Ought she to hope, or ought she to despair?
"O God, help me!" she kept whispering to Jehovah whenever the heavenly vision shone through the wrack of her meditation.
"O God, help me!"
She had a conscience that, when it was in the mood for severity, could be unspeakably cruel to her.
And whenever she looked, with dry, hot eyes, through her gloved fingers, she saw in front of her on the wall a marble tablet inscribed in gilt letters, the cenotaph!
She knew all the lines by heart, in their spacious grandiloquence; lines such as:
EVER READY WITH HIS TONGUE HIS PEN AND HIS PURSE TO HELP THE CHURCH OF HIS FATHERS IN HER HE LIVED AND IN HER HE DIED CHERISHING A DEEP AND ARDENT AFFECTION FOR HIS BELOVED FAITH AND CREED.
And again:
HIS SYMPATHIES EXTENDED BEYOND HIS OWN COMMUNITY HE WAS ALWAYS TO THE FORE IN GOOD WORKS AND HE SERVED THE CIRCUIT THE TOWN AND THE DISTRICT WITH GREAT ACCEPTANCE AND USEFULNESS.
Thus had Mr. Critchlow's vanity been duly appeased.
As the minutes sped in the breathing silence of the chapel the emotional tension grew tighter; worshippers sighed heavily, or called upon Jehovah for a sign, or merely coughed an invocation.
And then at last the clock in the middle of the balcony gave forth the single stroke to which it was limited; the ministers rose, and the congregation after them; and everybody smiled as though it was the millennium, and not simply the new year, that had set in.
Then, faintly, through walls and shut windows, came the sound of bells and of steam syrens and whistles.
The superintendent minister opened his hymn-book, and the hymn was sung which had been sung in Wesleyan Chapels on New Year's morn since the era of John Wesley himself.
The organ finished with a clanguor of all its pipes; the minister had a few last words with Jehovah, and nothing was left to do except to persevere in well-doing.
The people leaned towards each other across the high backs of the pews.
"A happy New Year!"
"Eh, thank ye!
The same to you!"
"Another Watch Night service over!"
"Eh, yes!" And a sigh.
Then the aisles were suddenly crowded, and there was a good- humoured, optimistic pushing towards the door.
In the Corinthian porch occurred a great putting-on of cloaks, ulsters, goloshes, and even pattens, and a great putting-up of umbrellas.
And the congregation went out into the whirling snow, dividing into several black, silent-footed processions, down Trafalgar Road, up towards the playground, along the market-place, and across Duck Square in the direction of St. Luke's Square.
Mr. Povey was between Mrs. Baines and Constance.
"You must take my arm, my pet," said Mrs. Baines to Sophia.
Then Mr. Povey and Constance waded on in front through the drifts.
Sophia balanced that enormous swaying mass, her mother.
Owing to their hoops, she had much difficulty in keeping close to her.
Mrs. Baines laughed with the complacent ease of obesity, yet a fall would have been almost irremediable for her; and so Sophia had to laugh too.
But, though she laughed, God had not helped her.
She did not know where she was going, nor what might happen to her next.
"Why, bless us!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines, as they turned the corner into King Street.
"There's some one sitting on our door-step!"
There was: a figure swathed in an ulster, a maud over the ulster, and a high hat on the top of all.
It could not have been there very long, because it was only speckled with snow.
Mr. Povey plunged forward.
"It's Mr. Scales, of all people!" said Mr. Povey.
"Mr. Scales!" cried Mrs. Baines.
And, "Mr. Scales!" murmured Sophia, terribly afraid.
Perhaps she was afraid of miracles.
Mr. Scales sitting on her mother's doorstep in the middle of the snowy night had assuredly the air of a miracle, of something dreamed in a dream, of something pathetically and impossibly appropriate--'pat,' as they say in the Five Towns.
But he was a tangible fact there.
And years afterwards, in the light of further knowledge of Mr. Scales, Sophia came to regard his being on the doorstep as the most natural and characteristic thing in the world.
Real miracles never seem to be miracles, and that which at the first blush resembles one usually proves to be an instance of the extremely prosaic.
III
"Is that you, Mrs. Baines?" asked Gerald Scales, in a half-witted voice, looking up, and then getting to his feet.
"Is this your house?
So it is!
Well, I'd no idea I was sitting on your doorstep."