanded (even at meals they generally read), but still theirmutual affection was tremendous. Moreover, they were very firmly fixedin their habits. Now one of these habits was never to entertain companyon Friday night. Friday night was their night of solemn privacy. Theexplanation of this habit offers a proof of the sentimental relationsbetween them.Mr Morfe was an accountant. Indeed, he was the accountant in Bursley,and perhaps he knew more secrets of the ledgers of the principalearthenware manufacturers than some of the manufacturers did themselves.But he did not live for accountancy. At five o'clock every evening hewas capable of absolutely forgetting it. He lived for music. He wasorganist of Saint Luke's Church (with an industrious understudy--for hedid not always rise for breakfast on Sundays) and, more important, hewas conductor of the Bursley Orpheus Glee and Madrigal Club. And hereinlay the origin of those Friday nights. A glee and madrigal clubnaturally comprises women as well as men; and the women are apt to beyoungish, prettyish, and somewhat fond of music. Further, theconductorship of a choir involves many and various social encounters.Now Mary Morfe was jealous. Though Richard Morfe ruled his choir withwhips, though his satiric tongue was a scorpion to the choir, though henever looked twice at any woman, though she was always saying that shewished he would marry, Mary Morfe was jealous. It was Mary Morfe who hadcreated the institution of the Friday night, and she had created it inorder to prove, symbolically and spectacularly, to herself, to him, andto the world, that he and she lived for each other alone. All theirfriends, every member of the choir, in fact the whole of the respectablepart of barsley, knew quite well that in the Morfes' house Friday wassacredly Friday.And yet a caller!"It's a woman," murmured Mary. Until her ear had assured her of thisfact she had seemed to be more disturbed than startled by the stir inthe lobby.And it was a woman. It was Miss Eva Harracles, one of the principalcontraltos in the glee and madrigal club. She entered richly blushing,and excusably a little nervous and awkward. She was a tall, agreeablecreature of fewer than thirty years, dark, almost handsome, with finelips and eyes, and an effective large hat and a good muff. In everyphysical way a marked contrast to the thin, prim, desiccated brother andsister.Richard Morfe flushed faintly. Mary Morfe grew more pallid."I really must apologize for coming in like this," said Eva, as sheshook hands cordially with Mary Morfe. She knew Mary very well indeed.For Mary was the "librarian" of the glee and madrigal club; Mary nevermissed a rehearsal, though she cared no more for music than she caredfor the National Debt. She was a perfect librarian, and very good atunofficially prodding indolent members into a more regular attendancetoo."Not at all!" said Mary. "We were only reading; you aren't disturbing usin the least." Which, though polite, was a lie.And Eva Harracles sat down between them. And brother and sisterabandoned their literature."I can't stop," said she, glancing at the clock immediately in front ofher eyes. "I must catch the last car for Silverhays.""You've got twenty minutes yet," said Mr Morfe."Because," said Eva, "I don't want that walk from Turnhill to Silverhayson a dark night like this.""No, I should think not, indeed!" said Mary Morfe."You've got a full twenty minutes," Mr Morfe repeated. The clock showedthree minutes past nine.The electric cars to and from the town of Turnhill were rumbling pastthe very door of the Morfes every five minutes, and would continue todo so till midnight. But Silverhays is a mining village a couple ofmiles beyond Turnhill, and the service between Turnhill and Silverhaysceases before ten o'clock. Eva's father was a colliery manager who livedon the outskirts of Silverhays."I've got a piece of news," said Eva."Yes?" said Mary MorfeMr Morfe was taciturn. He stooped to nourish the fire."About Mr Loggerheads," said Eva, and stared straight at Mary Morfe."About Mr Loggerheads!" Mary Morfe echoed, and stared back at Eva. Andthe atmosphere seemed to have been thrown into a strange pulsation.Here perhaps I ought to explain that it was not the peculiarity of MrLoggerheads' name that produced the odd effect. Loggerheads is a localterm for a harmless plant called the knapweed (centaurea nigra), andit is also the appellation of a place and of quite excellent people, andno one regards it as even the least bit odd."I'm told," said Eva, "that he's going into the Hanbridge Choir!"Mr Loggerheads was the principal tenor of the Bursley Glee and MadrigalClub. And he was reckoned one of the finest "after-dinner tenors" in theFive Towns. The Hanbridge Choir was a rival organization, a vast andpowerful affair that fascinated and swallowed promising singers from allthe choirs of the vicinity. The Hanbridge Choir had sung at Windsor, andsince that event there had been no holding it. All other choirs hated itwith a homicidal hatred."I'm told," Eva proceeded, "that the Birmingham and Sheffield Bank willpromote him to the cashiership of the Hanbridge Branch on theunderstanding that he joins the Hanbridge Choir. Shows what influencethey have! And it shows how badly the Hanbridge Choir wants him."(Mr Loggerheads was cashier of the Bursley branch of the Birmingham andSheffield Bank.)"Who told you?" asked Mary Morfe, curtly.Richard Morfe said nothing. The machinations of the manager of theHanbridge Choir always depressed and disgusted him into silence."Oh!" said Eva Harracles. "It's all about." (By which she meant that itwas in the air.) "Everyone's talking of it.""And do they say Mr Loggerheads has accepted?" Mary demanded."Yes," said Eva."Well," said Mary, "it's not true!... A mistake!" she added."How do you know it isn't true?" Mr Morfe inquired doubtfully."Since you're so curious," said Mary, defiantly, "Mr Loggerheads told mehimself.""When?""The other day.""You never said anything to me," protested Mr Morfe."It didn't occur to me," Mary replied."Well, I'm very glad!" remarked Eva Harracles. "But I thought I ought tolet you know at once what was being said."Mary Morfe's expression conveyed the fact that in her opinion EvaHarracles' evening call was a vain thing, too lightly undertaken, andconceivably lacking in the nicest discretion. Whereupon Mr Morfe wasevidently struck by the advisability of completely changing the subject.And he did change it. He began to talk about certain difficulties in thechoral parts of Havergal Brian's Vision of Cleopatra, a work which hemeant the Bursley Glee and Madrigal Club to perform though it shouldperish in the attempt. Growing excited, in his dry way, concerning themerits of this composition, he rose from his easy chair and went tosearch for it. Before doing so he looked at the clock, which indicatedtwenty minutes past nine."Am I all right for time?" asked Eva."Yes, you're all right," said he. "If you go when that clock strikeshalf-past, and take the next car down, you'll make the connection easilyat Turnhill. I'll put you into the car.""Oh, thanks!" said Eva.Mr Morfe kept his modern choral music beneath a broad seat under the bowwindow. The music was concealed by a low curtain that ran on a rod--theingenious device of Mary. He stooped down to find the Vision ofCleopatra, and at first he could not find it. Mary walked towards thatend of the drawing-room with a vague notion of helping him, and then Evadid the same, and then Mary walked back, and then Mr Morfe happily puthis hand on the Vision of Cleopatra.He opened the score for Eva's inspection, and began to hum passages andto point out others, and Eva also began to hum, and they hummed inconcert, at intervals exclaiming against the wantonness with whichHavergal Brian had invented difficulties. Eva glanced at the clock."You're all right," Mr Morfe assured her somewhat impatiently. And he,too, glanced at the clock: "You've still nearly ten minutes."And proceeded with his critical and explanatory comments on the Visionof Cleopatra.He was capable of becoming almost delirious about music. Mary Morfe hadseated herself in silence.At last Eva and Mr Morfe approached the fire and the mantelpiece again.Mr Morfe shut up the score, dismissed his delirium, and looked at theclock, quite prepared to see it pointing to twenty-nine and a halfminutes past nine. Instead, the clock pointed to only twenty-twominutes past nine."By Jove!" he exclaimed. He went nearer."By Jove!" he exclaimed again rather more loudly. "I do believe thatclock's stopped!"It had. The pendulum hung perpendicular, motionless, dead.He was astounded. For the clock had never been known to stop. It was apresentation clock, of the highest guaranteed quality, offered to him asa small token of regard and esteem by the members of the Bursley OrpheusGlee and Madrigal Club to celebrate the twelfth anniversary of hisfelicitous connection with the said society. It had stood on hismantelpiece for four years and had earned an absolutely first-classreputation for itself. He wound it up on the last day of every month,for it was a thirty-odd day clock, specially made by a famous localexpert; and he had not known it to vary more than ten minutes a month atthe most. And lo! it had stopped in the very middle of the month."Did you wind it up last time?" asked Mary."Of course," he snapped. He had taken out his watch and was gazing atit. He turned to Eva. "It's twenty to ten," he said. "You've missed yourconnection at Turnhill--that's a certainty. I'm very sorry."Obviously there was only one course open to a gallant man whose clockwas to blame: namely, to accompany Eva Harracles to Turnhill by car, toaccompany her on foot to Silverhays, then to walk back to Turnhill andcome home again by car. A young woman could not be expected to performthat bleak and perhaps dangerous journey from Turnhill to Silverhaysalone after ten o'clock at night in November. Such was the clear course.But he dared scarcely suggest it. He dared scarcely suggest it becauseof his sister. He was afraid of Mary. The names of Richard Morfe and EvaHarracles had already been coupled in the mouth of gossip. Andnaturally Eva Harracles herself could not suggest that Richard shouldsally out and leave his sister alone on this night specially devoted tosisterliness and brotherliness. And of course, Eva thought, Mary willnever, never suggest it.But Eva was wrong there.To the amazement of both Richard and Eva, Mary calmly said:"Well, Dick, the least you can do now is to see Miss Harracles home.You'll easily be able to catch the last car back from Turnhill if youstart at once. I daresay I shall go to bed."And in three minutes Richard Morfe and Eva Harracles were being spedinto the night by Mary Morfe.The Morfes' house was at the corner of Trafalgar Road and Beech Street.The cars stopped at that corner in their wild course towards the townand towards Turnhill. A car was just coming. But instead of waiting forit Richard Morfe and Eva Harracles deliberately turned their backs onTrafalgar Road, and hurried side by side down Beech Street. Beech Streetis a short street, and ends in a nondescript unlighted waste patch ofground. They arrived in the gloom of this patch, safe from all humaninquisitiveness, and then Richard Morfe warmly kissed Eva Harracles inthe mathematical centre of those lips of hers. And Eva Harracles showedno resentment of any kind, nor even shame. Yet she had been verycarefully brought up. The sight would have interested Bursley immensely;it would have appealed strongly to Bursley's strong sense of thepiquant.... That dry old stick Dick Morfe kissing one of his contraltosin the dark at the bottom end of Beech Street."Then you hadn't told her!" murmured Eva Harracles."No!" said Richard, with a slight hesitation. "I was just going to beginto tell her when you called."Another woman might have pouted to learn that her lover had exhibitedeven a little cowardice in informing his family that he was engaged tobe married. But Eva did not pout. She comprehended the situation, andthe psychology of the relations between brothers and sisters. (Sheherself possessed both brothers and sisters.) All the courting had beensingularly secret and odd."I shall tell her to-morrow morning at breakfast," said Richard, firmly."Unless, after all, she isn't gone to bed when I get back."By a common impulse they now returned towards Trafalgar Road."I say," said Richard, "what made you call?""I was passing," said the beloved. "And somehow I couldn't help it. Ofcourse, I knew it wasn't true about Mr Loggerheads. But I had to thinkof something."Richard was in ecstasy; had never been in such ecstasy."I say," he said again. "I suppose you didn't put your finger againstthe pendulum of that clock?""Oh, no!" she replied with emphasis."Well, I'm jolly glad it did stop, anyway," said Richard. "What a lark,eh?"She agreed that the lark was ideal. They walked down the road till a carshould overtake them."Do you think she suspects anything?" Eva asked."I'll swear she doesn't," said Richard, positively. "It'll be a bit of astartler for the old girl.""No doubt you've heard," said Eva, haltingly, "that Mr Loggerheads hascast eyes on Mary.""And do you think there's anything in that?" Richard questionedsharply."Well," she said, "I really don't know." Meaning that she decidedlythought that Mary had been encouraging advances from Mr Loggerheads."Well," said Richard, superiorly, "you may just take it from me thatthere's nothing in it at all.... Ha!" He laughed shortly. He knew Mary.Then they got on a car, and tried to behave as though their beingtogether was a mere accident, as though they had not become engaged toone another within the previous twenty-four hours.IIImmediately after the departure of Richard Morfe and Eva Harracles, hisbetrothed, from the front door of the former, Mr Simon Loggerheadsarrived at the same front door, and rang thereat, and was a littlesurprised, and also a little unnerved, when the door opened instantly,as if by magic. Mr Simon Loggerheads said to himself, as he saw the doormove on its hinges, that Miss Morfe must have discovered a treasure of aservant who, when she had nothing else to do, spent her time on theinner door-mat waiting to admit possible visitors--even on Friday night.Nevertheless, Mr Simon Loggerheads regretted that prompt opening, as oneregrets the prompt opening of the door of a dentist.And it was no servant who stood in front of him, under the flickeringbeam of the lobby-lamp. It was Mary Morfe herself. The simpleexplanation was that she had just sped her brother and Eva Harracles,and had remained in the lobby for the purpose of ascertaining by meansof her finger whether the servant had, as usual, forgotten to dust thetops of the picture-frames."Oh!" said Mr Loggerheads, when he saw Mary Morfe. For the cashier ofthe Bursley branch of the Birmingham and Sheffield Bank it was not avery able speech, but it was all he could accomplish.And Miss Mary Morfe said:"Oh!"She was thirty-eight, and he was quite that (for the Bank mentioneddoes not elevate its men to the august situation of cashier under lessthan twenty years' service), and yet they neither of them had enoughworldliness to behave in a reasonable manner. Then Miss Morfe, to whomit did at last occur that something must be done, produced aninvitation:"Do come in!" And she added, "Richard has just gone out.""Oh!" commented Mr Simon Loggerheads again. (After all, it must beadmitted that tenors as a class have never been noted for theirconversational powers.) But he was obviously more at ease, and he wentin, and Mary Morfe shut the door. At this very instant her brother andEva were in secret converse at the back end of Beech Street."Do take your coat off!" Mary suggested to Simon. Simultaneously theservant appeared at the kitchen extremity of the lobby, and Mary thrusther out of sight again with the cold words: "It's all right, Susan."Mr Loggerheads took his coat off, and Mary Morfe watched him as he didso.He made a pretty figure. He was something of a dandy. The lapels of theovercoat would have showed that, not to mention the correctly severenecktie. All his clothes, in fact, had "cut and style," even to hisboots. In the Five Towns many a young man is a dandy down to the edge ofhis trousers, but not down to the ground. Mr Loggerheads looked a youngman. The tranquillity of his career and the quietude of his tastes hadpreserved his youthfulness. And, further, he had the air of asuccessful, solid, much-respected individual. To be a cashier, thoughworthy, is not to be a nabob, but a bachelor can save a lot out of overtwenty years of regular salary. And Mr Loggerheads had saved quite alot. And he had had opportunities of advantageously investing hissavings. Then everybody knew him, and he knew everybody. He handed outgold at least once a week to nearly half the town, and you cannot helpvenerating a man who makes a practice of handing out gold to you. And hehad thrilled thousands with the wistful beauty of his voice in "TheSands of Dee." In a word, Simon Loggerheads was a personage, if nottalkative.They went into the drawing-room. Mary Morfe closed the door gently.Simon Loggerheads strolled vaguely and self-consciously up to thefireplace, murmuring:"So he's gone out?""Yes," said Mary Morfe, in confirmation of her first statement."I'm sorry!" said Simon Loggerheads. A statement which was absolutelycontrary to the truth. Simon Loggerheads was deeply relieved and gladthat Richard Morfe was out.The pair, aged slightly under and slightly over forty, seemed to hoverfor a fraction of a second uncertainly near each other, and then,somehow, mysteriously, Simon Loggerheads had kissed Mary Morfe. Sheblushed. He blushed. The kiss was repeated. Mary gazed up at him. Marycould scarcely believe that he was hers. She could scarcely believe thaton the previous evening he had proposed marriage to her--rathersuddenly, so it seemed to her, but delightfully. She could comprehendhis conduct no better than her own. They two, staid, settled-down, bothof them "old maids," falling in love and behaving like lunatics! Mary, ayear ago, would have been ready to prophesy that if ever SimonLoggerheads--at his age!--did marry, he would assuredly marry somethingyoung, something ingenuous, something cream-and-rose, and probablysomething with rich parents. For twenty years Simon Loggerheads had beenmarked down for capture by the marriageable spinsters and widows, andthe mothers with daughters, of Bursley. And he had evaded capture,despite the special temptations to which an after-dinner tenor isnecessarily subject. And now Mary Morfe had caught him--caught him,moreover, without having had the slightest intention of catching him.She was one of the most spinsterish spinsters in the Five Towns; and shehad often said things about men and marriage of which the recollectionnow, as an affianced woman, was very disturbing to her. However, she didnot care. She did not understand how Simon Loggerheads had had the witto perceive that she would be an ideal wife. And she did not care. Shedid not understand how, as a result of Simon Loggerheads falling in lovewith her, she had fallen in love with him. And she did not care. She didnot care a fig for anything. She was in love with him, and he withher, and she was idiotically joyous, and so was he. And that was all.On reflection, I have to admit that she did in fact care for one thing.That one thing was the look on her brother's face when he should learnthat she, the faithful sardonic sister, having incomprehensibly becomeindispensable and all in all to a bank cashier, meant to desert him. Shewas afraid of that look. She trembled at the fore-vision of it.Still, Richard had to be informed, and the world had to be informed, forthe silken dalliance between Mary and Simon had been conducted with adiscretion and a secrecy more than characteristic of their age anddispositions. It had been arranged between the lovers that Simon shouldcall on that Friday evening, when he would be sure to catch Richard inhis easy chair, and should, in presence of Mary, bluntly communicate toRichard the blunt fact."What's he gone out for? Anything special?" asked Simon.Mary explained the circumstances."The truth is," she finished, "that girl is just throwing herself atDick's head. There's no doubt of it. I never saw such work!""Well," said Simon Loggerheads, "of course, you know, there's been acertain amount of talk about them. Some folks say that yourbrother--er--began--""And do you believe that?" demanded Mary."I don't know," said Simon. By which he meant diplomatically to conveythat he had had a narrow escape of believing it, at any rate."Well," said Mary, with conviction, "you may take it from me that itisn't so. I know Dick. Eva Harracles may throw herself at his head tillthere's no breath left in her body, and it'll make no difference toDick. Do you see Dick a married man? I don't. I only wish he wouldtake it into his head to get married. It would make me much easier in mymind. But all the same I do think it's downright wicked that a girlshould fling herself at him, right at him. Fancy her callingto-night! It's the sort of thing that oughtn't to be encouraged.""But I understood you to say that you yourself had told him to see herhome," Simon Loggerheads put in. "Isn't that encouraging her, as itwere?""Ah!" said Mary, with a smile. "I only suggested it to him because itcame over me all of a sudden how nice it would be to have you here allalone! He can't be back much before twelve."To such a remark there is but one response. A sofa is, after all, madefor two people, and the chance of the servant calling on them was small."And so the clock stopped!" observed Simon Loggerheads."Yes," said Mary. "If it hadn't been for the sheer accident of thatclock stopping, we shouldn't be sitting here on this sofa now, and Dickwould be in that chair, and you would just be beginning to tell him thatwe are engaged." She sighed. "Poor Dick! What on earth will he do?""Strange how things happen!" Simon reflected in a low voice. "But I'mreally surprised at that clock stopping like that. It's a clock that youought to be able to depend on, that clock is."He got up to inspect the timepiece. He knew all about the clock, becausehe had been chairman of the presentation committee which had gone toManchester to buy it."Why!" he murmured, after he had toyed a little with the pendulum, "itgoes all right. Its tick is as right as rain.""How odd!" responded Mary.Simon Loggerheads set the clock by his own impeccable watch, and thensat down again. And he drew something from his waistcoat pocket and slidit on to Mary's finger.Mary regarded her finger in silent ecstasy, and then breathed "Howlovely!"--not meaning her finger."Shall I stay till he comes back?" asked Simon."If I were you I shouldn't do that," said Mary. "But you can safely staytill eleven-thirty. Then I shall go to bed. He'll be tired and short[curt] when he gets back. I'll tell him myself to-morrow morning atbreakfast. And you might come to-morrow afternoon early, for tea."Simon did stay till half-past eleven. He left precisely when the clock,now convalescent, struck the half-hour. At the door Mary said to him:"I won't have any secrets from you, Simon. It was I who stopped thatclock. I stopped it while they were bending down looking for music. Iwanted to be as sure as I could of a good excuse for me suggesting thathe ought to take her home. I just wanted to get him out of the house.""But why?" asked Simon."I must leave that to you to guess," said Mary, with a hint of tartness,but smiling.Loggerheads and Richard Morfe met in Trafalgar Road."Good-night, Morfe.""'night, Loggerheads!"And each passed on, without having stopped.You can picture for yourself the breakfast of the brother and sister.

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