“Where the hell’s the doctor?” the young man demanded brusquely.  Evidently he had no curiosity about Samuel’s presence; the one thing that struck him was that Samuel was not the doctor.

“He’s coming, he’s coming,’ said Samuel, soothingly.

“Well, if he isn’t here soon I shall be damn well dead,” said Dick, in feeble resentful anger.  “I can tell you that.”

Samuel deposited the candle and ran downstairs.  “I say, Daniel,” he said, roused and hot, “this is really ridiculous.  Why on earth didn’t you fetch the doctor while you were waiting for me?  Where’s the missis?”

Daniel Povey was slowly emptying grains of Indian corn out of his jacket-pocket into one of the big receptacles behind the counter on the baker’s side of the shop.  He had provisioned himself with Indian corn as ammunition for Samuel’s bedroom window; he was now returning the surplus.

“Are ye going for Harrop?” he questioned hesitatingly.

“Why, of course!” Samuel exclaimed.  “Where’s the missis?”

“Happen you’d better go and have a look at her,” said Daniel Povey.  “She’s in th’ parlour.”

He preceded Samuel to the shut door on the right.  When he opened it the parlour appeared in full illumination.

“Here!  Go in!” said Daniel.

Samuel went in, afraid.  In a room as dishevelled and filthy as the bedroom, Mrs. Daniel Povey lay stretched awkwardly on a worn horse-hair sofa, her head thrown back, her face discoloured, her eyes bulging, her mouth wet and yawning:  a sight horribly offensive.  Samuel was frightened; he was struck with fear and with disgust.  The singing gas beat down ruthlessly on that dreadful figure.  A wife and mother!  The lady of a house!  The centre of order!  The fount of healing!  The balm for worry, and the refuge of distress!  She was vile.  Her scanty yellow-grey hair was dirty, her hollowed neck all grime, her hands abominable, her black dress in decay.  She was the dishonour of her sex, her situation, and her years.  She was a fouler obscenity than the inexperienced Samuel had ever conceived.  And by the door stood her husband, neat, spotless, almost stately, the man who for thirty years had marshalled all his immense pride to suffer this woman, the jolly man who had laughed through thick and thin!  Samuel remembered when they were married.  And he remembered when, years after their marriage, she was still as pretty, artificial, coquettish, and adamantine in her caprices as a young harlot with a fool at her feet.  Time and the slow wrath of God had changed her.

He remained master of himself and approached her; then stopped.

“But—­” he stammered.

“Ay, Sam’l, lad!” said the old man from the door.  “I doubt I’ve killed her!  I doubt I’ve killed her!  I took and shook her.  I got her by the neck.  And before I knew where I was, I’d done it.  She’ll never drink brandy again.  This is what it’s come to!”