She laid her knitting down on the table and picked up a skein of white wool that lay near. Her husband, with a resigned expression, mutely held up his hands. The wool was placed over them, and then, after strict injunctions not to stir, or get tangled, or drop an end, or breathe too audibly, Mrs. Hedderwick began to wind it into a ball.
As the uncongenial task went on, Robert reflected disconsolately that his bid for freedom had not met with much success. He had had hopes that this year at least Alicia would have consented to go to some other place for their holiday. He was tired of Cromer and wanted a change. Also, he was not enthusiastic for another holiday spent under the wing of Alicia's mother, Mrs. Ainsley. She was too like her—he checked the heretical thought and substituted "too determined"—to make him anxious to renew her acquaintance more often than he was obliged. "Obliged...." The word buzzed unpleasantly in the brain. His prophetic instinct told him that he would be obliged to yield to Alicia's wishes. If he ventured to suggest once more that Eastbourne or Brighton might be preferable to Cromer, he knew too well what would happen. Alicia would say firmly, "No, Robert; you know We settled on Cromer, and it would be silly to change Our minds now." Supposing he dared greatly and put his foot down; supposing he said, "I will not go there: I will go to Brighton!" what would happen? He knew perfectly well that he would never have the courage to be so rebellious as all that; but he kept playing with the notion as one plays with temptation in daily life. If only he dared! He might say, "I will not, Alicia!" and then bolt from the house. It would be rather fun, an adventure, to run away ... all by himself. By himself! what a holiday that would be! He laughed aloud at the thought.
"I see nothing amusing in the wool being tangled," said Alicia's voice reprovingly, and he jumped in alarm.
"I was not laughing at that, my dear," he said appeasingly. "I was thinking of something else."
Alicia sniffed, but maintained a fortunate silence. When she finished she said, "I am going out to take the sewing meeting for an hour or so. Will you be in?"
"Yes, my dear," said Robert cheerfully, and a few minutes later he heard the front door close.
Left to himself, he walked to the window and resumed his idle staring. Remembering that now he was a free agent he began to whistle again, a trifle mournfully, for he was meditating on life. This, for the average man, as a rule, begets melancholy—particularly if it is his own life he reflects on.
Robert Hedderwick had been chief cashier in a big store for more than fifteen years. He had earned two hundred and fifty pounds a year (with an occasional bonus) for some time, and on the whole he had enjoyed his work. At least it had always been interesting, and had given him that most necessary of all things—regular and definite occupation. And though at times he used to wish he was a partner or had more prospects, still he had been contented. Then at the age of fifty an uncle had died and left him a handsome competence. Alicia at once had made him forswear the office and set up as a gentleman of leisure. Not that he had been unwilling to obey. At first he had welcomed the relief from thraldom. It was a luxury to be able to lie in bed a little longer, if he wished, without feeling "I must get up now, or I shall miss the eight-fifty." It was a luxury to sit at ease in his strip of garden on a fine morning and read the newspaper. It was not unpleasant to think that his former colleagues were saying, "Lucky chap, Hedderwick!" what time they were under the eyes of their master.
But these and similar luxuries palled after a time, and he began to grow, not exactly discontented, but restless and vaguely unhappy. He had no hobbies, save reading, and none but the ardent student wishes to read throughout the day. He felt himself a little old to begin photography, stamp-collecting or wood-carving; still, recognizing the need of some occupation, he tried to do a little gardening. The strip of land at the back of the house was small, being some thirty yards long by twenty broad. Two-thirds of this was grass, which he mowed conscientiously once a week: the rest was given up to flowers. As Robert knew nothing of flowers, he employed a man to do what was necessary in the way of digging and planting. When the serious business of horticulture was finished he would employ himself in cutting off dying blossoms, uprooting weeds and watering. But the sum total of his labor in the little plot did not amount to more than four or five hours a week.
His wife was an active—too active for the vicar's wife—supporter of Saint Frideswide's Church, and when her husband became one of the leisured classes she did her utmost to spur him to a like interest. He obeyed passively, became a sidesman, and in due course vicar's warden. He was not, to use the vicar's words, "a keen churchman," being on the whole an optimistic pragmatist rather than a devotee of dogma. But he was a good man, cheerful, kindly, with some harmless vanities. He liked, for example, to take the alms-bag round and lead the procession of collectors. He would complain of the trouble entailed by the organization of the annual treat or the parish tea, but secretly he appreciated the occupation and the importance thereof. These things helped to fill a portion of a vacant existence, but they were not enough. He felt that he was rusting.