Snorting and self-conscious, and with his white whiskers flying behind him, he stepped in his two overcoats across the narrow, muddy pavement and on to Mrs. Tarn’s virgin stonework, and with two haughty black footmarks he instantly ruined it.  The tragedy produced no effect on Mrs. Tams.  And indeed nobody in the Five Towns would have been moved by it.  For the social convention as to porticoes enjoined, not that they should remain clean, but simply that they should show evidence of having been clean at some moment early in each day.  It mattered not how dirty they were in general, provided that the religious and futile rite of stoning had been demonstrably performed during the morning.

Mrs. Tams adroitly moved her bucket, aside, though there was plenty of room for feet even larger than those of Thomas Batchgrew, and then waited to be spoken to.  She was not spoken to.  Mr. Batchgrew, after hesitating and clearing his throat, proceeded up the steps, defiling them.  As he did so Mrs. Tams screwed together all her features and clenched her hands as if in agony, and stared horribly at the open front door, which was blowing to.  It seemed that she was trying to arrest the front door by sheer force of muscular contraction.  She did not succeed.  Gently the door closed, with a firm click of its latch, in face of Mr. Batchgrew.

“Nay, nay!” muttered Mrs. Tarns, desolated.

And Mr. Batchgrew, once more justly angered, raised his hand to the heavy knocker.

“Dunna’ knock, mester!  Dunna’ knock!” Mrs. Tarns implored in a whisper.  “Missis is asleep.  Miss Rachel’s been up aw night wi’ her, seemingly, and now her’s gone off in a doze like, and Miss Rachel’s resting, too, on th’ squab i’ th’ parlor.  Doctor was fetched.”

Apparently charging Mrs. Tarns with responsibility for the illness, Mr. Batchgrew demanded severely—­

“What was it?”

“One o’ them attacks as her has,” said Mrs. Tarns with a meekness that admitted she could offer no defence, “only wuss!”

“Hurry round to th’ back door and let me in.”

“I doubt back door’s bolted on th’ inside,” said Mrs. Tarns with deep humility.

“This is ridiculous,” said Mr. Batchgrew, truly.  “Am I to stand here all day?” And raised his hand to the knocker.

Mrs. Tarns with swiftness darted up the steps and inserted a large, fat, wet hand between the raised knocker and its bed.  It was the sublime gesture of a martyr, and her large brown eyes gazed submissively, yet firmly, at Mr. Batchgrew with the look of a martyr.  She had nothing to gain by the defiance of a great man, but she could not permit her honoured employer to be wakened.  She was accustomed to emergencies, and to desperate deeds therein, and she did not fail now in promptly taking the right course, regardless of consequences.  Somewhat younger than Mr. Batchgrew in years, she was older in experience and in wisdom.  She could do a thousand things well; Mr. Batchgrew could do nothing well.  At that very moment she conquered, and he was beaten.  Yet her brown eyes and even the sturdy uplifted arm cringed to him, and asked in abasement to be forgiven for the impiety committed.  From her other hand a cloth dripped foul water on to the topmost step.