IV About an hour later he went up to his room. It was a fact that everything had been made right for him. The gas burned low. He raised it, and it shone directly upon the washstand, which glittered with the ivory glaze¹ of large earthenware², and the whiteness of towels that displayed all the creases³ of their folding. There was a new cake of soap in the ample soap-dish, and a new tooth-brush in a sheath of transparent⁴ paper lay on the marble. "Rather complete this!" he reflected. The nail-brush—an article in which he specialized—was worn, but it was worn evenly and had cost good money. The water-bottle dazzled him; its polished clarity was truly crystalline. He could not remember ever having seen a toilet array so shining with strict cleanness. Indeed, it was probable that he had never set eyes on an absolutely clean water-bottle before; the qualities associated with water-bottles in his memory were semi-opacity and spottiness.
 
The dressing-table matched the washstand. A carriage clock in leather had been placed on the mantelpiece. In front of the mantelpiece was an old embroidered⁵ fire-screen. Peeping between the screen and the grate, he saw that a fire had been scientifically laid, ready for lighting⁶; but some bits of paper and oddments on the top of the coal showed that it was not freshly laid. The grate had a hob at one side, and on this was a small, bright tin kettle. The bed was clearly a good bed, resilient, softly garnished⁷. On it was stretched a long, striped garment of flannel⁸, with old-fashioned pearl buttons at neck and sleeves. An honest garment, quite surely unshrinkable! No doubt in the sixties, long before the mind of man had leaped to the fine perverse⁹ conception of the decorated pyjama, this garment had enjoyed the fullest correctness. Now, after perhaps forty years in the cupboards of Mrs. Maldon, it seemed to recall the more excellent attributes of an already forgotten past, and to rebuke¹⁰ what was degenerate¹¹ in the present.
 
Louis, ranging over his experiences in the disorderly and mean pretentiousness¹² of the suburban¹³ home, and in the discomfort¹⁴ of various lodgings¹⁵, appreciated the grave, comfortable benignity¹⁶ of that bedroom. Its appeal to his senses was so strong that it became for him almost luxurious¹⁷. The bedroom at his latest lodgings was full of boot-trees and trouser-stretchers and coat-holders, but it was a paltry¹⁸ thing and a grimy. He saw the daily and hourly advantages of marriage with a loving, simple woman whose house was her pride. He had a longing¹⁹ for solidities, certitudes, and righteousness.
 
Musing²⁰ delectably²¹, he drew aside the crimson²² curtain from the window and beheld²³ the same prospect²⁴ that Rachel had beheld on her walk towards Friendly Street—the obscurity of the park, the chain of lamps down the slope of Moorthorne Road, and the distant fires of industry still farther beyond, towards Toft End. He had hated the foul²⁵, sordid²⁶, ragged²⁷ prospects²⁸ and vistas²⁹ of the Five Towns when he came new to them from London, and he had continued to hate them. They desolated³⁰ him. But to-night he thought of them sympathetically. It was as if he was divining in them for the first time a recondite³¹ charm. He remembered what an old citizen named Dain had said one evening at the Conservative Club: "People may say what they choose about Bursley. I've just returned from London and I tell thee I was glad to get back. I like Bursley." A grotesque³² saying, he had thought, then. Yet now he positively³³ felt himself capable of sharing the sentiment. Rachel in the kitchen, and the kitchen in town, and the town amid those scarred and smoking hillocks!... Invisible phenomena³⁴! Mysterious harmonies! The influence of the night solaced³⁵ and uplifted him and bestowed³⁶ on him new faculties³⁷ of perception.
 
At length, deciding, after characteristic procrastination³⁸, that he must really go to bed, he wound up his watch and put it on the dressing-table. His pockets had to be emptied and his clothes hung or folded. His fingers touched the notes in the left-hand outside pocket of his coat. Not for one instant had the problem of the bank-notes been absent from his mind. Throughout the conversation with Rachel, throughout the interval³⁹ between her retirement⁴⁰ and his own, throughout his meditations⁴¹ in the bedroom, he had not once escaped from the obsession⁴² of the bank-notes and their problem. He knew now how the problem must be solved. There was, after all, only one solution, and it was extremely simple. He must put the notes back where he had found them, underneath⁴³ the chair on the landing. If advisable, he might rediscover them in the morning and surrender them immediately. But they must not remain in his room during the night. He must not examine them—he must not look at them.
 
He approached the door quickly, lest he might never reach the door. But he was somehow forced to halt at the wardrobe, to see if it had coat-holders. It had one coat-holder.... His hand was on the door-knob. He turned it with every species of precaution—and it complained loudly in the still night. The door opened with a terrible explosive noise of protest. He gazed into the darkness of the landing, and presently, by the light from the bedroom, could distinguish the vague boundaries of it. The chair, invisible, was on the left. He opened the door wider to the nocturnal riddle⁴⁴ of the house. His hand clasped the notes in his pocket. No sound! He listened for the ticking of the lobby clock and could not catch it. He listened more intently. It was impossible that he should not hear the ticking of the lobby clock. Was he dreaming? Was he under some delusion⁴⁵? Then it occurred to him that the lobby clock must have run down or otherwise stopped. Clocks did stop.... And then his heart bounded and his flesh crept. He had heard footsteps somewhere below. Or were the footsteps merely in his imagination?
 
Alone in the parlour, after Rachel had gone to bed, he had spent some time in gazing at the Signal; for there had been absolutely nothing else to do, and he could not have thought of sleep at such an early hour. It is true that, with his intense preoccupations, he had for the most part gazed uncomprehendingly at the Signal. The tale of the latest burglaries, however, had by virtue⁴⁷ of its intrinsic interest reached his brain through his eyes, and had impressed him, despite preoccupations. And now, as he stood in the gloom at the door of his bedroom and waited feverishly⁴⁸ for the sound of more footsteps, it was inevitable⁴⁹ that visions of burglars should disturb him.
 
The probability of burglars visiting any particular house in the town was infinitely⁵⁰ slight—his common sense told him that. But supposing—just supposing that they actually had chosen his aunt's abode⁵¹ for their prey⁵²!... Conceivably they had learnt that Mrs. Maldon was to have a large sum of money under her roof. Conceivably a complex plan had been carefully laid. Conceivably one of the great burglaries of criminal history might be in progress. It was not impossible. No wonder that, with bank-notes loose all over the place, his shockingly negligent⁵³ auntie should have special qualms⁵⁴ concerning burglars on that night of all nights! Fortunate indeed that he carried a revolver, that the revolver was loaded, and that he had some skill to use it! A dramatic surprise—his gun and the man behind it—for burglars who had no doubt counted on having to deal with a mere⁴⁶ couple of women! He had but to remove his shoes and creep down the stairs. He felt at the revolver in his pocket. Often had he pictured himself in the act of calmly triumphing over burglars or other villains⁵⁵.
 
Then, with no further hesitation⁵⁶, he silently closed the door—on the inside!... How could there be burglars in the house? The suspicion was folly⁵⁷. What he had heard could be naught⁵⁸ but the nocturnal cracking and yielding of an old building at night. Was it not notorious that the night was full of noises? And even if burglars had entered!... Better, safer, to ignore them! They could not make off with a great deal, for the main item of prey happened to be in his own pocket. Let them search for the treasure! If they had the effrontery⁵⁹ to come searching in his bedroom, he would give them a reception! Let them try! He looked at the revolver, holding it beneath the gas. Could he aim it at a human being?...
 
Or—another explanation—possibly Rachel, having forgotten something or having need of something, had gone downstairs for it. He had not thought of that. But what more natural? Sudden toothache—a desire for laudanum—a visit to a store cupboard: such was the classic order of events.
 
He listened, secure within the four walls of his bedroom. He smiled. He could have fancied that he heard an electric bell ring ever so faintly at a distance—in the next house, in the next world.
 
He laughed to himself.
 
Then at length he moved again towards the door; and he paused in front of it. There were no burglars! The notion of burglars was idiotic⁶⁰! He must put the notes back under the chair. His whole salvation⁶¹ ............