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diff --git a/old/thldw10.txt b/old/thldw10.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 237e5c7..0000000 --- a/old/thldw10.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,26705 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Wives' Tale, by Arnold Bennett -(#5 in our series by Arnold Bennett) - -Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the -copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing -this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. - -This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project -Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the -header without written permission. - -Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the -eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is -important information about your specific rights and restrictions in -how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a -donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. - - -**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** - -**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** - -*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** - - -Title: The Old Wives' Tale - -Author: Arnold Bennett - -Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5247] -[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] -[This file was first posted on June 10, 2002] -[Date last updated: July 27, 2005] - -Edition: 10 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE OLD WIVES' TALE *** - - - - -Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - - - -The Old Wives' Tale - -Arnold Bennett - - - - -To W. W. K. - - - - -PREFACE TO THIS EDITION - -In the autumn of 1903 I used to dine frequently in a restaurant in -the Rue de Clichy, Paris. Here were, among others, two waitresses -that attracted my attention. One was a beautiful, pale young girl, -to whom I never spoke, for she was employed far away from the -table which I affected. The other, a stout, middle-aged managing -Breton woman, had sole command over my table and me, and gradually -she began to assume such a maternal tone towards me that I saw I -should be compelled to leave that restaurant. If I was absent for -a couple of nights running she would reproach me sharply: "What! -you are unfaithful to me?" Once, when I complained about some -French beans, she informed me roundly that French beans were a -subject which I did not understand. I then decided to be eternally -unfaithful to her, and I abandoned the restaurant. A few nights -before the final parting an old woman came into the restaurant to -dine. She was fat, shapeless, ugly, and grotesque. She had a -ridiculous voice, and ridiculous gestures. It was easy to see that -she lived alone, and that in the long lapse of years she had -developed the kind of peculiarity which induces guffaws among the -thoughtless. She was burdened with a lot of small parcels, which -she kept dropping. She chose one seat; and then, not liking it, -chose another; and then another. In a few moments she had the -whole restaurant laughing at her. That my middle-aged Breton -should laugh was indifferent to me, but I was pained to see a -coarse grimace of giggling on the pale face of the beautiful young -waitress to whom I had never spoken. - -I reflected, concerning the grotesque diner: "This woman was once -young, slim, perhaps beautiful; certainly free from these -ridiculous mannerisms. Very probably she is unconscious of her -singularities. Her case is a tragedy. One ought to be able to make -a heartrending novel out of the history of a woman such as she." -Every stout, ageing woman is not grotesque--far from it!--but -there is an extreme pathos in the mere fact that every stout -ageing woman was once a young girl with the unique charm of youth -in her form and movements and in her mind. And the fact that the -change from the young girl to the stout ageing woman is made up of -an infinite number of infinitesimal changes, each unperceived by -her, only intensifies the pathos. - -It was at this instant that I was visited by the idea of writing -the book which ultimately became "The Old Wives' Tale." Of course -I felt that the woman who caused the ignoble mirth in the -restaurant would not serve me as a type of heroine. For she was -much too old and obviously unsympathetic. It is an absolute rule -that the principal character of a novel must not be unsympathetic, -and the whole modern tendency of realistic fiction is against -oddness in a prominent figure. I knew that I must choose the sort -of woman who would pass unnoticed in a crowd. - -I put the idea aside for a long time, but it was never very -distant from me. For several reasons it made a special appeal to -me. I had always been a convinced admirer of Mrs. W. K. Clifford's -most precious novel, "Aunt Anne," but I wanted to see in the story -of an old woman many things that Mrs. W. K. Clifford had omitted -from "Aunt Anne." Moreover, I had always revolted against the -absurd youthfulness, the unfading youthfulness of the average -heroine. And as a protest against this fashion, I was already, in -1903, planning a novel ("Leonora") of which the heroine was aged -forty, and had daughters old enough to be in love. The reviewers, -by the way, were staggered by my hardihood in offering a woman of -forty as a subject of serious interest to the public. But I meant -to go much farther than forty! Finally as a supreme reason, I had -the example and the challenge of Guy de Maupassant's "Une Vie." In -the nineties we used to regard "Une Vie" with mute awe, as being -the summit of achievement in fiction. And I remember being very -cross with Mr. Bernard Shaw because, having read "Une Vie" at the -suggestion (I think) of Mr. William Archer, he failed to see in it -anything very remarkable. Here I must confess that, in 1908, I -read "Une Vie" again, and in spite of a natural anxiety to differ -from Mr. Bernard Shaw, I was gravely disappointed with it. It is a -fine novel, but decidedly inferior to "Pierre et Jean" or even -"Fort Comme la Mort." To return to the year 1903. "Une Vie" -relates the entire life history of a woman. I settled in the -privacy of my own head that my book about the development of a -young girl into a stout old lady must be the English "Une Vie." I -have been accused of every fault except a lack of self-confidence, -and in a few weeks I settled a further point, namely, that my book -must "go one better" than "Une Vie," and that to this end it must -be the life-history of two women instead of only one. Hence, "The -Old Wives' Tale" has two heroines. Constance was the original; -Sophia was created out of bravado, just to indicate that I -declined to consider Guy de Maupassant as the last forerunner of -the deluge. I was intimidated by the audacity of my project, but I -had sworn to carry it out. For several years I looked it squarely -in the face at intervals, and then walked away to write novels of -smaller scope, of which I produced five or six. But I could not -dally forever, and in the autumn of 1907 I actually began to write -it, in a village near Fontainebleau, where I rented half a house -from a retired railway servant. I calculated that it would be -200,000 words long (which it exactly proved to be), and I had a -vague notion that no novel of such dimensions (except -Richardson's) had ever been written before. So I counted the words -in several famous Victorian novels, and discovered to my relief -that the famous Victorian novels average 400,000 words apiece. I -wrote the first part of the novel in six weeks. It was fairly easy -to me, because, in the seventies, in the first decade of my life, -I had lived in the actual draper's shop of the Baines's, and knew -it as only a child could know it. Then I went to London on a -visit. I tried to continue the book in a London hotel, but London -was too distracting, and I put the thing away, and during January -and February of 1908, I wrote "Buried Alive," which was published -immediately, and was received with majestic indifference by the -English public, an indifference which has persisted to this day. - -I then returned to the Fontainebleau region and gave "The Old -Wives' Tale" no rest till I finished it at the end of July, 1908. -It was published in the autumn of the same year, and for six weeks -afterward the English public steadily confirmed an opinion -expressed by a certain person in whose judgment I had confidence, -to the effect that the work was honest but dull, and that when it -was not dull it had a regrettable tendency to facetiousness. My -publishers, though brave fellows, were somewhat disheartened; -however, the reception of the book gradually became less and less -frigid. - -With regard to the French portion of the story, it was not until I -had written the first part that I saw from a study of my -chronological basis that the Siege of Paris might be brought into -the tale. The idea was seductive; but I hated, and still hate, the -awful business of research; and I only knew the Paris of the -Twentieth Century. Now I was aware that my railway servant and his -wife had been living in Paris at the time of the war. I said to -the old man, "By the way, you went through the Siege of Paris, -didn't you?" He turned to his old wife and said, uncertainly, "The -Siege of Paris? Yes, we did, didn't we?" The Siege of Paris had -been only one incident among many in their lives. Of course, they -remembered it well, though not vividly, and I gained much -information from them. But the most useful thing which I gained -from them was the perception, startling at first, that ordinary -people went on living very ordinary lives in Paris during the -siege, and that to the vast mass of the population the siege was -not the dramatic, spectacular, thrilling, ecstatic affair that is -described in history. Encouraged by this perception, I decided to -include the siege in my scheme. I read Sarcey's diary of the siege -aloud to my wife, and I looked at the pictures in Jules Claretie's -popular work on the siege and the commune, and I glanced at the -printed collection of official documents, and there my research -ended. - -It has been asserted that unless I had actually been present at a -public execution, I could not have written the chapter in which -Sophia was at the Auxerre solemnity. I have not been present at a -public execution, as the whole of my information about public -executions was derived from a series of articles on them which I -read in the Paris Matin. Mr. Frank Harris, discussing my book in -"Vanity Fair," said it was clear that I had not seen an execution, -(or words to that effect), and he proceeded to give his own -description of an execution. It was a brief but terribly -convincing bit of writing, quite characteristic and quite worthy -of the author of "Montes the Matador" and of a man who has been -almost everywhere and seen almost everything. I comprehended how -far short I had fallen of the truth! I wrote to Mr. Frank Harris, -regretting that his description had not been printed before I -wrote mine, as I should assuredly have utilized it, and, of -course, I admitted that I had never witnessed an execution. He -simply replied: "Neither have I." This detail is worth preserving, -for it is a reproof to that large body of readers, who, when a -novelist has really carried conviction to them, assert off hand: -"O, that must be autobiography!" - -ARNOLD BENNETT. - - - - - - -CONTENTS - - -BOOK I. - -MRS. BAINES - - I. THE SQUARE - - II. THE TOOTH - - III. A BATTLE - - IV. ELEPHANT - - V. THE TRAVELLER - - VI. ESCAPADE - - VII. A DEFEAT - - - -BOOK II. - -CONSTANCE - - I. REVOLUTION - - II. CHRISTMAS AND THE FUTURE - - III. CYRIL - - IV. CRIME - - V. ANOTHER CRIME - - VI. THE WIDOW - - VII. BRICKS AND MORTAR - -VIII. THE PROUDEST MOTHER - - - -BOOK III. - -SOPHIA - - I. THE ELOPEMENT - - II. SUPPER - - III. AN AMBITION SATISFIED - - IV. A CRISIS FOR GERALD - - V. FEVER - - VI. THE SIEGE - - VII. SUCCESS - - - -BOOK IV. - -WHAT LIFE IS - - I. FRENSHAM'S - - II. THE MEETING - - III. TOWARDS HOTEL LIFE - - IV. END OF SOPHIA - - V. END OF CONSTANCE - - - - - - -BOOK I - -MRS. BAINES - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE SQUARE - -I - - -Those two girls, Constance and Sophia Baines, paid no heed to the -manifold interest of their situation, of which, indeed, they had -never been conscious. They were, for example, established almost -precisely on the fifty-third parallel of latitude. A little way to -the north of them, in the creases of a hill famous for its -religious orgies, rose the river Trent, the calm and -characteristic stream of middle England. Somewhat further -northwards, in the near neighbourhood of the highest public-house -in the realm, rose two lesser rivers, the Dane and the Dove, -which, quarrelling in early infancy, turned their backs on each -other, and, the one by favour of the Weaver and the other by -favour of the Trent, watered between them the whole width of -England, and poured themselves respectively into the Irish Sea and -the German Ocean. What a county of modest, unnoticed rivers! What -a natural, simple county, content to fix its boundaries by these -tortuous island brooks, with their comfortable names--Trent, -Mease, Dove, Tern, Dane, Mees, Stour, Tame, and even hasty Severn! -Not that the Severn is suitable to the county! In the county -excess is deprecated. The county is happy in not exciting remark. -It is content that Shropshire should possess that swollen bump, -the Wrekin, and that the exaggerated wildness of the Peak should -lie over its border. It does not desire to be a pancake like -Cheshire. It has everything that England has, including thirty -miles of Watling Street; and England can show nothing more -beautiful and nothing uglier than the works of nature and the -works of man to be seen within the limits of the county. It is -England in little, lost in the midst of England, unsung by -searchers after the extreme; perhaps occasionally somewhat sore at -this neglect, but how proud in the instinctive cognizance of its -representative features and traits! - -Constance and Sophia, busy with the intense preoccupations of -youth, recked not of such matters. They were surrounded by the -county. On every side the fields and moors of Staffordshire, -intersected by roads and lanes, railways, watercourses and -telegraph-lines, patterned by hedges, ornamented and made -respectable by halls and genteel parks, enlivened by villages at -the intersections, and warmly surveyed by the sun, spread out -undulating. And trains were rushing round curves in deep cuttings, -and carts and waggons trotting and jingling on the yellow roads, -and long, narrow boats passing in a leisure majestic and infinite -over the surface of the stolid canals; the rivers had only -themselves to support, for Staffordshire rivers have remained -virgin of keels to this day. One could imagine the messages -concerning prices, sudden death, and horses, in their flight -through the wires under the feet of birds. In the inns Utopians -were shouting the universe into order over beer, and in the halls -and parks the dignity of England was being preserved in a fitting -manner. The villages were full of women who did nothing but fight -against dirt and hunger, and repair the effects of friction on -clothes. Thousands of labourers were in the fields, but the fields -were so broad and numerous that this scattered multitude was -totally lost therein. The cuckoo was much more perceptible than -man, dominating whole square miles with his resounding call. And -on the airy moors heath-larks played in the ineffaceable mule- -tracks that had served centuries before even the Romans thought of -Watling Street. In short, the usual daily life of the county was -proceeding with all its immense variety and importance; but though -Constance and Sophia were in it they were not of it. - -The fact is, that while in the county they were also in the -district; and no person who lives in the district, even if he -should be old and have nothing to do but reflect upon things in -general, ever thinks about the county. So far as the county goes, -the district might almost as well be in the middle of the Sahara. -It ignores the county, save that it uses it nonchalantly sometimes -as leg-stretcher on holiday afternoons, as a man may use his back -garden. It has nothing in common with the county; it is richly -sufficient to itself. Nevertheless, its self-sufficiency and the -true salt savour of its life can only be appreciated by picturing -it hemmed in by county. It lies on the face of the county like an -insignificant stain, like a dark Pleiades in a green and empty -sky. And Hanbridge has the shape of a horse and its rider, Bursley -of half a donkey, Knype of a pair of trousers, Longshaw of an -octopus, and little Turnhill of a beetle. The Five Towns seem to -cling together for safety. Yet the idea of clinging together for -safety would make them laugh. They are unique and indispensable. -From the north of the county right down to the south they alone -stand for civilization, applied science, organized manufacture, -and the century--until you come to Wolverhampton. They are unique -and indispensable because you cannot drink tea out of a teacup -without the aid of the Five Towns; because you cannot eat a meal -in decency without the aid of the Five Towns. For this the -architecture of the Five Towns is an architecture of ovens and -chimneys; for this its atmosphere is as black as its mud; for this -it burns and smokes all night, so that Longshaw has been compared -to hell; for this it is unlearned in the ways of agriculture, -never having seen corn except as packing straw and in quartern -loaves; for this, on the other hand, it comprehends the mysterious -habits of fire and pure, sterile earth; for this it lives crammed -together in slippery streets where the housewife must change white -window-curtains at least once a fortnight if she wishes to remain -respectable; for this it gets up in the mass at six a.m., winter -and summer, and goes to bed when the public-houses close; for this -it exists--that you may drink tea out of a teacup and toy with a -chop on a plate. All the everyday crockery used in the kingdom is -made in the Five Towns--all, and much besides. A district capable -of such gigantic manufacture, of such a perfect monopoly--and -which finds energy also to produce coal and iron and great men-- -may be an insignificant stain on a county, considered -geographically, but it is surely well justified in treating the -county as its back garden once a week, and in blindly ignoring it -the rest of the time. - -Even the majestic thought that whenever and wherever in all -England a woman washes up, she washes up the product of the -district; that whenever and wherever in all England a plate is -broken the fracture means new business for the district--even this -majestic thought had probably never occurred to either of the -girls. The fact is, that while in the Five Towns they were also in -the Square, Bursley and the Square ignored the staple manufacture -as perfectly as the district ignored the county. Bursley has the -honours of antiquity in the Five Towns. No industrial development -can ever rob it of its superiority in age, which makes it -absolutely sure in its conceit. And the time will never come when -the other towns--let them swell and bluster as they may--will not -pronounce the name of Bursley as one pronounces the name of one's -mother. Add to this that the Square was the centre of Bursley's -retail trade (which scorned the staple as something wholesale, -vulgar, and assuredly filthy), and you will comprehend the -importance and the self-isolation of the Square in the scheme of -the created universe. There you have it, embedded in the district, -and the district embedded in the county, and the county lost and -dreaming in the heart of England! - -The Square was named after St. Luke. The Evangelist might have -been startled by certain phenomena in his square, but, except in -Wakes Week, when the shocking always happened, St. Luke's Square -lived in a manner passably saintly--though it contained five -public-houses. It contained five public-houses, a bank, a -barber's, a confectioner's, three grocers', two chemists', an -ironmonger's, a clothier's, and five drapers'. These were all the -catalogue. St. Luke's Square had no room for minor establishments. -The aristocracy of the Square undoubtedly consisted of the drapers -(for the bank was impersonal); and among the five the shop of -Baines stood supreme. No business establishment could possibly be -more respected than that of Mr. Baines was respected. And though -John Baines had been bedridden for a dozen years, he still lived -on the lips of admiring, ceremonious burgesses as 'our honoured -fellow-townsman.' He deserved his reputation. - -The Baines's shop, to make which three dwellings had at intervals -been thrown into one, lay at the bottom of the Square. It formed -about one-third of the south side of the Square, the remainder -being made up of Critchlow's (chemist), the clothier's, and the -Hanover Spirit Vaults. ("Vaults" was a favourite synonym of the -public-house in the Square. Only two of the public-houses were -crude public-houses: the rest were "vaults.") It was a composite -building of three storeys, in blackish-crimson brick, with a -projecting shop-front and, above and behind that, two rows of -little windows. On the sash of each window was a red cloth roll -stuffed with sawdust, to prevent draughts; plain white blinds -descended about six inches from the top of each window. There were -no curtains to any of the windows save one; this was the window of -the drawing-room, on the first floor at the corner of the Square -and King Street. Another window, on the second storey, was -peculiar, in that it had neither blind nor pad, and was very -dirty; this was the window of an unused room that had a separate -staircase to itself, the staircase being barred by a door always -locked. Constance and Sophia had lived in continual expectation of -the abnormal issuing from that mysterious room, which was next to -their own. But they were disappointed. The room had no shameful -secret except the incompetence of the architect who had made one -house out of three; it was just an empty, unemployable room. The -building had also a considerable frontage on King Street, where, -behind the shop, was sheltered the parlour, with a large window -and a door that led directly by two steps into the street. A -strange peculiarity of the shop was that it bore no signboard. -Once it had had a large signboard which a memorable gale had blown -into the Square. Mr. Baines had decided not to replace it. He had -always objected to what he called "puffing," and for this reason -would never hear of such a thing as a clearance sale. The hatred -of "puffing" grew on him until he came to regard even a sign as -"puffing." Uninformed persons who wished to find Baines's must ask -and learn. For Mr. Baines, to have replaced the sign would have -been to condone, yea, to participate in, the modern craze for -unscrupulous self-advertisement. This abstention of Mr. Baines's -from indulgence in signboards was somehow accepted by the more -thoughtful members of the community as evidence that the height of -Mr. Baines's principles was greater even than they had imagined. - -Constance and Sophia were the daughters of this credit to human -nature. He had no other children. - -II - -They pressed their noses against the window of the show-room, and -gazed down into the Square as perpendicularly as the projecting -front of the shop would allow. The show-room was over the -millinery and silken half of the shop. Over the woollen and -shirting half were the drawing-room and the chief bedroom. When in -quest of articles of coquetry, you mounted from the shop by a -curving stair, and your head gradually rose level with a large -apartment having a mahogany counter in front of the window and -along one side, yellow linoleum on the floor, many cardboard -boxes, a magnificent hinged cheval glass, and two chairs. The -window-sill being lower than the counter, there was a gulf between -the panes and the back of the counter, into which important -articles such as scissors, pencils, chalk, and artificial flowers -were continually disappearing: another proof of the architect's -incompetence. - -The girls could only press their noses against the window by -kneeling on the counter, and this they were doing. Constance's -nose was snub, but agreeably so. Sophia had a fine Roman nose; she -was a beautiful creature, beautiful and handsome at the same time. -They were both of them rather like racehorses, quivering with -delicate, sensitive, and luxuriant life; exquisite, enchanting -proof of the circulation of the blood; innocent, artful, roguish, -prim, gushing, ignorant, and miraculously wise. Their ages were -sixteen and fifteen; it is an epoch when, if one is frank, one -must admit that one has nothing to learn: one has learnt simply -everything in the previous six months. - -"There she goes!" exclaimed Sophia. - -Up the Square, from the corner of King Street, passed a woman in a -new bonnet with pink strings, and a new blue dress that sloped at -the shoulders and grew to a vast circumference at the hem. Through -the silent sunlit solitude of the Square (for it was Thursday -afternoon, and all the shops shut except the confectioner's and -one chemist's) this bonnet and this dress floated northwards in -search of romance, under the relentless eyes of Constance and -Sophia. Within them, somewhere, was the soul of Maggie, domestic -servant at Baines's. Maggie had been at the shop since before the -creation of Constance and Sophia. She lived seventeen hours of -each day in an underground kitchen and larder, and the other seven -in an attic, never going out except to chapel on Sunday evenings, -and once a month on Thursday afternoons. "Followers" were most -strictly forbidden to her; but on rare occasions an aunt from -Longshaw was permitted as a tremendous favour to see her in the -subterranean den. Everybody, including herself, considered that -she had a good "place," and was well treated. It was undeniable, -for instance, that she was allowed to fall in love exactly as she -chose, provided she did not "carry on" in the kitchen or the yard. -And as a fact, Maggie had fallen in love. In seventeen years she -had been engaged eleven times. No one could conceive how that ugly -and powerful organism could softly languish to the undoing of even -a butty-collier, nor why, having caught a man in her sweet toils, -she could ever be imbecile enough to set him free. There are, -however, mysteries in the souls of Maggies. The drudge had -probably been affianced oftener than any woman in Bursley. Her -employers were so accustomed to an interesting announcement that -for years they had taken to saying naught in reply but 'Really, -Maggie!' Engagements and tragic partings were Maggie's pastime. -Fixed otherwise, she might have studied the piano instead. - -"No gloves, of course!" Sophia criticized. - -"Well, you can't expect her to have gloves," said Constance. - -Then a pause, as the bonnet and dress neared the top of the -Square. - -"Supposing she turns round and sees us?" Constance suggested. - -"I don't care if she does," said Sophia, with a haughtiness almost -impassioned; and her head trembled slightly. - -There were, as usual, several loafers at the top of the Square, in -the corner between the bank and the "Marquis of Granby." And one -of these loafers stepped forward and shook hands with an obviously -willing Maggie. Clearly it was a rendezvous, open, unashamed. The -twelfth victim had been selected by the virgin of forty, whose -kiss would not have melted lard! The couple disappeared together -down Oldcastle Street. - -"WELL!" cried Constance. "Did you ever see such a thing?" - -While Sophia, short of adequate words, flushed and bit her lip. - -With the profound, instinctive cruelty of youth, Constance and -Sophia had assembled in their favourite haunt, the show-room, -expressly to deride Maggie in her new clothes. They obscurely -thought that a woman so ugly and soiled as Maggie was had no right -to possess new clothes. Even her desire to take the air of a -Thursday afternoon seemed to them unnatural and somewhat -reprehensible. Why should she want to stir out of her kitchen? As -for her tender yearnings, they positively grudged these to Maggie. -That Maggie should give rein to chaste passion was more than -grotesque; it was offensive and wicked. But let it not for an -instant be doubted that they were nice, kind-hearted, well- -behaved, and delightful girls! Because they were. They were not -angels. - -"It's too ridiculous!" said Sophia, severely. She had youth, -beauty, and rank in her favour. And to her it really was -ridiculous. - -"Poor old Maggie!" Constance murmured. Constance was foolishly -good-natured, a perfect manufactory of excuses for other people; -and her benevolence was eternally rising up and overpowering her -reason. - -"What time did mother say she should be back?" Sophia asked. - -"Not until supper." - -"Oh! Hallelujah!" Sophia burst out, clasping her hands in joy. And -they both slid down from the counter just as if they had been -little boys, and not, as their mother called them, "great girls." - -"Let's go and play the Osborne quadrilles," Sophia suggested (the -Osborne quadrilles being a series of dances arranged to be -performed on drawing-room pianos by four jewelled hands). - -"I couldn't think of it," said Constance, with a precocious -gesture of seriousness. In that gesture, and in her tone, was -something which conveyed to Sophia: "Sophia, how can you be so -utterly blind to the gravity of our fleeting existence as to ask -me to go and strum the piano with you?" Yet a moment before she -had been a little boy. - -"Why not?" Sophia demanded. - -"I shall never have another chance like to-day for getting on with -this," said Constance, picking up a bag from the counter. - -She sat down and took from the bag a piece of loosely woven -canvas, on which she was embroidering a bunch of roses in coloured -wools. The canvas had once been stretched on a frame, but now, as -the delicate labour of the petals and leaves was done, and nothing -remained to do but the monotonous background, Constance was -content to pin the stuff to her knee. With the long needle and -several skeins of mustard-tinted wool, she bent over the canvas -and resumed the filling-in of the tiny squares. The whole design -was in squares--the gradations of red and greens, the curves of -the smallest buds--all was contrived in squares, with a result -that mimicked a fragment of uncompromising Axminster carpet. -Still, the fine texture of the wool, the regular and rapid grace -of those fingers moving incessantly at back and front of the -canvas, the gentle sound of the wool as it passed through the -holes, and the intent, youthful earnestness of that lowered gaze, -excused and invested with charm an activity which, on artistic -grounds, could not possibly be justified. The canvas was destined -to adorn a gilt firescreen in the drawing-room, and also to form a -birthday gift to Mrs. Baines from her elder daughter. But whether -the enterprise was as secret from Mrs. Baines as Constance hoped, -none save Mrs. Baines knew. - -"Con," murmured Sophia, "you're too sickening sometimes." - -"Well," said Constance, blandly, "it's no use pretending that this -hasn't got to be finished before we go back to school, because it -has." Sophia wandered about, a prey ripe for the Evil One. "Oh," -she exclaimed joyously--even ecstatically--looking behind the -cheval glass, "here's mother's new skirt! Miss Dunn's been putting -the gimp on it! Oh, mother, what a proud thing you will be!" -Constance heard swishings behind the glass. "What are you doing, -Sophia?" - -"Nothing." - -"You surely aren't putting that skirt on?" - -"Why not?" - -"You'll catch it finely, I can tell you!" - -Without further defence, Sophia sprang out from behind the immense -glass. She had already shed a notable part of her own costume, and -the flush of mischief was in her face. She ran across to the other -side of the room and examined carefully a large coloured print -that was affixed to the wall. - -This print represented fifteen sisters, all of the same height and -slimness of figure, all of the same age--about twenty-five or so, -and all with exactly the same haughty and bored beauty. That they -were in truth sisters was clear from the facial resemblance -between them; their demeanour indicated that they were princesses, -offspring of some impossibly prolific king and queen. Those hands -had never toiled, nor had those features ever relaxed from the -smile of courts. The princesses moved in a landscape of marble -steps and verandahs, with a bandstand and strange trees in the -distance. One was in a riding-habit, another in evening attire, -another dressed for tea, another for the theatre; another seemed -to be ready to go to bed. One held a little girl by the hand; it -could not have been her own little girl, for these princesses were -far beyond human passions. Where had she obtained the little girl? -Why was one sister going to the theatre, another to tea, another -to the stable, and another to bed? Why was one in a heavy mantle, -and another sheltering from the sun's rays under a parasol? The -picture was drenched in mystery, and the strangest thing about it -was that all these highnesses were apparently content with the -most ridiculous and out-moded fashions. Absurd hats, with veils -flying behind; absurd bonnets, fitting close to the head, and -spotted; absurd coiffures that nearly lay on the nape; absurd, -clumsy sleeves; absurd waists, almost above the elbow's level; -absurd scolloped jackets! And the skirts! What a sight were those -skirts! They were nothing but vast decorated pyramids; on the -summit of each was stuck the upper half of a princess. It was -astounding that princesses should consent to be so preposterous -and so uncomfortable. But Sophia perceived nothing uncanny in the -picture, which bore the legend: "Newest summer fashions from -Paris. Gratis supplement to Myra's Journal." Sophia had never -imagined anything more stylish, lovely, and dashing than the -raiment of the fifteen princesses. - -For Constance and Sophia had the disadvantage of living in the -middle ages. The crinoline had not quite reached its full -circumference, and the dress-improver had not even been thought -of. In all the Five Towns there was not a public bath, nor a free -library, nor a municipal park, nor a telephone, nor yet a board- -school. People had not understood the vital necessity of going -away to the seaside every year. Bishop Colenso had just staggered -Christianity by his shameless notions on the Pentateuch. Half -Lancashire was starving on account of the American war. Garroting -was the chief amusement of the homicidal classes. Incredible as it -may appear, there was nothing but a horse-tram running between -Bursley and Hanbridge--and that only twice an hour; and between -the other towns no stage of any kind! One went to Longshaw as one -now goes to Pekin. It was an era so dark and backward that one -might wonder how people could sleep in their beds at night for -thinking about their sad state. - -Happily the inhabitants of the Five Towns in that era were -passably pleased with themselves, and they never even suspected -that they were not quite modern and quite awake. They thought that -the intellectual, the industrial, and the social movements had -gone about as far as these movements could go, and they were -amazed at their own progress. Instead of being humble and ashamed, -they actually showed pride in their pitiful achievements. They -ought to have looked forward meekly to the prodigious feats of -posterity; but, having too little faith and too much conceit, they -were content to look behind and make comparisons with the past. -They did not foresee the miraculous generation which is us. A -poor, blind, complacent people! The ludicrous horse-car was -typical of them. The driver rang a huge bell, five minutes before -starting, that could he heard from the Wesleyan Chapel to the Cock -Yard, and then after deliberations and hesitations the vehicle -rolled off on its rails into unknown dangers while passengers -shouted good-bye. At Bleakridge it had to stop for the turnpike, -and it was assisted up the mountains of Leveson Place and -Sutherland Street (towards Hanbridge) by a third horse, on whose -back was perched a tiny, whip-cracking boy; that boy lived like a -shuttle on the road between Leveson Place and Sutherland Street, -and even in wet weather he was the envy of all other boys. After -half an hour's perilous transit the car drew up solemnly in a -narrow street by the Signal office in Hanbridge, and the ruddy -driver, having revolved many times the polished iron handle of his -sole brake, turned his attention to his passengers in calm -triumph, dismissing them with a sort of unsung doxology. - -And this was regarded as the last word of traction! A whip- -cracking boy on a tip horse! Oh, blind, blind! You could not -foresee the hundred and twenty electric cars that now rush madly -bumping and thundering at twenty miles an hour through all the -main streets of the district! - -So that naturally Sophia, infected with the pride of her period, -had no misgivings whatever concerning the final elegance of the -princesses. She studied them as the fifteen apostles of the ne -plus ultra; then, having taken some flowers and plumes out of a -box, amid warnings from Constance, she retreated behind the glass, -and presently emerged as a great lady in the style of the -princesses. Her mother's tremendous new gown ballooned about her -in all its fantastic richness and expensiveness. And with the gown -she had put on her mother's importance--that mien of assured -authority, of capacity tested in many a crisis, which -characterized Mrs. Baines, and which Mrs. Baines seemed to impart -to her dresses even before she had regularly worn them. For it was -a fact that Mrs. Baines's empty garments inspired respect, as -though some essence had escaped from her and remained in them. - -"Sophia!" - -Constance stayed her needle, and, without lifting her head, gazed, -with eyes raised from the wool-work, motionless at the posturing -figure of her sister. It was sacrilege that she was witnessing, a -prodigious irreverence. She was conscious of an expectation that -punishment would instantly fall on this daring, impious child. But -she, who never felt these mad, amazing impulses, could -nevertheless only smile fearfully. - -"Sophia!" she breathed, with an intensity of alarm that merged -into condoning admiration. "Whatever will you do next?" - -Sophia's lovely flushed face crowned the extraordinary structure -like a blossom, scarcely controlling its laughter. She was as tall -as her mother, and as imperious, as crested, and proud; and in -spite of the pigtail, the girlish semi-circular comb, and the -loose foal-like limbs, she could support as well as her mother the -majesty of the gimp-embroidered dress. Her eyes sparkled with all -the challenges of the untried virgin as she minced about the -showroom. Abounding life inspired her movements. The confident and -fierce joy of youth shone on her brow. "What thing on earth equals -me?" she seemed to demand with enchanting and yet ruthless -arrogance. She was the daughter of a respected, bedridden draper -in an insignificant town, lost in the central labyrinth of -England, if you like; yet what manner of man, confronted with her, -would or could have denied her naive claim to dominion? She stood, -in her mother's hoops, for the desire of the world. And in the -innocence of her soul she knew it! The heart of a young girl -mysteriously speaks and tells her of her power long ere she can -use her power. If she can find nothing else to subdue, you may -catch her in the early years subduing a gate-post or drawing -homage from an empty chair. Sophia's experimental victim was -Constance, with suspended needle and soft glance that shot out -from the lowered face. - -Then Sophia fell, in stepping backwards; the pyramid was -overbalanced; great distended rings of silk trembled and swayed -gigantically on the floor, and Sophia's small feet lay like the -feet of a doll on the rim of the largest circle, which curved and -arched above them like a cavern's mouth. The abrupt transition of -her features from assured pride to ludicrous astonishment and -alarm was comical enough to have sent into wild uncharitable -laughter any creature less humane than Constance. But Constance -sprang to her, a single embodied instinct of benevolence, with her -snub nose, and tried to raise her. - -"Oh, Sophia!" she cried compassionately--that voice seemed not to -know the tones of reproof--"I do hope you've not messed it, -because mother would be so--" - -The words were interrupted by the sound of groans beyond the door -leading to the bedrooms. The groans, indicating direst physical -torment, grew louder. The two girls stared, wonder-struck and -afraid, at the door, Sophia with her dark head raised, and -Constance with her arms round Sophia's waist. The door opened, -letting in a much-magnified sound of groans, and there entered a -youngish, undersized man, who was frantically clutching his head -in his hands and contorting all the muscles of his face. On -perceiving the sculptural group of two prone, interlocked girls, -one enveloped in a crinoline, and the other with a wool-work bunch -of flowers pinned to her knee, he jumped back, ceased groaning, -arranged his face, and seriously tried to pretend that it was not -he who had been vocal in anguish, that, indeed, he was just -passing as a casual, ordinary wayfarer through the showroom to the -shop below. He blushed darkly; and the girls also blushed. - -"Oh, I beg pardon, I'm sure!" said this youngish man suddenly; and -with a swift turn he disappeared whence he had come. - -He was Mr. Povey, a person universally esteemed, both within and -without the shop, the surrogate of bedridden Mr. Baines, the -unfailing comfort and stand-by of Mrs. Baines, the fount and -radiating centre of order and discipline in the shop; a quiet, -diffident, secretive, tedious, and obstinate youngish man, -absolutely faithful, absolutely efficient in his sphere; without -brilliance, without distinction; perhaps rather little-minded, -certainly narrow-minded; but what a force in the shop! The shop -was inconceivable without Mr. Povey. He was under twenty and not -out of his apprenticeship when Mr. Baines had been struck down, -and he had at once proved his worth. Of the assistants, he alone -slept in the house. His bedroom was next to that of his employer; -there was a door between the two chambers, and the two steps led -down from the larger to the less. - -The girls regained their feet, Sophia with Constance's help. It -was not easy to right a capsized crinoline. They both began to -laugh nervously, with a trace of hysteria. - -"I thought he'd gone to the dentist's," whispered Constance. - -Mr. Povey's toothache had been causing anxiety in the microcosm -for two days, and it had been clearly understood at dinner that -Thursday morning that Mr. Povey was to set forth to Oulsnam Bros., -the dentists at Hillport, without any delay. Only on Thursdays and -Sundays did Mr. Povey dine with the family. On other days he dined -later, by himself, but at the family table, when Mrs. Baines or -one of the assistants could "relieve" him in the shop. Before -starting out to visit her elder sister at Axe, Mrs. Baines had -insisted to Mr. Povey that he had eaten practically nothing but -"slops" for twenty-four hours, and that if he was not careful she -would have him on her hands. He had replied in his quietest, most -sagacious, matter-of-fact tone--the tone that carried weight with -all who heard it--that he had only been waiting for Thursday -afternoon, and should of course go instantly to Oulsnams' and have -the thing attended to in a proper manner. He had even added that -persons who put off going to the dentist's were simply sowing -trouble for themselves. - -None could possibly have guessed that Mr. Povey was afraid of -going to the dentist's. But such was the case. He had not dared to -set forth. The paragon of commonsense, pictured by most people as -being somehow unliable to human frailties, could not yet screw -himself up to the point of ringing a dentist's door-bell. - -"He did look funny," said Sophia. "I wonder what he thought. I -couldn't help laughing!" - -Constance made no answer; but when Sophia had resumed her own -clothes, and it was ascertained beyond doubt that the new dress -had not suffered, and Constance herself was calmly stitching -again, she said, poising her needle as she had poised it to watch -Sophia: - -"I was just wondering whether something oughtn't to be done for -Mr. Povey." - -"What?" Sophia demanded. - -"Has he gone back to his bedroom?" - -"Let's go and listen," said Sophia the adventuress. - -They went, through the showroom door, past the foot of the stairs -leading to the second storey, down the long corridor broken in the -middle by two steps and carpeted with a narrow bordered carpet -whose parallel lines increased its apparent length. They went on -tiptoe, sticking close to one another. Mr. Povey's door was -slightly ajar. They listened; not a sound. - -"Mr. Povey!" Constance coughed discreetly. - -No reply. It was Sophia who pushed the door open. Constance made -an elderly prim plucking gesture at Sophia's bare arm, but she -followed Sophia gingerly into the forbidden room, which was, -however, empty. The bed had been ruffled, and on it lay a book, -"The Harvest of a Quiet Eye." - -"Harvest of a quiet tooth!" Sophia whispered, giggling very low. - -"Hsh!" Constance put her lips forward. - -From the next room came a regular, muffled, oratorical sound, as -though some one had begun many years ago to address a meeting and -had forgotten to leave off and never would leave off. They were -familiar with the sound, and they quitted Mr. Povey's chamber in -fear of disturbing it. At the same moment Mr. Povey reappeared, -this time in the drawing-room doorway at the other extremity of -the long corridor. He seemed to be trying ineffectually to flee -from his tooth as a murderer tries to flee from his conscience. - -"Oh, Mr. Povey!" said Constance quickly--for he had surprised them -coming out of his bedroom; "we were just looking for you." - -"To see if we could do anything for you," Sophia added. - -"Oh no, thanks!" said Mr. Povey. - -Then he began to come down the corridor, slowly. - -"You haven't been to the dentist's," said Constance -sympathetically. - -"No, I haven't," said Mr. Povey, as if Constance was indicating a -fact which had escaped his attention. "The truth is, I thought it -looked like rain, and if I'd got wet--you see--" - -Miserable Mr. Povey! - -"Yes," said Constance, "you certainly ought to keep out of -draughts. Don't you think it would be a good thing if you went and -sat in the parlour? There's a fire there." - -"I shall be all right, thank you," said Mr. Povey. And after a -pause: "Well, thanks, I will." - -III - -The girls made way for him to pass them at the head of the -twisting stairs which led down to the parlour. Constance followed, -and Sophia followed Constance. - -"Have father's chair," said Constance. - -There were two rocking-chairs with fluted backs covered by -antimacassars, one on either side of the hearth. That to the left -was still entitled "father's chair," though its owner had not sat -in it since long before the Crimean war, and would never sit in it -again. - -"I think I'd sooner have the other one," said Mr. Povey, "because -it's on the right side, you see." And he touched his right cheek. - -Having taken Mrs. Baines's chair, he bent his face down to the -fire, seeking comfort from its warmth. Sophia poked the fire, -whereupon Mr. Povey abruptly withdrew his face. He then felt -something light on his shoulders. Constance had taken the -antimacassar from the back of the chair, and protected him with it -from the draughts. He did not instantly rebel, and therefore was -permanently barred from rebellion. He was entrapped by the -antimacassar. It formally constituted him an invalid, and -Constance and Sophia his nurses. Constance drew the curtain across -the street door. No draught could come from the window, for the -window was not 'made to open.' The age of ventilation had not -arrived. Sophia shut the other two doors. And, each near a door, -the girls gazed at Mr. Povey behind his back, irresolute, but -filled with a delicious sense of responsibility. - -The situation was on a different plane now. The seriousness of Mr. -Povey's toothache, which became more and more manifest, had -already wiped out the ludicrous memory of the encounter in the -showroom. Looking at these two big girls, with their short-sleeved -black frocks and black aprons, and their smooth hair, and their -composed serious faces, one would have judged them incapable of -the least lapse from an archangelic primness; Sophia especially -presented a marvellous imitation of saintly innocence. As for the -toothache, its action on Mr. Povey was apparently periodic; it -gathered to a crisis like a wave, gradually, the torture -increasing till the wave broke and left Mr. Povey exhausted, but -free for a moment from pain. These crises recurred about once a -minute. And now, accustomed to the presence of the young virgins, -and having tacitly acknowledged by his acceptance of the -antimacassar that his state was abnormal, he gave himself up -frankly to affliction. He concealed nothing of his agony, which -was fully displayed by sudden contortions of his frame, and -frantic oscillations of the rocking-chair. Presently, as he lay -back enfeebled in the wash of a spent wave, he murmured with a -sick man's voice: - -"I suppose you haven't got any laudanum?" - -The girls started into life. "Laudanum, Mr. Povey?" - -"Yes, to hold in my mouth." - -He sat up, tense; another wave was forming. The excellent fellow -was lost to all self-respect, all decency. - -"There's sure to be some in mother's cupboard," said Sophia. - -Constance, who bore Mrs. Baines's bunch of keys at her girdle, a -solemn trust, moved a little fearfully to a corner cupboard which -was hung in the angle to the right of the projecting fireplace, -over a shelf on which stood a large copper tea-urn. That corner -cupboard, of oak inlaid with maple and ebony in a simple border -pattern, was typical of the room. It was of a piece with the deep -green "flock" wall paper, and the tea-urn, and the rocking-chairs -with their antimacassars, and the harmonium in rosewood with a -Chinese paper-mache tea-caddy on the top of it; even with the -carpet, certainly the most curious parlour carpet that ever was, -being made of lengths of the stair-carpet sewn together side by -side. That corner cupboard was already old in service; it had held -the medicines of generations. It gleamed darkly with the grave and -genuine polish which comes from ancient use alone. The key which -Constance chose from her bunch was like the cupboard, smooth and -shining with years; it fitted and turned very easily, yet with a -firm snap. The single wide door opened sedately as a portal. - -The girls examined the sacred interior, which had the air of being -inhabited by an army of diminutive prisoners, each crying aloud -with the full strength of its label to be set free on a mission. - -"There it is!" said Sophia eagerly. - -And there it was: a blue bottle, with a saffron label, "Caution. -POISON. Laudanum. Charles Critchlow, M.P.S. Dispensing Chemist. -St. Luke's Square, Bursley." - -Those large capitals frightened the girls. Constance took the -bottle as she might have taken a loaded revolver, and she glanced -at Sophia. Their omnipotent, all-wise mother was not present to -tell them what to do. They, who had never decided, had to decide -now. And Constance was the elder. Must this fearsome stuff, whose -very name was a name of fear, be introduced in spite of printed -warnings into Mr. Povey's mouth? The responsibility was -terrifying. - -"Perhaps I'd just better ask Mr. Critchlow," Constance faltered. - -The expectation of beneficent laudanum had enlivened Mr. Povey, -had already, indeed, by a sort of suggestion, half cured his -toothache. - -"Oh no!" he said. "No need to ask Mr. Critchlow ... Two or three -drops in a little water." He showed impatience to be at the -laudanum. - -The girls knew that an antipathy existed between the chemist and -Mr. Povey. - -"It's sure to be all right," said Sophia. "I'll get the water." - -With youthful cries and alarms they succeeded in pouring four -mortal dark drops (one more than Constance intended) into a cup -containing a little water. And as they handed the cup to Mr. Povey -their faces were the faces of affrighted comical conspirators. -They felt so old and they looked so young. - -Mr. Povey imbibed eagerly of the potion, put the cup on the -mantelpiece, and then tilted his head to the right so as to -submerge the affected tooth. In this posture he remained, awaiting -the sweet influence of the remedy. The girls, out of a nice -modesty, turned away, for Mr. Povey must not swallow the medicine, -and they preferred to leave him unhampered in the solution of a -delicate problem. When next they examined him, he was leaning back -in the rocking-chair with his mouth open and his eyes shut. - -"Has it done you any good, Mr. Povey?" - -"I think I'll lie down on the sofa for a minute," was Mr. Povey's -strange reply; and forthwith he sprang up and flung himself on to -the horse-hair sofa between the fireplace and the window, where he -lay stripped of all his dignity, a mere beaten animal in a grey -suit with peculiar coat-tails, and a very creased waistcoat, and a -lapel that was planted with pins, and a paper collar and close- -fitting paper cuffs. - -Constance ran after him with the antimacassar, which she spread -softly on his shoulders; and Sophia put another one over his thin -little legs, all drawn up. - -They then gazed at their handiwork, with secret self-accusations -and the most dreadful misgivings. - -"He surely never swallowed it!" Constance whispered. - -"He's asleep, anyhow," said Sophia, more loudly. - -Mr. Povey was certainly asleep, and his mouth was very wide open-- -like a shop-door. The only question was whether his sleep was not -an eternal sleep; the only question was whether he was not out of -his pain for ever. - -Then he snored--horribly; his snore seemed a portent of disaster. - -Sophia approached him as though he were a bomb, and stared, -growing bolder, into his mouth. - -"Oh, Con," she summoned her sister, "do come and look! It's too -droll!" - -In an instant all their four eyes were exploring the singular -landscape of Mr. Povey's mouth. In a corner, to the right of that -interior, was one sizeable fragment of a tooth, that was attached -to Mr. Povey by the slenderest tie, so that at each respiration of -Mr. Povey, when his body slightly heaved and the gale moaned in -the cavern, this tooth moved separately, showing that its long -connection with Mr. Povey was drawing to a close. - -"That's the one," said Sophia, pointing. "And it's as loose as -anything. Did you ever see such a funny thing?" - -The extreme funniness of the thing had lulled in Sophia the fear -of Mr. Povey's sudden death. - -"I'll see how much he's taken," said Constance, preoccupied, going -to the mantelpiece. - -"Why, I do believe---" Sophia began, and then stopped, glancing at -the sewing-machine, which stood next to the sofa. - -It was a Howe sewing-machine. It had a little tool-drawer, and in -the tool-drawer was a small pair of pliers. Constance, engaged in -sniffing at the lees of the potion in order to estimate its -probable deadliness, heard the well-known click of the little -tool-drawer, and then she saw Sophia nearing Mr. Povey's mouth -with the pliers. - -"Sophia!" she exclaimed, aghast. "What in the name of goodness are -you doing?" - -"Nothing," said Sophia. - -The next instant Mr. Povey sprang up out of his laudanum dream. - -"It jumps!" he muttered; and, after a reflective pause, "but it's -much better." He had at any rate escaped death. - -Sophia's right hand was behind her back. - -Just then a hawker passed down King Street, crying mussels and -cockles. - -"Oh!" Sophia almost shrieked. "Do let's have mussels and cockles -for tea!" And she rushed to the door, and unlocked and opened it, -regardless of the risk of draughts to Mr. Povey. - -In those days people often depended upon the caprices of hawkers -for the tastiness of their teas; but it was an adventurous age, -when errant knights of commerce were numerous and enterprising. -You went on to your doorstep, caught your meal as it passed, -withdrew, cooked it and ate it, quite in the manner of the early -Briton. - -Constance was obliged to join her sister on the top step. Sophia -descended to the second step. - -"Fresh mussels and cockles all alive oh!" bawled the hawker, -looking across the road in the April breeze. He was the celebrated -Hollins, a professional Irish drunkard, aged in iniquity, who -cheerfully saluted magistrates in the street, and referred to the -workhouse, which he occasionally visited, as the Bastile. - -Sophia was trembling from head to foot. - -"What ARE you laughing at, you silly thing?" Constance demanded. - -Sophia surreptitiously showed the pliers, which she had partly -thrust into her pocket. Between their points was a most -perceptible, and even recognizable, fragment of Mr. Povey. - -This was the crown of Sophia's career as a perpetrator of the -unutterable. - -"What!" Constance's face showed the final contortions of that -horrified incredulity which is forced to believe. - -Sophia nudged her violently to remind her that they were in the -street, and also quite close to Mr. Povey. - -"Now, my little missies," said the vile Hollins. "Three pence a -pint, and how's your honoured mother to-day? Yes, fresh, so help -me God!" - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE TOOTH - -I - - -The two girls came up the unlighted stone staircase which led from -Maggie's cave to the door of the parlour. Sophia, foremost, was -carrying a large tray, and Constance a small one. Constance, who -had nothing on her tray but a teapot, a bowl of steaming and -balmy-scented mussels and cockles, and a plate of hot buttered -toast, went directly into the parlour on the left. Sophia had in -her arms the entire material and apparatus of a high tea for two, -including eggs, jam, and toast (covered with the slop-basin turned -upside down), but not including mussels and cockles. She turned to -the right, passed along the corridor by the cutting-out room, up -two steps into the sheeted and shuttered gloom of the closed shop, -up the showroom stairs, through the showroom, and so into the -bedroom corridor. Experience had proved it easier to make this -long detour than to round the difficult corner of the parlour -stairs with a large loaded tray. Sophia knocked with the edge of -the tray at the door of the principal bedroom. The muffled -oratorical sound from within suddenly ceased, and the door was -opened by a very tall, very thin, black-bearded man, who looked -down at Sophia as if to demand what she meant by such an -interruption. - -"I've brought the tea, Mr. Critchlow," said Sophia. - -And Mr. Critchlow carefully accepted the tray. - -"Is that my little Sophia?" asked a faint voice from the depths of -the bedroom. - -"Yes, father," said Sophia. - -But she did not attempt to enter the room. Mr. Critchlow put the -tray on a white-clad chest of drawers near the door, and then he -shut the door, with no ceremony. Mr. Critchlow was John Baines's -oldest and closest friend, though decidedly younger than the -draper. He frequently "popped in" to have a word with the invalid; -but Thursday afternoon was his special afternoon, consecrated by -him to the service of the sick. From two o'clock precisely till -eight o'clock precisely he took charge of John Baines, reigning -autocratically over the bedroom. It was known that he would not -tolerate invasions, nor even ambassadorial visits. No! He gave up -his weekly holiday to this business of friendship, and he must be -allowed to conduct the business in his own way. Mrs. Baines -herself avoided disturbing Mr. Critchlow's ministrations on her -husband. She was glad to do so; for Mr. Baines was never to be -left alone under any circumstances, and the convenience of being -able to rely upon the presence of a staid member of the -Pharmaceutical Society for six hours of a given day every week -outweighed the slight affront to her prerogatives as wife and -house-mistress. Mr. Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man, but -when he was in the bedroom she could leave the house with an easy -mind. Moreover, John Baines enjoyed these Thursday afternoons. For -him, there was 'none like Charles Critchlow.' The two old friends -experienced a sort of grim, desiccated happiness, cooped up -together in the bedroom, secure from women and fools generally. -How they spent the time did not seem to be certainly known, but -the impression was that politics occupied them. Undoubtedly Mr. -Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man. He was a man of habits. -He must always have the same things for his tea. Black-currant -jam, for instance. (He called it "preserve.") The idea of offering -Mr. Critchlow a tea which did not comprise black-currant jam was -inconceivable by the intelligence of St. Luke's Square. Thus for -years past, in the fruit-preserving season, when all the house and -all the shop smelt richly of fruit boiling in sugar, Mrs. Baines -had filled an extra number of jars with black-currant jam, -'because Mr. Critchlow wouldn't TOUCH any other sort.' - -So Sophia, faced with the shut door of the bedroom, went down to -the parlour by the shorter route. She knew that on going up again, -after tea, she would find the devastated tray on the doormat. - -Constance was helping Mr. Povey to mussels and cockles. And Mr. -Povey still wore one of the antimacassars. It must have stuck to -his shoulders when he sprang up from the sofa, woollen -antimacassars being notoriously parasitic things. Sophia sat down, -somewhat self-consciously. The serious Constance was also -perturbed. Mr. Povey did not usually take tea in the house on -Thursday afternoons; his practice was to go out into the great, -mysterious world. Never before had he shared a meal with the girls -alone. The situation was indubitably unexpected, unforeseen; it -was, too, piquant, and what added to its piquancy was the fact -that Constance and Sophia were, somehow, responsible for Mr. -Povey. They felt that they were responsible for him. They had -offered the practical sympathy of two intelligent and well-trained -young women, born nurses by reason of their sex, and Mr. Povey had -accepted; he was now on their hands. Sophia's monstrous, sly -operation in Mr. Povey's mouth did not cause either of them much -alarm, Constance having apparently recovered from the first shock -of it. They had discussed it in the kitchen while preparing the -teas; Constance's extraordinarily severe and dictatorial tone in -condemning it had led to a certain heat. But the success of the -impudent wrench justified it despite any irrefutable argument to -the contrary. Mr. Povey was better already, and he evidently -remained in ignorance of his loss. - -"Have some?" Constance asked of Sophia, with a large spoon -hovering over the bowl of shells. - -"Yes, PLEASE," said Sophia, positively. - -Constance well knew that she would have some, and had only asked -from sheer nervousness. - -"Pass your plate, then." - -Now when everybody was served with mussels, cockles, tea, and -toast, and Mr. Povey had been persuaded to cut the crust off his -toast, and Constance had, quite unnecessarily, warned Sophia -against the deadly green stuff in the mussels, and Constance had -further pointed out that the evenings were getting longer, and Mr. -Povey had agreed that they were, there remained nothing to say. An -irksome silence fell on them all, and no one could lift it off. -Tiny clashes of shell and crockery sounded with the terrible -clearness of noises heard in the night. Each person avoided the -eyes of the others. And both Constance and Sophia kept -straightening their bodies at intervals, and expanding their -chests, and then looking at their plates; occasionally a prim -cough was discharged. It was a sad example of the difference -between young women's dreams of social brilliance and the reality -of life. These girls got more and more girlish, until, from being -women at the administering of laudanum, they sank back to about -eight years of age--perfect children--at the tea-table. - -The tension was snapped by Mr. Povey. "My God!" he muttered, moved -by a startling discovery to this impious and disgraceful oath (he, -the pattern and exemplar--and in the presence of innocent girlhood -too!). "I've swallowed it!" - -"Swallowed what, Mr. Povey?" Constance inquired. - -The tip of Mr. Povey's tongue made a careful voyage of inspection -all round the right side of his mouth. - -"Oh yes!" he said, as if solemnly accepting the inevitable. "I've -swallowed it!" - -Sophia's face was now scarlet; she seemed to be looking for some -place to hide it. Constance could not think of anything to say. - -"That tooth has been loose for two years," said Mr. Povey, "and -now I've swallowed it with a mussel." - -"Oh, Mr. Povey!" Constance cried in confusion, and added, "There's -one good thing, it can't hurt you any more now." - -"Oh!" said Mr. Povey. "It wasn't THAT tooth that was hurting me. -It's an old stump at the back that's upset me so this last day or -two. I wish it had been." - -Sophia had her teacup close to her red face. At these words of Mr. -Povey her cheeks seemed to fill out like plump apples. She dashed -the cup into its saucer, spilling tea recklessly, and then ran -from the room with stifled snorts. - -"Sophia!" Constance protested. - -"I must just---" Sophia incoherently spluttered in the doorway. "I -shall be all right. Don't---" - -Constance, who had risen, sat down again. - -II - -Sophia fled along the passage leading to the shop and took refuge -in the cutting-out room, a room which the astonishing architect -had devised upon what must have been a backyard of one of the -three constituent houses. It was lighted from its roof, and only a -wooden partition, eight feet high, separated it from the passage. -Here Sophia gave rein to her feelings; she laughed and cried -together, weeping generously into her handkerchief and wildly -giggling, in a hysteria which she could not control. The spectacle -of Mr. Povey mourning for a tooth which he thought he had -swallowed, but which in fact lay all the time in her pocket, -seemed to her to be by far the most ridiculous, side-splitting -thing that had ever happened or could happen on earth. It utterly -overcame her. And when she fancied that she had exhausted and -conquered its surpassing ridiculousness, this ridiculousness -seized her again and rolled her anew in depths of mad, trembling -laughter. - -Gradually she grew calmer. She heard the parlour door open, and -Constance descend the kitchen steps with a rattling tray of tea- -things. Tea, then, was finished, without her! Constance did not -remain in the kitchen, because the cups and saucers were left for -Maggie to wash up as a fitting coda to Maggie's monthly holiday. -The parlour door closed. And the vision of Mr. Povey in his -antimacassar swept Sophia off into another convulsion of laughter -and tears. Upon this the parlour door opened again, and Sophia -choked herself into silence while Constance hastened along the -passage. In a minute Constance returned with her woolwork, which -she had got from the showroom, and the parlour received her. Not -the least curiosity on the part of Constance as to what had become -of Sophia! - -At length Sophia, a faint meditative smile being all that was left -of the storm in her, ascended slowly to the showroom, through the -shop. Nothing there of interest! Thence she wandered towards the -drawing-room, and encountered Mr. Critchlow's tray on the mat. She -picked it up and carried it by way of the showroom and shop down -to the kitchen, where she dreamily munched two pieces of toast -that had cooled to the consistency of leather. She mounted the -stone steps and listened at the door of the parlour. No sound! -This seclusion of Mr. Povey and Constance was really very strange. -She roved right round the house, and descended creepingly by the -twisted house-stairs, and listened intently at the other door of -the parlour. She now detected a faint regular snore. Mr. Povey, a -prey to laudanum and mussels, was sleeping while Constance worked -at her fire-screen! It was now in the highest degree odd, this -seclusion of Mr. Povey and Constance; unlike anything in Sophia's -experience! She wanted to go into the parlour, but she could not -bring herself to do so. She crept away again, forlorn and puzzled, -and next discovered herself in the bedroom which she shared with -Constance at the top of the house; she lay down in the dusk on the -bed and began to read "The Days of Bruce;" but she read only with -her eyes. - -Later, she heard movements on the house-stairs, and the familiar -whining creak of the door at the foot thereof. She skipped lightly -to the door of the bedroom. - -"Good-night, Mr. Povey. I hope you'll be able to sleep." - -Constance's voice! - -"It will probably come on again." - -Mr. Povey's voice, pessimistic! - -Then the shutting of doors. It was almost dark. She went back to -the bed, expecting a visit from Constance. But a clock struck -eight, and all the various phenomena connected with the departure -of Mr. Critchlow occurred one after another. At the same time -Maggie came home from the land of romance. Then long silences! -Constance was now immured with her father, it being her "turn" to -nurse; Maggie was washing up in her cave, and Mr. Povey was lost -to sight in his bedroom. Then Sophia heard her mother's lively, -commanding knock on the King Street door. Dusk had definitely -yielded to black night in the bedroom. Sophia dozed and dreamed. -When she awoke, her ear caught the sound of knocking. She jumped -up, tiptoed to the landing, and looked over the balustrade, whence -she had a view of all the first-floor corridor. The gas had been -lighted; through the round aperture at the top of the porcelain -globe she could see the wavering flame. It was her mother, still -bonneted, who was knocking at the door of Mr. Povey's room. -Constance stood in the doorway of her parents' room. Mrs. Baines -knocked twice with an interval, and then said to Constance, in a -resonant whisper that vibrated up the corridor--- - -"He seems to be fast asleep. I'd better not disturb him." - -"But suppose he wants something in the night?" - -"Well, child, I should hear him moving. Sleep's the best thing for -him." - -Mrs. Baines left Mr. Povey to the effects of laudanum, and came -along the corridor. She was a stout woman, all black stuff and -gold chain, and her skirt more than filled the width of the -corridor. Sophia watched her habitual heavy mounting gesture as -she climbed the two steps that gave variety to the corridor. At -the gas-jet she paused, and, putting her hand to the tap, gazed up -into the globe. - -"Where's Sophia?" she demanded, her eyes fixed on the gas as she -lowered the flame. - -"I think she must be in bed, mother," said Constance, -nonchalantly. - -The returned mistress was point by point resuming knowledge and -control of that complicated machine--her household. - -Then Constance and her mother disappeared into the bedroom, and -the door was shut with a gentle, decisive bang that to the silent -watcher on the floor above seemed to create a special excluding -intimacy round about the figures of Constance and her father and -mother. The watcher wondered, with a little prick of jealousy, -what they would be discussing in the large bedroom, her father's -beard wagging feebly and his long arms on the counterpane, -Constance perched at the foot of the bed, and her mother walking -to and fro, putting her cameo brooch on the dressing-table or -stretching creases out of her gloves. Certainly, in some subtle -way, Constance had a standing with her parents which was more -confidential than Sophia's. - -III - -When Constance came to bed, half an hour later, Sophia was already -in bed. The room was fairly spacious. It had been the girls' -retreat and fortress since their earliest years. Its features -seemed to them as natural and unalterable as the features of a -cave to a cave-dweller. It had been repapered twice in their -lives, and each papering stood out in their memories like an -epoch; a third epoch was due to the replacing of a drugget by a -resplendent old carpet degraded from the drawing-room. There was -only one bed, the bedstead being of painted iron; they never -interfered with each other in that bed, sleeping with a detachment -as perfect as if they had slept on opposite sides of St. Luke's -Square; yet if Constance had one night lain down on the half near -the window instead of on the half near the door, the secret nature -of the universe would have seemed to be altered. The small fire- -grate was filled with a mass of shavings of silver paper; now the -rare illnesses which they had suffered were recalled chiefly as -periods when that silver paper was crammed into a large slipper- -case which hung by the mantelpiece, and a fire of coals -unnaturally reigned in its place--the silver paper was part of the -order of the world. The sash of the window would not work quite -properly, owing to a slight subsidence in the wall, and even when -the window was fastened there was always a narrow slit to the left -hand between the window and its frame; through this slit came -draughts, and thus very keen frosts were remembered by the nights -when Mrs. Baines caused the sash to be forced and kept at its full -height by means of wedges--the slit of exposure was part of the -order of the world. - -They possessed only one bed, one washstand, and one dressing- -table; but in some other respects they were rather fortunate -girls, for they had two mahogany wardrobes; this mutual -independence as regards wardrobes was due partly to Mrs. Baines's -strong commonsense, and partly to their father's tendency to spoil -them a little. They had, moreover, a chest of drawers with a -curved front, of which structure Constance occupied two short -drawers and one long one, and Sophia two long drawers. On it stood -two fancy work-boxes, in which each sister kept jewellery, a -savings-bank book, and other treasures, and these boxes were -absolutely sacred to their respective owners. They were different, -but one was not more magnificent than the other. Indeed, a rigid -equality was the rule in the chamber, the single exception being -that behind the door were three hooks, of which Constance -commanded two. - -"Well," Sophia began, when Constance appeared. "How's darling Mr. -Povey?" She was lying on her back, and smiling at her two hands, -which she held up in front of her. - -"Asleep," said Constance. "At least mother thinks so. She says -sleep is the best thing for him." - -"'It will probably come on again,'" said Sophia. - -"What's that you say?" Constance asked, undressing. - -"'It will probably come on again.'" - -These words were a quotation from the utterances of darling Mr. -Povey on the stairs, and Sophia delivered them with an exact -imitation of Mr. Povey's vocal mannerism. - -"Sophia," said Constance, firmly, approaching the bed, "I wish you -wouldn't be so silly!" She had benevolently ignored the satirical -note in Sophia's first remark, but a strong instinct in her rose -up and objected to further derision. "Surely you've done enough -for one day!" she added. - -For answer Sophia exploded into violent laughter, which she made -no attempt to control. She laughed too long and too freely while -Constance stared at her. - -"_I_ don't know what's come over you!" said Constance. - -"It's only because I can't look at it without simply going off -into fits!" Sophia gasped out. And she held up a tiny object in -her left hand. - -Constance started, flushing. "You don't mean to say you've kept -it!" she protested earnestly. "How horrid you are, Sophia! Give it -me at once and let me throw it away. I never heard of such doings. -Now give it me!" - -"No," Sophia objected, still laughing. "I wouldn't part with it -for worlds. It's too lovely." - -She had laughed away all her secret resentment against Constance -for having ignored her during the whole evening and for being on -such intimate terms with their parents. And she was ready to be -candidly jolly with Constance. - -"Give it me," said Constance, doggedly. - -Sophia hid her hand under the clothes. "You can have his old -stump, when it comes out, if you like. But not this. What a pity -it's the wrong one!" - -"Sophia, I'm ashamed of you! Give it me." - -Then it was that Sophia first perceived Constance's extreme -seriousness. She was surprised and a little intimidated by it. For -the expression of Constance's face, usually so benign and calm, -was harsh, almost fierce. However, Sophia had a great deal of what -is called "spirit," and not even ferocity on the face of mild -Constance could intimidate her for more than a few seconds. Her -gaiety expired and her teeth were hidden. - -"I've said nothing to mother---" Constance proceeded. - -"I should hope you haven't," Sophia put in tersely. - -"But I certainly shall if you don't throw that away," Constance -finished. - -"You can say what you like," Sophia retorted, adding -contemptuously a term of opprobrium which has long since passed -out of use: "Cant!" - -"Will you give it me or won't you?" - -"No!" - -It was a battle suddenly engaged in the bedroom. The atmosphere -had altered completely with the swiftness of magic. The beauty of -Sophia, the angelic tenderness of Constance, and the youthful, -naive, innocent charm of both of them, were transformed into -something sinister and cruel. Sophia lay back on the pillow amid -her dark-brown hair, and gazed with relentless defiance into the -angry eyes of Constance, who stood threatening by the bed. They -could hear the gas singing over the dressing-table, and their -hearts beating the blood wildly in their veins. They ceased to be -young without growing old; the eternal had leapt up in them from -its sleep. - -Constance walked away from the bed to the dressing-table and began -to loose her hair and brush it, holding back her head, shaking it, -and bending forward, in the changeless gesture of that rite. She -was so disturbed that she had unconsciously reversed the customary -order of the toilette. After a moment Sophia slipped out of bed -and, stepping with her bare feet to the chest of drawers, opened -her work-box and deposited the fragment of Mr. Povey therein; she -dropped the lid with an uncompromising bang, as if to say, "We -shall see if I am to be trod upon, miss!" Their eyes met again in -the looking-glass. Then Sophia got back into bed. - -Five minutes later, when her hair was quite finished, Constance -knelt down and said her prayers. Having said her prayers, she went -straight to Sophia's work-box, opened it, seized the fragment of -Mr. Povey, ran to the window, and frantically pushed the fragment -through the slit into the Square. - -"There!" she exclaimed nervously. - -She had accomplished this inconceivable transgression of the code -of honour, beyond all undoing, before Sophia could recover from -the stupefaction of seeing her sacred work-box impudently -violated. In a single moment one of Sophia's chief ideals had been -smashed utterly, and that by the sweetest, gentlest creature she -had ever known. It was a revealing experience for Sophia--and also -for Constance. And it frightened them equally. Sophia, staring at -the text, "Thou God seest me," framed in straw over the chest of -drawers, did not stir. She was defeated, and so profoundly moved -in her defeat that she did not even reflect upon the obvious -inefficacy of illuminated texts as a deterrent from evil-doing. -Not that she eared a fig for the fragment of Mr. Povey! It was the -moral aspect of the affair, and the astounding, inexplicable -development in Constance's character, that staggered her into -silent acceptance of the inevitable. - -Constance, trembling, took pains to finish undressing with -dignified deliberation. Sophia's behaviour under the blow seemed -too good to be true; but it gave her courage. At length she turned -out the gas and lay down by Sophia. And there was a little -shuffling, and then stillness for a while. - -"And if you want to know," said Constance in a tone that mingled -amicableness with righteousness, "mother's decided with Aunt -Harriet that we are BOTH to leave school next term." - - - - -CHAPTER III - -A BATTLE - -I - - -The day sanctioned by custom in the Five Towns for the making of -pastry is Saturday. But Mrs. Baines made her pastry on Friday, -because Saturday afternoon was, of course, a busy time in the -shop. It is true that Mrs. Baines made her pastry in the morning, -and that Saturday morning in the shop was scarcely different from -any other morning. Nevertheless, Mrs. Baines made her pastry on -Friday morning instead of Saturday morning because Saturday -afternoon was a busy time in the shop. She was thus free to do her -marketing without breath-taking flurry on Saturday morning. - -On the morning after Sophia's first essay in dentistry, therefore, -Mrs. Baines was making her pastry in the underground kitchen. This -kitchen, Maggie's cavern-home, had the mystery of a church, and on -dark days it had the mystery of a crypt. The stone steps leading -down to it from the level of earth were quite unlighted. You felt -for them with the feet of faith, and when you arrived in the -kitchen, the kitchen, by contrast, seemed luminous and gay; the -architect may have considered and intended this effect of the -staircase. The kitchen saw day through a wide, shallow window -whose top touched the ceiling and whose bottom had been out of the -girls' reach until long after they had begun to go to school. Its -panes were small, and about half of them were of the "knot" kind, -through which no object could be distinguished; the other half -were of a later date, and stood for the march of civilization. The -view from the window consisted of the vast plate-glass windows of -the newly built Sun vaults, and of passing legs and skirts. A -strong wire grating prevented any excess of illumination, and also -protected the glass from the caprices of wayfarers in King Street. -Boys had a habit of stopping to kick with their full strength at -the grating. - -Forget-me-nots on a brown field ornamented the walls of the -kitchen. Its ceiling was irregular and grimy, and a beam ran -across it; in this beam were two hooks; from these hooks had once -depended the ropes of a swing, much used by Constance and Sophia -in the old days before they were grown up. A large range stood out -from the wall between the stairs and the window. The rest of the -furniture comprised a table--against the wall opposite the range-- -a cupboard, and two Windsor chairs. Opposite the foot of the steps -was a doorway, without a door, leading to two larders, dimmer even -than the kitchen, vague retreats made visible by whitewash, where -bowls of milk, dishes of cold bones, and remainders of fruit-pies, -reposed on stillages; in the corner nearest the kitchen was a -great steen in which the bread was kept. Another doorway on the -other side of the kitchen led to the first coal-cellar, where was -also the slopstone and tap, and thence a tunnel took you to the -second coal-cellar, where coke and ashes were stored; the tunnel -proceeded to a distant, infinitesimal yard, and from the yard, by -ways behind Mr. Critchlow's shop, you could finally emerge, -astonished, upon Brougham Street. The sense of the vast-obscure of -those regions which began at the top of the kitchen steps and -ended in black corners of larders or abruptly in the common -dailiness of Brougham Street, a sense which Constance and Sophia -had acquired in infancy, remained with them almost unimpaired as -they grew old. - -Mrs. Baines wore black alpaca, shielded by a white apron whose -string drew attention to the amplitude of her waist. Her sleeves -were turned up, and her hands, as far as the knuckles, covered -with damp flour. Her ageless smooth paste-board occupied a corner -of the table, and near it were her paste-roller, butter, some pie- -dishes, shredded apples, sugar, and other things. Those rosy hands -were at work among a sticky substance in a large white bowl. - -"Mother, are you there?" she heard a voice from above. - -"Yes, my chuck." - -Footsteps apparently reluctant and hesitating clinked on the -stairs, and Sophia entered the kitchen. - -"Put this curl straight," said Mrs. Baines, lowering her head -slightly and holding up her floured hands, which might not touch -anything but flour. "Thank you. It bothered me. And now stand out -of my light. I'm in a hurry. I must get into the shop so that I -can send Mr. Povey off to the dentist's. What is Constance doing?" - -"Helping Maggie to make Mr. Povey's bed." - -"Oh!" - -Though fat, Mrs. Baines was a comely woman, with fine brown hair, -and confidently calm eyes that indicated her belief in her own -capacity to accomplish whatever she could be called on to -accomplish. She looked neither more nor less than her age, which -was forty-five. She was not a native of the district, having been -culled by her husband from the moorland town of Axe, twelve miles -off. Like nearly all women who settle in a strange land upon -marriage, at the bottom of her heart she had considered herself -just a trifle superior to the strange land and its ways. This -feeling, confirmed by long experience, had never left her. It was -this feeling which induced her to continue making her own pastry-- -with two thoroughly trained "great girls" in the house! Constance -could make good pastry, but it was not her mother's pastry. In -pastry-making everything can be taught except the "hand," light -and firm, which wields the roller. One is born with this hand, or -without it. And if one is born without it, the highest flights of -pastry are impossible. Constance was born without it. There were -days when Sophia seemed to possess it; but there were other days -when Sophia's pastry was uneatable by any one except Maggie. Thus -Mrs. Baines, though intensely proud and fond of her daughters, had -justifiably preserved a certain condescension towards them. She -honestly doubted whether either of them would develop into the -equal of their mother. - -"Now you little vixen!" she exclaimed. Sophia was stealing and -eating slices of half-cooked apple. "This comes of having no -breakfast! And why didn't you come down to supper last night?" - -"I don't know. I forgot." - -Mrs. Baines scrutinized the child's eyes, which met hers with a -sort of diffident boldness. She knew everything that a mother can -know of a daughter, and she was sure that Sophia had no cause to -be indisposed. Therefore she scrutinized those eyes with a faint -apprehension. - -"If you can't find anything better to do," said she, "butter me -the inside of this dish. Are your hands clean? No, better not -touch it." - -Mrs. Baines was now at the stage of depositing little pats of -butter in rows on a large plain of paste. The best fresh butter! -Cooking butter, to say naught of lard, was unknown in that kitchen -on Friday mornings. She doubled the expanse of paste on itself and -rolled the butter in--supreme operation! - -"Constance has told you--about leaving school?" said Mrs. Baines, -in the vein of small-talk, as she trimmed the paste to the shape -of a pie-dish. - -"Yes," Sophia replied shortly. Then she moved away from the table -to the range. There was a toasting-fork on the rack, and she began -to play with it. - -"Well, are you glad? Your aunt Harriet thinks you are quite old -enough to leave. And as we'd decided in any case that Constance -was to leave, it's really much simpler that you should both leave -together." - -"Mother," said Sophia, rattling the toasting-fork, "what am I -going to do after I've left school?" - -"I hope," Mrs. Baines answered with that sententiousness which -even the cleverest of parents are not always clever enough to deny -themselves, "I hope that both of you will do what you can to help -your mother--and father," she added. - -"Yes," said Sophia, irritated. "But what am I going to DO?" - -"That must be considered. As Constance is to learn the millinery, -I've been thinking that you might begin to make yourself useful in -the underwear, gloves, silks, and so on. Then between you, you -would one day be able to manage quite nicely all that side of the -shop, and I should be--" - -"I don't want to go into the shop, mother." - -This interruption was made in a voice apparently cold and -inimical. But Sophia trembled with nervous excitement as she -uttered the words. Mrs. Baines gave a brief glance at her, -unobserved by the child, whose face was towards the fire. She -deemed herself a finished expert in the reading of Sophia's moods; -nevertheless, as she looked at that straight back and proud head, -she had no suspicion that the whole essence and being of Sophia -was silently but intensely imploring sympathy. - -"I wish you would be quiet with that fork," said Mrs. Baines, with -the curious, grim politeness which often characterized her -relations with her daughters. - -The toasting-fork fell on the brick floor, after having rebounded -from the ash-tin. Sophia hurriedly replaced it on the rack. - -"Then what SHALL you do?" Mrs. Baines proceeded, conquering the -annoyance caused by the toasting-fork. "I think it's me that -should ask you instead of you asking me. What shall you do? Your -father and I were both hoping you would take kindly to the shop -and try to repay us for all the--" - -Mrs. Baines was unfortunate in her phrasing that morning. She -happened to be, in truth, rather an exceptional parent, but that -morning she seemed unable to avoid the absurd pretensions which -parents of those days assumed quite sincerely and which every good -child with meekness accepted. - -Sophia was not a good child, and she obstinately denied in her -heart the cardinal principle of family life, namely, that the -parent has conferred on the offspring a supreme favour by bringing -it into the world. She interrupted her mother again, rudely. - -"I don't want to leave school at all," she said passionately. - -"But you will have to leave school sooner or later," argued Mrs. -Baines, with an air of quiet reasoning, of putting herself on a -level with Sophia. "You can't stay at school for ever, my pet, can -you? Out of my way!" - -She hurried across the kitchen with a pie, which she whipped into -the oven, shutting the iron door with a careful gesture. - -"Yes," said Sophia. "I should like to be a teacher. That's what I -want to be." - -The tap in the coal-cellar, out of repair, could be heard -distinctly and systematically dropping water into a jar on the -slopstone. - -"A school-teacher?" inquired Mrs. Baines. - -"Of course. What other kind is there?" said Sophia, sharply. "With -Miss Chetwynd." - -"I don't think your father would like that," Mrs. Baines replied. -"I'm sure he wouldn't like it." - -"Why not?" - -"It wouldn't be quite suitable." - -"Why not, mother?" the girl demanded with a sort of ferocity. She -had now quitted the range. A man's feet twinkled past the window. - -Mrs. Baines was startled and surprised. Sophia's attitude was -really very trying; her manners deserved correction. But it was -not these phenomena which seriously affected Mrs. Baines; she was -used to them and had come to regard them as somehow the inevitable -accompaniment of Sophia's beauty, as the penalty of that -surpassing charm which occasionally emanated from the girl like a -radiance. What startled and surprised Mrs. Baines was the perfect -and unthinkable madness of Sophia's infantile scheme. It was a -revelation to Mrs. Baines. Why in the name of heaven had the girl -taken such a notion into her head? Orphans, widows, and spinsters -of a certain age suddenly thrown on the world--these were the -women who, naturally, became teachers, because they had to become -something. But that the daughter of comfortable parents, -surrounded by love and the pleasures of an excellent home, should -wish to teach in a school was beyond the horizons of Mrs. Baines's -common sense. Comfortable parents of to-day who have a difficulty -in sympathizing with Mrs. Baines, should picture what their -feelings would be if their Sophias showed a rude desire to adopt -the vocation of chauffeur. - -"It would take you too much away from home," said Mrs. Baines, -achieving a second pie. - -She spoke softly. The experience of being Sophia's mother for -nearly sixteen years had not been lost on Mrs. Baines, and though -she was now discovering undreamt-of dangers in Sophia's erratic -temperament, she kept her presence of mind sufficiently well to -behave with diplomatic smoothness. It was undoubtedly humiliating -to a mother to be forced to use diplomacy in dealing with a girl -in short sleeves. In HER day mothers had been autocrats. But -Sophia was Sophia. - -"What if it did?" Sophia curtly demanded. - -"And there's no opening in Bursley," said Mrs. Baines. - -"Miss Chetwynd would have me, and then after a time I could go to -her sister." - -"Her sister? What sister?" - -"Her sister that has a big school in London somewhere." - -Mrs. Baines covered her unprecedented emotions by gazing into the -oven at the first pie. The pie was doing well, under all the -circumstances. In those few seconds she reflected rapidly and -decided that to a desperate disease a desperate remedy must be -applied. - -London! She herself had never been further than Manchester. -London, 'after a time'! No, diplomacy would be misplaced in this -crisis of Sophia's development! - -"Sophia," she said, in a changed and solemn voice, fronting her -daughter, and holding away from her apron those floured, ringed -hands, "I don't know what has come over you. Truly I don't! Your -father and I are prepared to put up with a certain amount, but the -line must be drawn. The fact is, we've spoilt you, and instead of -getting better as you grow up, you're getting worse. Now let me -hear no more of this, please. I wish you would imitate your sister -a little more. Of course if you won't do your share in the shop, -no one can make you. If you choose to be an idler about the house, -we shall have to endure it. We can only advise you for your own -good. But as for this ..." She stopped, and let silence speak, -and then finished: "Let me hear no more of it." - -It was a powerful and impressive speech, enunciated clearly in -such a tone as Mrs. Baines had not employed since dismissing a -young lady assistant five years ago for light conduct. - -"But, mother--" - -A commotion of pails resounded at the top of the stone steps. It -was Maggie in descent from the bedrooms. Now, the Baines family -passed its life in doing its best to keep its affairs to itself, -the assumption being that Maggie and all the shop-staff (Mr. Povey -possibly excepted) were obsessed by a ravening appetite for that -which did not concern them. Therefore the voices of the Baineses -always died away, or fell to a hushed, mysterious whisper, -whenever the foot of the eavesdropper was heard. - -Mrs. Baines put a floured finger to her double chin. "That will -do," said she, with finality. - -Maggie appeared, and Sophia, with a brusque precipitation of -herself, vanished upstairs. - -II - -"Now, really, Mr. Povey, this is not like you," said Mrs. Baines, -who, on her way into the shop, had discovered the Indispensable in -the cutting-out room. - -It is true that the cutting-out room was almost Mr. Povey's -sanctum, whither he retired from time to time to cut out suits of -clothes and odd garments for the tailoring department. It is true -that the tailoring department flourished with orders, employing -several tailors who crossed legs in their own homes, and that -appointments were continually being made with customers for -trying-on in that room. But these considerations did not affect -Mrs. Baines's attitude of disapproval. - -"I'm just cutting out that suit for the minister," said Mr. Povey. - -The Reverend Mr. Murley, superintendent of the Wesleyan Methodist -circuit, called on Mr. Baines every week. On a recent visit Mr. -Baines had remarked that the parson's coat was ageing into green, -and had commanded that a new suit should be built and presented to -Mr. Murley. Mr. Murley, who had a genuine mediaeval passion for -souls, and who spent his money and health freely in gratifying the -passion, had accepted the offer strictly on behalf of Christ, and -had carefully explained to Mr. Povey Christ's use for multifarious -pockets. - -"I see you are," said Mrs. Baines tartly. "But that's no reason -why you should be without a coat--and in this cold room too. You -with toothache!" - -The fact was that Mr. Povey always doffed his coat when cutting -out. Instead of a coat he wore a tape-measure. - -"My tooth doesn't hurt me," said he, sheepishly, dropping the -great scissors and picking up a cake of chalk. - -"Fiddlesticks!" said Mrs. Baines. - -This exclamation shocked Mr. Povey. It was not unknown on the lips -of Mrs. Baines, but she usually reserved it for members of her own -sex. Mr. Povey could not recall that she had ever applied it to -any statement of his. "What's the matter with the woman?" he -thought. The redness of her face did not help him to answer the -question, for her face was always red after the operations of -Friday in the kitchen. - -"You men are all alike," Mrs. Baines continued. "The very thought -of the dentist's cures you. Why don't you go in at once to Mr. -Critchlow and have it out--like a man?" - -Mr. Critchlow extracted teeth, and his shop sign said "Bone-setter -and chemist." But Mr. Povey had his views. - -"I make no account of Mr. Critchlow as a dentist," said he. - -"Then for goodness' sake go up to Oulsnam's." - -"When? I can't very well go now, and to-morrow is Saturday." - -"Why can't you go now?" - -"Well, of course, I COULD go now," he admitted. - -"Let me advise you to go, then, and don't come back with that -tooth in your head. I shall be having you laid up next. Show some -pluck, do!" - -"Oh! pluck--!" he protested, hurt. - -At that moment Constance came down the passage singing. - -"Constance, my pet!" Mrs. Baines called. - -"Yes, mother." She put her head into the room. "Oh!" Mr. Povey was -assuming his coat. - -"Mr. Povey is going to the dentist's." - -"Yes, I'm going at once," Mr. Povey confirmed. - -"Oh! I'm so GLAD!" Constance exclaimed. Her face expressed a pure -sympathy, uncomplicated by critical sentiments. Mr. Povey rapidly -bathed in that sympathy, and then decided that he must show -himself a man of oak and iron. - -"It's always best to get these things done with," said he, with -stern detachment. "I'll just slip my overcoat on." - -"Here it is," said Constance, quickly. Mr. Povey's overcoat and -hat were hung on a hook immediately outside the room, in the -passage. She gave him the overcoat, anxious to be of service. - -"I didn't call you in here to be Mr. Povey's valet," said Mrs. -Baines to herself with mild grimness; and aloud: "I can't stay in -the shop long, Constance, but you can be there, can't you, till -Mr. Povey comes back? And if anything happens run upstairs and -tell me." - -"Yes, mother," Constance eagerly consented. She hesitated and then -turned to obey at once. - -"I want to speak to you first, my pet," Mrs. Baines stopped her. -And her tone was peculiar, charged with import, confidential, and -therefore very flattering to Constance. - -"I think I'll go out by the side-door," said Mr. Povey. "It'll be -nearer." - -This was truth. He would save about ten yards, in two miles, by -going out through the side-door instead of through the shop. Who -could have guessed that he was ashamed to be seen going to the -dentist's, afraid lest, if he went through the shop, Mrs. Baines -might follow him and utter some remark prejudicial to his dignity -before the assistants? (Mrs. Baines could have guessed, and did.) - -"You won't want that tape-measure," said Mrs. Baines, dryly, as -Mr. Povey dragged open the side-door. The ends of the forgotten -tape-measure were dangling beneath coat and overcoat. - -"Oh!" Mr. Povey scowled at his forgetfulness. - -"I'll put it in its place," said Constance, offering to receive -the tape-measure. - -"Thank you," said Mr. Povey, gravely. "I don't suppose they'll be -long over my bit of a job," he added, with a difficult, miserable -smile. - -Then he went off down King Street, with an exterior of gay -briskness and dignified joy in the fine May morning. But there was -no May morning in his cowardly human heart. - -"Hi! Povey!" cried a voice from the Square. - -But Mr. Povey disregarded all appeals. He had put his hand to the -plough, and he would not look back. - -"Hi! Povey!" - -Useless! - -Mrs. Baines and Constance were both at the door. A middle-aged man -was crossing the road from Boulton Terrace, the lofty erection of -new shops which the envious rest of the Square had decided to call -"showy." He waved a hand to Mrs. Baines, who kept the door open. - -"It's Dr. Harrop," she said to Constance. "I shouldn't be -surprised if that baby's come at last, and he wanted to tell Mr. -Povey." - -Constance blushed, full of pride. Mrs. Povey, wife of "our Mr. -Povey's" renowned cousin, the high-class confectioner and baker in -Boulton Terrace, was a frequent subject of discussion in the -Baines family,, but this was absolutely the first time that Mrs. -Baines had acknowledged, in presence of Constance, the marked and -growing change which had characterized Mrs. Povey's condition -during recent months. Such frankness on the part of her mother, -coming after the decision about leaving school, proved indeed that -Constance had ceased to be a mere girl. - -"Good morning, doctor." - -The doctor, who carried a little bag and wore riding-breeches (he -was the last doctor in Bursley to abandon the saddle for the dog- -cart), saluted and straightened his high, black stock. - -"Morning! Morning, missy! Well, it's a boy." - -"What? Yonder?" asked Mrs. Baines, indicating the confectioner's. - -Dr. Harrop nodded. "I wanted to inform him," said he, jerking his -shoulder in the direction of the swaggering coward. - -"What did I tell you, Constance?" said Mrs. Baines, turning to her -daughter. - -Constance's confusion was equal to her pleasure. The alert doctor -had halted at the foot of the two steps, and with one hand in the -pocket of his "full-fall" breeches, he gazed up, smiling out of -little eyes, at the ample matron and the slender virgin. - -"Yes," he said. "Been up most of th' night. Difficult! Difficult!" - -"It's all RIGHT, I hope?" - -"Oh yes. Fine child! Fine child! But he put his mother to some -trouble, for all that. Nothing fresh?" This time he lifted his -eyes to indicate Mr. Baines's bedroom. - -"No," said Mrs. Baines, with a different expression. - -"Keeps cheerful?" - -"Yes." - -"Good! A very good morning to you." - -He strode off towards his house, which was lower down the street. - -"I hope she'll turn over a new leaf now," observed Mrs. Baines to -Constance as she closed the door. Constance knew that her mother -was referring to the confectioner's wife; she gathered that the -hope was slight in the extreme. - -"What did you want to speak to me about, mother?" she asked, as a -way out of her delicious confusion. - -"Shut that door," Mrs. Baines replied, pointing to the door which -led to the passage; and while Constance obeyed, Mrs. Baines -herself shut the staircase-door. She then said, in a low, guarded -voice-- - -"What's all this about Sophia wanting to be a school-teacher?" - -"Wanting to be a school-teacher?" Constance repeated, in tones of -amazement. - -"Yes. Hasn't she said anything to you?" - -"Not a word!" - -"Well, I never! She wants to keep on with Miss Chetwynd and be a -teacher." Mrs. Baines had half a mind to add that Sophia had -mentioned London. But she restrained herself. There are some -things which one cannot bring one's self to say. She added, -"Instead of going into the shop!" - -"I never heard of such a thing!" Constance murmured brokenly, in -the excess of her astonishment. She was rolling up Mr. Povey's -tape-measure. - -"Neither did I!" said Mrs. Baines. - -"And shall you let her, mother?" - -"Neither your father nor I would ever dream of it!" Mrs. Baines -replied, with calm and yet terrible decision. "I only mentioned it -to you because I thought Sophia would have told you something." - -"No, mother!" - -As Constance put Mr. Povey's tape-measure neatly away in its -drawer under the cutting-out counter, she thought how serious life -was--what with babies and Sophias. She was very proud of her -mother's confidence in her; this simple pride filled her ardent -breast with a most agreeable commotion. And she wanted to help -everybody, to show in some way how much she sympathized with and -loved everybody. Even the madness of Sophia did not weaken her -longing to comfort Sophia. - -III - -That afternoon there was a search for Sophia, whom no one had seen -since dinner. She was discovered by her mother, sitting alone and -unoccupied in the drawing-room. The circumstance was in itself -sufficiently peculiar, for on weekdays the drawing-room was never -used, even by the girls during their holidays, except for the -purpose of playing the piano. However, Mrs. Baines offered no -comment on Sophia's geographical situation, nor on her idleness. - -"My dear," she said, standing at the door, with a self-conscious -effort to behave as though nothing had happened, "will you come -and sit with your father a bit?" - -"Yes, mother," answered Sophia, with a sort of cold alacrity. - -"Sophia is coming, father," said Mrs. Baines at the open door of -the bedroom, which was at right-angles with, and close to, the -drawing-room door. Then she surged swishing along the corridor and -went into the showroom, whither she had been called. - -Sophia passed to the bedroom, the eternal prison of John Baines. -Although, on account of his nervous restlessness, Mr. Baines was -never left alone, it was not a part of the usual duty of the girls -to sit with him. The person who undertook the main portion of the -vigils was a certain Aunt Maria--whom the girls knew to be not a -real aunt, not a powerful, effective aunt like Aunt Harriet of -Axe--but a poor second cousin of John Baines; one of those -necessitous, pitiful relatives who so often make life difficult -for a great family in a small town. The existence of Aunt Maria, -after being rather a "trial" to the Baineses, had for twelve years -past developed into something absolutely "providential" for them. -(It is to be remembered that in those days Providence was still -busying himself with everybody's affairs, and foreseeing the -future in the most extraordinary manner. Thus, having foreseen -that John Baines would have a "stroke" and need a faithful, -tireless nurse, he had begun fifty years in advance by creating -Aunt Maria, and had kept her carefully in misfortune's way, so -that at the proper moment she would be ready to cope with the -stroke. Such at least is the only theory which will explain the -use by the Baineses, and indeed by all thinking Bursley, of the -word "providential" in connection with Aunt Maria.) She was a -shrivelled little woman, capable of sitting twelve hours a day in -a bedroom and thriving on the regime. At nights she went home to -her little cottage in Brougham Street; she had her Thursday -afternoons and generally her Sundays, and during the school -vacations she was supposed to come only when she felt inclined, or -when the cleaning of her cottage permitted her to come. Hence, in -holiday seasons, Mr. Baines weighed more heavily on his household -than at other times, and his nurses relieved each other according -to the contingencies of the moment rather than by a set programme -of hours. - -The tragedy in ten thousand acts of which that bedroom was the -scene, almost entirely escaped Sophia's perception, as it did -Constance's. Sophia went into the bedroom as though it were a mere -bedroom, with its majestic mahogany furniture, its crimson rep -curtains (edged with gold), and its white, heavily tasselled -counterpane. She was aged four when John Baines had suddenly been -seized with giddiness on the steps of his shop, and had fallen, -and, without losing consciousness, had been transformed from John -Baines into a curious and pathetic survival of John Baines. She -had no notion of the thrill which ran through the town on that -night when it was known that John Baines had had a stroke, and -that his left arm and left leg and his right eyelid were -paralyzed, and that the active member of the Local Board, the -orator, the religious worker, the very life of the town's life, -was permanently done for. She had never heard of the crisis -through which her mother, assisted by Aunt Harriet, had passed, -and out of which she had triumphantly emerged. She was not yet old -enough even to suspect it. She possessed only the vaguest memory -of her father before he had finished with the world. She knew him -simply as an organism on a bed, whose left side was wasted, whose -eyes were often inflamed, whose mouth was crooked, who had no -creases from the nose to the corners of the mouth like other -people, who experienced difficulty in eating because the food -would somehow get between his gums and his cheek, who slept a -great deal but was excessively fidgety while awake, who seemed to -hear what was said to him a long time after it was uttered, as if -the sense had to travel miles by labyrinthine passages to his -brain, and who talked very, very slowly in a weak, trembling -voice. - -And she had an image of that remote brain as something with a red -spot on it, for once Constance had said: "Mother, why did father -have a stroke?" and Mrs. Baines had replied: "It was a haemorrhage -of the brain, my dear, here"--putting a thimbled finger on a -particular part of Sophia's head. - -Not merely had Constance and Sophia never really felt their -father's tragedy; Mrs. Baines herself had largely lost the sense -of it--such is the effect of use. Even the ruined organism only -remembered fitfully and partially that it had once been John -Baines. And if Mrs. Baines had not, by the habit of years, -gradually built up a gigantic fiction that the organism remained -ever the supreme consultative head of the family; if Mr. Critchlow -had not obstinately continued to treat it as a crony, the mass of -living and dead nerves on the rich Victorian bedstead would have -been of no more account than some Aunt Maria in similar case. -These two persons, his wife and his friend, just managed to keep -him morally alive by indefatigably feeding his importance and his -dignity. The feat was a miracle of stubborn self-deceiving, -splendidly blind devotion, and incorrigible pride. - -When Sophia entered the room, the paralytic followed her with his -nervous gaze until she had sat down on the end of the sofa at the -foot of the bed. He seemed to study her for a long time, and then -he murmured in his slow, enfeebled, irregular voice: - -"Is that Sophia?" - -"Yes, father," she answered cheerfully. - -And after another pause, the old man said: "Ay! It's Sophia." - -And later: "Your mother said she should send ye." - -Sophia saw that this was one of his bad, dull days. He had, -occasionally, days of comparative nimbleness, when his wits seized -almost easily the meanings of external phenomena. - -Presently his sallow face and long white beard began to slip down -the steep slant of the pillows, and a troubled look came into his -left eye. Sophia rose and, putting her hands under his armpits, -lifted him higher in the bed. He was not heavy, but only a strong -girl of her years could have done it. - -"Ay!" he muttered. "That's it. That's it." - -And, with his controllable right hand, he took her hand as she -stood by the bed. She was so young and fresh, such an incarnation -of the spirit of health, and he was so far gone in decay and -corruption, that there seemed in this contact of body with body -something unnatural and repulsive. But Sophia did not so feel it. - -"Sophia," he addressed her, and made preparatory noises in his -throat while she waited. - -He continued after an interval, now clutching her arm, "Your -mother's been telling me you don't want to go in the shop." - -She turned her eyes on him, and his anxious, dim gaze met hers. -She nodded. - -"Nay, Sophia," he mumbled, with the extreme of slowness. "I'm -surprised at ye. . .Trade's bad, bad! Ye know trade's bad?" He was -still clutching her arm. - -She nodded. She was, in fact, aware of the badness of trade, -caused by a vague war in the United States. The words "North" and -"South" had a habit of recurring in the conversation of adult -persons. That was all she knew, though people were starving in the -Five Towns as they were starving in Manchester. - -"There's your mother," his thought struggled on, like an aged -horse over a hilly road. "There's your mother!" he repeated, as if -wishful to direct Sophia's attention to the spectacle of her -mother. "Working hard! Con--Constance and you must help her. . . . -Trade's bad! What can I do. . .lying here?" - -The heat from his dry fingers was warming her arm. She wanted to -move, but she could not have withdrawn her arm without appearing -impatient. For a similar reason she would not avert her glance. A -deepening flush increased the lustre of her immature loveliness as -she bent over him. But though it was so close he did not feel that -radiance. He had long outlived a susceptibility to the strange -influences of youth and beauty. - -"Teaching!" he muttered. "Nay, nay! I canna' allow that." - -Then his white beard rose at the tip as he looked up at the -ceiling above his head, reflectively. - -"You understand me?" he questioned finally. - -She nodded again; he loosed her arm, and she turned away. She -could not have spoken. Glittering tears enriched her eyes. She was -saddened into a profound and sudden grief by the ridiculousness of -the scene. She had youth, physical perfection; she brimmed with -energy, with the sense of vital power; all existence lay before -her; when she put her lips together she felt capable of outvying -no matter whom in fortitude of resolution. She had always hated -the shop. She did not understand how her mother and Constance -could bring themselves to be deferential and flattering to every -customer that entered. No, she did not understand it; but her -mother (though a proud woman) and Constance seemed to practise -such behaviour so naturally, so unquestioningly, that she had -never imparted to either of them her feelings; she guessed that -she would not be comprehended. But long ago she had decided that -she would never "go into the shop." She knew that she would be -expected to do something, and she had fixed on teaching as the one -possibility. These decisions had formed part of her inner life for -years past. She had not mentioned them, being secretive and -scarcely anxious for unpleasantness. But she had been slowly -preparing herself to mention them. The extraordinary announcement -that she was to leave school at the same time as Constance had -taken her unawares, before the preparations ripening in her mind -were complete--before, as it were, she had girded up her loins for -the fray. She had been caught unready, and the opposing forces had -obtained the advantage of her. But did they suppose she was -beaten? - -No argument from her mother! No hearing, even! Just a curt and -haughty 'Let me hear no more of this'! And so the great desire of -her life, nourished year after year in her inmost bosom, was to be -flouted and sacrificed with a word! Her mother did not appear -ridiculous in the affair, for her mother was a genuine power, -commanding by turns genuine love and genuine hate, and always, -till then, obedience and the respect of reason. It was her father -who appeared tragically ridiculous; and, in turn, the whole -movement against her grew grotesque in its absurdity. Here was -this antique wreck, helpless, useless, powerless--merely pathetic ---actually thinking that he had only to mumble in order to make her -'understand'! He knew nothing; he perceived nothing; he was a -ferocious egoist, like most bedridden invalids, out of touch with -life,--and he thought himself justified in making destinies, and -capable of making them! Sophia could not, perhaps, define the -feelings which overwhelmed her; but she was conscious of their -tendency. They aged her, by years. They aged her so that, in a -kind of momentary ecstasy of insight, she felt older than her -father himself. - -"You will be a good girl," he said. "I'm sure o' that." - -It was too painful. The grotesqueness of her father's complacency -humiliated her past bearing. She was humiliated, not for herself, -but for him. Singular creature! She ran out of the room. - -Fortunately Constance was passing in the corridor, otherwise -Sophia had been found guilty of a great breach of duty. - -"Go to father," she whispered hysterically to Constance, and fled -upwards to the second floor. - -IV - -At supper, with her red, downcast eyes, she had returned to sheer -girlishness again, overawed by her mother. The meal had an unusual -aspect. Mr. Povey, safe from the dentist's, but having lost two -teeth in two days, was being fed on 'slops'--bread and milk, to -wit; he sat near the fire. The others had cold pork, half a cold -apple-pie, and cheese; but Sophia only pretended to eat; each time -she tried to swallow, the tears came into her eyes, and her throat -shut itself up. Mrs. Baines and Constance had a too careful air of -eating just as usual. Mrs. Baines's handsome ringlets dominated -the table under the gas. - -"I'm not so set up with my pastry to-day," observed Mrs. Baines, -critically munching a fragment of pie-crust. - -She rang a little hand-bell. Maggie appeared from the cave. She -wore a plain white bib-less apron, but no cap. - -"Maggie, will you have some pie?" - -"Yes, if you can spare it, ma'am." - -This was Maggie's customary answer to offers of food. - -"We can always spare it, Maggie," said her mistress, as usual. -"Sophia, if you aren't going to use that plate, give it to me." - -Maggie disappeared with liberal pie. - -Mrs. Baines then talked to Mr. Povey about his condition, and in -particular as to the need for precautions against taking cold in -the bereaved gum. She was a brave and determined woman; from start -to finish she behaved as though nothing whatever in the household -except her pastry and Mr. Povey had deviated that day from the -normal. She kissed Constance and Sophia with the most exact -equality, and called them 'my chucks' when they went up to bed. - -Constance, excellent kind heart, tried to imitate her mother's -tactics as the girls undressed in their room. She thought she -could not do better than ignore Sophia's deplorable state. - -"Mother's new dress is quite finished, and she's going to wear it -on Sunday," said she, blandly. - -"If you say another word I'll scratch your eyes out!" Sophia -turned on her viciously, with a catch in her voice, and then began -to sob at intervals. She did not mean this threat, but its -utterance gave her relief. Constance, faced with the fact that her -mother's shoes were too big for her, decided to preserve her -eyesight. - -Long after the gas was out, rare sobs from Sophia shook the bed, -and they both lay awake in silence. - -"I suppose you and mother have been talking me over finely to- -day?" Sophia burst forth, to Constance's surprise, in a wet voice. - -"No," said Constance soothingly. "Mother only told me." - -"Told you what?" - -"That you wanted to be a teacher." - -"And I will be, too!" said Sophia, bitterly. - -"You don't know mother," thought Constance; but she made no -audible comment. - -There was another detached, hard sob. And then, such is the -astonishing talent of youth, they both fell asleep. - -The next morning, early, Sophia stood gazing out of the window at -the Square. It was Saturday, and all over the Square little -stalls, with yellow linen roofs, were being erected for the -principal market of the week. In those barbaric days Bursley had a -majestic edifice, black as basalt, for the sale of dead animals by -the limb and rib--it was entitled 'the Shambles'--but vegetables, -fruit, cheese, eggs, and pikelets were still sold under canvas. -Eggs are now offered at five farthings apiece in a palace that -cost twenty-five thousand pounds. Yet you will find people in -Bursley ready to assert that things generally are not what they -were, and that in particular the romance of life has gone. But -until it has gone it is never romance. To Sophia, though she was -in a mood which usually stimulates the sense of the romantic, -there was nothing of romance in this picturesque tented field. It -was just the market. Holl's, the leading grocer's, was already -open, at the extremity of the Square, and a boy apprentice was -sweeping the pavement in front of it. The public-houses were open, -several of them specializing in hot rum at 5.30 a.m. The town- -crier, in his blue coat with red facings, crossed the Square, -carrying his big bell by the tongue. There was the same shocking -hole in one of Mrs. Povey's (confectioner's) window-curtains--a -hole which even her recent travail could scarcely excuse. Such -matters it was that Sophia noticed with dull, smarting eyes. - -"Sophia, you'll take your death of cold standing there like that!" - -She jumped. The voice was her mother's. That vigorous woman, after -a calm night by the side of the paralytic, was already up and -neatly dressed. She carried a bottle and an egg-cup, and a small -quantity of jam in a table-spoon. - -"Get into bed again, do! There's a dear! You're shivering." - -White Sophia obeyed. It was true; she was shivering. Constance -awoke. Mrs. Baines went to the dressing-table and filled the egg- -cup out of the bottle. - -"Who's that for, mother?" Constance asked sleepily. - -"It's for Sophia," said Mrs. Baines, with good cheer. "Now, -Sophia!" and she advanced with the egg-cup in one hand and the -table-spoon in the other. - -"What is it, mother?" asked Sophia, who well knew what it was. - -"Castor-oil, my dear," said Mrs. Baines, winningly. - -The ludicrousness of attempting to cure obstinacy and yearnings -for a freer life by means of castor-oil is perhaps less real than -apparent. The strange interdependence of spirit and body, though -only understood intelligently in these intelligent days, was -guessed at by sensible mediaeval mothers. And certainly, at the -period when Mrs. Baines represented modernity, castor-oil was -still the remedy of remedies. It had supplanted cupping. And, if -part of its vogue was due to its extreme unpleasantness, it had at -least proved its qualities in many a contest with disease. Less -than two years previously old Dr. Harrop (father of him who told -Mrs. Baines about Mrs. Povey), being then aged eighty-six, had -fallen from top to bottom of his staircase. He had scrambled up, -taken a dose of castor-oil at once, and on the morrow was as well -as if he had never seen a staircase. This episode was town -property and had sunk deep into all hearts. - -"I don't want any, mother," said Sophia, in dejection. "I'm quite -well." - -"You simply ate nothing all day yesterday," said Mrs. Baines. And -she added, "Come!" As if to say, "There's always this silly fuss -with castor-oil. Don't keep me waiting." - -"I don't WANT any," said Sophia, irritated and captious. - -The two girls lay side by side, on their backs. They seemed very -thin and fragile in comparison with the solidity of their mother. -Constance wisely held her peace. - -Mrs. Baines put her lips together, meaning: "This is becoming -tedious. I shall have to be angry in another moment!" - -"Come!" said she again. - -The girls could hear her foot tapping on the floor. - -"I really don't want it, mamma," Sophia fought. "I suppose I ought -to know whether I need it or not!" This was insolence. - -"Sophia, will you take this medicine, or won't you?" - -In conflicts with her children, the mother's ultimatum always took -the formula in which this phrase was cast. The girls knew, when -things had arrived at the pitch of 'or won't you' spoken in Mrs. -Baines's firmest tone, that the end was upon them. Never had the -ultimatum failed. - -There was a silence. - -"And I'll thank you to mind your manners," Mrs. Baines added. - -"I won't take it," said Sophia, sullenly and flatly; and she hid -her face in the pillow. - -It was a historic moment in the family life. Mrs. Baines thought -the last day had come. But still she held herself in dignity while -the apocalypse roared in her ears. - -"OF COURSE I CAN'T FORCE YOU TO TAKE IT," she said with superb -evenness, masking anger by compassionate grief. "You're a big girl -and a naughty girl. And if you will be ill you must." - -Upon this immense admission, Mrs. Baines departed. - -Constance trembled. - -Nor was that all. In the middle of the morning, when Mrs. Baines -was pricing new potatoes at a stall at the top end of the Square, -and Constance choosing threepennyworth of flowers at the same -stall, whom should they both see, walking all alone across the -empty corner by the Bank, but Sophia Baines! The Square was busy -and populous, and Sophia was only visible behind a foreground of -restless, chattering figures. But she was unmistakably seen. She -had been beyond the Square and was returning. Constance could -scarcely believe her eyes. Mrs. Baines's heart jumped. For let it -be said that the girls never under any circumstances went forth -without permission, and scarcely ever alone. That Sophia should be -at large in the town, without leave, without notice, exactly as if -she were her own mistress, was a proposition which a day earlier -had been inconceivable. Yet there she was, and moving with a -leisureliness that must be described as effrontery! - -Red with apprehension, Constance wondered what would happen. Mrs. -Baines said nought of her feelings, did not even indicate that she -had seen the scandalous, the breath-taking sight. And they -descended the Square laden with the lighter portions of what they -had bought during an hour of buying. They went into the house by -the King Street door; and the first thing they heard was the sound -of the piano upstairs. Nothing happened. Mr. Povey had his dinner -alone; then the table was laid for them, and the bell rung, and -Sophia came insolently downstairs to join her mother and sister. -And nothing happened. The dinner was silently eaten, and Constance -having rendered thanks to God, Sophia rose abruptly to go. - -"Sophia!" - -"Yes, mother." - -"Constance, stay where you are," said Mrs. Baines suddenly to -Constance, who had meant to flee. Constance was therefore destined -to be present at the happening, doubtless in order to emphasize -its importance and seriousness. - -"Sophia," Mrs. Baines resumed to her younger daughter in an -ominous voice. "No, please shut the door. There is no reason why -everybody in the house should hear. Come right into the room-- -right in! That's it. Now, what were you doing out in the town this -morning?" - -Sophia was fidgeting nervously with the edge of her little black -apron, and worrying a seam of the carpet with her toes. She bent -her head towards her left shoulder, at first smiling vaguely. She -said nothing, but every limb, every glance, every curve, was -speaking. Mrs. Baines sat firmly in her own rocking-chair, full of -the sensation that she had Sophia, as it were, writhing on the end -of a skewer. Constance was braced into a moveless anguish. - -"I will have an answer," pursued Mrs. Baines. "What were you doing -out in the town this morning?" - -"I just went out," answered Sophia at length, still with eyes -downcast, and in a rather simpering tone. - -"Why did you go out? You said nothing to me about going out. I -heard Constance ask you if you were coming with us to the market, -and you said, very rudely, that you weren't." - -"I didn't say it rudely," Sophia objected. - -"Yes you did. And I'll thank you not to answer back." - -"I didn't mean to say it rudely, did I, Constance?" Sophia's head -turned sharply to her sister. Constance knew not where to look. - -"Don't answer back," Mrs. Baines repeated sternly. "And don't try -to drag Constance into this, for I won't have it." - -"Oh, of course Constance is always right!" observed Sophia, with -an irony whose unparalleled impudence shook Mrs. Baines to her -massive foundations. - -"Do you want me to have to smack you, child?" - -Her temper flashed out and you could see ringlets vibrating under -the provocation of Sophia's sauciness. Then Sophia's lower lip -began to fall and to bulge outwards, and all the muscles of her -face seemed to slacken. - -"You are a very naughty girl," said Mrs. Baines, with restraint. -("I've got her," said Mrs. Baines to herself. "I may just as well -keep my temper.") - -And a sob broke out of Sophia. She was behaving like a little -child. She bore no trace of the young maiden sedately crossing the -Square without leave and without an escort. - -("I knew she was going to cry," said Mrs. Baines, breathing -relief.) - -"I'm waiting," said Mrs. Baines aloud. - -A second sob. Mrs. Baines manufactured patience to meet the -demand. - -"You tell me not to answer back, and then you say you're waiting," -Sophia blubbered thickly. - -"What's that you say? How can I tell what you say if you talk like -that?" (But Mrs. Baines failed to hear out of discretion, which is -better than valour.) - -"It's of no consequence," Sophia blurted forth in a sob. She was -weeping now, and tears were ricocheting off her lovely crimson -cheeks on to the carpet; her whole body was trembling. - -"Don't be a great baby," Mrs. Baines enjoined, with a touch of -rough persuasiveness in her voice. - -"It's you who make me cry," said Sophia, bitterly. "You make me -cry and then you call me a great baby!" And sobs ran through her -frame like waves one after another. She spoke so indistinctly that -her mother now really had some difficulty in catching her words. - -"Sophia," said Mrs. Baines, with god-like calm, "it is not I who -make you cry. It is your guilty conscience makes you cry. I have -merely asked you a question, and I intend to have an answer." - -"I've told you." Here Sophia checked the sobs with an immense -effort. - -"What have you told me?" - -"I just went out." - -"I will have no trifling," said Mrs. Baines. "What did you go out -for, and without telling me? If you had told me afterwards, when I -came in, of your own accord, it might have been different. But no, -not a word! It is I who have to ask! Now, quick! I can't wait any -longer." - -("I gave way over the castor-oil, my girl," Mrs. Baines said in -her own breast. "But not again! Not again.!") - -"I don't know," Sophia murmured. - -"What do you mean--you don't know?" - -The sobbing recommenced tempestuously. "I mean I don't know. I -just went out." Her voice rose; it was noisy, but scarcely -articulate. "What if I did go out?" - -"Sophia, I am not going to be talked to like this. If you think -because you're leaving school you can do exactly as you like--" - -"Do I want to leave school?" yelled Sophia, stamping. In a moment -a hurricane of emotion overwhelmed her, as though that stamping of -the foot had released the demons of the storm. Her face was -transfigured by uncontrollable passion. "You all want to make me -miserable!" she shrieked with terrible violence. "And now I can't -even go out! You are a horrid, cruel woman, and I hate you! And -you can do what you like! Put me in prison if you like! I know -you'd be glad if I was dead!" - -She dashed from the room, banging the door with a shock that made -the house rattle. And she had shouted so loud that she might have -been heard in the shop, and even in the kitchen. It was a -startling experience for Mrs. Baines. Mrs. Baines, why did you -saddle yourself with a witness? Why did you so positively say that -you intended to have an answer? - -"Really," she stammered, pulling her dignity about her shoulders -like a garment that the wind has snatched off. "I never dreamed -that poor girl had such a dreadful temper! What a pity it is, for -her OWN sake!" It was the best she could do. - -Constance, who could not bear to witness her mother's humiliation, -vanished very quietly from the room. She got halfway upstairs to -the second floor, and then, hearing the loud, rapid, painful, -regular intake of sobbing breaths, she hesitated and crept down -again. - -This was Mrs. Baines's first costly experience of the child -thankless for having been brought into the world. It robbed her of -her profound, absolute belief in herself. She had thought she knew -everything in her house and could do everything there. And lo! she -had suddenly stumbled against an unsuspected personality at large -in her house, a sort of hard marble affair that informed her by -means of bumps that if she did not want to be hurt she must keep -out of the way. - -V - -On the Sunday afternoon Mrs. Baines was trying to repose a little -in the drawing-room, where she had caused a fire to be lighted. -Constance was in the adjacent bedroom with her father. Sophia lay -between blankets in the room overhead with a feverish cold. This -cold and her new dress were Mrs. Baines's sole consolation at the -moment. She had prophesied a cold for Sophia, refuser of castor- -oil, and it had come. Sophia had received, for standing in her -nightdress at a draughty window of a May morning, what Mrs. Baines -called 'nature's slap in the face.' As for the dress, she had -worshipped God in it, and prayed for Sophia in it, before dinner; -and its four double rows of gimp on the skirt had been accounted a -great success. With her lace-bordered mantle and her low, stringed -bonnet she had assuredly given a unique lustre to the congregation -at chapel. She was stout; but the fashions, prescribing vague -outlines, broad downward slopes, and vast amplitudes, were -favourable to her shape. It must not be supposed that stout women -of a certain age never seek to seduce the eye and trouble the -meditations of man by other than moral charms. Mrs. Baines knew -that she was comely, natty, imposing, and elegant; and the -knowledge gave her real pleasure. She would look over her shoulder -in the glass as anxious as a girl: make no mistake. - -She did not repose; she could not. She sat thinking, in exactly -the same posture as Sophia's two afternoons previously. She would -have been surprised to hear that her attitude, bearing, and -expression powerfully recalled those of her reprehensible -daughter. But it was so. A good angel made her restless, and she -went idly to the window and glanced upon the empty, shuttered -Square. She too, majestic matron, had strange, brief yearnings for -an existence more romantic than this; shootings across her -spirit's firmament of tailed comets; soft, inexplicable -melancholies. The good angel, withdrawing her from such a mood, -directed her gaze to a particular spot at the top of the square. - -She passed at once out of the room--not precisely in a hurry, yet -without wasting time. In a recess under the stairs, immediately -outside the door, was a box about a foot square and eighteen -inches deep covered with black American cloth. She bent down and -unlocked this box, which was padded within and contained the -Baines silver tea-service. She drew from the box teapot, sugar- -bowl, milk-jug, sugar-tongs, hot-water jug, and cake-stand (a -flattish dish with an arching semicircular handle)--chased -vessels, silver without and silver-gilt within; glittering -heirlooms that shone in the dark corner like the secret pride of -respectable families. These she put on a tray that always stood on -end in the recess. Then she looked upwards through the banisters -to the second floor. - -"Maggie!" she piercingly whispered. - -"Yes, mum," came a voice. - -"Are you dressed?" - -"Yes, mum. I'm just coming." - -"Well, put on your muslin." "Apron," Mrs. Baines implied. - -Maggie understood. - -"Take these for tea," said Mrs. Baines when Maggie descended. -"Better rub them over. You know where the cake is--that new one. -The best cups. And the silver spoons." - -They both heard a knock at the side-door, far off, below. - -"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines. "Now take these right down into -the kitchen before you open." - -"Yes, mum," said Maggie, departing. - -Mrs. Baines was wearing a black alpaca apron. She removed it and -put on another one of black satin embroidered with yellow flowers, -which, by merely inserting her arm into the chamber, she had taken -from off the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Then she fixed -herself in the drawing-room. - -Maggie returned, rather short of breath, convoying the visitor. - -"Ah! Miss Chetwynd," said Mrs. Baines, rising to welcome. "I'm -sure I'm delighted to see you. I saw you coming down the Square, -and I said to myself, 'Now, I do hope Miss Chetwynd isn't going to -forget us.'" - -Miss Chetwynd, simpering momentarily, came forward with that self- -conscious, slightly histrionic air, which is one of the penalties -of pedagogy. She lived under the eyes of her pupils. Her life was -one ceaseless effort to avoid doing anything which might influence -her charges for evil or shock the natural sensitiveness of their -parents. She had to wind her earthly way through a forest of the -most delicate susceptibilities--fern-fronds that stretched across -the path, and that she must not even accidentally disturb with her -skirt as she passed. No wonder she walked mincingly! No wonder she -had a habit of keeping her elbows close to her sides, and drawing -her mantle tight in the streets! Her prospectus talked about 'a -sound and religious course of training,' 'study embracing the -usual branches of English, with music by a talented master, -drawing, dancing, and calisthenics.' Also 'needlework plain and -ornamental;' also 'moral influence;' and finally about terms, -'which are very moderate, and every particular, with references to -parents and others, furnished on application.' (Sometimes, too, -without application.) As an illustration of the delicacy of fern- -fronds, that single word 'dancing' had nearly lost her Constance -and Sophia seven years before! - -She was a pinched virgin, aged forty, and not 'well off;' in her -family the gift of success had been monopolized by her elder -sister. For these characteristics Mrs. Baines, as a matron in easy -circumstances, pitied Miss Chetwynd. On the other hand, Miss -Chetwynd could choose ground from which to look down upon Mrs. -Baines, who after all was in trade. Miss Chetwynd had no trace of -the local accent; she spoke with a southern refinement which the -Five Towns, while making fun of it, envied. All her O's had a -genteel leaning towards 'ow,' as ritualism leans towards Romanism. -And she was the fount of etiquette, a wonder of correctness; in -the eyes of her pupils' parents not so much 'a perfect LADY' as 'a -PERFECT lady.' So that it was an extremely nice question whether, -upon the whole, Mrs. Baines secretly condescended to Miss Chetwynd -or Miss Chetwynd to Mrs. Baines. Perhaps Mrs. Baines, by virtue of -her wifehood, carried the day. - -Miss Chetwynd, carefully and precisely seated, opened the -conversation by explaining that even if Mrs. Baines had not -written she should have called in any case, as she made a practice -of calling at the home of her pupils in vacation time: which was -true. Mrs. Baines, it should be stated, had on Friday afternoon -sent to Miss Chetwynd one of her most luxurious notes--lavender- -coloured paper with scalloped edges, the selectest mode of the -day--to announce, in her Italian hand, that Constance and Sophia -would both leave school at the end of the next term, and giving -reasons in regard to Sophia. - -Before the visitor had got very far, Maggie came in with a -lacquered tea-caddy and the silver teapot and a silver spoon on a -lacquered tray. Mrs. Baines, while continuing to talk, chose a key -from her bunch, unlocked the tea-caddy, and transferred four -teaspoonfuls of tea from it to the teapot and relocked the caddy. - -"Strawberry," she mysteriously whispered to Maggie; and Maggie -disappeared, bearing the tray and its contents. - -"And how is your sister? It is quite a long time since she was -down here," Mrs. Baines went on to Miss Chetwynd, after whispering -"strawberry." - -The remark was merely in the way of small-talk--for the hostess -felt a certain unwilling hesitation to approach the topic of -daughters--but it happened to suit the social purpose of Miss -Chetwynd to a nicety. Miss Chetwynd was a vessel brimming with -great tidings. - -"She is very well, thank you," said Miss Chetwynd, and her -expression grew exceedingly vivacious. Her face glowed with pride -as she added, "Of course everything is changed now." - -"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Baines, with polite curiosity. - -"Yes," said Miss Chetwynd. "You've not heard?" - -"No," said Mrs. Baines. Miss Chetwynd knew that she had not heard. - -"About Elizabeth's engagement? To the Reverend Archibald Jones?" - -It is the fact that Mrs. Baines was taken aback. She did nothing -indiscreet; she did not give vent to her excusable amazement that -the elder Miss Chetwynd should be engaged to any one at all, as -some women would have done in the stress of the moment. She kept -her presence of mind. - -"This is really MOST interesting!" said she. - -It was. For Archibald Jones was one of the idols of the Wesleyan -Methodist Connexion, a special preacher famous throughout England. -At 'Anniversaries' and 'Trust sermons,' Archibald Jones had -probably no rival. His Christian name helped him; it was a -luscious, resounding mouthful for admirers. He was not an -itinerant minister, migrating every three years. His function was -to direct the affairs of the 'Book Room,' the publishing -department of the Connexion. He lived in London, and shot out into -the provinces at week-ends, preaching on Sundays and giving a -lecture, tinctured with bookishness, 'in the chapel' on Monday -evenings. In every town he visited there was competition for the -privilege of entertaining him. He had zeal, indefatigable energy, -and a breezy wit. He was a widower of fifty, and his wife had been -dead for twenty years. It had seemed as if women were not for this -bright star. And here Elizabeth Chetwynd, who had left the Five -Towns a quarter of a century before at the age of twenty, had -caught him! Austere, moustached, formidable, desiccated, she must -have done it with her powerful intellect! It must be a union of -intellects! He had been impressed by hers, and she by his, and -then their intellects had kissed. Within a week fifty thousand -women in forty counties had pictured to themselves this osculation -of intellects, and shrugged their shoulders, and decided once more -that men were incomprehensible. These great ones in London, -falling in love like the rest! But no! Love was a ribald and -voluptuous word to use in such a matter as this. It was generally -felt that the Reverend Archibald Jones and Miss Chetwynd the elder -would lift marriage to what would now be termed an astral plane. - -After tea had been served, Mrs. Baines gradually recovered her -position, both in her own private esteem and in the deference of -Miss Aline Chetwynd. - -"Yes," said she. "You can talk about your sister, and you can call -HIM Archibald, and you can mince up your words. But have you got a -tea-service like this? Can you conceive more perfect strawberry -jam than this? Did not my dress cost more than you spend on your -clothes in a year? Has a man ever looked at you? After all, is -there not something about my situation ... in short, something -...?" - -She did not say this aloud. She in no way deviated from the -scrupulous politeness of a hostess. There was nothing in even her -tone to indicate that Mrs. John Baines was a personage. Yet it -suddenly occurred to Miss Chetwynd that her pride in being the -prospective sister-in-law of the Rev. Archibald Jones would be -better for a while in her pocket. And she inquired after Mr. -Baines. After this the conversation limped somewhat. - -"I suppose you weren't surprised by my letter?" said Mrs. Baines. - -"I was and I wasn't," answered Miss Chetwynd, in her professional -manner and not her manner of a prospective sister-in-law. "Of -course I am naturally sorry to lose two such good pupils, but we -can't keep our pupils for ever." She smiled; she was not without -fortitude--it is easier to lose pupils than to replace them. -"Still"--a pause--"what you say of Sophia is perfectly true, -perfectly. She is quite as advanced as Constance. Still"--another -pause and a more rapid enunciation--"Sophia is by no means an -ordinary girl." - -"I hope she hasn't been a very great trouble to you?" - -"Oh NO!" exclaimed Miss Chetwynd. "Sophia and I have got on very -well together. I have always tried to appeal to her reason. I have -never FORCED her ... Now, with some girls ... In some ways I look -on Sophia as the most remarkable girl--not pupil--but the most -remarkable--what shall I say?--individuality, that I have ever met -with." And her demeanour added, "And, mind you, this is something ---from me!" - -"Indeed!" said Mrs. Baines. She told herself, "I am not your -common foolish parent. I see my children impartially. I am -incapable of being flattered concerning them." - -Nevertheless she was flattered, and the thought shaped itself that -really Sophia was no ordinary girl. - -"I suppose she has talked to you about becoming a teacher?" asked -Miss Chetwynd, taking a morsel of the unparalleled jam. - -She held the spoon with her thumb and three fingers. Her fourth -finger, in matters of honest labour, would never associate with -the other three; delicately curved, it always drew proudly away -from them. - -"Has she mentioned that to you?" Mrs. Baines demanded, startled. - -"Oh yes!" said Miss Chetwynd. "Several times. Sophia is a very -secretive girl, very--but I think I may say I have always had her -confidence. There have been times when Sophia and I have been very -near each other. Elizabeth was much struck with her. Indeed, I may -tell you that in one of her last letters to me she spoke of Sophia -and said she had mentioned her to Mr. Jones, and Mr. Jones -remembered her quite well." - -Impossible for even a wise, uncommon parent not to be affected by -such an announcement! - -"I dare say your sister will give up her school now," observed -Mrs. Baines, to divert attention from her self-consciousness. - -"Oh NO!" And this time Mrs. Baines had genuinely shocked Miss -Chetwynd. "Nothing would induce Elizabeth to give up the cause of -education. Archibald takes the keenest interest in the school. Oh -no! Not for worlds!" - -"THEN YOU THINK SOPHIA WOULD MAKE A GOOD TEACHER?" asked Mrs. -Baines with apparent inconsequence, and with a smile. But the -words marked an epoch in her mind. All was over. - -"I think she is very much set on it and--" - -"That wouldn't affect her father--or me," said Mrs. Baines -quickly. - -"Certainly not! I merely say that she is very much set on it. Yes, -she would, at any rate, make a teacher far superior to the -average." ("That girl has got the better of her mother without -me!" she reflected.) "Ah! Here is dear Constance!" - -Constance, tempted beyond her strength by the sounds of the visit -and the colloquy, had slipped into the room. - -"I've left both doors open, mother," she excused herself for -quitting her father, and kissed Miss Chetwynd. - -She blushed, but she blushed happily, and really made a most -creditable debut as a young lady. Her mother rewarded her by -taking her into the conversation. And history was soon made. - -So Sophia was apprenticed to Miss Aline Chetwynd. Mrs. Baines bore -herself greatly. It was Miss Chetwynd who had urged, and her -respect for Miss Chetwynd ... Also somehow the Reverend Archibald -Jones came into the cause. - -Of course the idea of Sophia ever going to London was ridiculous, -ridiculous! (Mrs. Baines secretly feared that the ridiculous might -happen; but, with the Reverend Archibald Jones on the spot, the -worst could be faced.) Sophia must understand that even the -apprenticeship in Bursley was merely a trial. They would see how -things went on. She had to thank Miss Chetwynd. - -"I made Miss Chetwynd come and talk to mother," said Sophia -magnificently one night to simple Constance, as if to imply, 'Your -Miss Chetwynd is my washpot.' - -To Constance, Sophia's mere enterprise was just as staggering as -her success. Fancy her deliberately going out that Saturday -morning, after her mother's definite decision, to enlist Miss -Chetwynd in her aid! - -There is no need to insist on the tragic grandeur of Mrs. Baines's -renunciation--a renunciation which implied her acceptance of a -change in the balance of power in her realm. Part of its tragedy -was that none, not even Constance, could divine the intensity of -Mrs. Baines's suffering. She had no confidant; she was incapable -of showing a wound. But when she lay awake at night by the -organism which had once been her husband, she dwelt long and -deeply on the martyrdom of her life. What had she done to deserve -it? Always had she conscientiously endeavoured to be kind, just, -patient. And she knew herself to be sagacious and prudent. In the -frightful and unguessed trials of her existence as a wife, surely -she might have been granted consolations as a mother! Yet no; it -had not been! And she felt all the bitterness of age against -youth--youth egotistic, harsh, cruel, uncompromising; youth that -is so crude, so ignorant of life, so slow to understand! She had -Constance. Yes, but it would be twenty years before Constance -could appreciate the sacrifice of judgment and of pride which her -mother had made, in a sudden decision, during that rambling, -starched, simpering interview with Miss Aline Chetwynd. Probably -Constance thought that she had yielded to Sophia's passionate -temper! Impossible to explain to Constance that she had yielded to -nothing but a perception of Sophia's complete inability to hear -reason and wisdom. Ah! Sometimes as she lay in the dark, she -would, in fancy, snatch her heart from her bosom and fling it down -before Sophia, bleeding, and cry: "See what I carry about with me, -on your account!" Then she would take it back and hide it again, -and sweeten her bitterness with wise admonitions to herself. - -All this because Sophia, aware that if she stayed in the house she -would be compelled to help in the shop, chose an honourable -activity which freed her from the danger. Heart, how absurd of you -to bleed! - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -ELEPHANT - -I - - -"Sophia, will you come and see the elephant? Do come!" Constance -entered the drawing-room with this request on her eager lips. - -"No," said Sophia, with a touch of condescension. "I'm far too -busy for elephants." - -Only two years had passed; but both girls were grown up now; long -sleeves, long skirts, hair that had settled down in life; and a -demeanour immensely serious, as though existence were terrific in -its responsibilities; yet sometimes childhood surprisingly broke -through the crust of gravity, as now in Constance, aroused by such -things as elephants, and proclaimed with vivacious gestures that -it was not dead after all. The sisters were sharply -differentiated. Constance wore the black alpaca apron and the -scissors at the end of a long black elastic, which indicated her -vocation in the shop. She was proving a considerable success in -the millinery department. She had learnt how to talk to people, -and was, in her modest way, very self-possessed. She was getting a -little stouter. Everybody liked her. Sophia had developed into the -student. Time had accentuated her reserve. Her sole friend was -Miss Chetwynd, with whom she was, having regard to the disparity -of their ages, very intimate. At home she spoke little. She lacked -amiability; as her mother said, she was 'touchy.' She required -diplomacy from others, but did not render it again. Her attitude, -indeed, was one of half-hidden disdain, now gentle, now coldly -bitter. She would not wear an apron, in an age when aprons were -almost essential to decency. No! She would not wear an apron, and -there was an end of it. She was not so tidy as Constance, and if -Constance's hands had taken on the coarse texture which comes from -commerce with needles, pins, artificial flowers, and stuffs, -Sophia's fine hands were seldom innocent of ink. But Sophia was -splendidly beautiful. And even her mother and Constance had an -instinctive idea that that face was, at any rate, a partial excuse -for her asperity. - -"Well," said Constance, "if you won't, I do believe I shall ask -mother if she will." - -Sophia, bending over her books, made no answer. But the top of her -head said: "This has no interest for me whatever." - -Constance left the room, and in a moment returned with her mother. - -"Sophia," said her mother, with gay excitement, "you might go and -sit with your father for a bit while Constance and I just run up -to the playground to see the elephant. You can work just as well -in there as here. Your father's asleep." - -"Oh, very, well!" Sophia agreed haughtily. "Whatever is all this -fuss about an elephant? Anyhow, it'll be quieter in your room. The -noise here is splitting." She gave a supercilious glance into the -Square as she languidly rose. - -It was the morning of the third day of Bursley Wakes; not the -modern finicking and respectable, but an orgiastic carnival, gross -in all its manifestations of joy. The whole centre of the town was -given over to the furious pleasures of the people. Most of the -Square was occupied by Wombwell's Menagerie, in a vast oblong -tent, whose raging beasts roared and growled day and night. And -spreading away from this supreme attraction, right up through the -market-place past the Town Hall to Duck Bank, Duck Square and the -waste land called the 'playground' were hundreds of booths with -banners displaying all the delights of the horrible. You could see -the atrocities of the French Revolution, and of the Fiji Islands, -and the ravages of unspeakable diseases, and the living flesh of a -nearly nude human female guaranteed to turn the scale at twenty- -two stone, and the skeletons of the mysterious phantoscope, and -the bloody contests of champions naked to the waist (with the -chance of picking up a red tooth as a relic). You could try your -strength by hitting an image of a fellow-creature in the stomach, -and test your aim by knocking off the heads of other images with a -wooden ball. You could also shoot with rifles at various targets. -All the streets were lined with stalls loaded with food in heaps, -chiefly dried fish, the entrails of animals, and gingerbread. All -the public-houses were crammed, and frenzied jolly drunkards, men -and women, lunged along the pavements everywhere, their shouts -vying with the trumpets, horns, and drums of the booths, and the -shrieking, rattling toys that the children carried. - -It was a glorious spectacle, but not a spectacle for the leading -families. Miss Chetwynd's school was closed, so that the daughters -of leading families might remain in seclusion till the worst was -over. The Baineses ignored the Wakes in every possible way, -choosing that week to have a show of mourning goods in the left- -hand window, and refusing to let Maggie outside on any pretext. -Therefore the dazzling social success of the elephant, which was -quite easily drawing Mrs. Baines into the vortex, cannot -imaginably be over-estimated. - -On the previous night one of the three Wombwell elephants had -suddenly knelt on a man in the tent; he had then walked out of the -tent and picked up another man at haphazard from the crowd which -was staring at the great pictures in front, and tried to put this -second man into his mouth. Being stopped by his Indian attendant -with a pitchfork, he placed the man on the ground and stuck his -tusk through an artery of the victim's arm. He then, amid -unexampled excitement, suffered himself to be led away. He was -conducted to the rear of the tent, just in front of Baines's -shuttered windows, and by means of stakes, pulleys, and ropes -forced to his knees. His head was whitewashed, and six men of the -Rifle Corps were engaged to shoot at him at a distance of five -yards, while constables kept the crowd off with truncheons. He -died instantly, rolling over with a soft thud. The crowd cheered, -and, intoxicated by their importance, the Volunteers fired three -more volleys into the carcase, and were then borne off as heroes -to different inns. The elephant, by the help of his two -companions, was got on to a railway lorry and disappeared into the -night. Such was the greatest sensation that has ever occurred, or -perhaps will ever occur, in Bursley. The excitement about the -repeal of the Corn Laws, or about Inkerman, was feeble compared to -that excitement. Mr. Critchlow, who had been called on to put a -hasty tourniquet round the arm of the second victim, had popped in -afterwards to tell John Baines all about it. Mr. Baines's -interest, however, had been slight. Mr. Critchlow succeeded better -with the ladies, who, though they had witnessed the shooting from -the drawing-room, were thirsty for the most trifling details. - -The next day it was known that the elephant lay near the -playground, pending the decision of the Chief Bailiff and the -Medical Officer as to his burial. And everybody had to visit the -corpse. No social exclusiveness could withstand the seduction of -that dead elephant. Pilgrims travelled from all the Five Towns to -see him. - -"We're going now," said Mrs. Baines, after she had assumed her -bonnet and shawl. - -"All right," said Sophia, pretending to be absorbed in study, as -she sat on the sofa at the foot of her father's bed. - -And Constance, having put her head in at the door, drew her mother -after her like a magnet. - -Then Sophia heard a remarkable conversation in the passage. - -"Are you going up to see the elephant, Mrs. Baines?" asked the -voice of Mr. Povey. - -"Yes. Why?" - -"I think I had better come with you. The crowd is sure to be very -rough." Mr. Povey's tone was firm; he had a position. - -"But the shop?" - -"We shall not be long," said Mr. Povey. - -"Oh yes, mother," Constance added appealingly. - -Sophia felt the house thrill as the side-door banged. She sprang -up and watched the three cross King Street diagonally, and so -plunge into the Wakes. This triple departure was surely the -crowning tribute to the dead elephant! It was simply astonishing. -It caused Sophia to perceive that she had miscalculated the -importance of the elephant. It made her regret her scorn of the -elephant as an attraction. She was left behind; and the joy of -life was calling her. She could see down into the Vaults on the -opposite side of the street, where working men--potters and -colliers--in their best clothes, some with high hats, were -drinking, gesticulating, and laughing in a row at a long counter. - -She noticed, while she was thus at the bedroom window, a young man -ascending King Street, followed by a porter trundling a flat -barrow of luggage. He passed slowly under the very window. She -flushed. She had evidently been startled by the sight of this -young man into no ordinary state of commotion. She glanced at the -books on the sofa, and then at her father. Mr. Baines, thin and -gaunt, and acutely pitiable, still slept. His brain had almost -ceased to be active now; he had to be fed and tended like a -bearded baby, and he would sleep for hours at a stretch even in -the daytime. Sophia left the room. A moment later she ran into the -shop, an apparition that amazed the three young lady assistants. -At the corner near the window on the fancy side a little nook had -been formed by screening off a portion of the counter with large -flower-boxes placed end-up. This corner had come to be known as -"Miss Baines's corner." Sophia hastened to it, squeezing past a -young lady assistant in the narrow space between the back of the -counter and the shelf-lined wall. She sat down in Constance's -chair and pretended to look for something. She had examined -herself in the cheval-glass in the showroom, on her way from the -sick-chamber. When she heard a voice near the door of the shop -asking first for Mr. Povey and then for Mrs. Baines, she rose, and -seizing the object nearest to her, which happened to be a pair of -scissors, she hurried towards the showroom stairs as though the -scissors had been a grail, passionately sought and to be jealously -hidden away. She wanted to stop and turn round, but something -prevented her. She was at the end of the counter, under the -curving stairs, when one of the assistants said: - -"I suppose you don't know when Mr. Povey or your mother are likely -to be back, Miss Sophia? Here's--" - -It was a divine release for Sophia. - -"They're--I--" she stammered, turning round abruptly. Luckily she -was still sheltered behind the counter. - -The young man whom she had seen in the street came boldly forward. - -"Good morning, Miss Sophia," said he, hat in hand. "It is a long -time since I had the pleasure of seeing you." - -Never had she blushed as she blushed then. She scarcely knew what -she was doing as she moved slowly towards her sister's corner -again, the young man following her on the customer's side of the -counter. - -II - -She knew that he was a traveller for the most renowned and -gigantic of all Manchester wholesale firms--Birkinshaws. But she -did not know his name, which was Gerald Scales. He was a rather -short but extremely well-proportioned man of thirty, with fair -hair, and a distinguished appearance, as became a representative -of Birkinshaws. His broad, tight necktie, with an edge of white -collar showing above it, was particularly elegant. He had been on -the road for Birkinshaws for several years; but Sophia had only -seen him once before in her life, when she was a little girl, -three years ago. The relations between the travellers of the great -firms and their solid, sure clients in small towns were in those -days often cordially intimate. The traveller came with the lustre -of a historic reputation around him; there was no need to fawn for -orders; and the client's immense and immaculate respectability -made him the equal of no matter what ambassador. It was a case of -mutual esteem, and of that confidence-generating phenomenon, "an -old account." The tone in which a commercial traveller of middle -age would utter the phrase "an old account" revealed in a flash -all that was romantic, prim, and stately in mid-Victorian -commerce. In the days of Baines, after one of the elaborately -engraved advice-circulars had arrived ('Our Mr.------will have the -pleasure of waiting upon you on--day next, the--inst.') John might -in certain cases be expected to say, on the morning of--day, -'Missis, what have ye gotten for supper to-night?' - -Mr. Gerald Scales had never been asked to supper; he had never -even seen John Baines; but, as the youthful successor of an aged -traveller who had had the pleasure of St. Luke's Square, on behalf -of Birkinshaws, since before railways, Mrs. Baines had treated him -with a faint agreeable touch of maternal familiarity; and, both -her daughters being once in the shop during his visit, she had on -that occasion commanded the gawky girls to shake hands with him. - -Sophia had never forgotten that glimpse. The young man without a -name had lived in her mind, brightly glowing, as the very symbol -and incarnation of the masculine and the elegant. - -The renewed sight of him seemed to have wakened her out of a -sleep. Assuredly she was not the same Sophia. As she sat in her -sister's chair in the corner, entrenched behind the perpendicular -boxes, playing nervously with the scissors, her beautiful face was -transfigured into the ravishingly angelic. It would have been -impossible for Mr. Gerald Scales, or anybody else, to credit, as -he gazed at those lovely, sensitive, vivacious, responsive -features, that Sophia was not a character of heavenly sweetness -and perfection. She did not know what she was doing; she was -nothing but the exquisite expression of a deep instinct to attract -and charm. Her soul itself emanated from her in an atmosphere of -allurement and acquiescence. Could those laughing lips hang in a -heavy pout? Could that delicate and mild voice be harsh? Could -those burning eyes be coldly inimical? Never! The idea was -inconceivable! And Mr. Gerald Scales, with his head over the top -of the boxes, yielded to the spell. Remarkable that Mr. Gerald -Scales, with all his experience, should have had to come to -Bursley to find the pearl, the paragon, the ideal! But so it was. -They met in an equal abandonment; the only difference between them -was that Mr. Scales, by force of habit, kept his head. - -"I see it's your wakes here," said he. - -He was polite to the wakes; but now, with the least inflection in -the world, he put the wakes at its proper level in the scheme of -things as a local unimportance! She adored him for this; she was -athirst for sympathy in the task of scorning everything local. - -"I expect you didn't know," she said, implying that there was -every reason why a man of his mundane interests should not know. - -"I should have remembered if I had thought," said he. "But I -didn't think. What's this about an elephant?" - -"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Have you heard of that?" - -"My porter was full of it." - -"Well," she said, "of course it's a very big thing in Bursley." - -As she smiled in gentle pity of poor Bursley, he naturally did the -same. And he thought how much more advanced and broad the younger -generation was than the old! He would never have dared to express -his real feelings about Bursley to Mrs. Baines, or even to Mr. -Povey (who was, however, of no generation); yet here was a young -woman actually sharing them. - -She told him all the history of the elephant. - -"Must have been very exciting," he commented, despite himself. - -"Do you know," she replied, "it WAS." - -After all, Bursley was climbing in their opinion. - -"And mother and my sister and Mr. Povey have all gone to see it. -That's why they're not here." - -That the elephant should have caused both Mr. Povey and Mrs. -Baines to forget that the representative of Birkinshaws was due to -call was indeed a final victory for the elephant. - -"But not you!" he exclaimed. - -"No," she said. "Not me." - -"Why didn't you go too?" He continued his flattering -investigations with a generous smile. - -"I simply didn't care to," said she, proudly nonchalant. - -"And I suppose you are in charge here?" - -"No," she answered. "I just happened to have run down here for -these scissors. That's all." - -"I often see your sister," said he. "'Often' do I say?--that is, -generally, when I come; but never you." - -"I'm never in the shop," she said. "It's just an accident to-day." - -"Oh! So you leave the shop to your sister?" - -"Yes." She said nothing of her teaching. - -Then there was a silence. Sophia was very thankful to be hidden -from the curiosity of the shop. The shop could see nothing of her, -and only the back of the young man; and the conversation had been -conducted in low voices. She tapped her foot, stared at the worn, -polished surface of the counter, with the brass yard-measure -nailed along its edge, and then she uneasily turned her gaze to -the left and seemed to be examining the backs of the black bonnets -which were perched on high stands in the great window. Then her -eyes caught his for an important moment. - -"Yes," she breathed. Somebody had to say something. If the shop -missed the murmur of their voices the shop would wonder what had -happened to them. - -Mr. Scales looked at his watch. '"I dare say if I come in again -about two--" he began. - -"Oh yes, they're SURE to be in then," she burst out before he -could finish his sentence. - -He left abruptly, queerly, without shaking hands (but then it -would have been difficult--she argued--for him to have put his arm -over the boxes), and without expressing the hope of seeing her -again. She peeped through the black bonnets, and saw the porter -put the leather strap over his shoulders, raise the rear of the -barrow, and trundle off; but she did not see Mr. Scales. She was -drunk; thoughts were tumbling about in her brain like cargo loose -in a rolling ship. Her entire conception of herself was being -altered; her attitude towards life was being altered. The thought -which knocked hardest against its fellows was, "Only in these -moments have I begun to live!" - -And as she flitted upstairs to resume watch over her father she -sought to devise an innocent-looking method by which she might see -Mr. Scales when he next called. And she speculated as to what his -name was. - -III - -When Sophia arrived in the bedroom, she was startled because her -father's head and beard were not in their accustomed place on the -pillow. She could only make out something vaguely unusual sloping -off the side of the bed. A few seconds passed--not to be measured -in time--and she saw that the upper part of his body had slipped -down, and his head was hanging, inverted, near the floor between -the bed and the ottoman. His face, neck, and hands were dark and -congested; his mouth was open, and the tongue protruded between -the black, swollen, mucous lips; his eyes were prominent and -coldly staring. The fact was that Mr. Baines had wakened up, and, -being restless, had slid out partially from his bed and died of -asphyxia. After having been unceasingly watched for fourteen -years, he had, with an invalid's natural perverseness, taken -advantage of Sophia's brief dereliction to expire. Say what you -will, amid Sophia's horror, and her terrible grief and shame, she -had visitings of the idea: he did it on purpose! - -She ran out of the room, knowing by intuition that he was dead, -and shrieked out, "Maggie," at the top of her voice; the house -echoed. - -"Yes, miss," said Maggie, quite close, coming out of Mr. Povey's -chamber with a slop-pail. - -"Fetch Mr. Critchlow at once. Be quick. Just as you are. It's -father--" - -Maggie, perceiving darkly that disaster was in the air, and -instantly filled with importance and a sort of black joy, dropped -her pail in the exact middle of the passage, and almost fell down -the crooked stairs. One of Maggie's deepest instincts, always held -in check by the stern dominance of Mrs. Baines, was to leave pails -prominent on the main routes of the house; and now, divining what -was at hand, it flamed into insurrection. - -No sleepless night had ever been so long to Sophia as the three -minutes which elapsed before Mr. Critchlow came. As she stood on -the mat outside the bedroom door she tried to draw her mother and -Constance and Mr. Povey by magnetic force out of the wakes into -the house, and her muscles were contracted in this strange effort. -She felt that it was impossible to continue living if the secret -of the bedroom remained unknown one instant longer, so intense was -her torture, and yet that the torture which could not be borne -must be borne. Not a sound in the house! Not a sound from the -shop! Only the distant murmur of the wakes! - -"Why did I forget father?" she asked herself with awe. "I only -meant to tell him that they were all out, and run back. Why did I -forget father?" She would never be able to persuade anybody that -she had literally forgotten her father's existence for quite ten -minutes; but it was true, though shocking. - -Then there were noises downstairs. - -"Bless us! Bless us!" came the unpleasant voice of Mr. Critchlow -as he bounded up the stairs on his long legs; he strode over the -pail. "What's amiss?" He was wearing his white apron, and he -carried his spectacles in his bony hand. - -"It's father--he's--" Sophia faltered. - -She stood away so that he should enter the room first. He glanced -at her keenly, and as it were resentfully, and went in. She -followed, timidly, remaining near the door while Mr. Critchlow -inspected her handiwork. He put on his spectacles with strange -deliberation, and then, bending his knees outwards, thus lowered -his body so that he could examine John Baines point-blank. He -remained staring like this, his hands on his sharp apron-covered -knees, for a little space; and then he seized the inert mass and -restored it to the bed, and wiped those clotted lips with his -apron. - -Sophia heard loud breathing behind her. It was Maggie. She heard a -huge, snorting sob; Maggie was showing her emotion. - -"Go fetch doctor!" Mr. Critchlow rasped. "And don't stand gaping -there!" - -"Run for the doctor, Maggie," said Sophia. - -"How came ye to let him fall?" Mr. Critchlow demanded. - -"I was out of the room. I just ran down into the shop--" - -"Gallivanting with that young Scales!" said Mr. Critchlow, with -devilish ferocity. "Well, you've killed yer father; that's all!" - -He must have been at his shop door and seen the entry of the -traveller! And it was precisely characteristic of Mr. Critchlow to -jump in the dark at a horrible conclusion, and to be right after -all. For Sophia Mr. Critchlow had always been the personification -of malignity and malevolence, and now these qualities in him made -him, to her, almost obscene. Her pride brought up tremendous -reinforcements, and she approached the bed. - -"Is he dead?" she asked in a quiet tone. (Somewhere within a voice -was whispering, "So his name is Scales.") - -"Don't I tell you he's dead?" - -"Pail on the stairs!" - -This mild exclamation came from the passage. Mrs. Baines, -misliking the crowds abroad, had returned alone; she had left -Constance in charge of Mr. Povey. Coming into her house by the -shop and showroom, she had first noted the phenomenon of the pail ---proof of her theory of Maggie's incurable untidiness. - -"Been to see the elephant, I reckon!" said Mr. Critchlow, in -fierce sarcasm, as he recognized Mrs. Baines's voice. - -Sophia leaped towards the door, as though to bar her mother's -entrance. But Mrs. Baines was already opening the door. - -"Well, my pet--" she was beginning cheerfully. - -Mr. Critchlow confronted her. And he had no more pity for the wife -than for the daughter. He was furiously angry because his precious -property had been irretrievably damaged by the momentary -carelessness of a silly girl. Yes, John Baines was his property, -his dearest toy! He was convinced that he alone had kept John -Baines alive for fourteen years, that he alone had fully -understood the case and sympathized with the sufferer, that none -but he had been capable of displaying ordinary common sense in the -sick-room. He had learned to regard John Baines as, in some sort, -his creation. And now, with their stupidity, their neglect, their -elephants, between them they had done for John Baines. He had -always known it would come to that, and it had come to that. - -"She let him fall out o' bed, and ye're a widow now, missis!" he -announced with a virulence hardly conceivable. His angular -features and dark eyes expressed a murderous hate for every woman -named Baines. - -"Mother!" cried Sophia, "I only ran down into the shop to--to--" - -She seized her mother's arm in frenzied agony. - -"My child!" said Mrs. Baines, rising miraculously to the situation -with a calm benevolence of tone and gesture that remained for ever -sublime in the stormy heart of Sophia, "do not hold me." With -infinite gentleness she loosed herself from those clasping hands. -"Have you sent for the doctor?" she questioned Mr. Critchlow. - -The fate of her husband presented no mysteries to Mrs. Baines. -Everybody had been warned a thousand times of the danger of -leaving the paralytic, whose life depended on his position, and -whose fidgetiness was thereby a constant menace of death to him. -For five thousand nights she had wakened infallibly every time he -stirred, and rearranged him by the flicker of a little oil lamp. -But Sophia, unhappy creature, had merely left him. That was all. - -Mr. Critchlow and the widow gazed, helplessly waiting, at the -pitiable corpse, of which the salient part was the white beard. -They knew not that they were gazing at a vanished era. John Baines -had belonged to the past, to the age when men really did think of -their souls, when orators by phrases could move crowds to fury or -to pity, when no one had learnt to hurry, when Demos was only -turning in his sleep, when the sole beauty of life resided in its -inflexible and slow dignity, when hell really had no bottom, and a -gilt-clasped Bible really was the secret of England's greatness. -Mid-Victorian England lay on that mahogany bed. Ideals had passed -away with John Baines. It is thus that ideals die; not in the -conventional pageantry of honoured death, but sorrily, ignobly, -while one's head is turned-- - -And Mr. Povey and Constance, very self-conscious, went and saw the -dead elephant, and came back; and at the corner of King Street, -Constance exclaimed brightly-- - -"Why! who's gone out and left the side-door open?" - -For the doctor had at length arrived, and Maggie, in showing him -upstairs with pious haste, had forgotten to shut the door. - -And they took advantage of the side-door, rather guiltily, to -avoid the eyes of the shop. They feared that in the parlour they -would be the centre of a curiosity half ironical and half -reproving; for had they not accomplished an escapade? So they -walked slowly. - -The real murderer was having his dinner in the commercial room up -at the Tiger, opposite the Town Hall. - -IV - -Several shutters were put up in the windows of the shop, to -indicate a death, and the news instantly became known in trading -circles throughout the town. Many people simultaneously remarked -upon the coincidence that Mr. Baines should have died while there -was a show of mourning goods in his establishment. This -coincidence was regarded as extremely sinister, and it was -apparently felt that, for the sake of the mind's peace, one ought -not to inquire into such things too closely. From the moment of -putting up the prescribed shutters, John Baines and his funeral -began to acquire importance in Bursley, and their importance grew -rapidly almost from hour to hour. The wakes continued as usual, -except that the Chief Constable, upon representations being made -to him by Mr. Critchlow and other citizens, descended upon St. -Luke's Square and forbade the activities of Wombwell's orchestra. -Wombwell and the Chief Constable differed as to the justice of the -decree, but every well-minded person praised the Chief Constable, -and he himself considered that he had enhanced the town's -reputation for a decent propriety. It was noticed, too, not -without a shiver of the uncanny, that that night the lions and -tigers behaved like lambs, whereas on the previous night they had -roared the whole Square out of its sleep. - -The Chief Constable was not the only individual enlisted by Mr. -Critchlow in the service of his friend's fame. Mr. Critchlow spent -hours in recalling the principal citizens to a due sense of John -Baines's past greatness. He was determined that his treasured toy -should vanish underground with due pomp, and he left nothing -undone to that end. He went over to Hanbridge on the still -wonderful horse-car, and saw the editor-proprietor of the -Staffordshire Signal (then a two-penny weekly with no thought of -Football editions), and on the very day of the funeral the Signal -came out with a long and eloquent biography of John Baines. This -biography, giving details of his public life, definitely restored -him to his legitimate position in the civic memory as an ex-chief -bailiff, an ex-chairman of the Burial Board, and of the Five Towns -Association for the Advancement of Useful Knowledge, and also as a -"prime mover" in the local Turnpike Act, in the negotiations for -the new Town Hall, and in the Corinthian facade of the Wesleyan -Chapel; it narrated the anecdote of his courageous speech from the -portico of the Shambles during the riots of 1848, and it did not -omit a eulogy of his steady adherence to the wise old English -maxims of commerce and his avoidance of dangerous modern methods. -Even in the sixties the modern had reared its shameless head. The -panegyric closed with an appreciation of the dead man's fortitude -in the terrible affliction with which a divine providence had seen -fit to try him; and finally the Signal uttered its absolute -conviction that his native town would raise a cenotaph to his -honour. Mr. Critchlow, being unfamiliar with the word "cenotaph," -consulted Worcester's Dictionary, and when he found that it meant -"a sepulchral monument to one who is buried elsewhere," he was as -pleased with the Signal's language as with the idea, and decided -that a cenotaph should come to pass. - -The house and shop were transformed into a hive of preparation for -the funeral. All was changed. Mr. Povey kindly slept for three -nights on the parlour sofa, in order that Mrs. Baines might have -his room. The funeral grew into an obsession, for multitudinous -things had to be performed and done sumptuously and in strict -accordance with precedent. There were the family mourning, the -funeral repast, the choice of the text on the memorial card, the -composition of the legend on the coffin, the legal arrangements, -the letters to relations, the selection of guests, and the -questions of bell-ringing, hearse, plumes, number of horses, and -grave-digging. Nobody had leisure for the indulgence of grief -except Aunt Maria, who, after she had helped in the laying-out, -simply sat down and bemoaned unceasingly for hours her absence on -the fatal morning. "If I hadn't been so fixed on polishing my -candle-sticks," she weepingly repeated, "he mit ha' been alive and -well now." Not that Aunt Maria had been informed of the precise -circumstances of the death; she was not clearly aware that Mr. -Baines had died through a piece of neglect. But, like Mr. -Critchlow, she was convinced that there had been only one person -in the world truly capable of nursing Mr. Baines. Beyond the -family, no one save Mr. Critchlow and Dr. Harrop knew just how the -martyr had finished his career. Dr. Harrop, having been asked -bluntly if an inquest would be necessary, had reflected a moment -and had then replied: "No." And he added, "Least said soonest -mended--mark me!" They had marked him. He was commonsense in -breeches. - -As for Aunt Maria, she was sent about her snivelling business by -Aunt Harriet. The arrival in the house of this genuine aunt from -Axe, of this majestic and enormous widow whom even the imperial -Mrs. Baines regarded with a certain awe, set a seal of ultimate -solemnity on the whole event. In Mr. Povey's bedroom Mrs. Baines -fell like a child into Aunt Harriet's arms and sobbed: - -"If it had been anything else but that elephant!" - -Such was Mrs. Baines's sole weakness from first to last. - -Aunt Harriet was an exhaustless fountain of authority upon every -detail concerning interments. And, to a series of questions ending -with the word "sister," and answers ending with the word "sister," -the prodigious travail incident to the funeral was gradually and -successfully accomplished. Dress and the repast exceeded all other -matters in complexity and difficulty. But on the morning of the -funeral Aunt Harriet had the satisfaction of beholding her younger -sister the centre of a tremendous cocoon of crape, whose slightest -pleat was perfect. Aunt Harriet seemed to welcome her then, like a -veteran, formally into the august army of relicts. As they stood -side by side surveying the special table which was being laid in -the showroom for the repast, it appeared inconceivable that they -had reposed together in Mr. Povey's limited bed. They descended -from the showroom to the kitchen, where the last delicate dishes -were inspected. The shop was, of course, closed for the day, but -Mr. Povey was busy there, and in Aunt Harriet's all-seeing glance -he came next after the dishes. She rose from the kitchen to speak -with him. - -"You've got your boxes of gloves all ready?" she questioned him. - -"Yes, Mrs. Maddack." - -"You'll not forget to have a measure handy?" - -"No, Mrs. Maddack." - -"You'll find you'll want more of seven-and-three-quarters and -eights than anything." - -"Yes. I have allowed for that." - -"If you place yourself behind the side-door and put your boxes on -the harmonium, you'll be able to catch every one as they come in." - -"That is what I had thought of, Mrs. Maddack." - -She went upstairs. Mrs. Baines had reached the showroom again, and -was smoothing out creases in the white damask cloth and arranging -glass dishes of jam at equal distances from each other. - -"Come, sister," said Mrs. Maddack. "A last look." - -And they passed into the mortuary bedroom to gaze at Mr. Baines -before he should be everlastingly nailed down. In death he had -recovered some of his earlier dignity; but even so he was a -startling sight. The two widows bent over him, one on either side, -and gravely stared at that twisted, worn white face all neatly -tucked up in linen. - -"I shall fetch Constance and Sophia," said Mrs. Maddack, with -tears in her voice. "Do you go into the drawing-room, sister." - -But Mrs. Maddack only succeeded in fetching Constance. - -Then there was the sound of wheels in King Street. The long rite -of the funeral was about to begin. Every guest, after having been -measured and presented with a pair of the finest black kid gloves -by Mr. Povey, had to mount the crooked stairs and gaze upon the -carcase of John Baines, going afterwards to the drawing-room to -condole briefly with the widow. And every guest, while conscious -of the enormity of so thinking, thought what an excellent thing it -was that John Baines should be at last dead and gone. The tramping -on the stairs was continual, and finally Mr. Baines himself went -downstairs, bumping against corners, and led a cortege of twenty -vehicles. - -The funeral tea was not over at seven o'clock, five hours after -the commencement of the rite. It was a gigantic and faultless -meal, worthy of John Baines's distant past. Only two persons were -absent from it--John Baines and Sophia. The emptiness of Sophia's -chair was much noticed; Mrs. Maddack explained that Sophia was -very high-strung and could not trust herself. Great efforts were -put forth by the company to be lugubrious and inconsolable, but -the secret relief resulting from the death would not be entirely -hidden. The vast pretence of acute sorrow could not stand intact -against that secret relief and the lavish richness of the food. - -To the offending of sundry important relatives from a distance, -Mr. Critchlow informally presided over that assemblage of grave -men in high stocks and crinolined women. He had closed his shop, -which had never before been closed on a weekday, and he had a -great deal to say about this extraordinary closure. It was due as -much to the elephant as to the funeral. The elephant had become a -victim to the craze for souvenirs. Already in the night his tusks -had been stolen; then his feet disappeared for umbrella-stands, -and most of his flesh had departed in little hunks. Everybody in -Bursley had resolved to participate in the elephant. One -consequence was that all the chemists' shops in the town were -assaulted by strings of boys. 'Please a pennorth o' alum to tak' -smell out o' a bit o' elephant.' Mr. Critchlow hated boys. - -"'I'll alum ye!' says I, and I did. I alummed him out o' my shop -with a pestle. If there'd been one there'd been twenty between -opening and nine o'clock. 'George,' I says to my apprentice, 'shut -shop up. My old friend John Baines is going to his long home to- -day, and I'll close. I've had enough o' alum for one day.'" - -The elephant fed the conversation until after the second relay of -hot muffins. When Mr. Critchlow had eaten to his capacity, he took -the Signal importantly from his pocket, posed his spectacles, and -read the obituary all through in slow, impressive accents. Before -he reached the end Mrs. Baines began to perceive that familiarity -had blinded her to the heroic qualities of her late husband. The -fourteen years of ceaseless care were quite genuinely forgotten, -and she saw him in his strength and in his glory. When Mr. -Critchlow arrived at the eulogy of the husband and father, Mrs. -Baines rose and left the showroom. The guests looked at each other -in sympathy for her. Mr. Critchlow shot a glance at her over his -spectacles and continued steadily reading. After he had finished -he approached the question of the cenotaph. - -Mrs. Baines, driven from the banquet by her feelings, went into -the drawing-room. Sophia was there, and Sophia, seeing tears in -her mother's eyes, gave a sob, and flung herself bodily against -her mother, clutching her, and hiding her face in that broad -crape, which abraded her soft skin. - -"Mother," she wept passionately, "I want to leave the school now. -I want to please you. I'll do anything in the world to please you. -I'll go into the shop if you'd like me to!" Her voice lost itself -in tears. - -"Calm yourself, my pet," said Mrs. Baines, tenderly, caressing -her. It was a triumph for the mother in the very hour when she -needed a triumph. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE TRAVELLER - -I - - -'Equisite, 1s. 11d.' - -These singular signs were being painted in shiny black on an -unrectangular parallelogram of white cardboard by Constance one -evening in the parlour. She was seated, with her left side to the -fire and to the fizzing gas, at the dining-table, which was -covered with a checked cloth in red and white. Her dress was of -dark crimson; she wore a cameo brooch and a gold chain round her -neck; over her shoulders was thrown a white knitted shawl, for the -weather was extremely cold, the English climate being much more -serious and downright at that day than it is now. She bent low to -the task, holding her head slightly askew, putting the tip of her -tongue between her lips, and expending all the energy of her soul -and body in an intense effort to do what she was doing as well as -it could be done. - -"Splendid!" said Mr. Povey. - -Mr. Povey was fronting her at the table; he had his elbows on the -table, and watched her carefully, with the breathless and divine -anxiety of a dreamer who is witnessing the realization of his -dream. And Constance, without moving any part of her frame except -her head, looked up at him and smiled for a moment, and he could -see her delicious little nostrils at the end of her snub nose. - -Those two, without knowing or guessing it, were making history-- -the history of commerce. They had no suspicion that they were the -forces of the future insidiously at work to destroy what the -forces of the past had created, but such was the case. They were -conscious merely of a desire to do their duty in the shop and to -the shop; probably it had not even occurred to them that this -desire, which each stimulated in the breast of the other, had -assumed the dimensions of a passion. It was ageing Mr. Povey, and -it had made of Constance a young lady tremendously industrious and -preoccupied. - -Mr. Povey had recently been giving attention to the question of -tickets. It is not too much to say that Mr. Povey, to whom heaven -had granted a minimum share of imagination, had nevertheless -discovered his little parcel of imagination in the recesses of -being, and brought it effectively to bear on tickets. Tickets ran -in conventional grooves. There were heavy oblong tickets for -flannels, shirting, and other stuffs in the piece; there were -smaller and lighter tickets for intermediate goods; and there were -diamond-shaped tickets (containing nothing but the price) for -bonnets, gloves, and flimflams generally. The legends on the -tickets gave no sort of original invention. The words 'lasting,' -'durable,' 'unshrinkable,' 'latest,' 'cheap,' 'stylish,' -'novelty,' 'choice' (as an adjective), 'new,' and 'tasteful,' -exhausted the entire vocabulary of tickets. Now Mr. Povey attached -importance to tickets, and since he was acknowledged to be the -best window-dresser in Bursley, his views were entitled to -respect. He dreamed of other tickets, in original shapes, with -original legends. In brief, he achieved, in regard to tickets, the -rare feat of ridding himself of preconceived notions, and of -approaching a subject with fresh, virginal eyes. When he indicated -the nature of his wishes to Mr. Chawner, the wholesale stationer -who supplied all the Five Towns with shop-tickets, Mr. Chawner -grew uneasy and worried; Mr. Chawner was indeed shocked. For Mr. -Chawner there had always been certain well-defined genera of -tickets, and he could not conceive the existence of other genera. -When Mr. Povey suggested circular tickets--tickets with a blue and -a red line round them, tickets with legends such as -'unsurpassable,' 'very dainty,' or 'please note,' Mr. Chawner -hummed and hawed, and finally stated that it would be impossible -to manufacture these preposterous tickets, these tickets which -would outrage the decency of trade. - -If Mr. Povey had not happened to be an exceedingly obstinate man, -he might have been defeated by the crass Toryism of Mr. Chawner. -But Mr. Povey was obstinate, and he had resources of ingenuity -which Mr. Chawner little suspected. The great, tramping march of -progress was not to be impeded by Mr. Chawner. Mr. Povey began to -make his own tickets. At first he suffered as all reformers and -inventors suffer. He used the internal surface of collar-boxes and -ordinary ink and pens, and the result was such as to give -customers the idea that Baineses were too poor or too mean to buy -tickets like other shops. For bought tickets had an ivory-tinted -gloss, and the ink was black and glossy, and the edges were very -straight and did not show yellow between two layers of white. -Whereas Mr. Povey's tickets were of a bluish-white, without gloss; -the ink was neither black nor shiny, and the edges were -amateurishly rough: the tickets had an unmistakable air of having -been 'made out of something else'; moreover, the lettering had not -the free, dashing style of Mr. Chawner's tickets. - -And did Mrs. Baines encourage him in his single-minded enterprise -on behalf of HER business? Not a bit! Mrs. Baines's attitude, when -not disdainful, was inimical! So curious is human nature, so blind -is man to his own advantage! Life was very complex for Mr. Povey. -It might have been less complex had Bristol board and Chinese ink -been less expensive; with these materials he could have achieved -marvels to silence all prejudice and stupidity; but they were too -costly. Still, he persevered, and Constance morally supported him; -he drew his inspiration and his courage from Constance. Instead of -the internal surface of collar-boxes, he tried the external -surface, which was at any rate shiny. But the ink would not 'take' -on it. He made as many experiments as Edison was to make, and as -many failures. Then Constance was visited by a notion for mixing -sugar with ink. Simple, innocent creature--why should providence -have chosen her to be the vessel of such a sublime notion? -Puzzling enigma, which, however, did not exercise Mr. Povey! He -found it quite natural that she should save him. Save him she did. -Sugar and ink would 'take' on anything, and it shone like a -'patent leather' boot. Further, Constance developed a 'hand' for -lettering which outdid Mr. Povey's. Between them they manufactured -tickets by the dozen and by the score--tickets which, while -possessing nearly all the smartness and finish of Mr. Chawner's -tickets, were much superior to these in originality and -strikingness. Constance and Mr. Povey were delighted and -fascinated by them. As for Mrs. Baines, she said little, but the -modern spirit was too elated by its success to care whether she -said little or much. And every few days Mr. Povey thought of some -new and wonderful word to put on a ticket. - -His last miracle was the word 'exquisite.' 'Exquisite,' pinned on -a piece of broad tartan ribbon, appeared to Constance and Mr. -Povey as the finality of appropriateness. A climax worthy to close -the year! Mr. Povey had cut the card and sketched the word and -figures in pencil, and Constance was doing her executive portion -of the undertaking. They were very happy, very absorbed, in this -strictly business matter. The clock showed five minutes past ten. -Stern duty, a pure desire for the prosperity of the shop, had kept -them at hard labour since before eight o'clock that morning! - -The stairs-door opened, and Mrs. Baines appeared, in bonnet and -furs and gloves, all clad for going out. She had abandoned the -cocoon of crape, but still wore weeds. She was stouter than ever. - -"What!" she cried. "Not ready! Now really!" - -"Oh, mother! How you made me jump!" Constance protested. "What -time is it? It surely isn't time to go yet!" - -"Look at the clock!" said Mrs. Baines, drily. - -"Well, I never!" Constance murmured, confused. - -"Come, put your things together, and don't keep me waiting," said -Mrs. Baines, going past the table to the window, and lifting the -blind to peep out. "Still snowing," she observed. "Oh, the band's -going away at last! I wonder how they can play at all in this -weather. By the way, what was that tune they gave us just now? I -couldn't make out whether it was 'Redhead,' or--" - -"Band?" questioned Constance--the simpleton! - -Neither she nor Mr. Povey had heard the strains of the Bursley -Town Silver Prize Band which had been enlivening the season -according to its usual custom. These two practical, duteous, -commonsense young and youngish persons had been so absorbed in -their efforts for the welfare of the shop that they had positively -not only forgotten the time, but had also failed to notice the -band! But if Constance had had her wits about her she would at -least have pretended that she had heard it. - -"What's this?" asked Mrs. Baines, bringing her vast form to the -table and picking up a ticket. - -Mr. Povey said nothing. Constance said: "Mr. Povey thought of it -to-day. Don't you think it's very good, mother?" - -"I'm afraid I don't," Mrs. Baines coldly replied. - -She had mildly objected already to certain words; but 'exquisite' -seemed to her silly; it seemed out of place; she considered that -it would merely bring ridicule on her shop. 'Exquisite' written -upon a window-ticket! No! What would John Baines have thought of -'exquisite'? - -"'Exquisite!'" She repeated the word with a sarcastic inflection, -putting the accent, as every one put it, on the second syllable. -"I don't think that will quite do." - -"But why not, mother?" - -"It's not suitable, my dear." - -She dropped the ticket from her gloved hand. Mr. Povey had darkly -flashed. Though he spoke little, he was as sensitive as he was -obstinate. On this occasion he said nothing. He expressed his -feelings by seizing the ticket and throwing it into the fire. - -The situation was extremely delicate. Priceless employes like Mr. -Povey cannot be treated as machines, and Mrs. Baines of course -instantly saw that tact was needed. - -"Go along to my bedroom and get ready, my pet," said she to -Constance. "Sophia is there. There's a good fire. I must just -speak to Maggie." She tactfully left the room. - -Mr. Povey glanced at the fire and the curling red remains of the -ticket. Trade was bad; owing to weather and war, destitution was -abroad; and he had been doing his utmost for the welfare of the -shop; and here was the reward! - -Constance's eyes were full of tears. "Never mind!" she murmured, -and went upstairs. - -It was all over in a moment. - -II - -In the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel on Duck Bank there was a full and -influential congregation. For in those days influential people -were not merely content to live in the town where their fathers -had lived, without dreaming of country residences and smokeless -air--they were content also to believe what their fathers had -believed about the beginning and the end of all. There was no such -thing as the unknowable in those days. The eternal mysteries were -as simple as an addition sum; a child could tell you with absolute -certainty where you would be and what you would be doing a million -years hence, and exactly what God thought of you. Accordingly, -every one being of the same mind, every one met on certain -occasions in certain places in order to express the universal -mind. And in the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel, for example, instead -of a sparse handful of persons disturbingly conscious of being in -a minority, as now, a magnificent and proud majority had -collected, deeply aware of its rightness and its correctness. - -And the minister, backed by minor ministers, knelt and covered his -face in the superb mahogany rostrum; and behind him, in what was -then still called the 'orchestra' (though no musical instruments -except the grand organ had sounded in it for decades), the choir -knelt and covered their faces; and all around in the richly -painted gallery and on the ground-floor, multitudinous rows of -people, in easy circumstances of body and soul, knelt in high pews -and covered their faces. And there floated before them, in the -intense and prolonged silence, the clear vision of Jehovah on a -throne, a God of sixty or so with a moustache and a beard, and a -non-committal expression which declined to say whether or not he -would require more bloodshed; and this God, destitute of pinions, -was surrounded by white-winged creatures that wafted themselves to -and fro while chanting; and afar off was an obscene monstrosity, -with cloven hoofs and a tail very dangerous and rude and -interfering, who could exist comfortably in the middle of a coal- -fire, and who took a malignant and exhaustless pleasure in coaxing -you by false pretences into the same fire; but of course you had -too much sense to swallow his wicked absurdities. Once a year, for -ten minutes by the clock, you knelt thus, in mass, and by -meditation convinced yourself that you had too much sense to -swallow his wicked absurdities. And the hour was very solemn, the -most solemn of all the hours. - -Strange that immortal souls should be found with the temerity to -reflect upon mundane affairs in that hour! Yet there were -undoubtedly such in the congregation; there were perhaps many to -whom the vision, if clear, was spasmodic and fleeting. And among -them the inhabitants of the Baines family pew! Who would have -supposed that Mr. Povey, a recent convert from Primitive Methodism -in King Street to Wesleyan Methodism on Duck Bank, was dwelling -upon window-tickets and the injustice of women, instead of upon -his relations with Jehovah and the tailed one? Who would have -supposed that the gentle-eyed Constance, pattern of daughters, was -risking her eternal welfare by smiling at the tailed one, who, -concealing his tail, had assumed the image of Mr. Povey? Who would -have supposed that Mrs. Baines, instead of resolving that Jehovah -and not the tailed one should have ultimate rule over her, was -resolving that she and not Mr. Povey should have ultimate rule -over her house and shop? It was a pew-ful that belied its highly -satisfactory appearance. (And possibly there were other pew-fuls -equally deceptive.) - -Sophia alone, in the corner next to the wall, with her beautiful -stern face pressed convulsively against her hands, was truly busy -with immortal things. Turbulent heart, the violence of her -spiritual life had made her older! Never was a passionate, proud -girl in a harder case than Sophia! In the splendour of her remorse -for a fatal forgetfulness, she had renounced that which she loved -and thrown herself into that which she loathed. It was her nature -so to do. She had done it haughtily, and not with kindness, but -she had done it with the whole force of her will. Constance had -been compelled to yield up to her the millinery department, for -Sophia's fingers had a gift of manipulating ribbons and feathers -that was beyond Constance. Sophia had accomplished miracles in the -millinery. Yes, and she would be utterly polite to customers; but -afterwards, when the customers were gone, let mothers, sisters, -and Mr. Poveys beware of her fiery darts! - -But why, when nearly three months had elapsed after her father's -death, had she spent more and more time in the shop, secretly -aflame with expectancy? Why, when one day a strange traveller -entered the shop and announced himself the new representative of -Birkinshaws--why had her very soul died away within her and an -awful sickness seized her? She knew then that she had been her own -deceiver. She recognized and admitted, abasing herself lower than -the lowest, that her motive in leaving Miss Chetwynd's and joining -the shop had been, at the best, very mixed, very impure. Engaged -at Miss Chetwynd's, she might easily have never set eyes on Gerald -Scales again. Employed in the shop, she could not fail to meet -him. In this light was to be seen the true complexion of the -splendour of her remorse. A terrible thought for her! And she -could not dismiss it. It contaminated her existence, this thought! -And she could confide in no one. She was incapable of showing a -wound. Quarter had succeeded quarter, and Gerald Scales was no -more heard of. She had sacrificed her life for worse than nothing. -She had made her own tragedy. She had killed her father, cheated -and shamed herself with a remorse horribly spurious, exchanged -content for misery and pride for humiliation--and with it all, -Gerald Scales had vanished! She was ruined. - -She took to religion, and her conscientious Christian virtues, -practised with stern inclemency, were the canker of the family. -Thus a year and a half had passed. - -And then, on this last day of the year, the second year of her -shame and of her heart's widowhood, Mr. Scales had reappeared. She -had gone casually into the shop and found him talking to her -mother and Mr. Povey. He had come back to the provincial round and -to her. She shook his hand and fled, because she could not have -stayed. None had noticed her agitation, for she had held her body -as in a vice. She knew the reason neither of his absence nor of -his return. She knew nothing. And not a word had been said at -meals. And the day had gone and the night come; and now she was in -chapel, with Constance by her side and Gerald Scales in her soul! -Happy beyond previous conception of happiness! Wretched beyond an -unutterable woe! And none knew! What was she to pray for? To what -purpose and end ought she to steel herself? 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." - -He smiled timidly, nay, sheepishly, while the women and Mr. Povey -surrounded him with their astonished faces under the light of the -gas-lamp. Certainly he was very pale. - -"But whatever is the matter, Mr. Scales?" Mrs. Baines demanded in -an anxious tone. "Are you ill? Have you been suddenly--" - -"Oh no," said the young man lightly. "It's nothing. Only I was set -on just now, down there,"--he pointed to the depths of King -Street. - -"Set on!" Mrs. Baines repeated, alarmed. - -"That makes the fourth case in a week, that we KNOW of!" said Mr. -Povey. "It really is becoming a scandal." - -The fact was that, owing to depression of trade, lack of -employment, and rigorous weather, public security in the Five -Towns was at that period not as perfect as it ought to have been. -In the stress of hunger the lower classes were forgetting their -manners--and this in spite of the altruistic and noble efforts of -their social superiors to relieve the destitution due, of course, -to short-sighted improvidence. When (the social superiors were -asking in despair) will the lower classes learn to put by for a -rainy day? (They might have said a snowy and a frosty day.) It was -'really too bad' of the lower classes, when everything that could -be done was being done for them, to kill, or even attempt to kill, -the goose that lays the golden eggs! And especially in a -respectable town! What, indeed, were things coming to? Well, here -was Mr. Gerald Scales, gentleman from Manchester, a witness and -victim to the deplorable moral condition of the Five Towns. What -would he think of the Five Towns? The evil and the danger had been -a topic of discussion in the shop for a week past, and now it was -brought home to them. - -"I hope you weren't--" said Mrs. Baines, apologetically and -sympathetically. - -"Oh no!" Mr. Scales interrupted her quite gaily. "I managed to -beat them off. Only my elbow--" - -Meanwhile it was continuing to snow. - -"Do come in!" said Mrs. Baines. - -"I couldn't think of troubling you," said Mr. Scales. "I'm all -right now, and I can find my way to the Tiger." - -"You must come in, if it's only for a minute," said Mrs. Baines, -with decision. She had to think of the honour of the town. - -"You're very kind," said Mr. Scales. - -The door was suddenly opened from within, and Maggie surveyed them -from the height of the two steps. - -"A happy New Year, mum, to all of you." - -"Thank you, Maggie," said Mrs. Baines, and primly added: - -"The same to you!" And in her own mind she said that Maggie could -best prove her desire for a happy new year by contriving in future -not to 'scamp her corners,' and not to break so much crockery. - -Sophia, scarce knowing what she did, mounted the steps. - -"Mr. Scales ought to let our New Year in, my pet," Mrs. Baines -stopped her. - -"Oh, of course, mother!" Sophia concurred with, a gasp, springing -back nervously. - -Mr. Scales raised his hat, and duly let the new year, and much -snow, into the Baines parlour. And there was a vast deal of -stamping of feet, agitating of umbrellas, and shaking of cloaks -and ulsters on the doormat in the corner by the harmonium. And -Maggie took away an armful of everything snowy, including -goloshes, and received instructions to boil milk and to bring -'mince.' Mr. Povey said "B-r-r-r!" and shut the door (which was -bordered with felt to stop ventilation); Mrs. Baines turned up the -gas till it sang, and told Sophia to poke the fire, and actually -told Constance to light the second gas. - -Excitement prevailed. - -The placidity of existence had been agreeably disturbed (yes, -agreeably, in spite of horror at the attack on Mr. Scales's elbow) -by an adventure. Moreover, Mr. Scales proved to be in evening- -dress. And nobody had ever worn evening-dress in that house -before. - -Sophia's blood was in her face, and it remained there, enhancing -the vivid richness of her beauty. She was dizzy with a strange and -disconcerting intoxication. She seemed to be in a world of -unrealities and incredibilities. Her ears heard with -indistinctness, and the edges of things and people had a prismatic -colouring. She was in a state of ecstatic, unreasonable, -inexplicable happiness. All her misery, doubts, despair, rancour, -churlishness, had disappeared. She was as softly gentle as -Constance. Her eyes were the eyes of a fawn, and her gestures -delicious in their modest and sensitive grace. Constance was -sitting on the sofa, and, after glancing about as if for shelter, -she sat down on the sofa by Constance's side. She tried not to -stare at Mr. Scales, but her gaze would not leave him. She was -sure that he was the most perfect man in the world. A shortish -man, perhaps, but a perfect. That such perfection could be was -almost past her belief. He excelled all her dreams of the ideal -man. His smile, his voice, his hand, his hair--never were such! -Why, when he spoke--it was positively music! When he smiled--it -was heaven! His smile, to Sophia, was one of those natural -phenomena which are so lovely that they make you want to shed -tears. There is no hyperbole in this description of Sophia's -sensations, but rather an under-statement of them. She was utterly -obsessed by the unique qualities of Mr. Scales. Nothing would have -persuaded her that the peer of Mr. Scales existed among men, or -could possibly exist. And it was her intense and profound -conviction of his complete pre-eminence that gave him, as he sat -there in the rocking-chair in her mother's parlour, that air of -the unreal and the incredible. - -"I stayed in the town on purpose to go to a New Year's party at -Mr. Lawton's," Mr. Scales was saying. - -"Ah! So you know Lawyer Lawton!" observed Mrs. Baines, impressed, -for Lawyer Lawton did not consort with tradespeople. He was jolly -with them, and he did their legal business for them, but he was -not of them. His friends came from afar. - -"My people are old acquaintances of his," said Mr. Scales, sipping -the milk which Maggie had brought. - -"Now, Mr. Scales, you must taste my mince. A happy month for every -tart you eat, you know," Mrs. Baines reminded him. - -He bowed. "And it was as I was coming away from there that I got -into difficulties." He laughed. - -Then he recounted the struggle, which had, however, been brief, as -the assailants lacked pluck. He had slipped and fallen on his -elbow on the kerb, and his elbow might have been broken, had not -the snow been so thick. No, it did not hurt him now; doubtless a -mere bruise. It was fortunate that the miscreants had not got the -better of him, for he had in his pocket-book a considerable sum of -money in notes--accounts paid! He had often thought what an -excellent thing it would be if commercials could travel with dogs, -particularly in winter. There was nothing like a dog. - -"You are fond of dogs?" asked Mr. Povey, who had always had a -secret but impracticable ambition to keep a dog. - -"Yes," said Mr. Scales, turning now to Mr. Povey. - -"Keep one?" asked Mr. Povey, in a sporting tone. - -"I have a fox-terrier bitch," said Mr. Scales, "that took a first -at Knutsford; but she's getting old now." - -The sexual epithet fell queerly on the room. Mr. Povey, being a -man of the world, behaved as if nothing had happened; but Mrs. -Baines's curls protested against this unnecessary coarseness. -Constance pretended not to hear. Sophia did not understandingly -hear. Mr. Scales had no suspicion that he was transgressing a -convention by virtue of which dogs have no sex. Further, he had no -suspicion of the local fame of Mrs. Baines's mince-tarts. He had -already eaten more mince-tarts than he could enjoy, before -beginning upon hers, and Mrs. Baines missed the enthusiasm to -which she was habituated from consumers of her pastry. - -Mr. Povey, fascinated, proceeded in the direction of dogs, and it -grew more and more evident that Mr. Scales, who went out to -parties in evening dress, instead of going in respectable broad- -cloth to watch-night services, who knew the great ones of the -land, and who kept dogs of an inconvenient sex, was neither an -ordinary commercial traveller nor the kind of man to which the -Square was accustomed. He came from a different world. - -"Lawyer Lawton's party broke up early--at least I mean, -considering--" Mrs. Baines hesitated. - -After a pause Mr. Scales replied, "Yes, I left immediately the -clock struck twelve. I've a heavy day to-morrow--I mean to-day." - -It was not an hour for a prolonged visit, and in a few minutes Mr. -Scales was ready again to depart. He admitted a certain feebleness -('wankiness,' he playfully called it, being proud of his skill in -the dialect), and a burning in his elbow; but otherwise he was -quite well--thanks to Mrs. Baines's most kind hospitality ... He -really didn't know how he came to be sitting on her doorstep. Mrs. -Baines urged him, if he met a policeman on his road to the Tiger, -to furnish all particulars about the attempted highway robbery, -and he said he decidedly would. - -He took his leave with distinguished courtliness. - -"If I have a moment I shall run in to-morrow morning just to let -you know I'm all right," said he, in the white street. - -"Oh, do!" said Constance. Constance's perfect innocence made her -strangely forward at times. - -"A happy New Year and many of them!" - -"Thanks! Same to you! Don't get lost." - -"Straight up the Square and first on the right," called the -commonsense of Mr. Povey. - -Nothing else remained to say, and the visitor disappeared silently -in the whirling snow. "Brrr!" murmured Mr. Povey, shutting the -door. Everybody felt: "What a funny ending of the old year!" - -"Sophia, my pet," Mrs. Baines began. - -But Sophia had vanished to bed. - -"Tell her about her new night-dress," said Mrs. Baines to -Constance. - -"Yes, mother." - -"I don't know that I'm so set up with that young man, after all," -Mrs. Baines reflected aloud. - -"Oh, mother!" Constance protested. "I think he's just lovely." - -"He never looks you straight in the face," said Mrs. Baines. - -"Don't tell ME!" laughed Constance, kissing her mother good night. -"You're only on your high horse because he didn't praise your -mince. _I_ noticed it." - -IV - -"If anybody thinks I'm going to stand the cold in this showroom -any longer, they're mistaken," said Sophia the next morning -loudly, and in her mother's hearing. And she went down into the -shop carrying bonnets. - -She pretended to be angry, but she was not. She felt, on the -contrary, extremely joyous, and charitable to all the world. -Usually she would take pains to keep out of the shop; usually she -was preoccupied and stern. Hence her presence on the ground-floor, -and her demeanour, excited interest among the three young lady -assistants who sat sewing round the stove in the middle of the -shop, sheltered by the great pile of shirtings and linseys that -fronted the entrance. - -Sophia shared Constance's corner. They had hot bricks under their -feet, and fine-knitted wraps on their shoulders. They would have -been more comfortable near the stove, but greatness has its -penalties. The weather was exceptionally severe. The windows were -thickly frosted over, so that Mr. Povey's art in dressing them was -quite wasted. And--rare phenomenon!--the doors of the shop were -shut. In the ordinary way they were not merely open, but hidden by -a display of 'cheap lines.' Mr. Povey, after consulting Mrs. -Baines, had decided to close them, foregoing the customary -display. Mr. Povey had also, in order to get a little warmth into -his limbs, personally assisted two casual labourers to scrape the -thick frozen snow off the pavement; and he wore his kid mittens. -All these things together proved better than the evidence of -barometers how the weather nipped. - -Mr. Scales came about ten o'clock. Instead of going to Mr. Povey's -counter, he walked boldly to Constance's corner, and looked over -the boxes, smiling and saluting. Both the girls candidly delighted -in his visit. Both blushed; both laughed--without knowing why they -laughed. Mr. Scales said he was just departing and had slipped in -for a moment to thank all of them for their kindness of last -night--'or rather this morning.' The girls laughed again at this -witticism. Nothing could have been more simple than his speech. -Yet it appeared to them magically attractive. A customer entered, -a lady; one of the assistants rose from the neighbourhood of the -stove, but the daughters of the house ignored the customer; it was -part of the etiquette of the shop that customers, at any rate -chance customers, should not exist for the daughters of the house, -until an assistant had formally drawn attention to them. Otherwise -every one who wanted a pennyworth of tape would be expecting to be -served by Miss Baines, or Miss Sophia, if Miss Sophia were there. -Which would have been ridiculous. - -Sophia, glancing sidelong, saw the assistant parleying with the -customer; and then the assistant came softly behind the counter -and approached the corner. - -"Miss Constance, can you spare a minute?" the assistant whispered -discreetly. - -Constance extinguished her smile for Mr. Scales, and, turning -away, lighted an entirely different and inferior smile for the -customer. - -"Good morning, Miss Baines. Very cold, isn't it?" - -"Good morning, Mrs. Chatterley. Yes, it is. I suppose you're -getting anxious about those--" Constance stopped. - -Sophia was now alone with Mr. Scales, for in order to discuss the -unnameable freely with Mrs. Chatterley her sister was edging up -the counter. Sophia had dreamed of a private conversation as -something delicious and impossible. But chance had favoured her. -She was alone with him. And his neat fair hair and his blue eyes -and his delicate mouth were as wonderful to her as ever. He was -gentlemanly to a degree that impressed her more than anything had -impressed her in her life. And all the proud and aristocratic -instinct that was at the base of her character sprang up and -seized on his gentlemanliness like a famished animal seizing on -food. - -"The last time I saw you," said Mr. Scales, in a new tone, "you -said you were never in the shop." - -"What? Yesterday? Did I?" - -"No, I mean the last time I saw you alone," said he. - -"Oh!" she exclaimed. "It's just an accident." - -"That's exactly what you said last time." - -"Is it?" - -Was it his manner, or what he said, that flattered her, that -intensified her beautiful vivacity? - -"I suppose you don't often go out?" he went on. - -"What? In this weather?" - -"Any time." - -"I go to chapel," said she, "and marketing with mother." There was -a little pause. "And to the Free Library." - -"Oh yes. You've got a Free Library here now, haven't you?" - -"Yes. We've had it over a year." - -"And you belong to it? What do you read?" - -"Oh, stories, you know. I get a fresh book out once a week." - -"Saturdays, I suppose?" - -"No," she said. "Wednesdays." And she smiled. "Usually." - -"It's Wednesday to-day," said he. "Not been already?" - -She shook her head. "I don't think I shall go to-day. It's too -cold. I don't think I shall venture out to-day." - -"You must be very fond of reading," said he. - -Then Mr. Povey appeared, rubbing his mittened hands. And Mrs. -Chatterley went. - -"I'll run and fetch mother," said Constance. - -Mrs. Baines was very polite to the young man. He related his -interview with the police, whose opinion was that he had been -attacked by stray members of a gang from Hanbridge. The young lady -assistants, with ears cocked, gathered the nature of Mr. Scales's -adventure, and were thrilled to the point of questioning Mr. Povey -about it after Mr. Scales had gone. His farewell was marked by -much handshaking, and finally Mr. Povey ran after him into the -Square to mention something about dogs. - -At half-past one, while Mrs. Baines was dozing after dinner, -Sophia wrapped herself up, and with a book under her arm went -forth into the world, through the shop. She returned in less than -twenty minutes. But her mother had already awakened, and was -hovering about the back of the shop. Mothers have supernatural -gifts. - -Sophia nonchalantly passed her and hurried into the parlour where -she threw down her muff and a book and knelt before the fire to -warm herself. - -Mrs. Baines followed her. "Been to the Library?" questioned Mrs. -Baines. - -"Yes, mother. And it's simply perishing." - -"I wonder at your going on a day like to-day. I thought you always -went on Thursdays?" - -"So I do. But I'd finished my book." - -"What is this?" Mrs. Baines picked up the volume, which was -covered with black oil-cloth. - -She picked it up with a hostile air. For her attitude towards the -Free Library was obscurely inimical. She never read anything -herself except The Sunday at Home, and Constance never read -anything except The Sunday at Home. There were scriptural -commentaries, Dugdale's Gazetteer, Culpepper's Herbal, and works -by Bunyan and Flavius Josephus in the drawing-room bookcase; also -Uncle Tom's Cabin. And Mrs. Baines, in considering the welfare of -her daughters, looked askance at the whole remainder of printed -literature. If the Free Library had not formed part of the Famous -Wedgwood Institution, which had been opened with immense eclat by -the semi-divine Gladstone; if the first book had not been -ceremoniously 'taken out' of the Free Library by the Chief Bailiff -in person--a grandfather of stainless renown--Mrs. Baines would -probably have risked her authority in forbidding the Free Library. - -"You needn't be afraid," said Sophia, laughing. "It's Miss -Sewell's Experience of Life." - -"A novel, I see," observed Mrs. Baines, dropping the book. - -Gold and jewels would probably not tempt a Sophia of these days to -read Experience of Life; but to Sophia Baines the bland story had -the piquancy of the disapproved. - -The next day Mrs. Baines summoned Sophia into her bedroom. - -"Sophia," said she, trembling, "I shall be glad if you will not -walk about the streets with young men until you have my -permission." - -The girl blushed violently. "I--I--" - -"You were seen in Wedgwood Street," said Mrs. Baines. - -"Who's been gossiping--Mr. Critchlow, I suppose?" Sophia exclaimed -scornfully. - -"No one has been 'gossiping,'" said Mrs. Baines. "Well, if I meet -some one by accident in the street I can't help it, can I?" -Sophia's voice shook. - -"You know what I mean, my child," said Mrs. Baines, with careful -calm. - -Sophia dashed angrily from the room. - -"I like the idea of him having 'a heavy day'!" Mrs. Baines -reflected ironically, recalling a phrase which had lodged in her -mind. And very vaguely, with an uneasiness scarcely perceptible, -she remembered that 'he,' and no other, had been in the shop on -the day her husband died. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -ESCAPADE - -I - - -The uneasiness of Mrs. Baines flowed and ebbed, during the next -three months, influenced by Sophia's moods. There were days when -Sophia was the old Sophia--the forbidding, difficult, waspish, and -even hedgehog Sophia. But there were other days on which Sophia -seemed to be drawing joy and gaiety and goodwill from some secret -source, from some fount whose nature and origin none could divine. -It was on these days that the uneasiness of Mrs. Baines waxed. She -had the wildest suspicions; she was almost capable of accusing -Sophia of carrying on a clandestine correspondence; she saw Sophia -and Gerald Scales deeply and wickedly in love; she saw them with -their arms round each other's necks. ... And then she called -herself a middle-aged fool, to base such a structure of suspicion -on a brief encounter in the street and on an idea, a fancy, a -curious and irrational notion! Sophia had a certain streak of pure -nobility in that exceedingly heterogeneous thing, her character. -Moreover, Mrs. Baines watched the posts, and she also watched -Sophia--she was not the woman to trust to a streak of pure -nobility--and she came to be sure that Sophia's sinfulness, if -any, was not such as could be weighed in a balance, or collected -together by stealth and then suddenly placed before the girl on a -charger. - -Still, she would have given much to see inside Sophia's lovely -head. Ah! Could she have done so, what sleep-destroying wonders -she would have witnessed! By what bright lamps burning in what -mysterious grottoes and caverns of the brain would her mature eyes -have been dazzled! Sophia was living for months on the exhaustless -ardent vitality absorbed during a magical two minutes in Wedgwood -Street. She was living chiefly on the flaming fire struck in her -soul by the shock of seeing Gerald Scales in the porch of the -Wedgwood Institution as she came out of the Free Library with -Experience Of Life tucked into her large astrakhan muff. He had -stayed to meet her, then: she knew it! "After all," her heart -said, "I must be very beautiful, for I have attracted the pearl of -men!" And she remembered her face in the glass. The value and the -power of beauty were tremendously proved to her. He, the great man -of the world, the handsome and elegant man with a thousand strange -friends and a thousand interests far remote from her, had remained -in Bursley on the mere chance of meeting her! She was proud, but -her pride was drowned in bliss. "I was just looking at this -inscription about Mr. Gladstone." "So you decided to come out as -usual!" "And may I ask what book you have chosen?" These were the -phrases she heard, and to which she responded with similar -phrases. And meanwhile a miracle of ecstasy had opened--opened -like a flower. She was walking along Wedgwood Street by his side, -slowly, on the scraped pavements, where marble bulbs of snow had -defied the spade and remained. She and he were exactly of the same -height, and she kept looking into his face and he into hers. This -was all the miracle. Except that she was not walking on the -pavement--she was walking on the intangible sward of paradise! -Except that the houses had receded and faded, and the passers-by -were subtilized into unnoticeable ghosts! Except that her mother -and Constance had become phantasmal beings existing at an immense -distance! - -What had happened? Nothing! The most commonplace occurrence! The -eternal cause had picked up a commercial traveller (it might have -been a clerk or curate, but it in fact was a commercial -traveller), and endowed him with all the glorious, unique, -incredible attributes of a god, and planted him down before Sophia -in order to produce the eternal effect. A miracle performed -specially for Sophia's benefit! No one else in Wedgwood Street saw -the god walking along by her side. No one else saw anything but a -simple commercial traveller. Yes, the most commonplace occurrence! - -Of course at the corner of the street he had to go. "Till next -time!" he murmured. And fire came out of his eyes and lighted in -Sophia's lovely head those lamps which Mrs. Baines was mercifully -spared from seeing. And he had shaken hands and raised his hat. -Imagine a god raising his hat! And he went off on two legs, -precisely like a dashing little commercial traveller. - -And, escorted by the equivocal Angel of Eclipses, she had turned -into King Street, and arranged her face, and courageously met her -mother. Her mother had not at first perceived the unusual; for -mothers, despite their reputation to the contrary, really are the -blindest creatures. Sophia, the naive ninny, had actually supposed -that her walking along a hundred yards of pavement with a god by -her side was not going to excite remark! What a delusion! It is -true, certainly, that no one saw the god by direct vision. But -Sophia's cheeks, Sophia's eyes, the curve of Sophia's neck as her -soul yearned towards the soul of the god--these phenomena were -immeasurably more notable than Sophia guessed. An account of them, -in a modified form to respect Mrs. Baines's notorious dignity, had -healed the mother of her blindness and led to that characteristic -protest from her, "I shall be glad if you will not walk about the -streets with young men," etc. - -When the period came for the reappearance of Mr. Scales, Mrs. -Baines outlined a plan, and when the circular announcing the exact -time of his arrival was dropped into the letter-box, she -formulated the plan in detail. In the first place, she was -determined to be indisposed and invisible herself, so that Mr. -Scales might be foiled in any possible design to renew social -relations in the parlour. In the second place, she flattered -Constance with a single hint--oh, the vaguest and briefest!--and -Constance understood that she was not to quit the shop on the -appointed morning. In the third place, she invented a way of -explaining to Mr. Povey that the approaching advent of Gerald -Scales must not be mentioned. And in the fourth place, she -deliberately made appointments for Sophia with two millinery -customers in the showroom, so that Sophia might be imprisoned in -the showroom. - -Having thus left nothing to chance, she told herself that she was -a foolish woman full of nonsense. But this did not prevent her -from putting her lips together firmly and resolving that Mr. -Scales should have no finger in the pie of HER family. She had -acquired information concerning Mr. Scales, at secondhand, from -Lawyer Pratt. More than this, she posed the question in a broader -form--why should a young girl be permitted any interest in any -young man whatsoever? The everlasting purpose had made use of Mrs. -Baines and cast her off, and,, like most persons in a similar -situation, she was, unconsciously and quite honestly, at odds with -the everlasting purpose. - -II - -On the day of Mr. Scales's visit to the shop to obtain orders and -money on behalf of Birkinshaws, a singular success seemed to -attend the machinations of Mrs. Baines. With Mr. Scales -punctuality was not an inveterate habit, and he had rarely been -known, in the past, to fulfil exactly the prophecy of the letter -of advice concerning his arrival. But that morning his promptitude -was unexampled. He entered the shop, and by chance Mr. Povey was -arranging unshrinkable flannels in the doorway. The two youngish -little men talked amiably about flannels, dogs, and quarter-day -(which was just past), and then Mr. Povey led Mr. Scales to his -desk in the dark corner behind the high pile of twills, and paid -the quarterly bill, in notes and gold--as always; and then Mr. -Scales offered for the august inspection of Mr. Povey all that -Manchester had recently invented for the temptation of drapers, -and Mr. Povey gave him an order which, if not reckless, was nearer -'handsome' than 'good.' During the process Mr. Scales had to go -out of the shop twice or three times in order to bring in from his -barrow at the kerb-stone certain small black boxes edged with -brass. On none of these excursions did Mr. Scales glance wantonly -about him in satisfaction of the lust of the eye. Even if he had -permitted himself this freedom he would have seen nothing more -interesting than three young lady assistants seated round the -stove and sewing with pricked fingers from which the chilblains -were at last deciding to depart. When Mr. Scales had finished -writing down the details of the order with his ivory-handled -stylo, and repacked his boxes, he drew the interview to a -conclusion after the manner of a capable commercial traveller; -that is to say, he implanted in Mr. Povey his opinion that Mr. -Povey was a wise, a shrewd and an upright man, and that the world -would be all the better for a few more like him. He inquired for -Mrs. Baines, and was deeply pained to hear of her indisposition -while finding consolation in the assurance that the Misses Baines -were well. Mr. Povey was on the point of accompanying the pattern -of commercial travellers to the door, when two customers -simultaneously came in--ladies. One made straight for Mr. Povey, -whereupon Mr. Scales parted from him at once, it being a universal -maxim in shops that even the most distinguished commercial shall -not hinder the business of even the least distinguished customer. -The other customer had the effect of causing Constance to pop up -from her cloistral corner. Constance had been there all the time, -but of course, though she heard the remembered voice, her -maidenliness had not permitted that she should show herself to Mr. -Scales. - -Now, as he was leaving, Mr. Scales saw her, with her agreeable -snub nose and her kind, simple eyes. She was requesting the second -customer to mount to the showroom, where was Miss Sophia. Mr. -Scales hesitated a moment, and in that moment Constance, catching -his eye, smiled upon him, and nodded. What else could she do? -Vaguely aware though she was that her mother was not 'set up' with -Mr. Scales, and even feared the possible influence of the young -man on Sophia, she could not exclude him from her general -benevolence towards the universe. Moreover, she liked him; she -liked him very much and thought him a very fine specimen of a man. - -He left the door and went across to her. They shook hands and -opened a conversation instantly; for Constance, while retaining -all her modesty, had lost all her shyness in the shop, and could -chatter with anybody. She sidled towards her corner, precisely as -Sophia had done on another occasion, and Mr. Scales put his chin -over the screening boxes, and eagerly prosecuted the conversation. - -There was absolutely nothing in the fact of the interview itself -to cause alarm to a mother, nothing to render futile the -precautions of Mrs. Baines on behalf of the flower of Sophia's -innocence. And yet it held danger for Mrs. Baines, all unconscious -in her parlour. Mrs. Baines could rely utterly on Constance not to -be led away by the dandiacal charms of Mr. Scales (she knew in -what quarter sat the wind for Constance); in her plan she had -forgotten nothing, except Mr. Povey; and it must be said that she -could not possibly have foreseen the effect on the situation of -Mr. Povey's character. - -Mr. Povey, attending to his customer, had noticed the bright smile -of Constance on the traveller, and his heart did not like it. And -when he saw the lively gestures of a Mr. Scales in apparently -intimate talk with a Constance hidden behind boxes, his uneasiness -grew into fury. He was a man capable of black and terrible furies. -Outwardly insignificant, possessing a mind as little as his body, -easily abashed, he was none the less a very susceptible young man, -soon offended, proud, vain, and obscurely passionate. You might -offend Mr. Povey without guessing it, and only discover your sin -when Mr. Povey had done something too decisive as a result of it. - -The reason of his fury was jealousy. Mr. Povey had made great -advances since the death of John Baines. He had consolidated his -position, and he was in every way a personage of the first -importance. His misfortune was that he could never translate his -importance, or his sense of his importance, into terms of outward -demeanour. Most people, had they been told that Mr. Povey was -seriously aspiring to enter the Baines family, would have laughed. -But they would have been wrong. To laugh at Mr. Povey was -invariably wrong. Only Constance knew what inroads he had effected -upon her. - -The customer went, but Mr. Scales did not go. Mr. Povey, free to -reconnoitre, did so. From the shadow of the till he could catch -glimpses of Constance's blushing, vivacious face. She was -obviously absorbed in Mr. Scales. She and he had a tremendous air -of intimacy. And the murmur of their chatter continued. Their -chatter was nothing, and about nothing, but Mr. Povey imagined -that they were exchanging eternal vows. He endured Mr. Scales's -odious freedom until it became insufferable, until it deprived him -of all his self-control; and then he retired into his cutting-out -room. He meditated there in a condition of insanity for perhaps a -minute, and excogitated a device. Dashing back into the shop, he -spoke up, half across the shop, in a loud, curt tone: - -"Miss Baines, your mother wants you at once." - -He was launched on the phrase before he noticed that, during his -absence, Sophia had descended from the showroom and joined her -sister and Mr. Scales. The danger and scandal were now less, he -perceived, but he was glad he had summoned Constance away, and he -was in a state to despise consequences. - -The three chatterers, startled, looked at Mr. Povey, who left the -shop abruptly. Constance could do nothing but obey the call. - -She met him at the door of the cutting-out room in the passage -leading to the parlour. - -"Where is mother? In the parlour?" Constance inquired innocently. - -There was a dark flush on Mr. Povey's face. "If you wish to know," -said he in a hard voice, "she hasn't asked for you and she doesn't -want you." - -He turned his back on her, and retreated into his lair. - -"Then what--?" she began, puzzled. - -He fronted her. "Haven't you been gabbling long enough with that -jackanapes?" he spit at her. There were tears in his eyes. - -Constance, though without experience in these matters, -comprehended. She comprehended perfectly and immediately. She -ought to have put Mr. Povey into his place. She ought to have -protested with firm, dignified finality against such a ridiculous -and monstrous outrage as that which Mr. Povey had committed. Mr. -Povey ought to have been ruined for ever in her esteem and in her -heart. But she hesitated. - -"And only last Sunday--afternoon," Mr. Povey blubbered. - -(Not that anything overt had occurred, or been articulately said, -between them last Sunday afternoon. But they had been alone -together, and had each witnessed strange and disturbing matters in -the eyes of the other.) - -Tears now fell suddenly from Constance's eyes. "You ought to be -ashamed--" she stammered. - -Still, the tears were in her eyes, and in his too. What he or she -merely said, therefore, was of secondary importance. - -Mrs. Baines, coming from the kitchen, and hearing Constance's -voice, burst upon the scene, which silenced her. Parents are -sometimes silenced. She found Sophia and Mr. Scales in the shop. - -III - -That afternoon Sophia, too busy with her own affairs to notice -anything abnormal in the relations between her mother and -Constance, and quite ignorant that there had been an unsuccessful -plot against her, went forth to call upon Miss Chetwynd, with whom -she had remained very friendly: she considered that she and Miss -Chetwynd formed an aristocracy of intellect, and the family indeed -tacitly admitted this. She practised no secrecy in her departure -from the shop; she merely dressed, in her second-best hoop, and -went, having been ready at any moment to tell her mother, if her -mother caught her and inquired, that she was going to see Miss -Chetwynd. And she did go to see Miss Chetwynd, arriving at the -house-school, which lay amid trees on the road to Turnhill, just -beyond the turnpike, at precisely a quarter-past four. As Miss -Chetwynd's pupils left at four o'clock, and as Miss Chetwynd -invariably took a walk immediately afterwards, Sophia was able to -contain her surprise upon being informed that Miss Chetwynd was -not in. She had not intended that Miss Chetwynd should be in. - -She turned off to the right, up the side road which, starting from -the turnpike, led in the direction of Moorthorne and Red Cow, two -mining villages. Her heart beat with fear as she began to follow -that road, for she was upon a terrific adventure. What most -frightened her, perhaps, was her own astounding audacity. She was -alarmed by something within herself which seemed to be no part of -herself and which produced in her curious, disconcerting, fleeting -impressions of unreality. - -In the morning she had heard the voice of Mr. Scales from the -showroom--that voice whose even distant murmur caused creepings of -the skin in her back. And she had actually stood on the counter in -front of the window in order to see down perpendicularly into the -Square; by so doing she had had a glimpse of the top of his -luggage on a barrow, and of the crown of his hat occasionally when -he went outside to tempt Mr. Povey. She might have gone down into -the shop--there was no slightest reason why she should not; three -months had elapsed since the name of Mr. Scales had been -mentioned, and her mother had evidently forgotten the trifling -incident of New Year's Day--but she was incapable of descending -the stairs! She went to the head of the stairs and peeped through -the balustrade--and she could not get further. For nearly a -hundred days those extraordinary lamps had been brightly burning -in her head; and now the light-giver had come again, and her feet -would not move to the meeting; now the moment had arrived for -which alone she had lived, and she could not seize it as it -passed! "Why don't I go downstairs?" she asked herself. "Am I -afraid to meet him?" - -The customer sent up by Constance had occupied the surface of her -life for ten minutes, trying on hats; and during this time she was -praying wildly that Mr. Scales might not go, and asserting that it -was impossible he should go without at least asking for her. Had -she not counted the days to this day? When the customer left -Sophia followed her downstairs, and saw Mr. Scales chatting with -Constance. All her self-possession instantly returned to her, and -she joined them with a rather mocking smile. After Mr. Povey's -strange summons had withdrawn Constance from the corner, Mr. -Scales's tone had changed; it had thrilled her. "You are YOU," it -had said, "there is you--and there is the rest of the universe!" -Then he had not forgotten; she had lived in his heart; she had not -for three months been the victim of her own fancies! ... She saw -him put a piece of folded white paper on the top edge of the -screening box and flick it down to her. She blushed scarlet, -staring at it as it lay on the counter. He said nothing, and she -could not speak. ... He had prepared that paper, then, beforehand, -on the chance of being able to give it to her! This thought was -exquisite but full of terror. "I must really go," he had said, -lamely, with emotion in his voice, and he had gone--like that! And -she put the piece of paper into the pocket of her apron, and -hastened away. She had not even seen, as she turned up the stairs, -her mother standing by the till--that spot which was the conning- -tower of the whole shop. She ran, ran, breathless to the bedroom. - -"I am a wicked girl!" she said quite frankly, on the road to the -rendezvous. "It is a dream that I am going to meet him. It cannot -be true. There is time to go back. If I go back I am safe. I have -simply called at Miss Chetwynd's and she wasn't in, and no one can -say a word. But if I go on--if I'm seen! What a fool I am to go -on!" - -And she went on, impelled by, amongst other things, an immense, -naive curiosity, and the vanity which the bare fact of his note -had excited. The Loop railway was being constructed at that -period, and hundreds of navvies were at work on it between Bursley -and Turnhill. When she came to the new bridge over the cutting, he -was there, as he had written that he would be. - -They were very nervous, they greeted each other stiffly and as -though they had met then for the first time that day. Nothing was -said about his note, nor about her response to it. Her presence -was treated by both of them as a basic fact of the situation which -it would be well not to disturb by comment. Sophia could not hide -her shame, but her shame only aggravated the stinging charm of her -beauty. She was wearing a hard Amazonian hat, with a lifted veil, -the final word of fashion that spring in the Five Towns; her face, -beaten by the fresh breeze, shone rosily; her eyes glittered under -the dark hat, and the violent colours of her Victorian frock-- -green and crimson--could not spoil those cheeks. If she looked -earthwards, frowning, she was the more adorable so. He had come -down the clayey incline from the unfinished red bridge to welcome -her, and when the salutations were over they stood still, he -gazing apparently at the horizon and she at the yellow marl round -the edges of his boots. The encounter was as far away from -Sophia's ideal conception as Manchester from Venice. - -"So this is the new railway!" said she. - -"Yes," said he. "This is your new railway. You can see it better -from the bridge." - -"But it's very sludgy up there," she objected with a pout. - -"Further on it's quite dry," he reassured her. - -From the bridge they had a sudden view of a raw gash in the earth; -and hundreds of men were crawling about in it, busy with minute -operations, like flies in a great wound. There was a continuous -rattle of picks, resembling a muffled shower of hail, and in the -distance a tiny locomotive was leading a procession of tiny -waggons. - -"And those are the navvies!" she murmured. - -The unspeakable doings of the navvies in the Five Towns had -reached even her: how they drank and swore all day on Sundays, how -their huts and houses were dens of the most appalling infamy, how -they were the curse of a God-fearing and respectable district! She -and Gerald Scales glanced down at these dangerous beasts of prey -in their yellow corduroys and their open shirts revealing hairy -chests. No doubt they both thought how inconvenient it was that -railways could not be brought into existence without the aid of -such revolting and swinish animals. They glanced down from the -height of their nice decorum and felt the powerful attraction of -similar superior manners. The manners of the navvies were such -that Sophia could not even regard them, nor Gerald Scales permit -her to regard them, without blushing. - -In a united blush they turned away, up the gradual slope. Sophia -knew no longer what she was doing. For some minutes she was as -helpless as though she had been in a balloon with him. - -"I got my work done early," he said; and added complacently, "As a -matter of fact I've had a pretty good day." - -She was reassured to learn that he was not neglecting his duties. -To be philandering with a commercial traveller who has finished a -good day's work seemed less shocking than dalliance with a -neglecter of business; it seemed indeed, by comparison, -respectable. - -"It must be very interesting," she said primly. - -"What, my trade?" - -"Yes. Always seeing new places and so on." - -"In a way it is," he admitted judicially. "But I can tell you it -was much more agreeable being in Paris." - -"Oh! Have you been to Paris?" - -"Lived there for nearly two years," he said carelessly. Then, -looking at her, "Didn't you notice I never came for a long time?" - -"I didn't know you were in Paris," she evaded him. - -"I went to start a sort of agency for Birkinshaws," he said. - -"I suppose you talk French like anything." - -"Of course one has to talk French," said he. "I learnt French when -I was a child from a governess--my uncle made me--but I forgot -most of it at school, and at the Varsity you never learn anything ---precious little, anyhow! Certainly not French!" - -She was deeply impressed. He was a much greater personage than she -had guessed. It had never occurred to her that commercial -travellers had to go to a university to finish their complex -education. And then, Paris! Paris meant absolutely nothing to her -but pure, impossible, unattainable romance. And he had been there! -The clouds of glory were around him. He was a hero, dazzling. He -had come to her out of another world. He was her miracle. He was -almost too miraculous to be true. - -She, living her humdrum life at the shop! And he, elegant, -brilliant, coming from far cities! They together, side by side, -strolling up the road towards the Moorthorne ridge! There was -nothing quite like this in the stories of Miss Sewell. - -"Your uncle ...?" she questioned vaguely. - -"Yes, Mr. Boldero. He's a partner in Birkinshaws." - -"Oh!" - -"You've heard of him? He's a great Wesleyan." - -"Oh yes," she said. "When we had the Wesleyan Conference here, he--" - -"He's always very great at Conferences," said Gerald Scales. - -"I didn't know he had anything to do with Birkinshaws." - -"He isn't a working partner of course," Mr. Scales explained. "But -he means me to be one. I have to learn the business from the -bottom. So now you understand why I'm a traveller." - -"I see," she said, still more deeply impressed. - -"I'm an orphan," said Gerald. "And Uncle Boldero took me in hand -when I was three." - -"I SEE!" she repeated. - -It seemed strange to her that Mr. Scales should be a Wesleyan-- -just like herself. She would have been sure that he was 'Church.' -Her notions of Wesleyanism, with her notions of various other -things, were sharply modified. - -"Now tell me about you," Mr. Scales suggested. - -"Oh! I'm nothing!" she burst out. - -The exclamation was perfectly sincere. Mr. Scales's disclosures -concerning himself, while they excited her, discouraged her. - -"You're the finest girl I've ever met, anyhow," said Mr. Scales -with gallant emphasis, and he dug his stick into the soft ground. - -She blushed and made no answer. - -They walked on in silence, each wondering apprehensively what -might happen next. - -Suddenly Mr. Scales stopped at a dilapidated low brick wall, built -in a circle, close to the side of the road. - -"I expect that's an old pit-shaft," said he. - -"Yes, I expect it is." - -He picked up a rather large stone and approached the wall. - -"Be careful!" she enjoined him. - -"Oh! It's all right," he said lightly. "Let's listen. Come near -and listen." - -She reluctantly obeyed, and he threw the stone over the dirty -ruined wall, the top of which was about level with his hat. For -two or three seconds there was no sound. Then a faint reverberation -echoed from the depths of the shaft. And on Sophia's brain arose -dreadful images of the ghosts of miners wandering for ever in -subterranean passages, far, far beneath. The noise of the falling -stone had awakened for her the secret terrors of the earth. She -could scarcely even look at the wall without a spasm of fear. - -"How strange," said Mr. Scales, a little awe in his voice, too, -"that that should be left there like that! I suppose it's very -deep." - -"Some of them are," she trembled. - -"I must just have a look," he said, and put his hands on the top -of the wall. - -"Come away!" she cried. - -"Oh! It's all right!" he said again, soothingly. "The wall's as -firm as a rock." And he took a slight spring and looked over. - -She shrieked loudly. She saw him at the distant bottom of the -shaft, mangled, drowning. The ground seemed to quake under her -feet. A horrible sickness seized her. And she shrieked again. -Never had she guessed that existence could be such pain. - -He slid down from the wall, and turned to her. "No bottom to be -seen!" he said. Then, observing her transformed face, he came -close to her, with a superior masculine smile. "Silly little -thing!" he said coaxingly, endearingly, putting forth all his -power to charm. - -He perceived at once that he had miscalculated the effects of his -action. Her alarm changed swiftly to angry offence. She drew back -with a haughty gesture, as if he had intended actually to touch -her. Did he suppose, because she chanced to be walking with him, -that he had the right to address her familiarly, to tease her, to -call her 'silly little thing' and to put his face against hers? -She resented his freedom with quick and passionate indignation. - -She showed him her proud back and nodding head and wrathful -skirts; and hurried off without a word, almost running. As for -him, he was so startled by unexpected phenomena that he did -nothing for a moment--merely stood looking and feeling foolish. - -Then she heard him in pursuit. She was too proud to stop or even -to reduce her speed. - -"I didn't mean to--" he muttered behind her. - -No recognition from her. - -"I suppose I ought to apologize," he said. - -"I should just think you ought," she answered, furious. - -"Well, I do!" said he. "Do stop a minute." - -"I'll thank you not to follow me, Mr. Scales." She paused, and -scorched him with her displeasure. Then she went forward. And her -heart was in torture because it could not persuade her to remain -with him, and smile and forgive, and win his smile. - -"I shall write to you," he shouted down the slope. - -She kept on, the ridiculous child. But the agony she had suffered -as he clung to the frail wall was not ridiculous, nor her dark -vision of the mine, nor her tremendous indignation when, after -disobeying her, he forgot that she was a queen. To her the scene -was sublimely tragic. Soon she had recrossed the bridge, but not -the same she! So this was the end of the incredible adventure! - -When she reached the turnpike she thought of her mother and of -Constance. She had completely forgotten them; for a space they had -utterly ceased to exist for her. - -IV - -"You've been out, Sophia?" said Mrs. Baines in the parlour, -questioningly. Sophia had taken off her hat and mantle hurriedly -in the cutting-out room, for she was in danger of being late for -tea; but her hair and face showed traces of the March breeze. Mrs. -Baines, whose stoutness seemed to increase, sat in the rocking- -chair with a number of The Sunday at Home in her hand. Tea was -set. - -"Yes, mother. I called to see Miss Chetwynd." - -"I wish you'd tell me when you are going out." - -"I looked all over for you before I started." - -"No, you didn't, for I haven't stirred from this room since four -o'clock. ... You should not say things like that," Mrs. Baines -added in a gentler tone. - -Mrs. Baines had suffered much that day. She knew that she was in -an irritable, nervous state, and therefore she said to herself, in -her quality of wise woman, "I must watch myself. I mustn't let -myself go." And she thought how reasonable she was. She did not -guess that all her gestures betrayed her; nor did it occur to her -that few things are more galling than the spectacle of a person, -actuated by lofty motives, obviously trying to be kind and patient -under what he considers to be extreme provocation. - -Maggie blundered up the kitchen stairs with the teapot and hot -toast; and so Sophia had an excuse for silence. Sophia too had -suffered much, suffered excruciatingly; she carried at that moment -a whole tragedy in her young soul, unaccustomed to such burdens. -Her attitude towards her mother was half fearful and half defiant; -it might be summed up in the phrase which she had repeated again -and again under her breath on the way home, "Well, mother can't -kill me!" - -Mrs. Baines put down the blue-covered magazine and twisted her -rocking-chair towards the table. - -"You can pour out the tea," said Mrs. Baines. - -"Where's Constance?" - -"She's not very well. She's lying down." - -"Anything the matter with her?" - -"No." - -This was inaccurate. Nearly everything was the matter with -Constance, who had never been less Constance than during that -afternoon. But Mrs. Baines had no intention of discussing -Constance's love-affairs with Sophia. The less said to Sophia -about love, the better! Sophia was excitable enough already! - -They sat opposite to each other, on either side of the fire--the -monumental matron whose black bodice heavily overhung the table, -whose large rounded face was creased and wrinkled by what seemed -countless years of joy and disillusion; and the young, slim girl, -so fresh, so virginal, so ignorant, with all the pathos of an -unsuspecting victim about to be sacrificed to the minotaur of -Time! They both ate hot toast, with careless haste, in silence, -preoccupied, worried, and outwardly nonchalant. - -"And what has Miss Chetwynd got to say?" Mrs. Baines inquired. - -"She wasn't in." - -Here was a blow for Mrs. Baines, whose suspicions about Sophia, -driven off by her certainties regarding Constance, suddenly sprang -forward in her mind, and prowled to and fro like a band of tigers. - -Still, Mrs. Baines was determined to be calm and careful. "Oh! -What time did you call?" - -"I don't know. About half-past four." Sophia finished her tea -quickly, and rose. "Shall I tell Mr. Povey he can come?" - -(Mr. Povey had his tea after the ladies of the house.) - -"Yes, if you will stay in the shop till I come. Light me the gas -before you go." - -Sophia took a wax taper from a vase on the mantelpiece, stuck it -in the fire and lit the gas, which exploded in its crystal -cloister with a mild report. - -"What's all that clay on your boots, child?" asked Mrs. Baines. - -"Clay?" repeated Sophia, staring foolishly at her boots. - -"Yes," said Mrs. Baines. "It looks like marl. Where on earth have -you been?" - -She interrogated her daughter with an upward gaze, frigid and -unconsciously hostile, through her gold-rimmed glasses. - -"I must have picked it up on the roads," said Sophia, and hastened -to the door. - -"Sophia!" - -"Yes, mother." - -"Shut the door." - -Sophia unwillingly shut the door which she had half opened. - -"Come here." - -Sophia obeyed, with falling lip. - -"You are deceiving me, Sophia," said Mrs. Baines, with fierce -solemnity. "Where have you been this afternoon?" - -Sophia's foot was restless on the carpet behind the table. "I -haven't been anywhere," she murmured glumly. - -"Have you seen young Scales?" - -"Yes," said Sophia with grimness, glancing audaciously for an -instant at her mother. ("She can't kill me: She can't kill me," -her heart muttered. And she had youth and beauty in her favour, -while her mother was only a fat middle-aged woman. "She can't kill -me," said her heart, with the trembling, cruel insolence of the -mirror-flattered child.) - -"How came you to meet him?" - -No answer. - -"Sophia, you heard what I said!" - -Still no answer. Sophia looked down at the table. ("She can't kill -me.") - -"If you are going to be sullen, I shall have to suppose the -worst," said Mrs. Baines. - -Sophia kept her silence. - -"Of course," Mrs. Baines resumed, "if you choose to be wicked, -neither your mother nor any one else can stop you. There are -certain things I CAN do, and these I SHALL do ... Let me warn you -that young Scales is a thoroughly bad lot. I know all about him. -He has been living a wild life abroad, and if it hadn't been that -his uncle is a partner in Birkinshaws, they would never have taken -him on again." A pause. "I hope that one day you will be a happy -wife, but you are much too young yet to be meeting young men, and -nothing would ever induce me to let you have anything to do with -this Scales. I won't have it. In future you are not to go out -alone. You understand me?" - -Sophia kept silence. - -"I hope you will be in a better frame of mind to-morrow. I can -only hope so. But if you aren't, I shall take very severe -measures. You think you can defy me. But you never were more -mistaken in your life. I don't want to see any more of you now. Go -and tell Mr. Povey; and call Maggie for the fresh tea. You make me -almost glad that your father died even as he did. He has, at any -rate, been spared this." - -Those words 'died even as he did' achieved the intimidation of -Sophia. They seemed to indicate that Mrs. Baines, though she had -magnanimously never mentioned the subject to Sophia, knew exactly -how the old man had died. Sophia escaped from the room in fear, -cowed. Nevertheless, her thought was, "She hasn't killed me. I -made up my mind I wouldn't talk, and I didn't." - -In the evening, as she sat in the shop primly and sternly sewing -at hats--while her mother wept in secret on the first floor, and -Constance remained hidden on the second--Sophia lived over again -the scene at the old shaft; but she lived it differently, -admitting that she had been wrong, guessing by instinct that she -had shown a foolish mistrust of love. As she sat in the shop, she -adopted just the right attitude and said just the right things. -Instead of being a silly baby she was an accomplished and dazzling -woman, then. When customers came in, and the young lady assistants -unobtrusively turned higher the central gas, according to the -regime of the shop, it was really extraordinary that they could -not read in the heart of the beautiful Miss Baines the words which -blazed there; "YOU'RE THE FINEST GIRL I EVER MET," and "I SHALL -WRITE TO YOU." The young lady assistants had their notions as to -both Constance and Sophia, but the truth, at least as regarded -Sophia, was beyond the flight of their imaginations. When eight -o'clock struck and she gave the formal order for dust-sheets, the -shop being empty, they never supposed that she was dreaming about -posts and plotting how to get hold of the morning's letters before -Mr. Povey. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -A DEFEAT - -I - - -It was during the month of June that Aunt Harriet came over from -Axe to spend a few days with her little sister, Mrs. Baines. The -railway between Axe and the Five Towns had not yet been opened; -but even if it had been opened Aunt Harriet would probably not -have used it. She had always travelled from Axe to Bursley in the -same vehicle, a small waggonette which she hired from Bratt's -livery stables at Axe, driven by a coachman who thoroughly -understood the importance, and the peculiarities, of Aunt Harriet. - -Mrs. Baines had increased in stoutness, so that now Aunt Harriet -had very little advantage over her, physically. But the moral -ascendency of the elder still persisted. The two vast widows -shared Mrs. Baines's bedroom, spending much of their time there in -long, hushed conversations--interviews from which Mrs. Baines -emerged with the air of one who has received enlightenment and -Aunt Harriet with the air of one who has rendered it. The pair -went about together, in the shop, the showroom, the parlour, the -kitchen, and also into the town, addressing each other as -'Sister,' 'Sister.' Everywhere it was 'sister,' 'sister,' 'my -sister,' 'your dear mother,' 'your Aunt Harriet.' They referred to -each other as oracular sources of wisdom and good taste. -Respectability stalked abroad when they were afoot. The whole -Square wriggled uneasily as though God's eye were peculiarly upon -it. The meals in the parlour became solemn collations, at which -shone the best silver and the finest diaper, but from which gaiety -and naturalness seemed to be banished. (I say 'seemed' because it -cannot be doubted that Aunt Harriet was natural, and there were -moments when she possibly considered herself to be practising -gaiety--a gaiety more desolating than her severity.) The younger -generation was extinguished, pressed flat and lifeless under the -ponderosity of the widows. - -Mr. Povey was not the man to be easily flattened by ponderosity of -any kind, and his suppression was a striking proof of the prowess -of the widows; who, indeed, went over Mr. Povey like traction- -engines, with the sublime unconsciousness of traction-engines, -leaving an inanimate object in the road behind them, and scarce -aware even of the jolt. Mr. Povey hated Aunt Harriet, but, lying -crushed there in the road, how could he rebel? He felt all the -time that Aunt Harriet was adding him up, and reporting the result -at frequent intervals to Mrs. Baines in the bedroom. He felt that -she knew everything about him--even to those tears which had been -in his eyes. He felt that he could hope to do nothing right for -Aunt Harriet, that absolute perfection in the performance of duty -would make no more impression on her than a caress on the fly- -wheel of a traction-engine. Constance, the dear Constance, was -also looked at askance. There was nothing in Aunt Harriet's -demeanour to her that you could take hold of, but there was -emphatically something that you could not take hold of--a hint, an -inkling, that insinuated to Constance, "Have a care, lest -peradventure you become the second cousin of the scarlet woman." - -Sophia was petted. Sophia was liable to be playfully tapped by -Aunt Harriet's thimble when Aunt Harriet was hemming dusters (for -the elderly lady could lift a duster to her own dignity). Sophia -was called on two separate occasions, 'My little butterfly.' And -Sophia was entrusted with the trimming of Aunt Harriet's new -summer bonnet. Aunt Harriet deemed that Sophia was looking pale. -As the days passed, Sophia's pallor was emphasized by Aunt Harriet -until it developed into an article of faith, to which you were -compelled to subscribe on pain of excommunication. Then dawned the -day when Aunt Harriet said, staring at Sophia as an affectionate -aunt may: "That child would do with a change." And then there -dawned another day when Aunt Harriet, staring at Sophia -compassionately, as a devoted aunt may, said: "It's a pity that -child can't have a change." And Mrs. Baines also stared--and said: -"It is." - -And on another day Aunt Harriet said: "I've been wondering whether -my little Sophia would care to come and keep her old aunt company -a while." - -There were few things for which Sophia would have cared less. The -girl swore to herself angrily that she would not go, that no -allurement would induce her to go. But she was in a net; she was -in the meshes of family correctness. Do what she would, she could -not invent a reason for not going. Certainly she could not tell -her aunt that she merely did not want to go. She was capable of -enormities, but not of that. And then began Aunt Harriet's -intricate preparations for going. Aunt Harriet never did anything -simply. And she could not be hurried. Seventy-two hours before -leaving she had to commence upon her trunk; but first the trunk -had to be wiped by Maggie with a damp cloth under the eye and -direction of Aunt Harriet. And the liveryman at Axe had to be -written to, and the servants at Axe written to, and the weather -prospects weighed and considered. And somehow, by the time these -matters were accomplished, it was tacitly understood that Sophia -should accompany her kind aunt into the bracing moorland air of -Axe. No smoke at Axe! No stuffiness at Axe! The spacious existence -of a wealthy widow in a residential town with a low death-rate and -famous scenery! "Have you packed your box, Sophia?" No, she had -not. "Well, I will come and help you." - -Impossible to bear up against the momentum of a massive body like -Aunt Harriet's! It was irresistible. - -The day of departure came, throwing the entire household into a -commotion. Dinner was put a quarter of an hour earlier than usual -so that Aunt Harriet might achieve Axe at her accustomed hour of -tea. After dinner Maggie was the recipient of three amazing muslin -aprons, given with a regal gesture. And the trunk and the box were -brought down, and there was a slight odour of black kid gloves in -the parlour. The waggonette was due and the waggonette appeared -("I can always rely upon Bladen!" said Aunt Harriet), and the door -was opened, and Bladen, stiff on his legs, descended from the box -and touched his hat to Aunt Harriet as she filled up the doorway. - -"Have you baited, Bladen?" asked she. - -"Yes'm," said he, assuringly. - -Bladen and Mr. Povey carried out the trunk and the box, and -Constance charged herself with parcels which she bestowed in the -corners of the vehicle according to her aunt's prescription; it -was like stowing the cargo of a vessel. - -"Now, Sophia, my chuck!" Mrs. Baines called up the stairs. And -Sophia came slowly downstairs. Mrs. Baines offered her mouth. -Sophia glanced at her. - -"You needn't think I don't see why you're sending me away!" -exclaimed Sophia in a hard, furious voice, with glistening eyes. -"I'm not so blind as all that!" She kissed her mother--nothing but -a contemptuous peck. Then, as she turned away she added: "But you -let Constance do just as she likes!" - -This was her sole bitter comment on the episode, but into it she -put all the profound bitterness accumulated during many mutinous -nights. - -Mrs. Baines concealed a sigh. The explosion certainly disturbed -her. She had hoped that the smooth surface of things would not be -ruffled. - -Sophia bounced out. And the assembly, including several urchins, -watched with held breath while Aunt Harriet, after having bid -majestic good-byes, got on to the step and introduced herself -through the doorway of the waggonette into the interior of the -vehicle; it was an operation like threading a needle with cotton -too thick. Once within, her hoops distended in sudden release, -filling the waggonette. Sophia followed, agilely. - -As, with due formalities, the equipage drove off, Mrs. Baines gave -another sigh, one of relief. The sisters had won. She could now -await the imminent next advent of Mr. Gerald Scales with -tranquillity. - -II - -Those singular words of Sophia's, 'But you let Constance do just -as she likes,' had disturbed Mrs. Baines more than was at first -apparent. They worried her like a late fly in autumn. For she had -said nothing to any one about Constance's case, Mrs. Maddack of -course excepted. She had instinctively felt that she could not -show the slightest leniency towards the romantic impulses of her -elder daughter without seeming unjust to the younger, and she had -acted accordingly. On the memorable morn of Mr. Povey's acute -jealousy, she had, temporarily at any rate, slaked the fire, -banked it down, and hidden it; and since then no word had passed -as to the state of Constance's heart. In the great peril to be -feared from Mr. Scales, Constance's heart had been put aside as a -thing that could wait; so one puts aside the mending of linen when -earthquake shocks are about. Mrs. Baines was sure that Constance -had not chattered to Sophia concerning Mr. Povey. Constance, who -understood her mother, had too much commonsense and too nice a -sense of propriety to do that--and yet here was Sophia exclaiming, -'But you let Constance do just as she likes.' Were the relations -between Constance and Mr. Povey, then, common property? Did the -young lady assistants discuss them? - -As a fact, the young lady assistants did discuss them; not in the -shop--for either one of the principal parties, or Mrs. Baines -herself, was always in the shop, but elsewhere. They discussed -little else, when they were free; how she had looked at him to- -day, and how he had blushed, and so forth interminably. Yet Mrs. -Baines really thought that she alone knew. Such is the power of -the ineradicable delusion that one's own affairs, and especially -one's own children, are mysteriously different from those of -others. - -After Sophia's departure Mrs. Baines surveyed her daughter and her -manager at supper-time with a curious and a diffident eye. They -worked, talked, and ate just as though Mrs. Baines had never -caught them weeping together in the cutting-out room. They had the -most matter-of-fact air. They might never have heard whispered the -name of love. And there could be no deceit beneath that decorum; -for Constance would not deceive. Still, Mrs. Baines's conscience -was unruly. Order reigned, but nevertheless she knew that she -ought to do something, find out something, decide something; she -ought, if she did her duty, to take Constance aside and say: "Now, -Constance, my mind is freer now. Tell me frankly what has been -going on between you and Mr. Povey. I have never understood the -meaning of that scene in the cutting-out room. Tell me." She ought -to have talked in this strain. But she could not. That energetic -woman had not sufficient energy left. She wanted rest, rest--even -though it were a coward's rest, an ostrich's tranquillity--after -the turmoil of apprehensions caused by Sophia. Her soul cried out -for peace. She was not, however, to have peace. - -On the very first Sunday after Sophia's departure, Mr. Povey did -not go to chapel in the morning, and he offered no reason for his -unusual conduct. He ate his breakfast with appetite, but there was -something peculiar in his glance that made Mrs. Baines a little -uneasy; this something she could not seize upon and define. When -she and Constance returned from chapel Mr. Povey was playing "Rock -of Ages" on the harmonium--again unusual! The serious part of the -dinner comprised roast beef and Yorkshire pudding--the pudding -being served as a sweet course before the meat. Mrs. Baines ate -freely of these things, for she loved them, and she was always -hungry after a sermon. She also did well with the Cheshire cheese. -Her intention was to sleep in the drawing-room after the repast. -On Sunday afternoons she invariably tried to sleep in the drawing- -room, and she did not often fail. As a rule the girls accompanied -her thither from the table, and either 'settled down' likewise or -crept out of the room when they perceived the gradual sinking of -the majestic form into the deep hollows of the easy-chair. Mrs. -Baines was anticipating with pleasure her somnolent Sunday -afternoon. - -Constance said grace after meat, and the formula on this -particular occasion ran thus-- - -"Thank God for our good dinner, Amen.--Mother, I must just run -upstairs to my room." ('MY room'-Sophia being far away.) - -And off she ran, strangely girlish. - -"Well, child, you needn't be in such a hurry," said Mrs. Baines, -ringing the bell and rising. - -She hoped that Constance would remember the conditions precedent -to sleep. - -"I should like to have a word with you, if it's all the same to -you, Mrs. Baines," said Mr. Povey suddenly, with obvious -nervousness. And his tone struck a rude unexpected blow at Mrs. -Baines's peace of mind. It was a portentous tone. - -"What about?" asked she, with an inflection subtly to remind Mr. -Povey what day it was. - -"About Constance," said the astonishing man. - -"Constance!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines with a histrionic air of -bewilderment. - -Maggie entered the room, solely in response to the bell, yet a -thought jumped up in Mrs. Baines's brain, "How prying servants -are, to be sure!" For quite five seconds she had a grievance -against Maggie. She was compelled to sit down again and wait while -Maggie cleared the table. Mr. Povey put both his hands in his -pockets, got up, went to the window, whistled, and generally -behaved in a manner which foretold the worst. - -At last Maggie vanished, shutting the door. - -"What is it, Mr. Povey?" - -"Oh!" said Mr. Povey, facing her with absurd nervous brusqueness, -as though pretending: "Ah, yes! We have something to say--I was -forgetting!" Then he began: "It's about Constance and me." - -Yes, they had evidently plotted this interview. Constance had -evidently taken herself off on purpose to leave Mr. Povey -unhampered. They were in league. The inevitable had come. No -sleep! No repose! Nothing but worry once more! - -"I'm not at all satisfied with the present situation," said Mr. -Povey, in a tone that corresponded to his words. - -"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Povey," said Mrs. Baines stiffly. -This was a simple lie. - -"Well, really, Mrs. Baines!" Mr. Povey protested, "I suppose you -won't deny that you know there is something between me and -Constance? I suppose you won't deny that?" - -"What is there between you and Constance? I can assure you I--" - -"That depends on you," Mr. Povey interrupted her. When he was -nervous his manners deteriorated into a behaviour that resembled -rudeness. "That depends on you!" he repeated grimly. - -"But--" - -"Are we to be engaged or are we not?" pursued Mr. Povey, as though -Mrs. Baines had been guilty of some grave lapse and he was -determined not to spare her. "That's what I think ought to be -settled, one way or the other. I wish to be perfectly open and -aboveboard--in the future, as I have been in the past." - -"But you have said nothing to me at all!" Mrs. Baines -remonstrated, lifting her eyebrows. The way in which the man had -sprung this matter upon her was truly too audacious. - -Mr. Povey approached her as she sat at the table, shaking her -ringlets and looking at her hands. - -"You know there's something between us!" he insisted. - -"How should I know there is something between you? Constance has -never said a word to me. And have you?" - -"Well," said he. "We've hidden nothing." - -"What is there between you and Constance? If I may ask!" - -"That depends on you," said he again. - -"Have you asked her to be your wife?" - -"No. I haven't exactly asked her to be my wife." He hesitated. -"You see--" - -Mrs. Baines collected her forces. "Have you kissed her?" This in a -cold voice. - -Mr. Povey now blushed. "I haven't exactly kissed her," he -stammered, apparently shocked by the inquisition. "No, I should -not say that I had kissed her." - -It might have been that before committing himself he felt a desire -for Mrs. Baines's definition of a kiss. - -"You are very extraordinary," she said loftily. It was no less -than the truth. - -"All I want to know is--have you got anything against me?" he -demanded roughly. "Because if so--" - -"Anything against you, Mr. Povey? Why should I have anything -against you?" - -"Then why can't we be engaged?" - -She considered that he was bullying her. "That's another -question," said she. - -"Why can't we be engaged? Ain't I good enough?" - -The fact was that he was not regarded as good enough. Mrs. Maddack -had certainly deemed that he was not good enough. He was a solid -mass of excellent qualities; but he lacked brilliance, importance, -dignity. He could not impose himself. Such had been the verdict. - -And now, while Mrs. Baines was secretly reproaching Mr. Povey for -his inability to impose himself, he was most patently imposing -himself on her--and the phenomenon escaped her! She felt that he -was bullying her, but somehow she could not perceive his power. -Yet the man who could bully Mrs. Baines was surely no common soul! - -"You know my very high opinion of you," she said. - -Mr. Povey pursued in a mollified tone. "Assuming that Constance is -willing to be engaged, do I understand you consent?" - -"But Constance is too young." - -"Constance is twenty. She is more than twenty." - -"In any case you won't expect me to give you an answer now." - -"Why not? You know my position." - -She did. From a practical point of view the match would be ideal: -no fault could be found with it on that side. But Mrs. Baines -could not extinguish the idea that it would be a 'come-down' for -her daughter. Who, after all, was Mr. Povey? Mr. Povey was nobody. - -"I must think things over," she said firmly, putting her lips -together. "I can't reply like this. It is a serious matter." - -"When can I have your answer? To-morrow?" - -"No--really--" - -"In a week, then?" - -"I cannot bind myself to a date," said Mrs. Baines, haughtily. She -felt that she was gaining ground. - -"Because I can't stay on here indefinitely as things are," Mr. -Povey burst out, and there was a touch of hysteria in his tone. - -"Now, Mr. Povey, please do be reasonable." - -"That's all very well," he went on. "That's all very well. But -what I say is that employers have no right to have male assistants -in their houses unless they are prepared to let their daughters -marry! That's what I say! No RIGHT!" - -Mrs. Baines did not know what to answer. - -The aspirant wound up: "I must leave if that's the case." - -"If what's the case?" she asked herself. "What has come over him?" -And aloud: "You know you would place me in a very awkward position -by leaving, and I hope you don't want to mix up two quite -different things. I hope you aren't trying to threaten me." - -"Threaten you!" he cried. "Do you suppose I should leave here for -fun? If I leave it will be because I can't stand it. That's all. I -can't stand it. I want Constance, and if I can't have her, then I -can't stand it. What do you think I'm made of?" - -"I'm sure--" she began. - -"That's all very well!" he almost shouted. - -"But please let me speak,' she said quietly. - -"All I say is I can't stand it. That's all. ... Employers have no -right. ... We have our feelings like other men." - -He was deeply moved. He might have appeared somewhat grotesque to -the strictly impartial observer of human nature. Nevertheless he -was deeply and genuinely moved, and possibly human nature could -have shown nothing more human than Mr. Povey at the moment when, -unable any longer to restrain the paroxysm which had so -surprisingly overtaken him, he fled from the parlour, -passionately, to the retreat of his bedroom. - -"That's the worst of those quiet calm ones," said Mrs. Baines to -herself. "You never know if they won't give way. And when they do, -it's awful--awful. ... What did I do, what did I say, to bring it -on? Nothing! Nothing!" - -And where was her afternoon sleep? What was going to happen to her -daughter? What could she say to Constance? How next could she meet -Mr. Povey? Ah! It needed a brave, indomitable woman not to cry out -brokenly: "I've suffered too much. Do anything you like; only let -me die in peace!" And so saying, to let everything indifferently -slide! - -III - -Neither Mr. Povey nor Constance introduced the delicate subject to -her again, and she was determined not to be the first to speak of -it. She considered that Mr. Povey had taken advantage of his -position, and that he had also been infantile and impolite. And -somehow she privately blamed Constance for his behaviour. So the -matter hung, as it were, suspended in the ether between the -opposing forces of pride and passion. - -Shortly afterwards events occurred compared to which the -vicissitudes of Mr. Povey's heart were of no more account than a -shower of rain in April. And fate gave no warning of them; it -rather indicated a complete absence of events. When the customary -advice circular arrived from Birkinshaws, the name of 'our Mr. -Gerald Scales' was replaced on it by another and an unfamiliar -name. Mrs. Baines, seeing the circular by accident, experienced a -sense of relief, mingled with the professional disappointment of a -diplomatist who has elaborately provided for contingencies which -have failed to happen. She had sent Sophia away for nothing; and -no doubt her maternal affection had exaggerated a molehill into a -mountain. Really, when she reflected on the past, she could not -recall a single fact that would justify her theory of an -attachment secretly budding between Sophia and the young man -Scales! Not a single little fact! All she could bring forward was -that Sophia had twice encountered Scales in the street. - -She felt a curious interest in the fate of Scales, for whom in her -own mind she had long prophesied evil, and when Birkinshaws' -representative came she took care to be in the shop; her intention -was to converse with him, and ascertain as much as was -ascertainable, after Mr. Povey had transacted business. For this -purpose, at a suitable moment, she traversed the shop to Mr. -Povey's side, and in so doing she had a fleeting view of King -Street, and in King Street of a familiar vehicle. She stopped, and -seemed to catch the distant sound of knocking. Abandoning the -traveller, she hurried towards the parlour, in the passage she -assuredly did hear knocking, angry and impatient knocking, the -knocking of someone who thinks he has knocked too long. - -"Of course Maggie is at the top of the house!" she muttered -sarcastically. - -She unchained, unbolted, and unlocked the side-door. - -"At last!" It was Aunt Harriet's voice, exacerbated. "What! You, -sister? You're soon up. What a blessing!" - -The two majestic and imposing creatures met on the mat, craning -forward so that their lips might meet above their terrific bosoms. - -"What's the matter?" Mrs. Baines asked, fearfully. - -"Well, I do declare!" said Mrs. Maddack. "And I've driven -specially over to ask you!" - -"Where's Sophia?" demanded Mrs. Baines. - -"You don't mean to say she's not come, sister?" Mrs. Maddack sank -down on to the sofa. - -"Come?" Mrs. Baines repeated. "Of course she's not come! What do -you mean, sister?" - -"The very moment she got Constance's letter yesterday, saying you -were ill in bed and she'd better come over to help in the shop, -she started. I got Bratt's dog-cart for her." - -Mrs. Baines in her turn also sank down on to the sofa. - -"I've not been ill," she said. "And Constance hasn't written for a -week! Only yesterday I was telling her--" - -"Sister--it can't be! Sophia had letters from Constance every -morning. At least she said they were from Constance. I told her to -be sure and write me how you were last night, and she promised -faithfully she would. And it was because I got nothing by this -morning's post that I decided to come over myself, to see if it -was anything serious." - -"Serious it is!" murmured Mrs. Baines. - -"What--" - -"Sophia's run off. That's the plain English of it!" said Mrs. -Baines with frigid calm. - -"Nay! That I'll never believe. I've looked after Sophia night and -day as if she was my own, and--" - -"If she hasn't run off, where is she?" - -Mrs. Maddack opened the door with a tragic gesture. - -"Bladen," she called in a loud voice to the driver of the -waggonette, who was standing on the pavement. - -"Yes'm." - -"It was Pember drove Miss Sophia yesterday, wasn't it?" - -"Yes'm." - -She hesitated. A clumsy question might enlighten a member of the -class which ought never to be enlightened about one's private -affairs. - -"He didn't come all the way here?" - -"No'm. He happened to say last night when he got back as Miss -Sophia had told him to set her down at Knype Station." - -"I thought so!" said Mrs. Maddack, courageously. - -"Yes'm." - -"Sister!" she moaned, after carefully shutting the door. - -They clung to each other. - -The horror of what had occurred did not instantly take full -possession of them, because the power of credence, of -imaginatively realizing a supreme event, whether of great grief or -of great happiness, is ridiculously finite. But every minute the -horror grew more clear, more intense, more tragically dominant -over them. There were many things that they could not say to each -other,--from pride, from shame, from the inadequacy of words. -Neither could utter the name of Gerald Scales. And Aunt Harriet -could not stoop to defend herself from a possible charge of -neglect; nor could Mrs. Baines stoop to assure her sister that she -was incapable of preferring such a charge. And the sheer, immense -criminal folly of Sophia could not even be referred to: it was -unspeakable. So the interview proceeded, lamely, clumsily, -inconsequently, leading to naught. - -Sophia was gone. She was gone with Gerald Scales. - -That beautiful child, that incalculable, untamable, impossible -creature, had committed the final folly; without pretext or -excuse, and with what elaborate deceit! Yes, without excuse! She -had not been treated harshly; she had had a degree of liberty -which would have astounded and shocked her grandmothers; she had -been petted, humoured, spoilt. And her answer was to disgrace the -family by an act as irrevocable as it was utterly vicious. If -among her desires was the desire to humiliate those majesties, her -mother and Aunt Harriet, she would have been content could she -have seen them on the sofa there, humbled, shamed, mortally -wounded! Ah, the monstrous Chinese cruelty of youth! - -What was to be done? Tell dear Constance? No, this was not, at the -moment, an affair for the younger generation. It was too new and -raw for the younger generation. Moreover, capable, proud, and -experienced as they were, they felt the need of a man's voice, and -a man's hard, callous ideas. It was a case for Mr. Critchlow. -Maggie was sent to fetch him, with a particular request that he -should come to the side-door. He came expectant, with the -pleasurable anticipation of disaster, and he was not disappointed. -He passed with the sisters the happiest hour that had fallen to -him for years. Quickly he arranged the alternatives for them. -Would they tell the police, or would they take the risks of -waiting? They shied away, but with fierce brutality he brought -them again and again to the immediate point of decision. ... Well, -they could not tell the police! They simply could not. Then they -must face another danger. ... He had no mercy for them. And while -he was torturing them there arrived a telegram, despatched from -Charing Cross, "I am all right, Sophia." That proved, at any rate, -that the child was not heartless, not merely careless. - -Only yesterday, it seemed to Mrs. Baines, she had borne Sophia; -only yesterday she was a baby, a schoolgirl to be smacked. The -years rolled up in a few hours. And now she was sending telegrams -from a place called Charing Cross! How unlike was the hand of the -telegram to Sophia's hand! How mysteriously curt and inhuman was -that official hand, as Mrs. Baines stared at it through red, wet -eyes! - -Mr. Critchlow said some one should go to Manchester, to ascertain -about Scales. He went himself, that afternoon, and returned with -the news that an aunt of Scales had recently died, leaving him -twelve thousand pounds, and that he had, after quarrelling with -his uncle Boldero, abandoned Birkinshaws at an hour's notice and -vanished with his inheritance. - -"It's as plain as a pikestaff," said Mr. Critchlow. "I could ha' -warned ye o' all this years ago, even since she killed her -father!" - -Mr. Critchlow left nothing unsaid. - -During the night Mrs. Baines lived through all Sophia's life, -lived through it more intensely than ever Sophia had done. - -The next day people began to know. A whisper almost inaudible -went across the Square, and into the town: and in the stillness -every one heard it. "Sophia Baines run off with a commercial!" - -In another fortnight a note came, also dated from London. - -"Dear Mother, I am married to Gerald Scales. Please don't worry -about me. We are going abroad. Your affectionate Sophia. Love to -Constance." No tear-stains on that pale blue sheet! No sign of -agitation! - -And Mrs. Baines said: "My life is over." It was, though she was -scarcely fifty. She felt old, old and beaten. She had fought and -been vanquished. The everlasting purpose had been too much for -her. Virtue had gone out of her--the virtue to hold up her head -and look the Square in the face. She, the wife of John Baines! -She, a Syme of Axe! - -Old houses, in the course of their history, see sad sights, and -never forget them! And ever since, in the solemn physiognomy of -the triple house of John Baines at the corner of St. Luke's Square -and King Street, have remained the traces of the sight it saw on -the morning of the afternoon when Mr. and Mrs. Povey returned from -their honeymoon--the sight of Mrs. Baines getting into the -waggonette for Axe; Mrs. Baines, encumbered with trunks and -parcels, leaving the scene of her struggles and her defeat, -whither she had once come as slim as a wand, to return stout and -heavy, and heavy-hearted, to her childhood; content to live with -her grandiose sister until such time as she should be ready for -burial! The grimy and impassive old house perhaps heard her heart -saying: "Only yesterday they were little girls, ever so tiny, and -now--" The driving-off of a waggonette can be a dreadful thing. - - - - -BOOK II - -CONSTANCE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -REVOLUTION - -I - - -"Well," said Mr. Povey, rising from the rocking-chair that in a -previous age had been John Baines's, "I've got to make a start -some time, so I may as well begin now!" - -And he went from the parlour into the shop. Constance's eye -followed him as far as the door, where their glances met for an -instant in the transient gaze which expresses the tenderness of -people who feel more than they kiss. - -It was on the morning of this day that Mrs. Baines, relinquishing -the sovereignty of St. Luke's Square, had gone to live as a -younger sister in the house of Harriet Maddack at Axe. Constance -guessed little of the secret anguish of that departure. She only -knew that it was just like her mother, having perfectly arranged -the entire house for the arrival of the honeymoon couple from -Buxton, to flit early away so as to spare the natural blushing -diffidence of the said couple. It was like her mother's -commonsense and her mother's sympathetic comprehension. Further, -Constance did not pursue her mother's feelings, being far too busy -with her own. She sat there full of new knowledge and new -importance, brimming with experience and strange, unexpected -aspirations, purposes, yes--and cunnings! And yet, though the very -curves of her cheeks seemed to be mysteriously altering, the old -Constance still lingered in that frame, an innocent soul -hesitating to spread its wings and quit for ever the body which -had been its home; you could see the timid thing peeping wistfully -out of the eyes of the married woman. - -Constance rang the bell for Maggie to clear the table; and as she -did so she had the illusion that she was not really a married -woman and a house-mistress, but only a kind of counterfeit. She -did most fervently hope that all would go right in the house--at -any rate until she had grown more accustomed to her situation. - -The hope was to be disappointed. Maggie's rather silly, obsequious -smile concealed but for a moment the ineffable tragedy that had -lain in wait for unarmed Constance. - -"If you please, Mrs. Povey," said Maggie, as she crushed cups -together on the tin tray with her great, red hands, which always -looked like something out of a butcher's shop; then a pause, "Will -you please accept of this?" - -Now, before the wedding Maggie had already, with tears of -affection, given Constance a pair of blue glass vases (in order to -purchase which she had been obliged to ask for special permission -to go out), and Constance wondered what was coming now from -Maggie's pocket. A small piece of folded paper came from Maggie's -pocket. Constance accepted of it, and read: "I begs to give one -month's notice to leave. Signed Maggie. June 10, 1867." - -"Maggie!" exclaimed the old Constance, terrified by this -incredible occurrence, ere the married woman could strangle her. - -"I never give notice before, Mrs. Povey," said Maggie, "so I don't -know as I know how it ought for be done--not rightly. But I hope -as you'll accept of it, Mrs. Povey." - -"Oh! of course," said Mrs. Povey, primly, just as if Maggie was -not the central supporting pillar of the house, just as if Maggie -had not assisted at her birth, just as if the end of the world had -not abruptly been announced, just as if St. Luke's Square were not -inconceivable without Maggie. "But why--" - -"Well, Mrs. Povey, I've been a-thinking it over in my kitchen, and -I said to myself: 'If there's going to be one change there'd -better be two,' I says. Not but what I wouldn't work my fingers to -the bone for ye, Miss Constance." - -Here Maggie began to cry into the tray. - -Constance looked at her. Despite the special muslin of that day -she had traces of the slatternliness of which Mrs. Baines had -never been able to cure her. She was over forty, big, gawky. She -had no figure, no charms of any kind. She was what was left of a -woman after twenty-two years in the cave of a philanthropic -family. And in her cave she had actually been thinking things -over! Constance detected for the first time, beneath the -dehumanized drudge, the stirrings of a separate and perhaps -capricious individuality. Maggie's engagements had never been real -to her employers. Within the house she had never been, in -practice, anything but 'Maggie'--an organism. And now she was -permitting herself ideas about changes! - -"You'll soon be suited with another, Mrs. Povey," said Maggie. -"There's many a--many a--" She burst into sobs. - -"But if you really want to leave, what are you crying for, -Maggie?" asked Mrs. Povey, at her wisest. "Have you told mother?" - -"No, miss," Maggie whimpered, absently wiping her wrinkled cheeks -with ineffectual muslin. "I couldn't seem to fancy telling your -mother. And as you're the mistress now, I thought as I'd save it -for you when you come home. I hope you'll excuse me, Mrs. Povey." - -"Of course I'm very sorry. You've been a very good servant. And in -these days--" - -The child had acquired this turn of speech from her mother. It did -not appear to occur to either of them that they were living in the -sixties. - -"Thank ye, miss." - -"And what are you thinking of doing, Maggie? You know you won't -get many places like this." - -"To tell ye the truth, Mrs. Povey, I'm going to get married -mysen." - -"Indeed!" murmured Constance, with the perfunctoriness of habit in -replying to these tidings. - -"Oh! but I am, mum," Maggie insisted. "It's all settled. Mr. -Hollins, mum." - -"Not Hollins, the fish-hawker!" - -"Yes, mum. I seem to fancy him. You don't remember as him and me -was engaged in '48. He was my first, like. I broke it off because -he was in that Chartist lot, and I knew as Mr. Baines would never -stand that. Now he's asked me again. He's been a widower this long -time." - -"I'm sure I hope you'll be happy, Maggie. But what about his -habits?" - -"He won't have no habits with me, Mrs. Povey." - -A woman was definitely emerging from the drudge. - -When Maggie, having entirely ceased sobbing, had put the folded -cloth in the table-drawer and departed with the tray, her mistress -became frankly the girl again. No primness about her as she stood -alone there in the parlour; no pretence that Maggie's notice to -leave was an everyday document, to be casually glanced at--as one -glances at an unpaid bill! She would be compelled to find a new -servant, making solemn inquiries into character, and to train the -new servant, and to talk to her from heights from which she had -never addressed Maggie. At that moment she had an illusion that -there were no other available, suitable servants in the whole -world. And the arranged marriage? She felt that this time--the -thirteenth or fourteenth time--the engagement was serious and -would only end at the altar. The vision of Maggie and Hollins at -the altar shocked her. Marriage was a series of phenomena, and a -general state, very holy and wonderful--too sacred, somehow, for -such creatures as Maggie and Hollins. Her vague, instinctive -revolt against such a usage of matrimony centred round the idea of -a strong, eternal smell of fish. However, the projected outrage on -a hallowed institution troubled her much less than the imminent -problem of domestic service. - -She ran into the shop--or she would have run if she had not -checked her girlishness betimes--and on her lips, ready to be -whispered importantly into a husband's astounded ear, were the -words, "Maggie has given notice! Yes! Truly!" But Samuel Povey was -engaged. He was leaning over the counter and staring at an -outspread paper upon which a certain Mr. Yardley was making -strokes with a thick pencil. Mr. Yardley, who had a long red -beard, painted houses and rooms. She knew him only by sight. In -her mind she always associated him with the sign over his premises -in Trafalgar Road, "Yardley Bros., Authorised plumbers. Painters. -Decorators. Paper-hangers. Facia writers." For years, in -childhood, she had passed that sign without knowing what sort of -things 'Bros,' and 'Facia' were, and what was the mysterious -similarity between a plumber and a version of the Bible. She could -not interrupt her husband, he was wholly absorbed; nor could she -stay in the shop (which appeared just a little smaller than -usual), for that would have meant an unsuccessful endeavour to -front the young lady-assistants as though nothing in particular -had happened to her. So she went sedately up the showroom stairs -and thus to the bedroom floors of the house--her house! Mrs. -Povey's house! She even climbed to Constance's old bedroom; her -mother had stripped the bed--that was all, except a slight -diminution of this room, corresponding to that of the shop! Then -to the drawing-room. In the recess outside the drawing-room door -the black box of silver plate still lay. She had expected her -mother to take it; but no! Assuredly her mother was one to do -things handsomely--when she did them. In the drawing-room, not a -tassel of an antimacassar touched! Yes, the fire-screen, the -luscious bunch of roses on an expanse of mustard, which Constance -had worked for her mother years ago, was gone! That her mother -should have clung to just that one souvenir, out of all the heavy -opulence of the drawing-room, touched Constance intimately. She -perceived that if she could not talk to her husband she must write -to her mother. And she sat down at the oval table and wrote, -"Darling mother, I am sure you will be very surprised to hear. ... -She means it. ... I think she is making a serious mistake. Ought I -to put an advertisement in the Signal, or will it do if. ... -Please write by return. We are back and have enjoyed ourselves -very much. Sam says he enjoys getting up late. ..." And so on to -the last inch of the fourth scolloped page. - -She was obliged to revisit the shop for a stamp, stamps being kept -in Mr. Povey's desk in the corner--a high desk, at which you -stood. Mr. Povey was now in earnest converse with Mr. Yardley at -the door, and twilight, which began a full hour earlier in the -shop than in the Square, had cast faint shadows in corners behind -counters. - -"Will you just run out with this to the pillar, Miss Dadd?" - -"With pleasure, Mrs. Povey." - -"Where are you going to?" Mr. Povey interrupted his conversation -to stop the flying girl. - -"She's just going to the post for me," Constance called out from -the region of the till. - -"Oh! All right!" - -A trifle! A nothing! Yet somehow, in the quiet customerless shop, -the episode, with the scarce perceptible difference in Samuel's -tone at his second remark, was delicious to Constance. Somehow it -was the REAL beginning of her wifehood. (There had been about nine -other real beginnings in the past fortnight.) - -Mr. Povey came in to supper, laden with ledgers and similar works -which Constance had never even pretended to understand. It was a -sign from him that the honeymoon was over. He was proprietor now, -and his ardour for ledgers most justifiable. Still, there was the -question of her servant. - -"Never!" he exclaimed, when she told him all about the end of the -world. A 'never' which expressed extreme astonishment and the -liveliest concern! - -But Constance had anticipated that he would have been just a -little more knocked down, bowled over, staggered, stunned, -flabbergasted. In a swift gleam of insight she saw that she had -been in danger of forgetting her role of experienced, capable -married woman. - -"I shall have to set about getting a fresh one," she said hastily, -with an admirable assumption of light and easy casualness. - -Mr. Povey seemed to think that Hollins would suit Maggie pretty -well. He made no remark to the betrothed when she answered the -final bell of the night. - -He opened his ledgers, whistling. - -"I think I shall go up, dear," said Constance. "I've a lot of -things to put away." - -"Do," said he. "Call out when you've done." - -II - -"Sam!" she cried from the top of the crooked stairs. - -No answer. The door at the foot was closed. - -"Sam!" - -"Hello?" Distantly, faintly. - -"I've done all I'm going to do to-night." - -And she ran back along the corridor, a white figure in the deep -gloom, and hurried into bed, and drew the clothes up to her chin. - -In the life of a bride there are some dramatic moments. If she has -married the industrious apprentice, one of those moments occurs -when she first occupies the sacred bed-chamber of her ancestors, -and the bed on which she was born. Her parents' room had always -been to Constance, if not sacred, at least invested with a certain -moral solemnity. She could not enter it as she would enter another -room. The course of nature, with its succession of deaths, -conceptions, and births, slowly makes such a room august with a -mysterious quality which interprets the grandeur of mere existence -and imposes itself on all. Constance had the strangest sensations -in that bed, whose heavy dignity of ornament symbolized a past -age; sensations of sacrilege and trespass, of being a naughty girl -to whom punishment would accrue for this shocking freak. Not since -she was quite tiny had she slept in that bed--one night with her -mother, before her father's seizure, when he had been away. What a -limitless, unfathomable bed it was then! Now it was just a bed--so -she had to tell herself--like any other bed. The tiny child that, -safely touching its mother, had slept in the vast expanse, seemed -to her now a pathetic little thing; its image made her feel -melancholy. And her mind dwelt on sad events: the death of her -father, the flight of darling Sophia; the immense grief, and the -exile, of her mother. She esteemed that she knew what life was, -and that it was grim. And she sighed. But the sigh was an -affectation, meant partly to convince herself that she was grown- -up, and partly to keep her in countenance in the intimidating bed. -This melancholy was factitious, was less than transient foam on -the deep sea of her joy. Death and sorrow and sin were dim shapes -to her; the ruthless egoism of happiness blew them away with a -puff, and their wistful faces vanished. To see her there in the -bed, framed in mahogany and tassels, lying on her side, with her -young glowing cheeks, and honest but not artless gaze, and the -rich curve of her hip lifting the counterpane, one would have said -that she had never heard of aught but love. - -Mr. Povey entered, the bridegroom, quickly, firmly, carrying it -off rather well, but still self-conscious. "After all," his -shoulders were trying to say, "what's the difference between this -bedroom and the bedroom of a boarding-house? Indeed, ought we not -to feel more at home here? Besides, confound it, we've been -married a fortnight!" - -"Doesn't it give you a funny feeling, sleeping in this room? It -does me," said Constance. Women, even experienced women, are so -foolishly frank. They have no decency, no self-respect. - -"Really?" replied Mr. Povey, with loftiness, as who should say: -"What an extraordinary thing that a reasonable creature can have -such fancies! Now to me this room is exactly like any other room." -And he added aloud, glancing away from the glass, where he was -unfastening his necktie: "It's not a bad room at all." This, with -the judicial air of an auctioneer. - -Not for an instant did he deceive Constance, who read his real -sensations with accuracy. But his futile poses did not in the -slightest degree lessen her respect for him. On the contrary, she -admired him the more for them; they were a sort of embroidery on -the solid stuff of his character. At that period he could not do -wrong for her. The basis of her regard for him was, she often -thought, his honesty, his industry, his genuine kindliness of act, -his grasp of the business, his perseverance, his passion for doing -at once that which had to be done. She had the greatest admiration -for his qualities, and he was in her eyes an indivisible whole; -she could not admire one part of him and frown upon another. -Whatever he did was good because he did it. She knew that some -people were apt to smile at certain phases of his individuality; -she knew that far down in her mother's heart was a suspicion that -she had married ever so little beneath her. But this knowledge did -not disturb her. She had no doubt as to the correctness of her own -estimate. - -Mr. Povey was an exceedingly methodical person, and he was also -one of those persons who must always be 'beforehand' with time. -Thus at night he would arrange his raiment so that in the morning -it might be reassumed in the minimum of minutes. He was not a man, -for example, to leave the changing of studs from one shirt to -another till the morrow. Had it been practicable, he would have -brushed his hair the night before. Constance already loved to -watch his meticulous preparations. She saw him now go into his old -bedroom and return with a paper collar, which he put on the -dressing-table next to a black necktie. His shop-suit was laid out -on a chair. - -"Oh, Sam!" she exclaimed impulsively, "you surely aren't going to -begin wearing those horrid paper collars again!" During the -honeymoon he had worn linen collars. - -Her tone was perfectly gentle, but the remark, nevertheless, -showed a lack of tact. It implied that all his life Mr. Povey had -been enveloping his neck in something which was horrid. Like all -persons with a tendency to fall into the ridiculous, Mr. Povey was -exceedingly sensitive to personal criticisms. He flushed darkly. - -"I didn't know they were 'horrid,'" he snapped. He was hurt and -angry. Anger had surprised him unawares. - -Both of them suddenly saw that they were standing on the edge of a -chasm, and drew back. They had imagined themselves to be wandering -safely in a flowered meadow, and here was this bottomless chasm! -It was most disconcerting. - -Mr. Povey's hand hovered undecided over the collar. "However--" he -muttered. - -She could feel that he was trying with all his might to be gentle -and pacific. And she was aghast at her own stupid clumsiness, she -so experienced! - -"Just as you like, dear," she said quickly. "Please!" - -"Oh no!" And he did his best to smile, and went off gawkily with -the collar and came back with a linen one. - -Her passion for him burned stronger than ever. She knew then that -she did not love him for his good qualities, but for something -boyish and naive that there was about him, an indescribable -something that occasionally, when his face was close to hers, made -her dizzy. - -The chasm had disappeared. In such moments, when each must pretend -not to have seen or even suspected the chasm, small-talk is -essential. - -"Wasn't that Mr. Yardley in the shop to-night?" began Constance. - -"Yes." - -"What did he want?" - -"I'd sent for him. He's going to paint us a signboard." - -Useless for Samuel to make-believe that nothing in this world is -more ordinary than a signboard. - -"Oh!" murmured Constance. She said no more, the episode of the -paper collar having weakened her self-confidence. - -But a signboard! - -What with servants, chasms, and signboards, Constance considered -that her life as a married woman would not be deficient in -excitement. Long afterwards, she fell asleep, thinking of Sophia. - -III - -A few days later Constance was arranging the more precious of her -wedding presents in the parlour; some had to be wrapped in tissue -and in brown paper and then tied with string and labelled; others -had special cases of their own, leather without and velvet within. -Among the latter was the resplendent egg-stand holding twelve -silver-gilt egg-cups and twelve chased spoons to match, presented -by Aunt Harriet. In the Five Towns' phrase, 'it must have cost -money.' Even if Mr. and Mrs. Povey had ten guests or ten children, -and all the twelve of them were simultaneously gripped by a desire -to eat eggs at breakfast or tea--even in this remote contingency -Aunt Harriet would have been pained to see the egg-stand in use; -such treasures are not designed for use. The presents, few in -number, were mainly of this character, because, owing to her -mother's heroic cession of the entire interior, Constance already -possessed every necessary. The fewness of the presents was -accounted for by the fact that the wedding had been strictly -private and had taken place at Axe. There is nothing like secrecy -in marriage for discouraging the generous impulses of one's -friends. It was Mrs. Baines, abetted by both the chief parties, -who had decided that the wedding should be private and secluded. -Sophia's wedding had been altogether too private and secluded; but -the casting of a veil over Constance's (whose union was -irreproachable) somehow justified, after the event, the -circumstances of Sophia's, indicating as it did that Mrs. Baines -believed in secret weddings on principle. In such matters Mrs. -Baines was capable of extraordinary subtlety. - -And while Constance was thus taking her wedding presents with due -seriousness, Maggie was cleaning the steps that led from the -pavement of King Street to the side-door, and the door was ajar. -It was a fine June morning. - -Suddenly, over the sound of scouring, Constance heard a dog's low -growl and then the hoarse voice of a man: - -"Mester in, wench?" - -"Happen he is, happen he isn't," came Maggie's answer. She had no -fancy for being called wench. - -Constance went to the door, not merely from curiosity, but from a -feeling that her authority and her responsibilities as house- -mistress extended to the pavement surrounding the house. - -The famous James Boon, of Buck Row, the greatest dog-fancier in -the Five Towns, stood at the bottom of the steps: a tall, fat man, -clad in stiff, stained brown and smoking a black clay pipe less -than three inches long. Behind him attended two bull-dogs. - -"Morning, missis!" cried Boon, cheerfully. "I've heerd tell as th' -mister is looking out for a dog, as you might say." - -"I don't stay here with them animals a-sniffing at me--no, that I -don't!" observed Maggie, picking herself up. - -"Is he?" Constance hesitated. She knew that Samuel had vaguely -referred to dogs; she had not, however, imagined that he regarded -a dog as aught but a beautiful dream. No dog had ever put paw into -that house, and it seemed impossible that one should ever do so. -As for those beasts of prey on the pavement ...! - -"Ay!" said James Boon, calmly. - -"I'll tell him you're here," said Constance. "But I don't know if -he's at liberty. He seldom is at this time of day. Maggie, you'd -better come in." - -She went slowly to the shop, full of fear for the future. - -"Sam," she whispered to her husband, who was writing at his desk, -"here's a man come to see you about a dog." - -Assuredly he was taken aback. Still, he behaved with much presence -of mind. - -"Oh, about a dog! Who is it?" - -"It's that Jim Boon. He says he's heard you want one." - -The renowned name of Jim Boon gave him pause; but he had to go -through with the affair, and he went through with it, though -nervously. Constance followed his agitated footsteps to the side- -door. - -"Morning, Boon." - -"Morning, master." - -They began to talk dogs, Mr. Povey, for his part, with due caution. - -"Now, there's a dog!" said Boon, pointing to one of the bull-dogs, -a miracle of splendid ugliness. - -"Yes," responded Mr. Povey, insincerely. "He is a beauty. What's -it worth now, at a venture?" - -"I'll tak' a hundred and twenty sovereigns for her," said Boon. -"Th' other's a bit cheaper--a hundred." - -"Oh, Sam!" gasped Constance. - -And even Mr. Povey nearly lost his nerve. "That's more than I want -to give," said he timidly. - -"But look at her!" Boon persisted, roughly snatching up the more -expensive animal, and displaying her cannibal teeth. - -Mr. Povey shook his head. Constance glanced away. - -"That's not quite the sort of dog I want," said Mr. Povey. - -"Fox-terrier?" - -"Yes, that's more like," Mr. Povey agreed eagerly. - -"What'll ye run to?" - -"Oh," said Mr. Povey, largely, "I don't know." - -"Will ye run to a tenner?" - -"I thought of something cheaper." - -"Well, hoo much? Out wi' it, mester." - -"Not more than two pounds," said Mr. Povey. He would have said one -pound had he dared. The prices of dogs amazed him. - -"I thowt it was a dog as ye wanted!" said Boon. "Look 'ere, -mester. Come up to my yard and see what I've got." - -"I will," said Mr. Povey. - -"And bring missis along too. Now, what about a cat for th' missis? -Or a gold-fish?" - -The end of the episode was that a young lady aged some twelve -months entered the Povey household on trial. Her exiguous legs -twinkled all over the parlour, and she had the oddest appearance -in the parlour. But she was so confiding, so affectionate, so -timorous, and her black nose was so icy in that hot weather, that -Constance loved her violently within an hour. Mr. Povey made rules -for her. He explained to her that she must never, never go into -the shop. But she went, and he whipped her to the squealing point, -and Constance cried an instant, while admiring her husband's -firmness. - -The dog was not all. - -On another day Constance, prying into the least details of the -parlour, discovered a box of cigars inside the lid of the -harmonium, on the keyboard. She was so unaccustomed to cigars that -at first she did not realize what the object was. Her father had -never smoked, nor drunk intoxicants; nor had Mr. Critchlow. Nobody -had ever smoked in that house, where tobacco had always been -regarded as equally licentious with cards, 'the devil's -playthings.' Certainly Samuel had never smoked in the house, -though the sight of the cigar-box reminded Constance of an -occasion when her mother had announced an incredulous suspicion -that Mr. Povey, fresh from an excursion into the world on a -Thursday evening, 'smelt of smoke.' - -She closed the harmonium and kept silence. - -That very night, coming suddenly into the parlour, she caught -Samuel at the harmonium. The lid went down with a resonant bang -that awoke sympathetic vibrations in every corner of the room. - -"What is it?" Constance inquired, jumping. - -"Oh, nothing!" replied Mr. Povey, carelessly. Each was deceiving -the other: Mr. Povey hid his crime, and Constance hid her -knowledge of his crime. False, false! But this is what marriage -is. - -And the next day Constance had a visit in the shop from a possible -new servant, recommended to her by Mr. Holl, the grocer. - -"Will you please step this way?" said Constance, with affable -primness, steeped in the novel sense of what it is to be the sole -responsible mistress of a vast household. She preceded the girl to -the parlour, and as they passed the open door of Mr. Povey's -cutting-out room, Constance had the clear vision and titillating -odour of her husband smoking a cigar. He was in his shirt-sleeves, -calmly cutting out, and Fan (the lady companion), at watch on the -bench, yapped at the possible new servant. - -"I think I shall try that girl," said she to Samuel at tea. She -said nothing as to the cigar; nor did he. - -On the following evening, after supper, Mr. Povey burst out: - -"I think I'll have a weed! You didn't know I smoked, did you?" - -Thus Mr. Povey came out in his true colours as a blood, a blade, -and a gay spark. - -But dogs and cigars, disconcerting enough in their degree, were to -the signboard, when the signboard at last came, as skim milk is to -hot brandy. It was the signboard that, more startlingly than -anything else, marked the dawn of a new era in St. Luke's Square. -Four men spent a day and a half in fixing it; they had ladders, -ropes, and pulleys, and two of them dined on the flat lead roof of -the projecting shop-windows. The signboard was thirty-five feet -long and two feet in depth; over its centre was a semicircle about -three feet in radius; this semicircle bore the legend, judiciously -disposed, "S. Povey. Late." All the sign-board proper was devoted -to the words, "John Baines," in gold letters a foot and a half -high, on a green ground. - -The Square watched and wondered; and murmured: "Well, bless us! -What next?" - -It was agreed that in giving paramount importance to the name of -his late father-in-law, Mr. Povey had displayed a very nice -feeling. - -Some asked with glee: "What'll the old lady have to say?" - -Constance asked herself this, but not with glee. When Constance -walked down the Square homewards, she could scarcely bear to look -at the sign; the thought of what her mother might say frightened -her. Her mother's first visit of state was imminent, and Aunt -Harriet was to accompany her. Constance felt almost sick as the -day approached. When she faintly hinted her apprehensions to -Samuel, he demanded, as if surprised-- - -"Haven't you mentioned it in one of your letters?" - -"Oh NO!" - -"If that's all," said he, with bravado, "I'll write and tell her -myself." - -IV - -So that Mrs. Baines was duly apprised of the signboard before her -arrival. The letter written by her to Constance after receiving -Samuel's letter, which was merely the amiable epistle of a son-in- -law anxious to be a little more than correct, contained no -reference to the signboard. This silence, however, did not in the -least allay Constance's apprehensions as to what might occur when -her mother and Samuel met beneath the signboard itself. It was -therefore with a fearful as well as an eager, loving heart that -Constance opened her side-door and ran down the steps when the -waggonette stopped in King Street on the Thursday morning of the -great visit of the sisters. But a surprise awaited her. Aunt -Harriet had not come. Mrs. Baines explained, as she soundly kissed -her daughter, that at the last moment Aunt Harriet had not felt -well enough to undertake the journey. She sent her fondest love, -and cake. Her pains had recurred. It was these mysterious pains -which had prevented the sisters from coming to Bursley earlier. -The word "cancer"--the continual terror of stout women--had been -on their lips, without having been actually uttered; then there -was a surcease, and each was glad that she had refrained from the -dread syllables. In view of the recurrence, it was not unnatural -that Mrs. Baines's vigorous cheerfulness should be somewhat -forced. - -"What is it, do you think?" Constance inquired. - -Mrs. Baines pushed her lips out and raised her eyebrows--a gesture -which meant that the pains might mean God knew what. - -"I hope she'll be all right alone," observed Constance. "Of -course," said Mrs. Baines, quickly. "But you don't suppose I was -going to disappoint you, do you?" she added, looking round as if -to defy the fates in general. - -This speech, and its tone, gave intense pleasure to Constance; -and, laden with parcels, they mounted the stairs together, very -content with each other, very happy in the discovery that they -were still mother and daughter, very intimate in an inarticulate -way. - -Constance had imagined long, detailed, absorbing, and highly novel -conversations between herself and her mother upon this their first -meeting after her marriage. But alone in the bedroom, and with a -clear half-hour to dinner, they neither of them seemed to have a -great deal to impart. - -Mrs. Baines slowly removed her light mantle and laid it with -precautions on the white damask counterpane. Then, fingering her -weeds, she glanced about the chamber. Nothing was changed. Though -Constance had, previous to her marriage, envisaged certain -alterations, she had determined to postpone them, feeling that one -revolutionist in a house was enough. - -"Well, my chick, you all right?" said Mrs. Baines, with hearty and -direct energy, gazing straight into her daughter's eyes. - -Constance perceived that the question was universal in its -comprehensiveness, the one unique expression that the mother would -give to her maternal concern and curiosity, and that it condensed -into six words as much interest as would have overflowed into a -whole day of the chatter of some mothers. She met the candid -glance, flushing. - -"Oh YES!" she answered with ecstatic fervour. "Perfectly!" - -And Mrs. Baines nodded, as if dismissing THAT. "You're stouter," -said she, curtly. "If you aren't careful you'll be as big as any -of us." - -"Oh, mother!" - -The interview fell to a lower plane of emotion. It even fell as -far as Maggie. What chiefly preoccupied Constance was a subtle -change in her mother. She found her mother fussy in trifles. Her -manner of laying down her mantle, of smoothing out her gloves, and -her anxiety that her bonnet should not come to harm, were rather -trying, were perhaps, in the very slightest degree, pitiable. It -was nothing; it was barely perceptible, and yet it was enough to -alter Constance's mental attitude to her mother. "Poor dear!" -thought Constance. "I'm afraid she's not what she was." Incredible -that her mother could have age in less than six weeks! Constance -did not allow for the chemistry that had been going on in herself. - -The encounter between Mrs. Baines and her son-in-law was of the -most satisfactory nature. He was waiting in the parlour for her to -descend. He made himself exceedingly agreeable, kissing her, and -flattering her by his evidently sincere desire to please. He -explained that he had kept an eye open for the waggonette, but had -been called away. His "Dear me!" on learning about Aunt Harriet -lacked nothing in conviction, though both women knew that his -affection for Aunt Harriet would never get the better of his -reason. To Constance, her husband's behaviour was marvellously -perfect. She had not suspected him to be such a man of the world. -And her eyes said to her mother, quite unconsciously: "You see, -after all, you didn't rate Sam as high as you ought to have done. -Now you see your mistake." - -As they sat waiting for dinner, Constance and Mrs. Baines on the -sofa, and Samuel on the edge of the nearest rocking-chair, a small -scuffling noise was heard outside the door which gave on the -kitchen steps, the door yielded to pressure, and Fan rushed -importantly in, deranging mats. Fan's nose had been hinting to her -that she was behind the times, not up-to-date in the affairs of -the household, and she had hurried from the kitchen to make -inquiries. It occurred to her en route that she had been washed -that morning. The spectacle of Mrs. Baines stopped her. She stood, -with her legs slightly out-stretched, her nose lifted, her ears -raking forward, her bright eyes blinking, and her tail undecided. -"I was sure I'd never smelt anything like that before," she was -saying to herself, as she stared at Mrs. Baines. - -And Mrs. Baines, staring at Fan, had a similar though not the same -sentiment. The silence was terrible. Constance took on the mien of -a culprit, and Sam had obviously lost his easy bearing of a man of -the world. Mrs. Baines was merely thunderstruck. - -A dog! - -Suddenly Fan's tail began to wag more quickly; and then, having -looked in vain for encouragement to her master and mistress, she -gave one mighty spring and alighted in Mrs. Baines's lap. It was -an aim she could not have missed. Constance emitted an "Oh, FAN!" -of shocked terror, and Samuel betrayed his nervous tension by an -involuntary movement. But Fan had settled down into that titanic -lap as into heaven. It was a greater flattery than Mr. Povey's. - -"So your name's Fan!" murmured Mrs. Baines, stroking the animal. -"You are a dear!" - -"Yes, isn't she?" said Constance, with inconceivable rapidity. - -The danger was past. Thus, without any explanation, Fan became an -accepted fact. - -The next moment Maggie served the Yorkshire pudding. - -"Well, Maggie," said Mrs. Baines. "So you are going to get married -this time? When is it?" - -"Sunday, ma'am." - -"And you leave here on Saturday?" - -"Yes, ma'am." - -"Well, I must have a talk with you before I go." - -During the dinner, not a word as to the signboard! Several times -the conversation curved towards that signboard in the most -alarming fashion, but invariably it curved away again, like a -train from another train when two trains are simultaneously -leaving a station. Constance had frights, so serious as to destroy -her anxiety about the cookery. In the end she comprehended that -her mother had adopted a silently disapproving attitude. Fan was -socially very useful throughout the repast. - -After dinner Constance was on pins lest Samuel should light a -cigar. She had not requested him not to do so, for though she was -entirely sure of his affection, she had already learned that a -husband is possessed by a demon of contrariety which often forces -him to violate his higher feelings. However, Samuel did not light -a cigar. He went off to superintend the shutting-up of the shop, -while Mrs. Baines chatted with Maggie and gave her L5 for a -wedding present. Then Mr. Critchlow called to offer his -salutations. - -A little before tea Mrs. Baines announced that she would go out -for a short walk by herself. - -"Where has she gone to?" smiled Samuel, superiorly, as with -Constance at the window he watched her turn down King Street -towards the church. - -"I expect she has gone to look at father's grave," said Constance. - -"Oh!" muttered Samuel, apologetically. - -Constance was mistaken. Before reaching the church, Mrs. Baines -deviated to the right, got into Brougham Street and thence, by -Acre Lane, into Oldcastle Street, whose steep she climbed. Now, -Oldcastle Street ends at the top of St. Luke's Square, and from -the corner Mrs. Baines had an excellent view of the signboard. It -being Thursday afternoon, scarce a soul was about. She returned to -her daughter's by the same extraordinary route, and said not a -word on entering. But she was markedly cheerful. - -The waggonette came after tea, and Mrs. Baines made her final -preparations to depart. The visit had proved a wonderful success; -it would have been utterly perfect if Samuel had not marred it at -the very door of the waggonette. Somehow, he contrived to be -talking of Christmas. Only a person of Samuel's native clumsiness -would have mentioned Christmas in July. - -"You know you'll spend Christmas with us!" said he into the -waggonette. - -"Indeed I shan't!" replied Mrs. Baines. "Aunt Harriet and I will -expect you at Axe. We've already settled that." - -Mr. Povey bridled. "Oh no!" he protested, hurt by this -summariness. - -Having had no relatives, except his cousin the confectioner, for -many years, he had dreamt of at last establishing a family -Christmas under his own roof, and the dream was dear to him. - -Mrs. Baines said nothing. "We couldn't possibly leave the shop," -said Mr. Povey. - -"Nonsense!" Mrs. Baines retorted, putting her lips together. -"Christmas Day is on a Monday." - -The waggonette in starting jerked her head towards the door and -set all her curls shaking. No white in those curls yet, scarcely a -touch of grey! - -"I shall take good care we don't go there anyway," Mr. Povey -mumbled, in his heat, half to himself and half to Constance. - -He had stained the brightness of the day. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -CHRISTMAS AND THE FUTURE - -I - - -Mr. Povey was playing a hymn tune on the harmonium, it having been -decided that no one should go to chapel. Constance, in mourning, -with a white apron over her dress, sat on a hassock in front of -the fire; and near her, in a rocking-chair, Mrs. Baines swayed -very gently to and fro. The weather was extremely cold. Mr. -Povey's mittened hands were blue and red; but, like many -shopkeepers, he had apparently grown almost insensible to vagaries -of temperature. Although the fire was immense and furious, its -influence, owing to the fact that the mediaeval grate was designed -to heat the flue rather than the room, seemed to die away at the -borders of the fender. Constance could not have been much closer -to it without being a salamander. The era of good old-fashioned -Christmases, so agreeably picturesque for the poor, was not yet at -an end. - -Yes, Samuel Povey had won the battle concerning the locus of the -family Christmas. But he had received the help of a formidable -ally, death. Mrs. Harriet Maddack had passed away, after an -operation, leaving her house and her money to her sister. The -solemn rite of her interment had deeply affected all the -respectability of the town of Axe, where the late Mr. Maddack had -been a figure of consequence; it had even shut up the shop in St. -Luke's Square for a whole day. It was such a funeral as Aunt -Harriet herself would have approved, a tremendous ceremonial which -left on the crushed mind an ineffaceable, intricate impression of -shiny cloth, crape, horses with arching necks and long manes, the -drawl of parsons, cake, port, sighs, and Christian submission to -the inscrutable decrees of Providence. Mrs. Baines had borne -herself with unnatural calmness until the funeral was over: and -then Constance perceived that the remembered mother of her -girlhood existed no longer. For the majority of human souls it -would have been easier to love a virtuous principle, or a -mountain, than to love Aunt Harriet, who was assuredly less a -woman than an institution. But Mrs. Baines had loved her, and she -had been the one person to whom Mrs. Baines looked for support and -guidance. When she died, Mrs. Baines paid the tribute of respect -with the last hoarded remains of her proud fortitude, and -weepingly confessed that the unconquerable had been conquered, the -inexhaustible exhausted; and became old with whitening hair. - -She had persisted in her refusal to spend Christmas in Bursley, -but both Constance and Samuel knew that the resistance was only -formal. She soon yielded. When Constance's second new servant took -it into her head to leave a week before Christmas, Mrs. Baines -might have pointed out the finger of Providence at work again, and -this time in her favour. But no! With amazing pliancy she -suggested that she should bring one of her own servants to 'tide -Constance over' Christmas. She was met with all the forms of -loving solicitude, and she found that her daughter and son-in-law -had 'turned out of' the state bedroom in her favour. Intensely -flattered by this attention (which was Mr. Povey's magnanimous -idea), she nevertheless protested strongly. Indeed she 'would not -hear of it.' - -"Now, mother, don't be silly," Constance had said firmly. "You -don't expect us to be at all the trouble of moving back again, do -you?" And Mrs. Baines had surrendered in tears. - -Thus had come Christmas. Perhaps it was fortunate that, the Axe -servant being not quite the ordinary servant, but a benefactor -where a benefactor was needed, both Constance and her mother -thought it well to occupy themselves in household work, 'sparing' -the benefactor as much as possible. Hence Constance's white -apron. - -"There he is!" said Mr. Povey, still playing, but with his eye on -the street. - -Constance sprang up eagerly. Then there was a knock on the door. -Constance opened, and an icy blast swept into the room. The -postman stood on the steps, his instrument for knocking (like a -drumstick) in one hand, a large bundle of letters in the other, -and a yawning bag across the pit of his stomach. - -"Merry Christmas, ma'am!" cried the postman, trying to keep warm -by cheerfulness. - -Constance, taking the letters, responded, while Mr. Povey, playing -the harmonium with his right hand, drew half a crown from his -pocket with the left. - -"Here you are!" he said, giving it to Constance, who gave it to -the postman. - -Fan, who had been keeping her muzzle warm with the extremity of -her tail on the sofa, jumped down to superintend the transaction. - -"Brrr!" vibrated Mr. Povey as Constance shut the door. - -"What lots!" Constance exclaimed, rushing to the fire. "Here, -mother! Here, Sam!" - -The girl had resumed possession of the woman's body. - -Though the Baines family had few friends (sustained hospitality -being little practised in those days) they had, of course, many -acquaintances, and, like other families, they counted their -Christmas cards as an Indian counts scalps. The tale was -satisfactory. There were between thirty and forty envelopes. -Constance extracted Christmas cards rapidly, reading their -contents aloud, and then propping them up on the mantelpiece. Mrs. -Baines assisted. Fan dealt with the envelopes on the floor. Mr. -Povey, to prove that his soul was above toys and gewgaws, -continued to play the harmonium. - -"Oh, mother!" Constance murmured in a startled, hesitant voice, -holding an envelope. - -"What is it, my chuck?" - -"It's----" - -The envelope was addressed to "Mrs. and Miss Baines" in large, -perpendicular, dashing characters which Constance instantly -recognised as Sophia's. The stamps were strange, the postmark -'Paris.' Mrs. Baines leaned forward and looked. - -"Open it, child," she said. - -The envelope contained an English Christmas card of a common type, -a spray of holly with greetings, and on it was written, "I do hope -this will reach you on Christmas morning. Fondest love." No -signature, nor address. - -Mrs. Baines took it with a trembling hand, and adjusted her -spectacles. She gazed at it a long time. - -"And it has done!" she said, and wept. - -She tried to speak again, but not being able to command herself, -held forth the card to Constance and jerked her head in the -direction of Mr. Povey. Constance rose and put the card on the -keyboard of the harmonium. - -"Sophia!" she whispered. - -Mr. Povey stopped playing. "Dear, dear!" he muttered. - -Fan, perceiving that nobody was interested in her feats, suddenly -stood still. - -Mrs. Baines tried once more to speak, but could not. Then, her -ringlets shaking beneath the band of her weeds, she found her -feet, stepped to the harmonium, and, with a movement almost -convulsive, snatched the card from Mr. Povey, and returned to her -chair. - -Mr. Povey abruptly left the room, followed by Fan. Both the women -were in tears, and he was tremendously surprised to discover a -dangerous lump in his own throat. The beautiful and imperious -vision of Sophia, Sophia as she had left them, innocent, wayward, -had swiftly risen up before him and made even him a woman too! Yet -he had never liked Sophia. The awful secret wound in the family -pride revealed itself to him as never before, and he felt -intensely the mother's tragedy, which she carried in her breast as -Aunt Harriet had carried a cancer. - -At dinner he said suddenly to Mrs. Baines, who still wept: "Now, -mother, you must cheer up, you know." - -"Yes, I must," she said quickly. And she did do. - -Neither Samuel nor Constance saw the card again. Little was said. -There was nothing to say. As Sophia had given no address she must -be still ashamed of her situation. But she had thought of her -mother and sister. She ... she did not even know that Constance -was married ... What sort of a place was Paris? To Bursley, Paris -was nothing but the site of a great exhibition which had recently -closed. - -Through the influence of Mrs. Baines a new servant was found for -Constance in a village near Axe, a raw, comely girl who had never -been in a 'place.' And through the post it was arranged that this -innocent should come to the cave on the thirty-first of December. -In obedience to the safe rule that servants should never be -allowed to meet for the interchange of opinions, Mrs. Baines -decided to leave with her own servant on the thirtieth. She would -not be persuaded to spend the New Year in the Square. On the -twenty-ninth poor Aunt Maria died all of a sudden in her cottage -in Brougham Street. Everybody was duly distressed, and in -particular Mrs. Baines's demeanour under this affliction showed -the perfection of correctness. But she caused it to be understood -that she should not remain for the funeral. Her nerves would be -unequal to the ordeal; and, moreover, her servant must not stay to -corrupt the new girl, nor could Mrs. Baines think of sending her -servant to Axe in advance, to spend several days in idle gossip -with her colleague. - -This decision took the backbone out of Aunt Maria's funeral, which -touched the extreme of modesty: a hearse and a one-horse coach. -Mr. Povey was glad, because he happened to be very busy. An hour -before his mother-in-law's departure he came into the parlour with -the proof of a poster. - -"What is that, Samuel?" asked Mrs. Baines, not dreaming of the -blow that awaited her. - -"It's for my first Annual Sale," replied Mr. Povey with false -tranquillity. - -Mrs. Baines merely tossed her head. Constance, happily for -Constance, was not present at this final defeat of the old order. -Had she been there, she would certainly not have known where to -look. - -II - -"Forty next birthday!" Mr. Povey exclaimed one day, with an -expression and in a tone that were at once mock-serious and -serious. This was on his thirty-ninth birthday. - -Constance was startled. She had, of course, been aware that they -were getting older, but she had never realized the phenomenon. -Though customers occasionally remarked that Mr. Povey was stouter, -and though when she helped him to measure himself for a new suit -of clothes the tape proved the fact, he had not changed for her. -She knew that she too had become somewhat stouter; but for -herself, she remained exactly the same Constance. Only by -recalling dates and by calculations could she really grasp that -she had been married a little over six years and not a little over -six months. She had to admit that, if Samuel would be forty next -birthday, she would be twenty-seven next birthday. But it would -not be a real twenty-seven; nor would Sam's forty be a real forty, -like other people's twenty-sevens and forties. Not long since she -had been in the habit of regarding a man of forty as senile, as -practically in his grave. - -She reflected, and the more she reflected the more clearly she saw -that after all the almanacs had not lied. Look at Fan! Yes, it -must be five years since the memorable morning when doubt first -crossed the minds of Samuel and Constance as to Fan's moral -principles. Samuel's enthusiasm for dogs was equalled by his -ignorance of the dangers to which a young female of temperament -may be exposed, and he was much disturbed as doubt developed into -certainty. Fan, indeed, was the one being who did not suffer from -shock and who had no fears as to the results. The animal, having a -pure mind, was bereft of modesty. Sundry enormities had she -committed, but none to rank with this one! The result was four -quadrupeds recognizable as fox-terriers. Mr. Povey breathed again. -Fan had had more luck than she deserved, for the result might have -been simply anything. Her owners forgave her and disposed of these -fruits of iniquity, and then married her lawfully to a husband who -was so high up in the world that he could demand a dowry. And now -Fan was a grandmother, with fixed ideas and habits, and a son in -the house, and various grandchildren scattered over the town. Fan -was a sedate and disillusioned dog. She knew the world as it was, -and in learning it she had taught her owners above a bit. - -Then there was Maggie Hollins. Constance could still vividly -recall the self-consciousness with which she had one day received -Maggie and the heir of the Hollinses; but it was a long time ago. -After staggering half the town by the production of this infant -(of which she nearly died) Maggie allowed the angels to waft it -away to heaven, and everybody said that she ought to be very -thankful--at her age. Old women dug up out of their minds -forgotten histories of the eccentricities of the goddess Lucina. -Mrs. Baines was most curiously interested; she talked freely to -Constance, and Constance began to see what an incredible town -Bursley had always been--and she never suspected it! Maggie was -now mother of other children, and the draggled, lame mistress of a -drunken home, and looked sixty. Despite her prophecy, her husband -had conserved his 'habits.' The Poveys ate all the fish they -could, and sometimes more than they enjoyed, because on his sober -days Hollins invariably started his round at the shop, and -Constance had to buy for Maggie's sake. The worst of the worthless -husband was that he seldom failed to be cheery and polite. He -never missed asking after the health of Mrs. Baines. And when -Constance replied that her mother was 'pretty well considering,' -but that she would not come over to Bursley again until the Axe -railway was opened, as she could not stand the drive, he would -shake his grey head and be sympathetically gloomy for an instant. - -All these changes in six years! The almanacs were in the right of -it. - -But nothing had happened to her. Gradually she had obtained a sure -ascendency over her mother, yet without seeking it, merely as the -outcome of time's influences on her and on her mother -respectively. Gradually she had gained skill and use in the -management of her household and of her share of the shop, so that -these machines ran smoothly and effectively and a sudden -contretemps no longer frightened her. Gradually she had -constructed a chart of Samuel's individuality, with the submerged -rocks and perilous currents all carefully marked, so that she -could now voyage unalarmed in those seas. But nothing happened. -Unless their visits to Buxton could be called happenings! -Decidedly the visit to Buxton was the one little hill that rose -out of the level plain of the year. They had formed the annual -habit of going to Buxton for ten days. They had a way of saying: -"Yes, we always go to Buxton. We went there for our honeymoon, you -know." They had become confirmed Buxtonites, with views concerning -St. Anne's Terrace, the Broad Walk and Peel's Cavern. They could -not dream of deserting their Buxton. It was the sole possible -resort. Was it not the highest town in England? Well, then! They -always stayed at the same lodgings, and grew to be special -favourites of the landlady, who whispered of them to all her other -guests as having come to her house for their honeymoon, and as -never missing a year, and as being most respectable, superior -people in quite a large way of business. Each year they walked out -of Buxton station behind their luggage on a truck, full of joy and -pride because they knew all the landmarks, and the lie of all the -streets, and which were the best shops. - -At the beginning, the notion of leaving the shop to hired custody -had seemed almost fantastic, and the preparations for absence had -been very complicated. Then it was that Miss Insull had detached -herself from the other young lady assistants as a creature who -could be absolutely trusted. Miss Insull was older than Constance; -she had a bad complexion, and she was not clever, but she was one -of your reliable ones. The six years had witnessed the slow, -steady rise of Miss Insull. Her employers said 'Miss Insull' in a -tone quite different from that in which they said 'Miss Hawkins,' -or 'Miss Dadd.' 'Miss Insull' meant the end of a discussion. -'Better tell Miss Insull.' 'Miss Insull will see to that.' 'I -shall ask Miss Insull.' Miss Insull slept in the house ten nights -every year. Miss Insull had been called into consultation when it -was decided to engage a fourth hand in the shape of an apprentice. - -Trade had improved in the point of excellence. It was now admitted -to be good--a rare honour for trade! The coal-mining boom was at -its height, and colliers, in addition to getting drunk, were -buying American organs and expensive bull-terriers. Often they -would come to the shop to purchase cloth for coats for their dogs. -And they would have good cloth. Mr. Povey did not like this. One -day a butty chose for his dog the best cloth of Mr. Povey's shop-- -at 12s. a yard. "Will ye make it up? I've gotten th' -measurements," asked the collier. "No, I won't!" said Mr. Povey, -hotly. "And what's more, I won't sell you the cloth either! Cloth -at 12s. a yard on a dog's back indeed! I'll thank you to get out -of my shop!" The incident became historic, in the Square. It -finally established that Mr. Povey was a worthy son-in-law and a -solid and successful man. It vindicated the old pre-eminence of -"Baines's." Some surprise was expressed that Mr. Povey showed no -desire nor tendency towards entering the public life of the town. -But he never would, though a keen satirical critic of the Local -Board in private. And at the chapel he remained a simple private -worshipper, refusing stewardships and trusteeships. - -III - -Was Constance happy? Of course there was always something on her -mind, something that had to be dealt with, either in the shop or -in the house, something to employ all the skill and experience -which she had acquired. Her life had much in it of laborious -tedium--tedium never-ending and monotonous. And both she and -Samuel worked consistently hard, rising early, 'pushing forward,' -as the phrase ran, and going to bed early from sheer fatigue; week -after week and month after month as season changed imperceptibly -into season. In June and July it would happen to them occasionally -to retire before the last silver of dusk was out of the sky. They -would lie in bed and talk placidly of their daily affairs. There -would be a noise in the street below. "Vaults closing!" Samuel -would say, and yawn. "Yes, it's quite late," Constance would say. -And the Swiss clock would rapidly strike eleven on its coil of -resonant wire. And then, just before she went to sleep, Constance -might reflect upon her destiny, as even the busiest and smoothest -women do, and she would decide that it was kind. Her mother's -gradual decline and lonely life at Axe saddened her. The cards -which came now and then at extremely long intervals from Sophia -had been the cause of more sorrow than joy. The naive ecstasies of -her girlhood had long since departed--the price paid for -experience and self-possession and a true vision of things. The -vast inherent melancholy of the universe did not exempt her. But -as she went to sleep she would be conscious of a vague -contentment. The basis of this contentment was the fact that she -and Samuel comprehended and esteemed each other, and made -allowances for each other. Their characters had been tested and -had stood the test. Affection, love, was not to them a salient -phenomenon in their relations. Habit had inevitably dulled its -glitter. It was like a flavouring, scarce remarked; but had it -been absent, how they would have turned from that dish! - -Samuel never, or hardly ever, set himself to meditate upon the -problem whether or not life had come up to his expectations. But -he had, at times, strange sensations which he did not analyze, and -which approached nearer to ecstasy than any feeling of -Constance's. Thus, when he was in one of his dark furies, molten -within and black without, the sudden thought of his wife's -unalterable benignant calm, which nothing could overthrow, might -strike him into a wondering cold. For him she was astoundingly -feminine. She would put flowers on the mantelpiece, and then, -hours afterwards, in the middle of a meal, ask him unexpectedly -what he thought of her 'garden;' and he gradually divined that a -perfunctory reply left her unsatisfied; she wanted a genuine -opinion; a genuine opinion mattered to her. Fancy calling flowers -on a mantelpiece a 'garden'! How charming, how childlike! Then she -had a way, on Sunday mornings, when she descended to the parlour -all ready for chapel, of shutting the door at the foot of the -stairs with a little bang, shaking herself, and turning round -swiftly as if for his inspection, as if saying: "Well, what about -this? Will this do?" A phenomenon always associated in his mind -with the smell of kid gloves! Invariably she asked him about the -colours and cut of her dresses. Would he prefer this, or that? He -could not take such questions seriously until one day he happened -to hint, merely hint, that he was not a thorough-going admirer of -a certain new dress--it was her first new dress after the definite -abandonment of crinolines. She never wore it again. He thought she -was not serious at first, and remonstrated against a joke being -carried too far. She said: "It's not a bit of use you talking, I -shan't wear it again." And then he so far appreciated her -seriousness as to refrain, by discretion, from any comment. The -incident affected him for days. It flattered him; it thrilled him; -but it baffled him. Strange that a woman subject to such caprices -should be so sagacious, capable, and utterly reliable as Constance -was! For the practical and commonsense side of her eternally -compelled his admiration. The very first example of it--her -insistence that the simultaneous absence of both of them from the -shop for half an hour or an hour twice a day would not mean the -immediate downfall of the business--had remained in his mind ever -since. Had she not been obstinate--in her benevolent way--against -the old superstition which he had acquired from his employers, -they might have been eating separately to that day. Then her -handling of her mother during the months of the siege of Paris, -when Mrs. Baines was convinced that her sinful daughter was in -hourly danger of death, had been extraordinarily fine, he -considered. And the sequel, a card for Constance's birthday, had -completely justified her attitude. - -Sometimes some blundering fool would jovially exclaim to them: - -"What about that baby?" - -Or a woman would remark quietly: "I often feel sorry you've no -children." - -And they would answer that really they did not know what they -would do if there was a baby. What with the shop and one thing or -another ...! And they were quite sincere. - -IV - -It is remarkable what a little thing will draw even the most -regular and serious people from the deep groove of their habits. -One morning in March, a boneshaker, an affair on two equal wooden -wheels joined by a bar of iron, in the middle of which was a -wooden saddle, disturbed the gravity of St. Luke's Square. True, -it was probably the first boneshaker that had ever attacked the -gravity of St. Luke's Square. It came out of the shop of Daniel -Povey, the confectioner and baker, and Samuel Povey's celebrated -cousin, in Boulton Terrace. Boulton Terrace formed nearly a right -angle with the Baines premises, and at the corner of the angle -Wedgwood Street and King Street left the Square. The boneshaker -was brought forth by Dick Povey, the only son of Daniel, now aged -eleven years, under the superintendence of his father, and the -Square soon perceived that Dick had a natural talent for breaking- -in an untrained boneshaker. After a few attempts he could remain -on the back of the machine for at least ten yards, and his feats -had the effect of endowing St. Luke's Square with the -attractiveness of a circus. Samuel Povey watched with candid -interest from the ambush of his door, while the unfortunate young -lady assistants, though aware of the performance that was going -on, dared not stir from the stove. Samuel was tremendously tempted -to sally out boldly, and chat with his cousin about the toy; he -had surely a better right to do so than any other tradesman in the -Square, since he was of the family; but his diffidence prevented -him from moving. Presently Daniel Povey and Dick went to the top -of the Square with the machine, opposite Holl's, and Dick, being -carefully installed in the saddle, essayed to descend the gentle -paven slopes of the Square. He failed time after time; the machine -had an astonishing way of turning round, running uphill, and then -lying calmly on its side. At this point of Dick's life-history -every shop-door in the Square was occupied by an audience. At last -the boneshaker displayed less unwillingness to obey, and lo! in a -moment Dick was riding down the Square, and the spectators held -their breath as if he had been Blondin crossing Niagara. Every -second he ought to have fallen off, but he contrived to keep -upright. Already he had accomplished twenty yards--thirty yards! -It was a miracle that he was performing! The transit continued, -and seemed to occupy hours. And then a faint hope rose in the -breast of the watchers that the prodigy might arrive at the bottom -of the Square. His speed was increasing with his 'nack.' But the -Square was enormous, boundless. Samuel Povey gazed at the -approaching phenomenon, as a bird at a serpent, with bulging, -beady eyes. The child's speed went on increasing and his path grew -straighter. Yes, he would arrive; he would do it! Samuel Povey -involuntarily lifted one leg in his nervous tension. And now the -hope that Dick would arrive became a fear, as his pace grew still -more rapid. Everybody lifted one leg, and gaped. And the intrepid -child surged on, and, finally victorious, crashed into the -pavement in front of Samuel at the rate of quite six miles an -hour. - -Samuel picked him up, unscathed. And somehow this picking up of -Dick invested Samuel with importance, gave him a share in the -glory of the feat itself. - -Daniel Povey same running and joyous. "Not so bad for a start, -eh?" exclaimed the great Daniel. Though by no means a simple man, -his pride in his offspring sometimes made him a little naive. - -Father and son explained the machine to Samuel, Dick incessantly -repeating the exceedingly strange truth that if you felt you were -falling to your right you must turn to your right and vice versa. -Samuel found himself suddenly admitted, as it were, to the inner -fellowship of the boneshaker, exalted above the rest of the -Square. In another adventure more thrilling events occurred. The -fair-haired Dick was one of those dangerous, frenzied madcaps who -are born without fear. The secret of the machine had been revealed -to him in his recent transit, and he was silently determining to -surpass himself. Precariously balanced, he descended the Square -again, frowning hard, his teeth set, and actually managed to -swerve into King Street. Constance, in the parlour, saw an -incomprehensible winged thing fly past the window. The cousins -Povey sounded an alarm and protest and ran in pursuit; for the -gradient of King Street is, in the strict sense, steep. Half-way -down King Street Dick was travelling at twenty miles an hour, and -heading straight for the church, as though he meant to -disestablish it and perish. The main gate of the churchyard was -open, and that affrighting child, with a lunatic's luck, whizzed -safely through the portals into God's acre. The cousins Povey -discovered him lying on a green grave, clothed in pride. His first -words were: "Dad, did you pick my cap up?" The symbolism of the -amazing ride did not escape the Square; indeed, it was much -discussed. - -This incident led to a friendship between the cousins. They formed -a habit of meeting in the Square for a chat. The meetings were the -subject of comment, for Samuel's relations with the greater Daniel -had always been of the most distant. It was understood that Samuel -disapproved of Mrs. Daniel Povey even, more than the majority of -people disapproved of her. Mrs. Daniel Povey, however, was away -from home; probably, had she not been, Samuel would not even have -gone to the length of joining Daniel on the neutral ground of the -open Square. But having once broken the ice, Samuel was glad to be -on terms of growing intimacy with his cousin. The friendship -flattered him, for Daniel, despite his wife, was a figure in a -world larger than Samuel's; moreover, it consecrated his position -as the equal of no matter what tradesman (apprentice though he had -been), and also he genuinely liked and admired Daniel, rather to -his own astonishment. - -Every one liked Daniel Povey; he was a favourite among all ranks. -The leading confectioner, a member of the Local Board, and a -sidesman at St. Luke's, he was, and had been for twenty-five -years, very prominent in the town. He was a tall, handsome man, -with a trimmed, greying beard, a jolly smile, and a flashing, dark -eye. His good humour seemed to be permanent. He had dignity -without the slightest stiffness; he was welcomed by his equals and -frankly adored by his inferiors. He ought to have been Chief -Bailiff, for he was rich enough; but there intervened a mysterious -obstacle between Daniel Povey and the supreme honour, a scarcely -tangible impediment which could not be definitely stated. He was -capable, honest, industrious, successful, and an excellent -speaker; and if he did not belong to the austerer section of -society, if, for example, he thought nothing of dropping into the -Tiger for a glass of beer, or of using an oath occasionally, or of -telling a facetious story--well, in a busy, broad-minded town of -thirty thousand inhabitants, such proclivities are no bar whatever -to perfect esteem. But--how is one to phrase it without wronging -Daniel Povey? He was entirely moral; his views were -unexceptionable. The truth is that, for the ruling classes of -Bursley, Daniel Povey was just a little too fanatical a worshipper -of the god Pan. He was one of the remnant who had kept alive the -great Pan tradition from the days of the Regency through the vast, -arid Victorian expanse of years. The flighty character of his wife -was regarded by many as a judgment upon him for the robust -Rabelaisianism of his more private conversation, for his frank -interest in, his eternal preoccupation with, aspects of life and -human activity which, though essential to the divine purpose, are -not openly recognized as such--even by Daniel Poveys. It was not a -question of his conduct; it was a question of the cast of his -mind. If it did not explain his friendship with the rector of St. -Luke's, it explained his departure from the Primitive Methodist -connexion, to which the Poveys as a family had belonged since -Primitive Methodism was created in Turnhill in 1807. - -Daniel Povey had a way of assuming that every male was boiling -over with interest in the sacred cult of Pan. The assumption, -though sometimes causing inconvenience at first, usually conquered -by virtue of its inherent truthfulness. Thus it fell out with -Samuel. Samuel had not suspected that Pan had silken cords to draw -him. He had always averted his eyes from the god--that is to say, -within reason. Yet now Daniel, on perhaps a couple of fine -mornings a week, in full Square, with Fan sitting behind on the -cold stones, and Mr. Critchlow ironic at his door in a long white -apron, would entertain Samuel Povey for half an hour with Pan's -most intimate lore, and Samuel Povey would not blench. He would, -on the contrary, stand up to Daniel like a little man, and pretend -with all his might to be, potentially, a perfect arch-priest of -the god. Daniel taught him a lot; turned over the page of life for -him, as it were, and, showing the reverse side, seemed to say: -"You were missing all that." Samuel gazed upwards at the handsome -long nose and rich lips of his elder cousin, so experienced, so -agreeable, so renowned, so esteemed, so philosophic, and admitted -to himself that he had lived to the age of forty in a state of -comparative boobyism. And then he would gaze downwards at the -faint patch of flour on Daniel's right leg, and conceive that life -was, and must be, life. - -Not many weeks after his initiation into the cult he was startled -by Constance's preoccupied face one evening. Now, a husband of six -years' standing, to whom it has not happened to become a father, -is not easily startled by such a face as Constance wore. Years ago -he had frequently been startled, had frequently lived in suspense -for a few days. But he had long since grown impervious to these -alarms. And now he was startled again--but as a man may be -startled who is not altogether surprised at being startled. And -seven endless days passed, and Samuel and Constance glanced at -each other like guilty things, whose secret refuses to be kept. -Then three more days passed, and another three. Then Samuel Povey -remarked in a firm, masculine, fact-fronting tone: - -"Oh, there's no doubt about it!" - -And they glanced at each other like conspirators who have lighted -a fuse and cannot take refuge in flight. Their eyes said -continually, with a delicious, an enchanting mixture of ingenuous -modesty and fearful joy: - -"Well, we've gone and done it!" - -There it was, the incredible, incomprehensible future--coming! - -Samuel had never correctly imagined the manner of its heralding. -He had imagined in his early simplicity that one day Constance, -blushing, might put her mouth to his ear and whisper--something -positive. It had not occurred in the least like that. But things -are so obstinately, so incurably unsentimental. - -"I think we ought to drive over and tell mother, on Sunday," said -Constance. - -His impulse was to reply, in his grand, offhand style: "Oh, a -letter will do!" - -But he checked himself and said, with careful deference: "You -think that will be better than writing?" - -All was changed. He braced every fibre to meet destiny, and to -help Constance to meet it. - -The weather threatened on Sunday. He went to Axe without -Constance. His cousin drove him there in a dog-cart, and he -announced that he should walk home, as the exercise would do him -good. During the drive Daniel, in whom he had not confided, -chattered as usual, and Samuel pretended to listen with the same -attitude as usual; but secretly he despised Daniel for a man who -has got something not of the first importance on the brain. His -perspective was truer than Daniel's. - -He walked home, as he had decided, over the wavy moorland of the -county dreaming in the heart of England. Night fell on him in mid- -career, and he was tired. But the earth, as it whirled through -naked space, whirled up the moon for him, and he pressed on at a -good speed. A wind from Arabia wandering cooled his face. And at -last, over the brow of Toft End, he saw suddenly the Five Towns a- -twinkle on their little hills down in the vast amphitheatre. And -one of those lamps was Constance's lamp--one, somewhere. He lived, -then. He entered into the shadow of nature. The mysteries made him -solemn. What! A boneshaker, his cousin, and then this! - -"Well, I'm damned! Well, I'm damned!" he kept repeating, he who -never swore. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -CYRIL - -I - - -Constance stood at the large, many-paned window in the parlour. -She was stouter. Although always plump, her figure had been -comely, with a neat, well-marked waist. But now the shapeliness -had gone; the waist-line no longer existed, and there were no more -crinolines to create it artificially. An observer not under the -charm of her face might have been excused for calling her fat and -lumpy. The face, grave, kind, and expectant, with its radiant, -fresh cheeks, and the rounded softness of its curves, atoned for -the figure. She was nearly twenty-nine years of age. - -It was late in October. In Wedgwood Street, next to Boulton -Terrace, all the little brown houses had been pulled down to make -room for a palatial covered market, whose foundations were then -being dug. This destruction exposed a vast area of sky to the -north-east. A great dark cloud with an untidy edge rose massively -out of the depths and curtained off the tender blue of approaching -dusk; while in the west, behind Constance, the sun was setting in -calm and gorgeous melancholy on the Thursday hush of the town. It -was one of those afternoons which gather up all the sadness of the -moving earth and transform it into beauty. - -Samuel Povey turned the corner from Wedgwood Street, and crossed -King Street obliquely to the front-door, which Constance opened. -He seemed tired and anxious. - -"Well?" demanded Constance, as he entered. - -"She's no better. There's no getting away from it, she's worse. I -should have stayed, only I knew you'd be worrying. So I caught the -three-fifty." - -"How is that Mrs. Gilchrist shaping as a nurse?" - -"She's very good," said Samuel, with conviction. "Very good!" - -"What a blessing! I suppose you didn't happen to see the doctor?" - -"Yes, I did." - -"What did he say to you?" - -Samuel gave a deprecating gesture. "Didn't say anything -particular. With dropsy, at that stage, you know ..." - -Constance had returned to the window, her expectancy apparently -unappeased. - -"I don't like the look of that cloud," she murmured. - -"What! Are they out still?" Samuel inquired, taking off his -overcoat. - -"Here they are!" cried Constance. Her features suddenly -transfigured, she sprang to the door, pulled it open, and -descended the steps. - -A perambulator was being rapidly pushed up the slope by a -breathless girl. - -"Amy," Constance gently protested, "I told you not to venture -far." - -"I hurried all I could, mum, soon as I seed that cloud," the girl -puffed, with the air of one who is seriously thankful to have -escaped a great disaster. - -Constance dived into the recesses of the perambulator and -extricated from its cocoon the centre of the universe, and -scrutinized him with quiet passion, and then rushed with him into -the house, though not a drop of rain had yet fallen. - -"Precious!" exclaimed Amy, in ecstasy, her young virginal eyes -following him till he disappeared. Then she wheeled away the -perambulator, which now had no more value nor interest than an -egg-shell. It was necessary to take it right round to the Brougham -Street yard entrance, past the front of the closed shop. - -Constance sat down on the horsehair sofa and hugged and kissed her -prize before removing his bonnet. - -"Here's Daddy!" she said to him, as if imparting strange and -rapturous tidings. "Here's Daddy come back from hanging up his -coat in the passage! Daddy rubbing his hands!" And then, with a -swift transition of voice and features: "Do look at him, Sam!" - -Samuel, preoccupied, stooped forward. "Oh, you little scoundrel! -Oh, you little scoundrel!" he greeted the baby, advancing his -finger towards the baby's nose. - -The baby, who had hitherto maintained a passive indifference to -external phenomena, lifted elbows and toes, blew bubbles from his -tiny mouth, and stared at the finger with the most ravishing, -roguish smile, as though saying: "I know that great sticking-out -limb, and there is a joke about it which no one but me can see, -and which is my secret joy that you shall never share." - -"Tea ready?" Samuel asked, resuming his gravity and his ordinary -pose. - -"You must give the girl time to take her things off," said -Constance. "We'll have the table drawn, away from the fire, and -baby can lie on his shawl on the hearthrug while we're having -tea." Then to the baby, in rapture: "And play with his toys; all -his nice, nice toys!" - -"You know Miss Insull is staying for tea?" - -Constance, her head bent over the baby, who formed a white patch -on her comfortable brown frock, nodded without speaking. - -Samuel Povey, walking to and fro, began to enter into details of -his hasty journey to Axe. Old Mrs. Baines, having beheld her -grandson, was preparing to quit this world. Never again would she -exclaim, in her brusque tone of genial ruthlessness: -'Fiddlesticks!' The situation was very difficult and distressing, -for Constance could not leave her baby, and she would not, until -the last urgency, run the risks of a journey with him to Axe. He -was being weaned. In any case Constance could not have undertaken -the nursing of her mother. A nurse had to be found. Mr. Povey had -discovered one in the person of Mrs. Gilchrist, the second wife of -a farmer at Malpas in Cheshire, whose first wife had been a sister -of the late John Baines. All the credit of Mrs. Gilchrist was due -to Samuel Povey. Mrs. Baines fretted seriously about Sophia, who -had given no sign of life for a very long time. Mr. Povey went to -Manchester and ascertained definitely from the relatives of Scales -that nothing was known of the pair. He did not go to Manchester -especially on this errand. About once in three weeks, on Tuesdays, -he had to visit the Manchester warehouses; but the tracking of -Scales's relative cost him so much trouble and time that, -curiously, he came to believe that he had gone to Manchester one -Tuesday for no other end. Although he was very busy indeed in the -shop, he flew over to Axe and back whenever he possibly could, to -the neglect of his affairs. He was glad to do all that was in his -power; even if he had not done it graciously his sensitive, -tyrannic conscience would have forced him to do it. But -nevertheless he felt rather virtuous, and worry and fatigue and -loss of sleep intensified this sense of virtue. - -"So that if there is any sudden change they will telegraph," he -finished, to Constance. - -She raised her head. The words, clinching what had led up to them, -drew her from her dream and she saw, for a moment, her mother in -an agony. - -"But you don't surely mean--?" she began, trying to disperse the -painful vision as unjustified by the facts. - -"My dear girl," said Samuel, with head singing, and hot eyes, and -a consciousness of high tension in every nerve of his body, "I -simply mean that if there's any sudden change they will -telegraph." - -While they had tea, Samuel sitting opposite to his wife, and Miss -Insull nearly against the wall (owing to the moving of the table), -the baby rolled about on the hearthrug, which had been covered -with a large soft woollen shawl, originally the property of his -great-grandmother. He had no cares, no responsibilities. The shawl -was so vast that he could not clearly distinguish objects beyond -its confines. On it lay an indiarubber ball, an indiarubber doll, -a rattle, and fan. He vaguely recollected all four items, with -their respective properties. The fire also was an old friend. He -had occasionally tried to touch it, but a high bright fence always -came in between. For ten months he had never spent a day without -making experiments on this shifting universe in which he alone -remained firm and stationary. The experiments were chiefly -conducted out of idle amusement, but he was serious on the subject -of food. Lately the behaviour of the universe in regard to his -food had somewhat perplexed him, had indeed annoyed him. However, -he was of a forgetful, happy disposition, and so long as the -universe continued to fulfil its sole end as a machinery for the -satisfaction, somehow, of his imperious desires, he was not -inclined to remonstrate. He gazed at the flames and laughed, and -laughed because he had laughed. He pushed the ball away and -wriggled after it, and captured it with the assurance of practice. -He tried to swallow the doll, and it was not until he had tried -several times to swallow it that he remembered the failure of -previous efforts and philosophically desisted. He rolled with a -fearful shock, arms and legs in air, against the mountainous flank -of that mammoth Fan, and clutched at Fan's ear. The whole mass of -Fan upheaved and vanished from his view, and was instantly -forgotten by him. He seized the doll and tried to swallow it, and -repeated the exhibition of his skill with the ball. Then he saw -the fire again and laughed. And so he existed for centuries: no -responsibilities, no appetites; and the shawl was vast. Terrific -operations went on over his head. Giants moved to and fro. Great -vessels were carried off and great books were brought and deep -voices rumbled regularly in the spaces beyond the shawl. But he -remained oblivious. At last he became aware that a face was -looking down at his. He recognized it, and immediately an -uncomfortable sensation in his stomach disturbed him; he tolerated -it for fifty years or so, and then he gave a little cry. Life had -resumed its seriousness. - -"Black alpaca. B quality. Width 20, t.a. 22 yards," Miss Insull -read out of a great book. She and Mr. Povey were checking stock. - -And Mr. Povey responded, "Black alpaca B quality. Width 20, t.a. -22 yards. It wants ten minutes yet." He had glanced at the clock. - -"Does it?" said Constance, well knowing that it wanted ten -minutes. - -The baby did not guess that a high invisible god named Samuel -Povey, whom nothing escaped, and who could do everything at once, -was controlling his universe from an inconceivable distance. On -the contrary, the baby was crying to himself, There is no God. - -His weaning had reached the stage at which a baby really does not -know what will happen next. The annoyance had begun exactly three -months after his first tooth, such being the rule of the gods, and -it had grown more and more disconcerting. No sooner did he -accustom himself to a new phenomenon than it mysteriously ceased, -and an old one took its place which he had utterly forgotten. This -afternoon his mother nursed him, but not until she had foolishly -attempted to divert him from the seriousness of life by means of -gewgaws of which he was sick. Still; once at her rich breast, he -forgave and forgot all. He preferred her simple natural breast to -more modern inventions. And he had no shame, no modesty. Nor had -his mother. It was an indecent carouse at which his father and -Miss Insull had to assist. But his father had shame. His father -would have preferred that, as Miss Insull had kindly offered to -stop and work on Thursday afternoon, and as the shop was chilly, -the due rotation should have brought the bottle round at half-past -five o'clock, and not the mother's breast. He was a self-conscious -parent, rather apologetic to the world, rather apt to stand off -and pretend that he had nothing to do with the affair; and he -genuinely disliked that anybody should witness the intimate scene -of HIS wife feeding HIS baby. Especially Miss Insull, that prim, -dark, moustached spinster! He would not have called it an outrage -on Miss Insull, to force her to witness the scene, but his idea -approached within sight of the word. - -Constance blandly offered herself to the child, with the -unconscious primitive savagery of a young mother, and as the baby -fed, thoughts of her own mother flitted to and fro ceaselessly -like vague shapes over the deep sea of content which filled her -mind. This illness of her mother's was abnormal, and the baby was -now, for the first time perhaps, entirely normal in her -consciousness. The baby was something which could be disturbed, -not something which did disturb. What a change! What a change that -had seemed impossible until its full accomplishment! - -For months before the birth, she had glimpsed at nights and in -other silent hours the tremendous upset. She had not allowed -herself to be silly in advance; by temperament she was too -sagacious, too well balanced for that; but she had had fitful -instants of terror, when solid ground seemed to sink away from -her, and imagination shook at what faced her. Instants only! -Usually she could play the comedy of sensible calmness to almost -perfection. Then the appointed time drew nigh. And still she -smiled, and Samuel smiled. But the preparations, meticulous, -intricate, revolutionary, belied their smiles. The intense resolve -to keep Mrs. Baines, by methods scrupulous or unscrupulous, away -from Bursley until all was over, belied their smiles. And then the -first pains, sharp, shocking, cruel, heralds of torture! But when -they had withdrawn, she smiled, again, palely. Then she was in -bed, full of the sensation that the whole house was inverted and -disorganized, hopelessly. And the doctor came into the room. She -smiled at the doctor apologetically, foolishly, as if saying: "We -all come to it. Here I am." She was calm without. Oh, but what a -prey of abject fear within! "I am at the edge of the precipice," -her thought ran; "in a moment I shall be over." And then the -pains--not the heralds but the shattering army, endless, -increasing in terror as they thundered across her. Yet she could -think, quite clearly: "Now I'm in the middle of it. This is it, -the horror that I have not dared to look at. My life's in the -balance. I may never get up again. All has at last come to pass. -It seemed as if it would never come, as if this thing could not -happen to me. But at last it has come to pass!" - -Ah! Some one put the twisted end of a towel into her hand again-- -she had loosed it; and she pulled, pulled, enough to break cables. -And then she shrieked. It was for pity. It was for some one to -help her, at any rate to take notice of her. She was dying. Her -soul was leaving her. And she was alone, panic-stricken, in the -midst of a cataclysm a thousand times surpassing all that she had -imagined of sickening horror. "I cannot endure this," she thought -passionately. "It is impossible that I should be asked to endure -this!" And then she wept; beaten, terrorized, smashed and riven. -No commonsense now! No wise calmness now! No self-respect now! -Why, not even a woman now! Nothing but a kind of animalized -victim! And then the supreme endless spasm, during which she gave -up the ghost and bade good-bye to her very self. - -She was lying quite comfortable in the soft bed; idle, silly: -happiness forming like a thin crust over the lava of her anguish -and her fright. And by her side was the soul that had fought its -way out of her, ruthlessly; the secret disturber revealed to the -light of morning. Curious to look at! Not like any baby that she -had ever seen; red, creased, brutish! But--for some reason that -she did not examine--she folded it in an immense tenderness. - -Sam was by the bed, away from her eyes. She was so comfortable and -silly that she could not move her head nor even ask him to come -round to her eyes. She had to wait till he came. - -In the afternoon the doctor returned, and astounded her by saying -that hers had been an ideal confinement. She was too weary to -rebuke him for a senseless, blind, callous old man. But she knew -what she knew. "No one will ever guess," she thought, "no one ever -can guess, what I've been through! Talk as you like. I KNOW, now." - -Gradually she had resumed cognizance of her household, perceiving -that it was demoralized from top to bottom, and that when the time -came to begin upon it she would not be able to settle where to -begin, even supposing that the baby were not there to monopolize -her attention. The task appalled her. Then she wanted to get up. -Then she got up. What a blow to self-confidence! She went back to -bed like a little scared rabbit to its hole, glad, glad to be on -the soft pillows again. She said: "Yet the time must come when I -shall be downstairs, and walking about and meeting people, and -cooking and superintending the millinery." Well, it did come-- -except that she had to renounce the millinery to Miss Insull--but -it was not the same. No, different! The baby pushed everything -else on to another plane. He was a terrific intruder; not one -minute of her old daily life was left; he made no compromise -whatever. If she turned away her gaze from him he might pop off -into eternity and leave her. - -And now she was calmly and sensibly giving him suck in presence of -Miss Insull. She was used to his importance, to the fragility of -his organism, to waking twice every night, to being fat. She was -strong again. The convulsive twitching that for six months had -worried her repose, had quite disappeared. The state of being a -mother was normal, and the baby was so normal that she could not -conceive the house without him. - -All in ten months! - -When the baby was installed in his cot for the night, she came -downstairs and found Miss Insull and Samuel still working, and -Larder than ever, but at addition sums now. She sat down, leaving -the door open at the foot of the stairs. She had embroidery in -hand: a cap. And while Miss Insull and Samuel combined pounds, -shillings, and pence, whispering at great speed, she bent over the -delicate, intimate, wasteful handiwork, drawing the needle with -slow exactitude. Then she would raise her head and listen. - -"Excuse me," said Miss Insull, "I think I hear baby crying." - -"And two are eight and three are eleven. He must cry," said Mr. -Povey, rapidly, without looking up. - -The baby's parents did not make a practice of discussing their -domestic existence even with Miss Insull; but Constance had to -justify herself as a mother. - -"I've made perfectly sure he's comfortable," said Constance. "He's -only crying because he fancies he's neglected. And we think he -can't begin too early to learn." - -"How right you are!" said Miss Insull. "Two and carry three." - -That distant, feeble, querulous, pitiful cry continued -obstinately. It continued for thirty minutes. Constance could not -proceed with her work. The cry disintegrated her will, dissolved -her hard sagacity. - -Without a word she crept upstairs, having carefully deposed the -cap on her rocking-chair. - -Mr. Povey hesitated a moment and then bounded up after her, -startling Fan. He shut the door on Miss Insull, but Fan was too -quick for him. He saw Constance with her hand on the bedroom door. - -"My dear girl," he protested, holding himself in. "Now what ARE -you going to do?" - -"I'm just listening," said Constance. - -"Do be reasonable and come downstairs." - -He spoke in a low voice, scarcely masking his nervous irritation, -and tiptoed along the corridor towards her and up the two steps -past the gas-burner. Fan followed, wagging her tail expectant. - -"Suppose he's not well?" Constance suggested. - -"Pshaw!" Mr. Povey exclaimed contemptuously. "You remember what -happened last night and what you said!" - -They argued, subduing their tones to the false semblance of good- -will, there in the closeness of the corridor. Fan, deceived, -ceased to wag her tail and then trotted away. The baby's cry, -behind the door, rose to a mysterious despairing howl, which had -such an effect on Constance's heart that she could have walked -through fire to reach the baby. But Mr. Povey's will held her. And -she rebelled, angry, hurt, resentful. Commonsense, the ideal of -mutual forbearance, had winged away from that excited pair. It -would have assuredly ended in a quarrel, with Samuel glaring at -her in black fury from the other side of a bottomless chasm, had -not Miss Insull most surprisingly burst up the stairs. - -Mr. Povey turned to face her, swallowing his emotion. - -"A telegram!" said Miss Insull. "The postmaster brought it down -himself--" - -"What? Mr. Derry?" asked Samuel, opening the telegram with an -affectation of majesty. - -"Yes. He said it was too late for delivery by rights. But as it -seemed very important ..." - -Samuel scanned it and nodded gravely; then gave it to his wife. -Tears came into her eyes. - -"I'll get Cousin Daniel to drive me over at once," said Samuel, -master of himself and of the situation. - -"Wouldn't it be better to hire?" Constance suggested. She had a -prejudice against Daniel. - -Mr. Povey shook his head. "He offered," he replied. "I can't -refuse his offer." - -"Put your thick overcoat on, dear," said Constance, in a dream, -descending with him. - -"I hope it isn't--" Miss Insull stopped. - -"Yes it is, Miss Insull," said Samuel, deliberately. - -In less than a minute he was gone. - -Constance ran upstairs. But the cry had ceased. She turned the -door-knob softly, slowly, and crept into the chamber. A night- -light made large shadows among the heavy mahogany and the crimson, -tasselled rep in the close-curtained room. And between the bed and -the ottoman (on which lay Samuel's newly-bought family Bible) the -cot loomed in the shadows. She picked up the night-light and stole -round the bed. Yes, he had decided to fall asleep. The hazard of -death afar off had just defeated his devilish obstinacy. Fate had -bested him. How marvellously soft and delicate that tear-stained -cheek! How frail that tiny, tiny clenched hand! In Constance grief -and joy were mystically united. - -II - -The drawing-room was full of visitors, in frocks of ceremony. The -old drawing-room, but newly and massively arranged with the finest -Victorian furniture from dead Aunt Harriet's house at Axe; two -"Canterburys," a large bookcase, a splendid scintillant table -solid beyond lifting, intricately tortured chairs and armchairs! -The original furniture of the drawing-room was now down in the -parlour, making it grand. All the house breathed opulence; it was -gorged with quiet, restrained expensiveness; the least -considerable objects, in the most modest corners, were what Mrs. -Baines would have termed 'good.' Constance and Samuel had half of -all Aunt Harriet's money and half of Mrs. Baines's; the other half -was accumulating for a hypothetical Sophia, Mr. Critchlow being -the trustee. The business continued to flourish. People knew that -Samuel Povey was buying houses. Yet Samuel and Constance had not -made friends; they had not, in the Five Towns phrase, 'branched -out socially,' though they had very meetly branched out on -subscription lists. They kept themselves to themselves -(emphasizing the preposition). These guests were not their guests; -they were the guests of Cyril. - -He had been named Samuel because Constance would have him named -after his father, and Cyril because his father secretly despised -the name of Samuel; and he was called Cyril; 'Master Cyril,' by -Amy, definite successor to Maggie. His mother's thoughts were on -Cyril as long as she was awake. His father, when not planning -Cyril's welfare, was earning money whose unique object could be -nothing but Cyril's welfare. Cyril was the pivot of the house; -every desire ended somewhere in Cyril. The shop existed now solely -for him. And those houses that Samuel bought by private treaty, or -with a shamefaced air at auctions--somehow they were aimed at -Cyril. Samuel and Constance had ceased to be self-justifying -beings; they never thought of themselves save as the parents of -Cyril. - -They realized this by no means fully. Had they been accused of -monomania they would have smiled the smile of people confident in -their commonsense and their mental balance. Nevertheless, they -were monomaniacs. Instinctively they concealed the fact as much as -possible; They never admitted it even to themselves. Samuel, -indeed, would often say: "That child is not everybody. That child -must be kept in his place." Constance was always teaching him -consideration for his father as the most important person in the -household. Samuel was always teaching him consideration for his -mother as the most important person in the household. Nothing was -left undone to convince him that he was a cipher, a nonentity, who -ought to be very glad to be alive. But he knew all about his -importance. He knew that the entire town was his. He knew that his -parents were deceiving themselves. Even when he was punished he -well knew that it was because he was so important. He never -imparted any portion of this knowledge to his parents; a primeval -wisdom prompted him to retain it strictly in his own bosom. - -He was four and a half years old, dark, like his father; handsome -like his aunt, and tall for his age; not one of his features -resembled a feature of his mother's, but sometimes he 'had her -look.' From the capricious production of inarticulate sounds, and -then a few monosyllables that described concrete things and -obvious desires, he had gradually acquired an astonishing -idiomatic command over the most difficult of Teutonic languages; -there was nothing that he could not say. He could walk and run, -was full of exact knowledge about God, and entertained no doubt -concerning the special partiality of a minor deity called Jesus -towards himself. - -Now, this party was his mother's invention and scheme. His father, -after flouting it, had said that if it was to be done at all, it -should be done well, and had brought to the doing all his -organizing skill. Cyril had accepted it at first--merely accepted -it; but, as the day approached and the preparations increased in -magnitude, he had come to look on it with favour, then with -enthusiasm. His father having taken him to Daniel Povey's -opposite, to choose cakes, he had shown, by his solemn and -fastidious waverings, how seriously he regarded the affair. - -Of course it had to occur on a Thursday afternoon. The season was -summer, suitable for pale and fragile toilettes. And the eight -children who sat round Aunt Harriet's great table glittered like -the sun. Not Constance's specially provided napkins could hide -that wealth and profusion of white lace and stitchery. Never in -after-life are the genteel children of the Five Towns so richly -clad as at the age of four or five years. Weeks of labour, -thousands of cubic feet of gas, whole nights stolen from repose, -eyesight, and general health, will disappear into the manufacture -of a single frock that accidental jam may ruin in ten seconds. -Thus it was in those old days; and thus it is to-day. Cyril's -guests ranged in years from four to six; they were chiefly older -than their host; this was a pity, it impaired his importance; but -up to four years a child's sense of propriety, even of common -decency, is altogether too unreliable for a respectable party. - -Round about the outskirts of the table were the elders, ladies the -majority; they also in their best, for they had to meet each -other. Constance displayed a new dress, of crimson silk; after -having mourned for her mother she had definitely abandoned the -black which, by reason of her duties in the shop, she had -constantly worn from the age of sixteen to within a few months of -Cyril's birth; she never went into the shop now, except casually, -on brief visits of inspection. She was still fat; the destroyer of -her figure sat at the head of the table. Samuel kept close to her; -he was the only male, until Mr. Critchlow astonishingly arrived; -among the company Mr. Critchlow had a grand-niece. Samuel, if not -in his best, was certainly not in his everyday suit. With his -large frilled shirt-front, and small black tie, and his little -black beard and dark face over that, he looked very nervous and -self-conscious. He had not the habit of entertaining. Nor had -Constance; but her benevolence ever bubbling up to the calm -surface of her personality made self-consciousness impossible for -her. Miss Insull was also present, in shop-black, 'to help.' -Lastly there was Amy, now as the years passed slowly assuming the -character of a faithful retainer, though she was only twenty- -three. An ugly, abrupt, downright girl, with convenient notions of -pleasure! For she would rise early and retire late in order to -contrive an hour to go out with Master Cyril; and to be allowed to -put Master Cyril to bed was, really, her highest bliss. - -All these elders were continually inserting arms into the fringe -of fluffy children that surrounded the heaped table; removing -dangerous spoons out of cups into saucers, replacing plates, -passing cakes, spreading jam, whispering consolations, -explanations, and sage counsel. Mr. Critchlow, snow-white now but -unbent, remarked that there was 'a pretty cackle,' and he sniffed. -Although the window was slightly open, the air was heavy with the -natural human odour which young children transpire. More than one -mother, pressing her nose into a lacy mass, to whisper, inhaled -that pleasant perfume with a voluptuous thrill. - -Cyril, while attending steadily to the demands of his body, was in -a mood which approached the ideal. Proud and radiant, he combined -urbanity with a certain fine condescension. His bright eyes, and -his manner of scraping up jam with a spoon, said: "I am the king -of this party. This party is solely in my honour. I know that. We -all know it. Still, I will pretend that we are equals, you and I." -He talked about his picture-books to a young woman on his right -named Jennie, aged four, pale, pretty, the belle in fact, and Mr. -Critchlow's grand-niece. The boy's attractiveness was -indisputable; he could put on quite an aristocratic air. It was -the most delicious sight to see them, Cyril and Jennie, so soft -and delicate, so infantile on their piles of cushions and books, -with their white socks and black shoes dangling far distant from -the carpet; and yet so old, so self-contained! And they were -merely an epitome of the whole table. The whole table was bathed -in the charm and mystery of young years, of helpless fragility, -gentle forms, timid elegance, unshamed instincts, and waking -souls. Constance and Samuel were very satisfied; full of praise -for other people's children, but with the reserve that of course -Cyril was hors concours. They both really did believe, at that -moment, that Cyril was, in some subtle way which they felt but -could not define, superior to all other infants. - -Some one, some officious relative of a visitor, began to pass a -certain cake which had brown walls, a roof of cocoa-nut icing, and -a yellow body studded with crimson globules. Not a conspicuously -gorgeous cake, not a cake to which a catholic child would be -likely to attach particular importance; a good, average cake! Who -could have guessed that it stood, in Cyril's esteem, as the cake -of cakes? He had insisted on his father buying it at Cousin -Daniel's, and perhaps Samuel ought to have divined that for Cyril -that cake was the gleam that an ardent spirit would follow through -the wilderness. Samuel, however, was not a careful observer, and -seriously lacked imagination. Constance knew only that Cyril had -mentioned the cake once or twice. Now by the hazard of destiny -that cake found much favour, helped into popularity as it was by -the blundering officious relative who, not dreaming what volcano -she was treading on, urged its merits with simpering enthusiasm. -One boy took two slices, a slice in each hand; he happened to be -the visitor of whom the cake-distributor was a relative, and she -protested; she expressed the shock she suffered. Whereupon both -Constance and Samuel sprang forward and swore with angelic smiles -that nothing could be more perfect than the propriety of that dear -little fellow taking two slices of that cake. It was this -hullaballoo that drew Cyril's attention to the evanescence of the -cake of cakes. His face at once changed from calm pride to a -dreadful anxiety. His eyes bulged out. His tiny mouth grew and -grew, like a mouth in a nightmare. He was no longer human; he was -a cake-eating tiger being balked of his prey. Nobody noticed him. -The officious fool of a woman persuaded Jennie to take the last -slice of the cake, which was quite a thin slice. - -Then every one simultaneously noticed Cyril, for he gave a yell. -It was not the cry of a despairing soul who sees his beautiful -iridescent dream shattered at his feet; it was the cry of the -strong, masterful spirit, furious. He turned upon Jennie, sobbing, -and snatched at her cake. Unaccustomed to such behaviour from -hosts, and being besides a haughty put-you-in-your-place beauty of -the future, Jennie defended her cake. After all, it was not she -who had taken two slices at once. Cyril hit her in the eye, and -then crammed most of the slice of cake into his enormous mouth. He -could not swallow it, nor even masticate it, for his throat was -rigid and tight. So the cake projected from his red lips, and big -tears watered it. The most awful mess you can conceive! Jennie -wept loudly, and one or two others joined her in sympathy, but the -rest went on eating tranquilly, unmoved by the horror which -transfixed their elders. - -A host to snatch food from a guest! A host to strike a guest! A -gentleman to strike a lady! - -Constance whipped up Cyril from his chair and flew with him to his -own room (once Samuel's), where she smacked him on the arm and -told him he was a very, very naughty boy and that she didn't know -what his father would say. She took the food out of his disgusting -mouth--or as much of it as she could get at--and then she left -him, on the bed. Miss Jennie was still in tears when, blushing -scarlet and trying to smile, Constance returned to the drawing- -room. Jennie would not be appeased. Happily Jennie's mother (being -about to present Jennie with a little brother--she hoped) was not -present. Miss Insull had promised to see Jennie home, and it was -decided that she should go. Mr. Critchlow, in high sardonic -spirits, said that he would go too; the three departed together, -heavily charged with Constance's love and apologies. Then all -pretended, and said loudly, that what had happened was naught, -that such things were always happening at children's parties. And -visitors' relatives asseverated that Cyril was a perfect darling -and that really Mrs. Povey must not ... - -But the attempt to keep up appearance was a failure. - -The Methuselah of visitors, a gaping girl of nearly eight years, -walked across the room to where Constance was standing, and said -in a loud, confidential, fatuous voice: - -"Cyril HAS been a rude boy, hasn't he, Mrs. Povey?" - -The clumsiness of children is sometimes tragic. - -Later, there was a trickling stream of fluffy bundles down the -crooked stairs and through the parlour and so out into King -Street. And Constance received many compliments and sundry appeals -that darling Cyril should be forgiven. - -"I thought you said that boy was in his bedroom," said Samuel to -Constance, coming into the parlour when the last guest had gone. -Each avoided the other's eyes. - -"Yes, isn't he?" - -"No." - -"The little jockey!" ("Jockey," an essay in the playful, towards -making light of the jockey's sin!) "I expect he's been in search -of Amy." - -She went to the top of the kitchen stairs and called out: "Amy, is -Master Cyril down there?" - -"Master Cyril? No, mum. But he was in the parlour a bit ago, after -the first and second lot had gone. I told him to go upstairs and -be a good boy." - -Not for a few moments did the suspicion enter the minds of Samuel -and Constance that Cyril might be missing, that the house might -not contain Cyril. But having once entered, the suspicion became a -certainty. Amy, cross-examined, burst into sudden tears, admitting -that the side-door might have been open when, having sped 'the -second lot,' she criminally left Cyril alone in the parlour in -order to descend for an instant to her kitchen. Dusk was -gathering. Amy saw the defenceless innocent wandering about all -night in the deserted streets of a great city. A similar vision -with precise details of canals, tramcar-wheels, and cellar-flaps, -disturbed Constance. Samuel said that anyhow he could not have got -far, that some one was bound to remark and recognize him, and -restore him. "Yes, of course," thought sensible Constance. "But -supposing--" - -They all three searched the entire house again. Then, in the -drawing-room (which was in a sad condition of anticlimax) Amy -exclaimed: - -"Eh, master! There's town-crier crossing the Square. Hadn't ye -better have him cried?" - -"Run out and stop him," Constance commanded. - -And Amy flew. - -Samuel and the aged town-crier parleyed at the side door, the -women in the background. - -"I canna' cry him without my bell," drawled the crier, stroking -his shabby uniform. "My bell's at wum (home). I mun go and fetch -my bell. Yo' write it down on a bit o' paper for me so as I can -read it, and I'll foot off for my bell. Folk wouldna' listen to me -if I hadna' gotten my bell." - -Thus was Cyril cried. - -"Amy," said Constance, when she and the girl were alone, "there's -no use in you standing blubbering there. Get to work and clear up -that drawing-room, do! The child is sure to be found soon. Your -master's gone out, too." - -Brave words! Constance aided in the drawing-room and kitchen. -Theirs was the woman's lot in a great crisis. Plates have always -to be washed. - -Very shortly afterwards, Samuel Povey came into the kitchen by the -underground passage which led past the two cellars to the yard and -to Brougham Street. He was carrying in his arms an obscene black -mass. This mass was Cyril, once white. - -Constance screamed. She was at liberty to give way to her -feelings, because Amy happened to be upstairs. - -"Stand away!" cried Mr. Povey. "He isn't fit to touch." - -And Mr. Povey made as if to pass directly onward, ignoring the -mother. - -"Wherever did you find him?" - -"I found him in the far cellar," said Mr. Povey, compelled to -stop, after all. "He was down there with me yesterday, and it just -occurred to me that he might have gone there again." - -"What! All in the dark?" - -"He'd lighted a candle, if you please! I'd left a candle-stick and -a box of matches handy because I hadn't finished that shelving." - -"Well!" Constance murmured. "I can't think how ever he dared go -there all alone!" - -"Can't you?" said Mr. Povey, cynically. "I can. He simply did it -to frighten us." - -"Oh, Cyril!" Constance admonished the child. "Cyril!" - -The child showed no emotion. His face was an enigma. It might have -hidden sullenness or mere callous indifference, or a perfect -unconsciousness of sin. - -"Give him to me," said Constance. - -"I'll look after him this evening," said Samuel, grimly. - -"But you can't wash him," said Constance, her relief yielding to -apprehension. - -"Why not?" demanded Mr. Povey. And he moved off. - -"But Sam--" - -"I'll look after him, I tell you!" Mr. Povey repeated, -threateningly. - -"But what are you going to do?" Constance asked with fear. - -"Well," said Mr. Povey, "has this sort of thing got to be dealt -with, or hasn't it?" He departed upstairs. - -Constance overtook him at the door of Cyril's bedroom. - -Mr. Povey did not wait for her to speak. His eyes were blazing. - -"See here!" he admonished her cruelly. "You get away downstairs, -mother!" - -And he disappeared into the bedroom with his vile and helpless -victim. - -A moment later he popped his head out of the door. Constance was -disobeying him. He stepped into the passage and shut the door so -that Cyril should not hear. - -"Now please do as I tell you," he hissed at his wife. "Don't let's -have a scene, please." - -She descended, slowly, weeping. And Mr. Povey retired again to the -place of execution. - -Amy nearly fell on the top of Constance with a final tray of -things from the drawing-room. And Constance had to tell the girl -that Cyril was found. Somehow she could not resist the instinct to -tell her also that the master had the affair in hand. Amy then -wept. - -After about an hour Mr. Povey at last reappeared. Constance was -trying to count silver teaspoons in the parlour. - -"He's in bed now," said Mr. Povey, with a magnificent attempt to -be nonchalant. "You mustn't go near him." - -"But have you washed him?" Constance whimpered. - -"I've washed him," replied the astonishing Mr. Povey. - -"What have you done to him?" - -"I've punished him, of course," said Mr. Povey, like a god who is -above human weaknesses. "What did you expect me to do? Someone had -to do it." - -Constance wiped her eyes with the edge of the white apron which -she was wearing over her new silk dress. She surrendered; she -accepted the situation; she made the best of it. And all the -evening was spent in dismally and horribly pretending that their -hearts were beating as one. Mr. Povey's elaborate, cheery -kindliness was extremely painful. - -They went to bed, and in their bedroom Constance, as she stood -close to Samuel, suddenly dropped the pretence, and with eyes and -voice of anguish said: - -"You must let me look at him." - -They faced each other. For a brief instant Cyril did not exist for -Constance. Samuel alone obsessed her, and yet Samuel seemed a -strange, unknown man. It was in Constance's life one of those -crises when the human soul seems to be on the very brink of -mysterious and disconcerting cognitions, and then, the wave -recedes as inexplicably as it surged up. - -"Why, of course!" said Mr. Povey, turning away lightly, as though -to imply that she was making tragedies out of nothing. - -She gave an involuntary gesture of almost childish relief. - -Cyril slept calmly. It was a triumph for Mr. Povey. - -Constance could not sleep. As she lay darkly awake by her husband, -her secret being seemed to be a-quiver with emotion. Not exactly -sorrow; not exactly joy; an emotion more elemental than these! A -sensation of the intensity of her life in that hour; troubling, -anxious, yet not sad! She said that Samuel was quite right, quite -right. And then she said that the poor little thing wasn't yet -five years old, and that it was monstrous. The two had to be -reconciled. And they never could be reconciled. Always she would -be between them, to reconcile them, and to be crushed by their -impact. Always she would have to bear the burden of both of them. -There could be no ease for her, no surcease from a tremendous -preoccupation and responsibility. She could not change Samuel; -besides, he was right! And though Cyril was not yet five, she felt -that she could not change Cyril either. He was just as -unchangeable as a growing plant. The thought of her mother and -Sophia did not present itself to her; she felt, however, somewhat -as Mrs. Baines had felt on historic occasions; but, being more -softly kind, younger, and less chafed by destiny, she was -conscious of no bitterness, conscious rather of a solemn -blessedness. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -CRIME - -I - - -"Now, Master Cyril," Amy protested, "will you leave that fire -alone? It's not you that can mend my fires." - -A boy of nine, great and heavy for his years, with a full face and -very short hair, bent over the smoking grate. It was about five -minutes to eight on a chilly morning after Easter. Amy, hastily -clad in blue, with a rough brown apron, was setting the breakfast -table. The boy turned his head, still bending. - -"Shut up, Ame," he replied, smiling. Life being short, he usually -called her Ame when they were alone together. "Or I'll catch you -one in the eye with the poker." - -"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Amy. "And you know -your mother told you to wash your feet this morning, and you -haven't done. Fine clothes is all very well, but--" - -"Who says I haven't washed my feet?" asked Cyril, guiltily. - -Amy's mention of fine clothes referred to the fact that he was -that morning wearing his Sunday suit for the first time on a week- -day. - -"I say you haven't," said Amy. - -She was more than three times his age still, but they had been -treating each other as intellectual equals for years. - -"And how do you know?" asked Cyril, tired of the fire. - -"I know," said Amy. - -"Well, you just don't, then!" said Cyril. "And what about YOUR -feet? I should be sorry to see your feet, Ame." - -Amy was excusably annoyed. She tossed her head. "My feet are as -clean as yours any day," she said. "And I shall tell your mother." - -But he would not leave her feet alone, and there ensued one of -those endless monotonous altercations on a single theme which -occur so often between intellectual equals when one is a young son -of the house and the other an established servant who adores him. -Refined minds would have found the talk disgusting, but the -sentiment of disgust seemed to be unknown to either of the -wranglers. At last, when Amy by superior tactics had cornered him, -Cyril said suddenly: - -"Oh, go to hell!" - -Amy banged down the spoon for the bacon gravy. "Now I shall tell -your mother. Mark my words, this time I SHALL tell your mother." - -Cyril felt that in truth he had gone rather far. He was perfectly -sure that Amy would not tell his mother. And yet, supposing that -by some freak of her nature she did! The consequences would be -unutterable; the consequences would more than extinguish his -private glory in the use of such a dashing word. So he laughed, a -rather silly, giggling laugh, to reassure himself. - -"You daren't," he said. - -"Daren't I?" she said grimly. "You'll see. _I_ don't know where -you learn! It fair beats me. But it isn't Amy Bates as is going to -be sworn at. As soon as ever your mother comes into this room!" - -The door at the foot of the stairs creaked and Constance came into -the room. She was wearing a dress of majenta merino, and a gold -chain descended from her neck over her rich bosom. She had -scarcely aged in five years. It would have been surprising if she -had altered much, for the years had passed over her head at an -incredible rate. To her it appeared only a few months since -Cyril's first and last party. - -"Are you all ready, my pet? Let me look at you." Constance greeted -the boy with her usual bright, soft energy. - -Cyril glanced at Amy, who averted her head, putting spoons into -three saucers. - -"Yes, mother," he replied in a new voice. - -"Did you do what I told you?" - -"Yes, mother," he said simply. - -"That's right." - -Amy made a faint noise with her lips, and departed. - -He was saved once more. He said to himself that never again would -he permit his soul to be disturbed by any threat of old Ame's. - -Constance's hand descended into her pocket and drew out a hard -paper packet, which she clapped on to her son's head. - -"Oh, mother!" He pretended that she had hurt him, and then he -opened the packet. It contained Congleton butterscotch, reputed a -harmless sweetmeat. - -"Good!" he cried, "good! Oh! Thanks, mother." - -"Now don't begin eating them at once." - -"Just one, mother." - -"No! And how often have I told you to keep your feet off that -fender. See how it's bent. And it's nobody but you." - -"Sorry." - -"It's no use being sorry if you persist in doing it." - -"Oh, mother, I had such a funny dream!" - -They chatted until Amy came up the stairs with tea and bacon. The -fire had developed from black to clear red. - -"Run and tell father that breakfast is ready." - -After a little delay a spectacled man of fifty, short and -stoutish, with grey hair and a small beard half grey and half -black, entered from the shop. Samuel had certainly very much aged, -especially in his gestures, which, however, were still quick. He -sat down at once--his wife and son were already seated--and served -the bacon with the rapid assurance of one who needs not to inquire -about tastes and appetites. Not a word was said, except a brief -grace by Samuel. But there was no restraint. Samuel had a mild, -benignant air. Constance's eyes were a fountain of cheerfulness. -The boy sat between them and ate steadily. - -Mysterious creature, this child, mysteriously growing and growing -in the house! To his mother he was a delicious joy at all times -save when he disobeyed his father. But now for quite a -considerable period there had been no serious collision. The boy -seemed to be acquiring virtue as well as sense. And really he was -charming. So big, truly enormous (every one remarked on it), and -yet graceful, lithe, with a smile that could ravish. And he was -distinguished in his bearing. Without depreciating Samuel in her -faithful heart, Constance saw plainly the singular differences -between Samuel and the boy. Save that he was dark, and that his -father's 'dangerous look' came into those childish eyes -occasionally, Cyril had now scarcely any obvious resemblance to -his father. He was a Baines. This naturally deepened Constance's -family pride. Yes, he was mysterious to Constance, though probably -not more so than any other boy to any other parent. He was equally -mysterious to Samuel, but otherwise Mr. Povey had learned to -regard him in the light of a parcel which he was always attempting -to wrap up in a piece of paper imperceptibly too small. When he -successfully covered the parcel at one corner it burst out at -another, and this went on for ever, and he could never get the -string on. Nevertheless, Mr. Povey had unabated confidence in his -skill as a parcel-wrapper. The boy was strangely subtle at times, -but then at times he was astoundingly ingenuous, and then his -dodges would not deceive the dullest. Mr. Povey knew himself more -than a match for his son. He was proud of him because he regarded -him as not an ordinary boy; he took it as a matter of course that -his boy should not be an ordinary boy. He never, or very rarely, -praised Cyril. Cyril thought of his father as a man who, in -response to any request, always began by answering with a -thoughtful, serious 'No, I'm afraid not.' - -"So you haven't lost your appetite!" his mother commented. - -Cyril grinned. "Did you expect me to, mother?" - -"Let me see," said Samuel, as if vaguely recalling an unimportant -fact. "It's to-day you begin to go to school, isn't it?" - -"I wish father wouldn't be such a chump!" Cyril reflected. And, -considering that this commencement of school (real school, not a -girls' school, as once) had been the chief topic in the house for -days, weeks; considering that it now occupied and filled all -hearts, Cyril's reflection was excusable. - -"Now, there's one thing you must always remember, my boy," said -Mr. Povey. "Promptness. Never be late either in going to school or -in coming home. And in order that you may have no excuse"--Mr. -Povey pressed on the word 'excuse' as though condemning Cyril in -advance--"here's something for you!" He said the last words -quickly, with a sort of modest shame. - -It was a silver watch and chain. - -Cyril was staggered. So also was Constance, for Mr. Povey could -keep his own counsel. At long intervals he would prove, thus, that -he was a mighty soul, capable of sublime deeds. The watch was the -unique flowering of Mr. Povey's profound but harsh affection. It -lay on the table like a miracle. This day was a great day, a -supremely exciting day in Cyril's history, and not less so in the -history of his parents. - -The watch killed its owner's appetite dead. - -Routine was ignored that morning. Father did not go back into the -shop. At length the moment came when father put on his hat and -overcoat to take Cyril, and Cyril's watch and satchel, to the -Endowed School, which had quarters in the Wedgwood Institution -close by. A solemn departure, and Cyril could not pretend by his -demeanour that it was not! Constance desired to kiss him, but -refrained. He would not have liked it. She watched them from the -window. Cyril was nearly as tall as his father; that is to say, -not nearly as tall, but creeping up his father's shoulder. She -felt that the eyes of the town must be on the pair. She was very -happy, and nervous. - -At dinner-time a triumph seemed probable, and at tea-time, when -Cyril came home under a mortar-board hat and with a satchel full -of new books and a head full of new ideas, the triumph was -actually and definitely achieved. He had been put into the third -form, and he announced that he should soon be at the top of it. He -was enchanted with the life of school; he liked the other boys, -and it appeared that the other boys liked him. The fact was that, -with a new silver watch and a packet of sweets, he had begun his -new career in the most advantageous circumstances. Moreover, he -possessed qualities which ensure success at school. He was big, -and easy, with a captivating smile and a marked aptitude to learn -those things which boys insist on teaching to their new comrades. -He had muscle, a brave demeanour, and no conceit. - -During tea the parlour began, to accustom itself to a new -vocabulary, containing such words as 'fellows,' 'kept in,'m' -lines,' 'rot,' 'recess,' 'jolly.' To some of these words the -parents, especially Mr. Povey, had an instinct to object, but they -could not object, somehow they did not seem to get an opportunity -to object; they were carried away on the torrent, and after all, -their excitement and pleasure in the exceeding romantic novelty of -existence were just as intense and nearly as ingenuous as their -son's. - -He demonstrated that unless he was allowed to stay up later than -aforetime he would not be able to do his home-work, and hence -would not keep that place in the school to which his talents -entitled him. Mr. Povey suggested, but only with half a heart, -that he should get up earlier in the morning. The proposal fell -flat. Everybody knew and admitted that nothing save the scorpions -of absolute necessity, or a tremendous occasion such as that -particular morning's, would drive Cyril from his bed until the -smell of bacon rose to him from the kitchen. The parlour table was -consecrated to his lessons. It became generally known that 'Cyril -was doing his lessons.' His father scanned the new text-books -while Cyril condescendingly explained to him that all others were -superseded and worthless. His father contrived to maintain an air -of preserving his mental equilibrium, but not his mother; she gave -it up, she who till that day had under his father's direction -taught him nearly all that he knew, and Cyril passed above her -into regions of knowledge where she made no pretence of being able -to follow him. - -When the lessons were done, and Cyril had wiped his fingers on -bits of blotting-paper, and his father had expressed qualified -approval and had gone into the shop, Cyril said to his mother, -with that delicious hesitation which overtook him sometimes: - -"Mother." - -"Well, my pet." - -"I want you to do something for me." - -"Well, what is it?" - -"No, you must promise." - -"I'll do it if I can." - -"But you CAN. It isn't doing. It's NOT doing." - -"Come, Cyril, out with it." - -"I don't want you to come in and look at me after I'm asleep any -more." - -"But, you silly boy, what difference can it make to you if you're -asleep?" - -"I don't want you to. It's like as if I was a baby. You'll have to -stop doing it some day, and so you may as well stop now." - -It was thus that he meant to turn his back on his youth. - -She smiled. She was incomprehensibly happy. She continued to -smile. - -"Now you'll promise, won't you, mother?" - -She rapped him on the head with her thimble, lovingly. He took the -gesture for consent. - -"You are a baby," she murmured. - -"Now I shall trust you," he said, ignoring this. "Say 'honour -bright.'" - -"Honour bright." - -With what a long caress her eyes followed him, as he went up to -bed on his great sturdy legs! She was thankful that school had not -contaminated her adorable innocent. If she could have been Ame for -twenty-four hours, she perhaps would not have hesitated to put -butter into his mouth lest it should melt. - -Mr. Povey and Constance talked late and low that night. They could -neither of them sleep; they had little desire to sleep. -Constance's face said to her husband: "I've always stuck up for -that boy, in spite of your severities, and you see how right I -was!" And Mr. Povey's face said: "You see now the brilliant -success of my system. You see how my educational theories have -justified themselves. Never been to a school before, except that -wretched little dame's school, and he goes practically straight to -the top of the third form--at nine years of age!" They discussed -his future. There could be no sign of lunacy in discussing his -future up to a certain point, but each felt that to discuss the -ultimate career of a child nine years old would not be the act of -a sensible parent; only foolish parents would be so fond. Yet each -was dying to discuss his ultimate career. Constance yielded first -to the temptation, as became her. Mr. Povey scoffed, and then, to -humour Constance, yielded also. The matter was soon fairly on the -carpet. Constance was relieved to find that Mr. Povey had no -thought whatever of putting Cyril in the shop. No; Mr. Povey did -not desire to chop wood with a razor. Their son must and would -ascend. Doctor! Solicitor! Barrister! Not barrister--barrister was -fantastic. When they had argued for about half an hour Mr. Povey -intimated suddenly that the conversation was unworthy of their -practical commonsense, and went to sleep. - -II - -Nobody really thought that this almost ideal condition of things -would persist: an enterprise commenced in such glory must surely -traverse periods of difficulty and even of temporary disaster. But -no! Cyril seemed to be made specially for school. Before Mr. Povey -and Constance had quite accustomed themselves to being the parents -of 'a great lad,' before Cyril had broken the glass of his -miraculous watch more than once, the summer term had come to a end -and there arrived the excitations of the prize-giving, as it was -called; for at that epoch the smaller schools had not found the -effrontery to dub the breaking-up ceremony a 'speech-day.' This -prize-giving furnished a particular joy to Mr. and Mrs. Povey. -Although the prizes were notoriously few in number--partly to add -to their significance, and partly to diminish their cost (the -foundation was poor)--Cyril won a prize, a box of geometrical -instruments of precision; also he reached the top of his form, and -was marked for promotion to the formidable Fourth. Samuel and -Constance were bidden to the large hall of the Wedgwood -Institution of a summer afternoon, and they saw the whole Board of -Governors raised on a rostrum, and in the middle, in front of what -he referred to, in his aristocratic London accent, as 'a beggarly -array of rewards,' the aged and celebrated Sir Thomas Wilbraham -Wilbraham, ex-M.P., last respectable member of his ancient line. -And Sir Thomas gave the box of instruments to Cyril, and shook -hands with him. And everybody was very well dressed. Samuel, who -had never attended anything but a National School, recalled the -simple rigours of his own boyhood, and swelled. For certainly, of -all the parents present, he was among the richest. When, in the -informal promiscuities which followed the prize distribution, -Cyril joined his father and mother, sheepishly, they duly did -their best to make light of his achievements, and failed. The -walls of the hall were covered with specimens of the pupils' -skill, and the headmaster was observed to direct the attention of -the mighty to a map done by Cyril. Of course it was a map of -Ireland, Ireland being the map chosen by every map-drawing -schoolboy who is free to choose. For a third-form boy it was -considered a masterpiece. In the shading of mountains Cyril was -already a prodigy. Never, it was said, had the Macgillycuddy Reeks -been indicated by a member of that school with a more amazing -subtle refinement than by the young Povey. From a proper pride in -themselves, from a proper fear lest they should be secretly -accused of ostentation by other parents, Samuel and Constance did -not go near that map. For the rest, they had lived with it for -weeks, and Samuel (who, after all, was determined not to be dirt -under his son's feet) had scratched a blot from it with a -completeness that defied inquisitive examination. - -The fame of this map, added to the box of compasses and Cyril's -own desire, pointed to an artistic career. Cyril had always drawn -and daubed, and the drawing-master of the Endowed School, who was -also headmaster of the Art School, had suggested that the youth -should attend the Art School one night a week. Samuel, however, -would not listen to the idea; Cyril was too young. It is true that -Cyril was too young, but Samuel's real objection was to Cyril's -going out alone in the evening. On that he was adamant. - -The Governors had recently made the discovery that a sports -department was necessary to a good school, and had rented a field -for cricket, football, and rounders up at Bleakridge, an -innovation which demonstrated that the town was moving with the -rapid times. In June this field was open after school hours till -eight p.m. as well as on Saturdays. The Squire learnt that Cyril -had a talent for cricket, and Cyril wished to practise in the -evenings, and was quite ready to bind himself with Bible oaths to -rise at no matter what hour in the morning for the purpose of home -lessons. He scarcely expected his father to say 'Yes' as his -father never did say 'Yes,' but he was obliged to ask. Samuel -nonplussed him by replying that on fine evenings, when he could -spare time from the shop, he would go up to Bleakridge with his -son. Cyril did not like this in the least. Still, it might be -tried. One evening they went, actually, in the new steam-car which -had superseded the old horse-cars, and which travelled all the way -to Longshaw, a place that Cyril had only heard of. Samuel talked -of the games played in the Five Towns in his day, of the Titanic -sport of prison-bars, when the team of one 'bank' went forth to -the challenge of another 'bank,' preceded by a drum-and-fife band, -and when, in the heat of the chase, a man might jump into the -canal to escape his pursuer; Samuel had never played at cricket. - -Samuel, with a very young grandson of Fan (deceased), sat in -dignity on the grass and watched his cricketer for an hour and a -half (while Constance kept an eye on the shop and superintended -its closing). Samuel then conducted Cyril home again. Two days -later the father of his own accord offered to repeat the -experience. Cyril refused. Disagreeable insinuations that he was a -baby in arms had been made at school in the meantime. - -Nevertheless, in other directions Cyril sometimes surprisingly -conquered. For instance, he came home one day with the information -that a dog that was not a bull-terrier was not worth calling a -dog. Fan's grandson had been carried off in earliest prime by a -chicken-bone that had pierced his vitals, and Cyril did indeed -persuade his father to buy a bull-terrier. The animal was a -superlative of forbidding ugliness, but father and son vied with -each other in stern critical praise of his surpassing beauty, and -Constance, from good nature, joined in the pretence. He was called -Lion, and the shop, after one or two untoward episodes, was -absolutely closed to him. - -But the most striking of Cyril's successes had to do with the -question of the annual holiday. He spoke of the sea soon after -becoming a schoolboy. It appeared that his complete ignorance of -the sea prejudicially affected him at school. Further, he had -always loved the sea; he had drawn hundreds of three-masted ships -with studding-sails set, and knew the difference between a brig -and a brigantine. When he first said: "I say, mother, why can't we -go to Llandudno instead of Buxton this year?" his mother thought -he was out of his senses. For the idea of going to any place other -than Buxton was inconceivable! Had they not always been to Buxton? -What would their landlady say? How could they ever look her in the -face again? Besides ... well ...! They went to Llandudno, rather -scared, and hardly knowing how the change had come about. But they -went. And it was the force of Cyril's will, Cyril the theoretic -cypher, that took them. - -III - -The removal of the Endowed School to more commodious premises in -the shape of Shawport Hall, an ancient mansion with fifty rooms -and five acres of land round about it, was not a change that quite -pleased Samuel or Constance. They admitted the hygienic -advantages, but Shawport Hall was three-quarters of a mile distant -from St. Luke's Square--in the hollow that separates Bursley from -its suburb of Hillport; whereas the Wedgwood Institution was -scarcely a minute away. It was as if Cyril, when he set off to -Shawport Hall of a morning, passed out of their sphere of -influence. He was leagues off, doing they knew not what. Further, -his dinner-hour was cut short by the extra time needed for the -journey to and fro, and he arrived late for tea; it may be said -that he often arrived very late for tea; the whole machinery of -the meal was disturbed. These matters seemed to Samuel and -Constance to be of tremendous import, seemed to threaten the very -foundations of existence. Then they grew accustomed to the new -order, and wondered sometimes, when they passed the Wedgwood -Institution and the insalubrious Cock Yard--once sole playground -of the boys--that the school could ever have 'managed' in the -narrow quarters once allotted to it. - -Cyril, though constantly successful at school, a rising man, an -infallible bringer-home of excellent reports, and a regular taker -of prizes, became gradually less satisfactory in the house. He was -'kept in' occasionally, and although his father pretended to hold -that to be kept in was to slur the honour of a spotless family, -Cyril continued to be kept in; a hardened sinner, lost to shame. -But this was not the worst. The worst undoubtedly was that Cyril -was 'getting rough.' No definite accusation could be laid against -him; the offence was general, vague, everlasting; it was in all he -did and said, in every gesture and movement. He shouted, whistled, -sang, stamped, stumbled, lunged. He omitted such empty rites as -saying 'Yes' or 'Please,' and wiping his nose. He replied gruffly -and nonchalantly to polite questions, or he didn't reply until the -questions were repeated, and even then with a 'lost' air that was -not genuine. His shoelaces were a sad sight, and his finger-nails -no sight at all for a decent woman; his hair was as rough as his -conduct; hardly at the pistol's point could he be forced to put -oil on it. In brief, he was no longer the nice boy that he used to -be. He had unmistakably deteriorated. Grievous! But what can you -expect when YOUR boy is obliged, month after month and year after -year, to associate with other boys? After all, he was a GOOD boy, -said Constance, often to herself and now and then to Samuel. For -Constance, his charm was eternally renewed. His smile, his -frequent ingenuousness, his funny self-conscious gesture when he -wanted to 'get round' her--these characteristics remained; and his -pure heart remained; she could read that in his eyes. Samuel was -inimical to his tastes for sports and his triumphs therein. But -Constance had pride in all that. She liked to feel him and to gaze -at him, and to smell that faint, uncleanly odour of sweat that -hung in his clothes. - -In this condition he reached the advanced age of thirteen. And his -parents, who despite their notion of themselves as wide-awake -parents were a simple pair, never suspected that his heart, -conceived to be still pure, had become a crawling, horrible mass -of corruption. - -One day the head-master called at the shop. Now, to see a head- -master walking about the town during school-hours is a startling -spectacle, and is apt to give you the same uncanny sensation as -when, alone in a room, you think you see something move which -ought not to move. Mr. Povey was startled. Mr. Povey had a -thumping within his breast as he rubbed his hands and drew the -head-master to the private corner where his desk was. "What can I -do for you to-day?" he almost said to the head-master. But he did -not say it. The boot was emphatically not on that leg. The head- -master talked to Mr. Povey, in tones carefully low, for about a -quarter of an hour, and then he closed the interview. Mr. Povey -escorted him across the shop, and the head-master said with -ordinary loudness: "Of course it's nothing. But my experience is -that it's just as well to be on the safe side, and I thought I'd -tell you. Forewarned is forearmed. I have other parents to see." -They shook hands at the door. Then Mr. Povey stepped out on to the -pavement and, in front of the whole Square, detained an unwilling -head-master for quite another minute. - -His face was deeply flushed as he returned into the shop. The -assistants bent closer over their work. He did not instantly rush -into the parlour and communicate with Constance. He had dropped -into a way of conducting many operations by his own unaided brain. -His confidence in his skill had increased with years. Further, at -the back of his mind, there had established itself a vision of Mr. -Povey as the seat of government and of Constance and Cyril as a -sort of permanent opposition. He would not have admitted that he -saw such a vision, for he was utterly loyal to his wife; but it -was there. This unconfessed vision was one of several causes which -had contributed to intensify his inherent tendency towards -Machiavellianism and secretiveness. He said nothing to Constance, -nothing to Cyril; but, happening to encounter Amy in the showroom, -he was inspired to interrogate her sharply. The result was that -they descended to the cellar together, Amy weeping. Amy was -commanded to hold her tongue. And as she went in mortal fear of -Mr. Povey she did hold her tongue. - -Nothing occurred for several days. And then one morning--it was -Constance's birthday: children are nearly always horribly unlucky -in their choice of days for sin--Mr. Povey, having executed -mysterious movements in the shop after Cyril's departure to -school, jammed his hat on his head and ran forth in pursuit of -Cyril, whom he intercepted with two other boys, at the corner of -Oldcastle Street and Acre Passage. - -Cyril stood as if turned into salt. "Come back home!" said Mr. -Povey, grimly; and for the sake of the other boys: "Please." - -"But I shall be late for school, father," Cyril weakly urged. - -"Never mind." - -They passed through the shop together, causing a terrific -concealed emotion, and then they did violence to Constance by -appearing in the parlour. Constance was engaged in cutting straws -and ribbons to make a straw-frame for a water-colour drawing of a -moss-rose which her pure-hearted son had given her as a birthday -present. - -"Why--what--?" she exclaimed. She said no more at the moment -because she was sure, from the faces of her men, that the time was -big with fearful events. - -"Take your satchel off," Mr. Povey ordered coldly. "And your -mortar-board," he added with a peculiar intonation, as if glad -thus to prove that Cyril was one of those rude boys who have to be -told to take their hats off in a room. - -"Whatever's amiss?" Constance murmured under her breath, as Cyril -obeyed the command. "Whatever's amiss?" - -Mr. Povey made no immediate answer. He was in charge of these -proceedings, and was very anxious to conduct them with dignity and -with complete effectiveness. Little fat man over fifty, with a -wizened face, grey-haired and grey-bearded, he was as nervous as a -youth. His heart beat furiously. And Constance, the portly matron -who would never see forty again, was just as nervous as a girl. -Cyril had gone very white. All three felt physically sick. - -"What money have you got in your pockets?" Mr. Povey demanded, as -a commencement. - -Cyril, who had had no opportunity to prepare his case, offered no -reply. - -"You heard what I said," Mr. Povey thundered. - -"I've got three-halfpence," Cyril murmured glumly, looking down at -the floor. His lower lip seemed to hang precariously away from his -gums. - -"Where did you get that from?" - -"It's part of what mother gave me," said the boy. - -"I did give him a threepenny bit last week," Constance put in -guiltily. "It was a long time since he had had any money." - -"If you gave it him, that's enough," said Mr. Povey, quickly, and -to the boy: "That's all you've got?" - -"Yes, father," said the boy. - -"You're sure?" - -"Yes, father." - -Cyril was playing a hazardous game for the highest stakes, and -under grave disadvantages; and he acted for the best. He guarded -his own interests as well as he could. - -Mr. Povey found himself obliged to take a serious risk. "Empty -your pockets, then." - -Cyril, perceiving that he had lost that particular game, emptied -his pockets. - -"Cyril," said Constance, "how often have I told you to change your -handkerchiefs oftener! Just look at this!" - -Astonishing creature! She was in the seventh hell of sick -apprehension, and yet she said that! - -After the handkerchief emerged the common schoolboy stock of -articles useful and magic, and then, last, a silver florin! - -Mr. Povey felt relief. - -"Oh, Cyril!" whimpered Constance. - -"Give it your mother," said Mr. Povey. - -The boy stepped forward awkwardly, and Constance, weeping, took -the coin. - -"Please look at it, mother," said Mr. Povey. "And tell me if -there's a cross marked on it." - -Constance's tears blurred the coin. She had to wipe her eyes. - -"Yes," she whispered faintly. "There's something on it." - -"I thought so," said Mr. Povey. "Where did you steal it from?" he -demanded. - -"Out of the till," answered Cyril. - -"Have you ever stolen anything out of the till before?" - -"Yes." - -"Yes, what." - -"Yes, father." - -"Take your hands out of your pockets and stand up straight, if you -can. How often?" - -"I--I don't know, father." - -"I blame myself," said Mr. Povey, frankly. "I blame myself. The -till ought always to be locked. All tills ought always to be -locked. But we felt we could trust the assistants. If anybody had -told me that I ought not to trust you, if anybody had told me that -my own son would be the thief, I should have--well, I don't know -what I should have said!" - -Mr. Povey was quite justified in blaming himself. The fact was -that the functioning of that till was a patriarchal survival, -which he ought to have revolutionized, but which it had never -occurred to him to revolutionize, so accustomed to it was he. In -the time of John Baines, the till, with its three bowls, two for -silver and one for copper (gold had never been put into it), was -invariably unlocked. The person in charge of the shop took change -from it for the assistants, or temporarily authorized an assistant -to do so. Gold was kept in a small linen bag in a locked drawer of -the desk. The contents of the till were never checked by any -system of book-keeping, as there was no system of book-keeping; -when all transactions, whether in payment or receipt, are in cash ---the Baineses never owed a penny save the quarterly wholesale -accounts, which were discharged instantly to the travellers--a -system of book-keeping is not indispensable. The till was situate -immediately at the entrance to the shop from the house; it was in -the darkest part of the shop, and the unfortunate Cyril had to -pass it every day on his way to school. The thing was a perfect -device for the manufacture of young criminals. - -"And how have you been spending this money?" Mr. Povey inquired. - -Cyril's hands slipped into his pockets again. Then, noticing the -lapse, he dragged them out. - -"Sweets," said he. - -"Anything else?" - -"Sweets and things." - -"Oh!" said Mr. Povey. "Well, now you can go down into the cinder- -cellar and bring up here all the things there are in that little -box in the corner. Off you go!" - -And off went Cyril. He had to swagger through the kitchen. - -"What did I tell you, Master Cyril?" Amy unwisely asked of him. -"You've copped it finely this time." - -'Copped' was a word which she had learned from Cyril. - -"Go on, you old bitch!" Cyril growled. - -As he returned from the cellar, Amy said angrily: - -"I told you I should tell your father the next time you called me -that, and I shall. You mark my words." - -"Cant! cant!" he retorted. "Do you think I don't know who's been -canting? Cant! cant!" - -Upstairs in the parlour Samuel was explaining the matter to his -wife. There had been a perfect epidemic of smoking in the school. -The head-master had discovered it and, he hoped, stamped it out. -What had disturbed the head-master far more than the smoking was -the fact that a few boys had been found to possess somewhat costly -pipes, cigar-holders, or cigarette-holders. The head-master, wily, -had not confiscated these articles; he had merely informed the -parents concerned. In his opinion the articles came from one -single source, a generous thief; he left the parents to ascertain -which of them had brought a thief into the world. - -Further information Mr. Povey had culled from Amy, and there could -remain no doubt that Cyril had been providing his chums with the -utensils of smoking, the till supplying the means. He had told Amy -that the things which he secreted in the cellar had been presented -to him by blood-brothers. But Mr. Povey did not believe that. -Anyhow, he had marked every silver coin in the till for three -nights, and had watched the till in the mornings from behind the -merino-pile; and the florin on the parlour-table spoke of his -success as a detective. - -Constance felt guilty on behalf of Cyril. As Mr. Povey outlined -his case she could not free herself from an entirely irrational -sensation of sin; at any rate of special responsibility. Cyril -seemed to be her boy and not Samuel's boy at all. She avoided her -husband's glance. This was very odd. - -Then Cyril returned, and his parents composed their faces and he -deposited, next to the florin, a sham meerschaum pipe in a case, a -tobacco-pouch, a cigar of which one end had been charred but the -other not cut, and a half-empty packet of cigarettes without a -label. - -Nothing could be hid from Mr. Povey. The details were distressing. - -"So Cyril is a liar and a thief, to say nothing of this smoking!" -Mr. Povey concluded. - -He spoke as if Cyril had invented strange and monstrous sins. But -deep down in his heart a little voice was telling him, as regards -the smoking, that HE had set the example. Mr. Baines had never -smoked. Mr. Critchlow never smoked. Only men like Daniel smoked. - -Thus far Mr. Povey had conducted the proceedings to his own -satisfaction. He had proved the crime. He had made Cyril confess. -The whole affair lay revealed. Well--what next? Cyril ought to -have dissolved in repentance; something dramatic ought to have -occurred. But Cyril simply stood with hanging, sulky head, and -gave no sign of proper feeling. - -Mr. Povey considered that, until something did happen, he must -improve the occasion. - -"Here we have trade getting worse every day," said he (it was -true), "and you are robbing your parents to make a beast of -yourself, and corrupting your companions! I wonder your mother -never smelt you!" - -"I never dreamt of such a thing!" said Constance, grievously. - -Besides, a young man clever enough to rob a till is usually clever -enough to find out that the secret of safety in smoking is to use -cachous and not to keep the stuff in your pockets a minute longer -than you can help. - -"There's no knowing how much money you have stolen," said Mr. -Povey. "A thief!" - -If Cyril had stolen cakes, jam, string, cigars, Mr. Povey would -never have said 'thief' as he did say it. But money! Money was -different. And a till was not a cupboard or a larder. A till was a -till. Cyril had struck at the very basis of society. - -"And on your mother's birthday!" Mr. Povey said further. - -"There's one thing I can do!" he said. "I can burn all this. Built -on lies! How dared you?" - -And he pitched into the fire--not the apparatus of crime, but the -water-colour drawing of a moss-rose and the straws and the blue -ribbon for bows at the corners. - -"How dared you?" he repeated. - -"You never gave me any money," Cyril muttered. - -He thought the marking of coins a mean trick, and the dragging-in -of bad trade and his mother's birthday roused a familiar devil -that usually slept quietly in his breast. - -"What's that you say?" Mr. Povey almost shouted. - -"You never gave me any money," the devil repeated in a louder tone -than Cyril had employed. - -(It was true. But Cyril 'had only to ask' and he would have -received all that was good for him.) - -Mr. Povey sprang up. Mr. Povey also had a devil. The two devils -gazed at each other for an instant; and then, noticing that -Cyril's head was above Mr. Povey's, the elder devil controlled -itself. Mr. Povey had suddenly had as much drama as he wanted. - -"Get away to bed!" said he with dignity. - -Cyril went, defiantly. - -"He's to have nothing but bread and water, mother," Mr. Povey -finished. He was, on the whole, pleased with himself. - -Later in the day Constance reported, tearfully, that she had been -up to Cyril and that Cyril had wept. Which was to Cyril's credit. -But all felt that life could never be the same again. During the -remainder of existence this unspeakable horror would lift its -obscene form between them. Constance had never been so unhappy. -Occasionally, when by herself, she would rebel for a brief moment, -as one rebels in secret against a mummery which one is obliged to -treat seriously. "After all," she would whisper, "suppose he HAS -taken a few shillings out of the till! What then? What does it -matter?" But these moods of moral insurrection against society and -Mr. Povey were very transitory. They were come and gone in a -flash. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -ANOTHER CRIME - -I - - -One night--it was late in the afternoon of the same year, about -six months after the tragedy of the florin--Samuel Povey was -wakened up by a hand on his shoulder and a voice that whispered: -"Father!" - -The thief and the liar was standing in his night-shirt by the bed. -Samuel's sleepy eyes could just descry him in the thick gloom. - -"What--what?" questioned the father, gradually coming to -consciousness. "What are you doing there?" - -"I didn't want to wake mother up," the boy whispered. "There's -someone been throwing dirt or something at our windows, and has -been for a long time." - -"Eh, what?" - -Samuel stared at the dim form of the thief and liar. The boy was -tall, not in the least like a little boy; and yet, then, he seemed -to his father as quite a little boy, a little 'thing' in a night- -shirt, with childish gestures and childish inflections, and a -childish, delicious, quaint anxiety not to disturb his mother, who -had lately been deprived of sleep owing to an illness of Amy's -which had demanded nursing. His father had not so perceived him -for years. In that instant the conviction that Cyril was -permanently unfit for human society finally expired in the -father's mind. Time had already weakened it very considerably. The -decision that, be Cyril what he might, the summer holiday must be -taken as usual, had dealt it a fearful blow. And yet, though -Samuel and Constance had grown so accustomed to the companionship -of a criminal that they frequently lost memory of his guilt for -long periods, nevertheless the convention of his leprosy had more -or less persisted with Samuel until that moment: when it vanished -with strange suddenness, to Samuel's conscious relief. - -There was a rain of pellets on the window. - -"Hear that?" demanded Cyril, whispering dramatically. "And it's -been like that on my window too." - -Samuel arose. "Go back to your room!" he ordered in the same -dramatic whisper; but not as father to son--rather as conspirator -to conspirator. - -Constance slept. They could hear her regular breathing. - -Barefooted, the elderly gowned figure followed the younger, and -one after the other they creaked down the two steps which -separated Cyril's room from his parents'. - -"Shut the door quietly!" said Samuel. - -Cyril obeyed. - -And then, having lighted Cyril's gas, Samuel drew the blind, -unfastened the catch of the window, and began to open it with many -precautions of silence. All the sashes in that house were -difficult to manage. Cyril stood close to his father, shivering -without knowing that he shivered, astonished only that his father -had not told him to get back into bed at once. It was, beyond -doubt, the proudest hour of Cyril's career. In addition to the -mysterious circumstances of the night, there was in the situation -that thrill which always communicates itself to a father and son -when they are afoot together upon an enterprise unsuspected by the -woman from whom their lives have no secrets. - -Samuel put his head out of the window. - -A man was standing there. - -"That you, Samuel?" The voice came low. - -"Yes," replied Samuel, cautiously. "It's not Cousin Daniel, is -it?" - -"I want ye," said Daniel Povey, curtly. - -Samuel paused. "I'll be down in a minute," he said. - -Cyril at length received the command to get back into bed at once. - -"Whatever's up, father?" he asked joyously. - -"I don't know. I must put some things on and go and see." - -He shut down the window on all the breezes that were pouring into -the room. - -"Now quick, before I turn the gas out!" he admonished, his hand on -the gas-tap. - -"You'll tell me in the morning, won't you, father?" - -"Yes," said Mr. Povey, conquering his habitual impulse to say -'No.' - -He crept back to the large bedroom to grope for clothes. - -When, having descended to the parlour and lighted the gas there, -he opened the side-door, expecting to let Cousin Daniel in, there -was no sign of Cousin Daniel. Presently he saw a figure standing -at the corner of the Square. He whistled--Samuel had a singular -faculty of whistling, the envy of his son--and Daniel beckoned to -him. He nearly extinguished the gas and then ran out, hatless. He -was wearing most of his clothes, except his linen collar and -necktie, and the collar of his coat was turned up. - -Daniel advanced before him, without waiting, into the -confectioner's shop opposite. Being part of the most modern -building in the Square, Daniel's shop was provided with the new -roll-down iron shutter, by means of which you closed your -establishment with a motion similar to the winding of a large -clock, instead of putting up twenty separate shutters one by one -as in the sixteenth century. The little portal in the vast sheet -of armour was ajar, and Daniel had passed into the gloom beyond. -At the same moment a policeman came along on his beat, cutting off -Mr. Povey from Daniel. - -"Good-night, officer! Brrr!" said Mr. Povey, gathering his dignity -about him and holding himself as though it was part of his normal -habit to take exercise bareheaded and collarless in St. Luke's -Square on cold November nights. He behaved so because, if Daniel -had desired the services of a policeman, Daniel would of course -have spoken to this one. - -"Goo' night, sir," said the policeman, after recognizing him. - -"What time is it?" asked Samuel, bold. - -"A quarter-past one, sir." - -The policeman, leaving Samuel at the little open door, went -forward across the lamplit Square, and Samuel entered his cousin's -shop. - -Daniel Povey was standing behind the door, and as Samuel came in -he shut the door with a startling sudden movement. Save for the -twinkle of gas, the shop was in darkness. It had the empty -appearance which a well-managed confectioner's and baker's always -has at night. The large brass scales near the flour-bins glinted; -and the glass cake-stands, with scarce a tart among them, also -caught the faint flare of the gas. - -"What's the matter, Daniel? Anything wrong?" Samuel asked, feeling -boyish as he usually did in the presence of Daniel. - -The well-favoured white-haired man seized him with one hand by the -shoulder in a grip that convicted Samuel of frailty. - -"Look here, Sam'l," said he in his low, pleasant voice, somewhat -altered by excitement. "You know as my wife drinks?" - -He stared defiantly at Samuel. - -"N--no," said Samuel. "That is--no one's ever SAID---" - -This was true. He did not know that Mrs. Daniel Povey, at the age -of fifty, had definitely taken to drink. There had been rumours -that she enjoyed a glass with too much gusto; but 'drinks' meant -more than that. - -"She drinks," Daniel Povey continued. "And has done this last two -year!" - -"I'm very sorry to hear it," said Samuel, tremendously shocked by -this brutal rending of the cloak of decency. - -Always, everybody had feigned to Daniel, and Daniel had feigned to -everybody, that his wife was as other wives. And now the man -himself had torn to pieces in a moment the veil of thirty years' -weaving. - -"And if that was the worst!" Daniel murmured reflectively, -loosening his grip. - -Samuel was excessively disturbed. His cousin was hinting at -matters which he himself, at any rate, had never hinted at even to -Constance, so abhorrent were they; matters unutterable, which hung -like clouds in the social atmosphere of the town, and of which at -rare intervals one conveyed one's cognizance, not by words, but by -something scarce perceptible in a glance, an accent. Not often is -a town such as Bursley starred with such a woman as Mrs. Daniel -Povey. - -"But what's wrong?" Samuel asked, trying to be firm. - -And, "What is wrong?" he asked himself. "What does all this mean, -at after one o'clock in the morning?" - -"Look here, Sam'l," Daniel recommenced, seizing his shoulder -again. "I went to Liverpool corn market to-day, and missed the -last train, so I came by mail from Crewe. And what do I find? I -find Dick sitting on the stairs in the dark pretty high naked." - -"Sitting on the stairs? Dick?" - -"Ay! This is what I come home to!" - -"But--" - -"Hold on! He's been in bed a couple of days with a feverish cold, -caught through lying in damp sheets as his mother had forgot to -air. She brings him no supper to-night. He calls out. No answer. -Then he gets up to go down-stairs and see what's happened, and he -slips on th' stairs and breaks his knee, or puts it out or summat. -Sat there hours, seemingly! Couldn't walk neither up nor down." - -"And was your--wife--was Mrs.-?" - -"Dead drunk in the parlour, Sam'l." - -"But the servant?" - -"Servant!" Daniel Povey laughed. "We can't keep our servants. They -won't stay. YOU know that." - -He did. Mrs. Daniel Povey's domestic methods and idiosyncrasies -could at any rate be freely discussed, and they were. - -"And what have you done?" - -"Done? Why, I picked him up in my arms and carried him upstairs -again. And a fine job I had too! Here! Come here!" - -Daniel strode impulsively across the shop--the counterflap was up ---and opened a door at the back. Samuel followed. Never before had -he penetrated so far into his cousin's secrets. On the left, -within the doorway, were the stairs, dark; on the right a shut -door; and in front an open door giving on to a yard. At the -extremity of the yard he discerned a building, vaguely lit, and -naked figures strangely moving in it. - -"What's that? Who's there?" he asked sharply. - -"That's the bakehouse," Daniel replied, as if surprised at such a -question. "It's one of their long nights." - -Never, during the brief remainder of his life, did Samuel eat a -mouthful of common bread without recalling that midnight -apparition. He had lived for half a century, and thoughtlessly -eaten bread as though loaves grew ready-made on trees. - -"Listen!" Daniel commanded him. - -He cocked his ear, and caught a feeble, complaining wail from an -upper floor. - -"That's Dick! That is!" said Daniel Povey. - -It sounded more like the distress of a child than of an -adventurous young man of twenty-four or so. - -"But is he in pain? Haven't you fetched the doctor?" - -"Not yet," answered Daniel, with a vacant stare. - -Samuel gazed at him closely for a second. And Daniel seemed to him -very old and helpless and pathetic, a man unequal to the situation -in which he found himself; and yet, despite the dignified snow of -his age, wistfully boyish. Samuel thought swiftly: "This has been -too much for him. He's almost out of his mind. That's the -explanation. Some one's got to take charge, and I must." And all -the courageous resolution of his character braced itself to the -crisis. Being without a collar, being in slippers, and his -suspenders imperfectly fastened anyhow,--these things seemed to be -a part of the crisis. - -"I'll just run upstairs and have a look at him," said Samuel, in a -matter-of-fact tone. - -Daniel did not reply. - -There was a glimmer at the top of the stairs. Samuel mounted, -found the gas-jet, and turned it on full. A dingy, dirty, untidy -passage was revealed, the very antechamber of discomfort. Guided -by the moans, Samuel entered a bedroom, which was in a shameful -condition of neglect, and lighted only by a nearly expired candle. -Was it possible that a house-mistress could so lose her self- -respect? Samuel thought of his own abode, meticulously and -impeccably 'kept,' and a hard bitterness against Mrs. Daniel -surged up in his soul. - -"Is that you, doctor?" said a voice from the bed; the moans -ceased. - -Samuel raised the candle. - -Dick lay there, his face, on which was a beard of several days' -growth, distorted by anguish, sweating; his tousled brown hair was -limp with sweat. - -"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!" - -He moved away. - -All Samuel's flesh tingled as a heavy wave of emotion rolled -through his being. It was just as if some one had dealt him a blow -unimaginably tremendous. His heart shivered, as a ship shivers at -the mountainous crash of the waters. He was numbed. He wanted to -weep, to vomit, to die, to sink away. But a voice was whispering -to him: "You will have to go through with this. You are in charge -of this." He thought of HIS wife and child, innocently asleep in -the cleanly pureness of HIS home. And he felt the roughness of his -coat-collar round his neck and the insecurity of his trousers. He -passed out of the room, shutting the door. And across the yard he -had a momentary glimpse of those nude nocturnal forms, -unconsciously attitudinizing in the bakehouse. And down the stairs -came the protests of Dick, driven by pain into a monotonous silly -blasphemy. - -"I'll fetch Harrop," he said, melancholily, to his cousin. - -The doctor's house was less than fifty yards off, and the doctor -had a night-bell, which, though he was a much older man than his -father had been at his age, he still answered promptly. No need to -bombard the doctor's premises with Indian corn! While Samuel was -parleying with the doctor through a window, the question ran -incessantly through his mind: "What about telling the police?" - -But when, in advance of old Harrop, he returned to Daniel's shop, -lo! the policeman previously encountered had returned upon his -beat, and Daniel was talking to him in the little doorway. No -other soul was about. Down King Street, along Wedgwood Street, up -the Square, towards Brougham Street, nothing but gaslamps burning -with their everlasting patience, and the blind facades of shops. -Only in the second storey of the Bank Building at the top of the -Square a light showed mysteriously through a blind. Somebody ill -there! - -The policeman was in a high state of nervous excitement. That had -happened to him which had never happened to him before. Of the -sixty policemen in Bursley, just he had been chosen by fate to fit -the socket of destiny. He was startled. - -"What's this, what's this, Mr. Povey?" he turned hastily to -Samuel. "What's this as Mr. Councillor Povey is a-telling me?" - -"You come in, sergeant," said Daniel. - -"If I come in," said the policeman to Samuel, "you mun' go along -Wedgwood Street, Mr. Povey, and bring my mate. He should be on -Duck Bank, by rights." - -It was astonishing, when once the stone had begun to roll, how -quickly it ran. In half an hour Samuel had actually parted from -Daniel at the police-office behind the Shambles, and was hurrying -to rouse his wife so that she could look after Dick Povey until he -might be taken off to Pirehill Infirmary, as old Harrop had -instantly, on seeing him, decreed. - -"Ah!" he reflected in the turmoil of his soul: "God is not -mocked!" That was his basic idea: God is not mocked! Daniel was a -good fellow, honourable, brilliant; a figure in the world. But -what of his licentious tongue? What of his frequenting of bars? -(How had he come to miss that train from Liverpool? How?) For many -years he, Samuel, had seen in Daniel a living refutation of the -authenticity of the old Hebrew menaces. But he had been wrong, -after all! God is not mocked! And Samuel was aware of a revulsion -in himself towards that strict codified godliness from which, in -thought, he had perhaps been slipping away. - -And with it all he felt, too, a certain officious self-importance, -as he woke his wife and essayed to break the news to her in a -manner tactfully calm. He had assisted at the most overwhelming -event ever known in the history of the town. - -II - -"Your muffler--I'll get it," said Constance. "Cyril, run upstairs -and get father's muffler. You know the drawer." - -Cyril ran. It behoved everybody, that morning, to be prompt and -efficient. - -"I don't need any muffler, thank you," said Samuel, coughing and -smothering the cough. - -"Oh! But, Sam--" Constance protested. - -"Now please don't worry me!" said Samuel with frigid finality. -"I've got quite enough--!" He did not finish. - -Constance sighed as her husband stepped, nervous and self- -important, out of the side-door into the street. It was early, not -yet eight o'clock, and the shop still unopened. - -"Your father couldn't wait," Constance said to Cyril when he had -thundered down the stairs in his heavy schoolboy boots. "Give it -to me." She went to restore the muffler to its place. - -The whole house was upset, and Amy still an invalid! Existence was -disturbed; there vaguely seemed to be a thousand novel things to -be done, and yet she could think of nothing whatever that she -needed to do at that moment; so she occupied herself with the -muffler. Before she reappeared Cyril had gone to school, he who -was usually a laggard. The truth was that he could no longer -contain within himself a recital of the night, and in particular -of the fact that he had been the first to hear the summons of the -murderer on the window-pane. This imperious news had to be -imparted to somebody, as a preliminary to the thrilling of the -whole school; and Cyril had issued forth in search of an -appreciative and worthy confidant. He was scarcely five minutes -after his father. - -In St. Luke's Square was a crowd of quite two hundred persons, -standing moveless in the November mud. The body of Mrs. Daniel -Povey had already been taken to the Tiger Hotel, and young Dick -Povey was on his way in a covered wagonette to Pirehill Infirmary -on the other side of Knype. The shop of the crime was closed, and -the blinds drawn at the upper windows of the house. There was -absolutely nothing to be seen, not even a policeman. Nevertheless -the crowd stared with an extraordinary obstinate attentiveness at -the fatal building in Boulton Terrace. Hypnotized by this face of -bricks and mortar, it had apparently forgotten all earthly ties, -and, regardless of breakfast and a livelihood, was determined to -stare at it till the house fell down or otherwise rendered up its -secret. Most of its component individuals wore neither overcoats -nor collars, but were kept warm by a scarf round the neck and by -dint of forcing their fingers into the furthest inch of their -pockets. Then they would slowly lift one leg after the other. -Starers of infirm purpose would occasionally detach themselves -from the throng and sidle away, ashamed of their fickleness. But -reinforcements were continually arriving. And to these new-comers -all that had been said in gossip had to be repeated and repeated: -the same questions, the same answers, the same exclamations, the -same proverbial philosophy, the same prophecies recurred in all -parts of the Square with an uncanny iterance. Well-dressed men -spoke to mere professional loiterers; for this unparalleled and -glorious sensation, whose uniqueness grew every instant more -impressive, brought out the essential brotherhood of mankind. All -had a peculiar feeling that the day was neither Sunday nor week- -day, but some eighth day of the week. Yet in the St. Luke's -Covered Market close by, the stall-keepers were preparing their -stalls just as though it were Saturday, just as though a Town -Councillor had not murdered his wife--at last! It was stated, and -restated infinitely, that the Povey baking had been taken over by -Brindley, the second-best baker and confectioner, who had a stall -in the market. And it was asserted, as a philosophical truth, and -reasserted infinitely, that there would have been no sense in -wasting good food. - -Samuel's emergence stirred the multitude. But Samuel passed up the -Square with a rapt expression; he might have been under an -illusion, caused by the extreme gravity of his preoccupations, -that he was crossing a deserted Square. He hurried past the Bank -and down the Turnhill Road, to the private residence of 'Young -Lawton,' son of the deceased 'Lawyer Lawton.' Young Lawton -followed his father's profession; he was, as his father had been, -the most successful solicitor in the town (though reputed by his -learned rivals to be a fool), but the custom of calling men by -their occupations had died out with horse-cars. Samuel caught -young Lawton at his breakfast, and presently drove with him, in -the Lawton buggy, to the police-station, where their arrival -electrified a crowd as large as that in St. Luke's Square. Later, -they drove together to Hanbridge, informally to brief a barrister; -and Samuel, not permitted to be present at the first part of the -interview between the solicitor and the barrister, was humbled -before the pomposity of legal etiquette. - -It seemed to Samuel a game. The whole rigmarole of police and -police-cells and formalities seemed insincere. His cousin's case -was not like any other case, and, though formalities might be -necessary, it was rather absurd to pretend that it was like any -other case. In what manner it differed from other cases Samuel did -not analytically inquire. He thought young Lawton was self- -important, and Daniel too humble, in the colloquy of these two, -and he endeavoured to indicate, by the dignity of his own -demeanour, that in his opinion the proper relative tones had not -been set. He could not understand Daniel's attitude, for he lacked -imagination to realize what Daniel had been through. After all, -Daniel was not a murderer; his wife's death was due to accident, -was simply a mishap. - -But in the crowded and stinking court-room of the Town Hall, -Samuel began to feel qualms. It occurred that the Stipendiary -Magistrate was sitting that morning at Bursley. He sat alone, as -not one of the Borough Justices cared to occupy the Bench while a -Town Councillor was in the dock. The Stipendiary, recently -appointed, was a young man, from the southern part of the county; -and a Town Councillor of Bursley was no more to him than a petty -tradesman to a man of fashion. He was youthfully enthusiastic for -the majesty and the impartiality of English justice, and behaved -as though the entire responsibility for the safety of that vast -fabric rested on his shoulders. He and the barrister from -Hanbridge had had a historic quarrel at Cambridge, and their -behaviour to each other was a lesson to the vulgar in the art of -chill and consummate politeness. Young Lawton, having been to -Oxford, secretly scorned the pair of them, but, as he had engaged -counsel, he of course was precluded from adding to the eloquence, -which chagrined him. These three were the aristocracy of the -court-room; they knew it; Samuel Povey knew it; everybody knew it, -and felt it. The barrister brought an unexceptionable zeal to the -performance of his duties; be referred in suitable terms to -Daniel's character and high position in the town, but nothing -could hide the fact that for him too his client was a petty -tradesman accused of simple murder. Naturally the Stipendiary was -bound to show that before the law all men are equal--the Town -Councillor and the common tippler; he succeeded. The policeman -gave his evidence, and the Inspector swore to what Daniel Povey -had said when charged. The hearing proceeded so smoothly and -quickly that it seemed naught but an empty rite, with Daniel as a -lay figure in it. The Stipendiary achieved marvellously the -illusion that to him a murder by a Town Councillor in St. Luke's -Square was quite an everyday matter. Bail was inconceivable, and -the barrister, being unable to suggest any reason why the -Stipendiary should grant a remand--indeed, there was no reason-- -Daniel Povey was committed to the Stafford Assizes for trial. The -Stipendiary instantly turned to the consideration of an alleged -offence against the Factory Acts by a large local firm of potters. -The young magistrate had mistaken his vocation. With his steely -calm, with his imperturbable detachment from weak humanity, he -ought to have been a General of the Order of Jesuits. - -Daniel was removed--he did not go: he was removed, by two bare- -headed constables. Samuel wanted to have speech with him, and -could not. And later, Samuel stood in the porch of the Town Hall, -and Daniel appeared out of a corridor, still in the keeping of two -policemen, helmeted now. And down below at the bottom of the broad -flight of steps, up which passed dancers on the nights of -subscription balls, was a dense crowd, held at bay by other -policemen; and beyond the crowd a black van. And Daniel--to his -cousin a sort of Christ between thieves--was hurried past the -privileged loafers in the corridor, and down the broad steps. A -murmuring wave agitated the crowd. Unkempt idlers and ne'er-do- -wells in corduroy leaped up like tigers in the air, and the -policemen fought them back furiously. And Daniel and his guardians -shot through the little living lane. Quick! Quick! For the captive -is more sacred even than a messiah. The law has him in charge! And -like a feat of prestidigitation Daniel disappeared into the -blackness of the van. A door slammed loudly, triumphantly, and a -whip cracked. The crowd had been balked. It was as though the -crowd had yelled for Daniel's blood and bones, and the faithful -constables had saved him from their lust. - -Yes, Samuel had qualms. He had a sickness in the stomach. - -The aged Superintendent of Police walked by, with the aged Rector. -The Rector was Daniel's friend. Never before had the Rector spoken -to the Nonconformist Samuel, but now he spoke to him; he squeezed -his hand. - -"Ah, Mr. Povey!" he ejaculated grievously. - -"I--I'm afraid it's serious!" Samuel stammered. He hated to admit -that it was serious, but the words came out of his mouth. - -He looked at the Superintendent of Police, expecting the -Superintendent to assure him that it was not serious; but the -Superintendent only raised his small white-bearded chin, saying -nothing. The Rector shook his head, and shook a senile tear out of -his eye. - -After another chat with young Lawton, Samuel, on behalf of Daniel, -dropped his pose of the righteous man to whom a mere mishap has -occurred, and who is determined, with the lofty pride of -innocence, to indulge all the whims of the law, to be more -royalist than the king. He perceived that the law must be fought -with its own weapons, that no advantage must be surrendered, and -every possible advantage seized. He was truly astonished at -himself that such a pose had ever been adopted. His eyes were -opened; he saw things as they were. - -He returned home through a Square that was more interested than -ever in the facade of his cousin's house. People were beginning to -come from Hanbridge, Knype, Longshaw, Turnhill, and villages such -as Moorthorne, to gaze at that facade. And the fourth edition of -the Signal, containing a full report of what the Stipendiary and -the barrister had said to each other, was being cried. - -In his shop he found customers, as absorbed in the trivialities of -purchase as though nothing whatever had happened. He was shocked; -he resented their callousness. - -"I'm too busy now," he said curtly to one who accosted him." - -"Sam!" his wife called him in a low voice. She was standing behind -the till. - -"What is it?" He was ready to crush, and especially to crush -indiscreet babble in the shop. He thought she was going to vent -her womanly curiosity at once. - -"Mr. Huntbach is waiting for you in the parlour," said Constance. - -"Mr. Huntbach?" - -"Yes, from Longshaw." She whispered, "It's Mrs. Povey's cousin. -He's come to see about the funeral and so on, the--the inquest, I -suppose." - -Samuel paused. "Oh, has he!" said he defiantly. "Well, I'll see -him. If he WANTS to see me, I'll see him." - -That evening Constance learned all that was in his mind of -bitterness against the memory of the dead woman whose failings had -brought Daniel Povey to Stafford gaol and Dick to the Pirehill -Infirmary. Again and again, in the ensuing days, he referred to -the state of foul discomfort which he had discovered in Daniel's -house. He nursed a feud against all her relatives, and when, after -the inquest, at which he gave evidence full of resentment, she was -buried, he vented an angry sigh of relief, and said: "Well, SHE'S -out of the way!" Thenceforward he had a mission, religious in its -solemn intensity, to defend and save Daniel. He took the -enterprise upon himself, spending the whole of himself upon it, to -the neglect of his business and the scorn of his health. He lived -solely for Daniel's trial, pouring out money in preparation for -it. He thought and spoke of nothing else. The affair was his one -preoccupation. And as the weeks passed, he became more and more -sure of success, more and more sure that he would return with -Daniel to Bursley in triumph after the assize. He was convinced of -the impossibility that 'anything should happen' to Daniel; the -circumstances were too clear, too overwhelmingly in Daniel's -favour. - -When Brindley, the second-best baker and confectioner, made an -offer for Daniel's business as a going concern, he was indignant -at first. Then Constance, and the lawyer, and Daniel (whom he saw -on every permitted occasion) between them persuaded him that if -some arrangement was not made, and made quickly, the business -would lose all its value, and he consented, on Daniel's behalf, to -a temporary agreement under which Brindley should reopen the shop -and manage it on certain terms until Daniel regained his freedom -towards the end of January. He would not listen to Daniel's -plaintive insistence that he would never care to be seen in -Bursley again. He pooh-poohed it. He protested furiously that the -whole town was seething with sympathy for Daniel; and this was -true. He became Daniel's defending angel, rescuing Daniel from -Daniel's own weakness and apathy. He became, indeed, Daniel. - -One morning the shop-shutter was wound up, and Brindley, inflated -with the importance of controlling two establishments, strutted in -and out under the sign of Daniel Povey. And traffic in bread and -cakes and flour was resumed. Apparently the sea of time had risen -and covered Daniel and all that was his; for his wife was under -earth, and Dick lingered at Pirehill, unable to stand, and Daniel -was locked away. Apparently, in the regular flow of the life of -the Square, Daniel was forgotten. But not in Samuel Povey's heart -was he forgotten! There, before an altar erected to the martyr, -the sacred flame of a new faith burned with fierce consistency. -Samuel, in his greying middle-age, had inherited the eternal youth -of the apostle. - -III - -On the dark winter morning when Samuel set off to the grand -assize, Constance did not ask his views as to what protection he -would adopt against the weather. She silently ranged special -underclothing, and by the warmth of the fire, which for days she -had kept ablaze in the bedroom, Samuel silently donned the special -underclothing. Over that, with particular fastidious care, he put -his best suit. Not a word was spoken. Constance and he were not -estranged, but the relations between them were in a state of -feverish excitation. Samuel had had a cold on his flat chest for -weeks, and nothing that Constance could invent would move it. A -few days in bed or even in one room at a uniform temperature would -have surely worked the cure. Samuel, however, would not stay in -one room: he would not stay in the house, nor yet in Bursley. He -would take his lacerating cough on chilly trains to Stafford. He -had no ears for reason; he simply could not listen; he was in a -dream. After Christmas a crisis came. Constance grew desperate. It -was a battle between her will and his that occurred one night when -Constance, marshalling all her forces, suddenly insisted that he -must go out no more until he was cured. In the fight Constance was -scarcely recognizable. She deliberately gave way to hysteria; she -was no longer soft and gentle; she flung bitterness at him like -vitriol; she shrieked like a common shrew. It seems almost -incredible that Constance should have gone so far; but she did. -She accused him, amid sobs, of putting his cousin before his wife -and son, of not caring whether or not she was left a widow as the -result of this obstinacy. And she ended by crying passionately -that she might as well talk to a post. She might just as well have -talked to a post. Samuel answered quietly and coldly. He told her -that it was useless for her to put herself about, as he should act -as he thought fit. It was a most extraordinary scene, and quite -unique in their annals. Constance was beaten. She accepted the -defeat, gradually controlling her sobs and changing her tone to -the tone of the vanquished. She kissed him in bed, kissing the -rod. And he gravely kissed her. - -Henceforward she knew, in practice, what the inevitable, when you -have to live with it, may contain of anguish wretched and -humiliating. Her husband was risking his life, so she was -absolutely convinced, and she could do nothing; she had come to -the bed-rock of Samuel's character. She felt that, for the time -being, she had a madman in the house, who could not be treated -according to ordinary principles. The continual strain aged her. -Her one source of relief was to talk with Cyril. She talked to him -without reserve, and the words 'your father,' 'your father,' were -everlastingly on her complaining tongue. Yes, she was utterly -changed. Often she would weep when alone. - -Nevertheless she frequently forgot that she had been beaten. She -had no notion of honourable warfare. She was always beginning -again, always firing under a flag of truce; and thus she -constituted a very inconvenient opponent. Samuel was obliged, -while hardening on the main point, to compromise on lesser -questions. She too could be formidable, and when her lips took a -certain pose, and her eyes glowed, he would have put on forty -mufflers had she commanded. Thus it was she who arranged all the -details of the supreme journey to Stafford. Samuel was to drive to -Knype, so as to avoid the rigours of the Loop Line train from -Bursley and the waiting on cold platforms. At Knype he was to take -the express, and to travel first-class. - -After he was dressed on that gas-lit morning, he learnt bit by bit -the extent of her elaborate preparations. The breakfast was a -special breakfast, and he had to eat it all. Then the cab came, -and he saw Amy put hot bricks into it. Constance herself put -goloshes over his boots, not because it was damp, but because -indiarubber keeps the feet warm. Constance herself bandaged his -neck, and unbuttoned his waistcoat and stuck an extra flannel -under his dickey. Constance herself warmed his woollen gloves, and -enveloped him in his largest overcoat. - -Samuel then saw Cyril getting ready to go out. "Where are you -off?" he demanded. - -"He's going with you as far as Knype," said Constance grimly. -"He'll see you into the train and then come back here in the cab." - -She had sprung this indignity upon him. She glared. Cyril glanced -with timid bravado from one to the other. Samuel had to yield. - -Thus in the winter darkness--for it was not yet dawn--Samuel set -forth to the trial, escorted by his son. The reverberation of his -appalling cough from the cab was the last thing that Constance -heard. - -During most of the day Constance sat in 'Miss Insull's corner' in -the shop. Twenty years ago this very corner had been hers. But -now, instead of large millinery-boxes enwrapped in brown paper, it -was shut off from the rest of the counter by a rich screen of -mahogany and ground-glass, and within the enclosed space all the -apparatus necessary to the activity of Miss Insull had been -provided for. However, it remained the coldest part of the whole -shop, as Miss Insull's fingers testified. Constance established -herself there more from a desire to do something, to interfere in -something, than from a necessity of supervising the shop, though -she had said to Samuel that she would keep an eye on the shop. -Miss Insull, whose throne was usurped, had to sit by the stove -with less important creatures; she did not like it, and her -underlings suffered accordingly. - -It was a long day. Towards tea-time, just before Cyril was due -from school, Mr. Critchlow came surprisingly in. That is to say, -his arrival was less of a surprise to Miss Insull and the rest of -the staff than to Constance. For he had lately formed an irregular -habit of popping in at tea-time, to chat with Miss Insull. Mr. -Critchlow was still defying time. He kept his long, thin figure -perfectly erect. His features had not altered. His hair and heard -could not have been whiter than they had been for years past. He -wore his long white apron, and over that a thick reefer jacket. In -his long, knotty fingers he carried a copy of the Signal. - -Evidently he had not expected to find the corner occupied by -Constance. She was sewing. - -"So it's you!" he said, in his unpleasant, grating voice, not even -glancing at Miss Insull. He had gained the reputation of being the -rudest old man in Bursley. But his general demeanour expressed -indifference rather than rudeness. It was a manner that said: -"You've got to take me as I am. I may be an egotist, hard, mean, -and convinced; but those who don't like it can lump it. I'm -indifferent." - -He put one elbow on the top of the screen, showing the Signal. - -"Mr. Critchlow!" said Constance, primly; she had acquired Samuel's -dislike of him. - -"It's begun!" he observed with mysterious glee. - -"Has it?" Constance said eagerly. "Is it in the paper already?" - -She had been far more disturbed about her husband's health than -about the trial of Daniel Povey for murder, but her interest in -the trial was of course tremendous. And this news, that it had -actually begun, thrilled her. - -"Ay!" said Mr. Critchlow. "Didn't ye hear the Signal boy hollering -just now all over the Square?" - -"No," said Constance. For her, newspapers did not exist. She never -had the idea of opening one, never felt any curiosity which she -could not satisfy, if she could satisfy it at all, without the -powerful aid of the press. And even on this day it had not -occurred to her that the Signal might be worth opening. - -"Ay!" repeated Mr. Critchlow. "Seemingly it began at two o'clock-- -or thereabouts." He gave a moment of his attention to a noisy gas- -jet, which he carefully lowered. - -"What does it say?" - -"Nothing yet!" said Mr. Critchlow; and they read the few brief -sentences, under their big heading, which described the formal -commencement of the trial of Daniel Povey for the murder of his -wife. "There was some as said," he remarked, pushing up his -spectacles, "that grand jury would alter the charge, or summat!" -He laughed, grimly tolerant of the extreme absurdity. "Ah!" he -added contemplatively, turning his head to see if the assistants -were listening. They were. It would have been too much, on such a -day, to expect a strict adherence to the etiquette of the shop. - -Constance had been hearing a good deal lately of grand juries, but -she had understood nothing, nor had she sought to understand. - -"I'm very glad it's come on so soon," she said. "In a sense, that -is! I was afraid Sam might be kept at Stafford for days. Do you -think it will last long?" - -"Not it!" said Mr. Critchlow, positively. "There's naught in it to -spin out." - -Then a silence, punctuated by the sound of stitching. - -Constance would really have preferred not to converse with the old -man; but the desire for reassurance, for the calming of her own -fears, forced her to speak, though she knew well that Mr. -Critchlow was precisely the last man in the town to give moral -assistance if he thought it was wanted. - -"I do hope everything will be all right!" she murmured. - -"Everything'll be all right!" he said gaily. "Everything'll be all -right. Only it'll be all wrong for Dan." - -"Whatever do you mean, Mr. Critchlow?" she protested. - -Nothing, she reflected, could rouse pity in that heart, not even a -tragedy like Daniel's. She bit her lip for having spoken. - -"Well," he said in loud tones, frankly addressing the girls round -the stove as much as Constance. "I've met with some rare good -arguments this new year, no mistake! There's been some as say that -Dan never meant to do it. That's as may be. But if it's a good -reason for not hanging, there's an end to capital punishment in -this country. 'Never meant'! There's a lot of 'em as 'never -meant'! Then I'm told as she was a gallivanting woman and no -housekeeper, and as often drunk as sober. I'd no call to be told -that. If strangling is a right punishment for a wife as spends her -time in drinking brandy instead of sweeping floors and airing -sheets, then Dan's safe. But I don't seem to see Judge Lindley -telling the jury as it is. I've been a juryman under Judge Lindley -myself--and more than once--and I don't seem to see him, like!" He -paused with his mouth open. "As for all them nobs," he continued, -"including th' rector, as have gone to Stafford to kiss the book -and swear that Dan's reputation is second to none--if they could -ha' sworn as Dan wasn't in th' house at all that night, if they -could ha' sworn he was in Jericho, there'd ha' been some sense in -their going. But as it is, they'd ha' done better to stop at home -and mind their business. Bless us! Sam wanted ME to go!" - -He laughed again, in the faces of the horrified and angry women. - -"I'm surprised at you, Mr. Critchlow! I really am!" Constance -exclaimed. - -And the assistants inarticulately supported her with vague sounds. -Miss Insull got up and poked the stove. Every soul in the -establishment was loyally convinced that Daniel Povey would be -acquitted, and to breathe a doubt on the brightness of this -certainty was a hideous crime. The conviction was not within the -domain of reason; it was an act of faith; and arguments merely -fretted, without in the slightest degree disturbing it. - -"Ye may be!" Mr. Critchlow gaily concurred. He was very content. - -Just as he shuffled round to leave the shop, Cyril entered. - -"Good afternoon, Mr. Critchlow," said Cyril, sheepishly polite. - -Mr. Critchlow gazed hard at the boy, then nodded his head several -times rapidly, as though to say: "Here's another fool in the -making! So the generations follow one another!" He made no answer -to the salutation, and departed. - -Cyril ran round to his mother's corner, pitching his bag on to the -showroom stairs as he passed them. Taking off his hat, he kissed -her, and she unbuttoned his overcoat with her cold hands. - -"What's old Methuselah after?" he demanded. - -"Hush!" Constance softly corrected him. "He came in to tell me the -trial had started." - -"Oh, I knew that! A boy bought a paper and I saw it. I say, -mother, will father be in the paper?" And then in a different -tone: "I say, mother, what is there for tea?" - -When his stomach had learnt exactly what there was for tea, the -boy began to show an immense and talkative curiosity in the trial. -He would not set himself to his home-lessons. "It's no use, -mother," he said, "I can't." They returned to the shop together, -and Cyril would go every moment to the door to listen for the cry -of a newsboy. Presently he hit upon the idea that perhaps newsboys -might be crying the special edition of the Signal in the market- -place, in front of the Town Hall, to the neglect of St. Luke's -Square. And nothing would satisfy him but he must go forth and -see. He went, without his overcoat, promising to run. The shop -waited with a strange anxiety. Cyril had created, by his restless -movements to and fro, an atmosphere of strained expectancy. It -seemed now as if the whole town stood with beating heart, fearful -of tidings and yet burning to get them. Constance pictured -Stafford, which she had never seen, and a court of justice, which -she had never seen, and her husband and Daniel in it. And she -waited. - -Cyril ran in. "No!" he announced breathlessly. "Nothing yet." - -"Don't take cold, now you're hot," Constance advised. - -But he would keep near the door. Soon he ran off again. - -And perhaps fifteen seconds after he had gone, the strident cry of -a Signal boy was heard in the distance, faint and indistinct at -first, then clearer and louder. - -"There's a paper!" said the apprentice. - -"Sh!" said Constance, listening. - -"Sh!" echoed Miss Insull. - -"Yes, it is!" said Constance. "Miss Insull, just step out and get -a paper. Here's a halfpenny." - -The halfpenny passed quickly from one thimbled hand to another. -Miss Insull scurried. - -She came in triumphantly with the sheet, which Constance -tremblingly took. Constance could not find the report at first. -Miss Insull pointed to it, and read-- - -"'Summing up!' Lower down, lower down! 'After an absence of -thirty-five minutes the jury found the prisoner guilty of murder, -with a recommendation to mercy. The judge assumed the black cap -and pronounced sentence of death, saying that he would forward the -recommendation to the proper quarter.'" - -Cyril returned. "Not yet!" he was saying--when he saw the paper -lying on the counter. His crest fell. - -Long after the shop was shut, Constance and Cyril waited in the -parlour for the arrival of the master of the house. Constance was -in the blackest despair. She saw nothing but death around her. She -thought: misfortunes never come singly. Why did not Samuel come? -All was ready for him, everything that her imagination could -suggest, in the way of food, remedies, and the means of warmth. -Amy was not allowed to go to bed, lest she might be needed. -Constance did not even hint that Cyril should go to bed. The dark, -dreadful minutes ticked themselves off on the mantelpiece until -only five minutes separated Constance from the moment when she -would not know what to do next. It was twenty-five minutes past -eleven. If at half-past Samuel did not appear, then he could not -come that night, unless the last train from Stafford was -inconceivably late. - -The sound of a carriage! It ceased at the door. Mother and son -sprang up. - -Yes, it was Samuel! She beheld him once more. And the sight of his -condition, moral and physical, terrified her. His great strapping -son and Amy helped him upstairs. "Will he ever come down those -stairs again?" This thought lanced Constance's heart. The pain was -come and gone in a moment, but it had surprised her tranquil -commonsense, which was naturally opposed to, and gently scornful -of, hysterical fears. As she puffed, with her stoutness, up the -stairs, that bland cheerfulness of hers cost her an immense effort -of will. She was profoundly troubled; great disasters seemed to be -slowly approaching her from all quarters. - -Should she send for the doctor? No. To do so would only be a -concession to the panic instinct. She knew exactly what was the -matter with Samuel: a severe cough persistently neglected, no -more. As she had expressed herself many times to inquirers, "He's -never been what you may call ill." Nevertheless, as she laid him -in bed and possetted him, how frail and fragile he looked! And he -was so exhausted that he would not even talk about the trial. - -"If he's not better to-morrow I shall send for the doctor!" she -said to herself. As for his getting up, she swore she would keep -him in bed by force if necessary. - -IV - -The next morning she was glad and proud that she had not yielded -to a scare. For he was most strangely and obviously better. He had -slept heavily, and she had slept a little. True that Daniel was -condemned to death! Leaving Daniel to his fate, she was conscious -of joy springing in her heart. How absurd to have asked herself: -"Will he ever come down those stairs again?"! - -A message reached her from the forgotten shop during the morning, -that Mr. Lawton had called to see Mr. Povey. Already Samuel had -wanted to arise, but she had forbidden it in the tone of a woman -who is dangerous, and Samuel had been very reasonable. He now said -that Mr. Lawton must be asked up. She glanced round the bedroom. -It was 'done'; it was faultlessly correct as a sick chamber. She -agreed to the introduction into it of the man from another sphere, -and after a preliminary minute she left the two to talk together. -This visit of young Lawton's was a dramatic proof of Samuel's -importance, and of the importance of the matter in hand. The -august occasion demanded etiquette, and etiquette said that a wife -should depart from her husband when he had to transact affairs -beyond the grasp of a wife. - -The idea of a petition to the Home Secretary took shape at this -interview, and before the day was out it had spread over the town -and over the Five Towns, and it was in the Signal. The Signal -spoke of Daniel Povey as 'the condemned man.' And the phrase -startled the whole district into an indignant agitation for his -reprieve. The district woke up to the fact that a Town Councillor, -a figure in the world, an honest tradesman of unspotted character, -was cooped solitary in a little cell at Stafford, waiting to be -hanged by the neck till he was dead. The district determined that -this must not and should not be. Why! Dan Povey had actually once -been Chairman of the Bursley Society for the Prosecution of -Felons, that association for annual eating and drinking, whose -members humorously called each other 'felons'! Impossible, -monstrous, that an ex-chairman of the 'Felons' should be a -sentenced criminal! - -However, there was nothing to fear. No Home Secretary would dare -to run counter to the jury's recommendation and the expressed wish -of the whole district. Besides, the Home Secretary's nephew was -M.P. for the Knype division. Of course a verdict of guilty had -been inevitable. Everybody recognized that now. Even Samuel and -all the hottest partisans of Daniel Povey recognized it. They -talked as if they had always foreseen it, directly contradicting -all that they had said on only the previous day. Without any sense -of any inconsistency or of shame, they took up an absolutely new -position. The structure of blind faith had once again crumbled at -the assault of realities, and unhealthy, un-English truths, the -statement of which would have meant ostracism twenty-four hours -earlier, became suddenly the platitudes of the Square and the -market-place. - -Despatch was necessary in the affair of the petition, for the -condemned man had but three Sundays. But there was delay at the -beginning, because neither young Lawton nor any of his colleagues -was acquainted with the proper formula of a petition to the Home -Secretary for the reprieve of a criminal condemned to death. No -such petition had been made in the district within living memory. -And at first, young Lawton could not get sight or copy of any such -petition anywhere, in the Five Towns or out of them. Of course -there must exist a proper formula, and of course that formula and -no other could be employed. Nobody was bold enough to suggest that -young Lawton should commence the petition, "To the Most Noble the -Marquis of Welwyn, K.C.B., May it please your Lordship," and end -it, "And your petitioners will ever pray!" and insert between -those phrases a simple appeal for the reprieve, with a statement -of reasons. No! the formula consecrated by tradition must be -found. And, after Daniel had arrived a day and a half nearer -death, it was found. A lawyer at Alnwick had the draft of a -petition which had secured for a murderer in Northumberland twenty -years' penal servitude instead of sudden death, and on request he -lent it to young Lawton. The prime movers in the petition felt -that Daniel Povey was now as good as saved. Hundreds of forms were -printed to receive signatures, and these forms, together with -copies of the petition, were laid on the counters of all the -principal shops, not merely in Bursley, but in the other towns. -They were also to be found at the offices of the Signal, in -railway waiting-rooms, and in the various reading-rooms; and on -the second of Daniel's three Sundays they were exposed in the -porches of churches and chapels. Chapel-keepers and vergers would -come to Samuel and ask with the heavy inertia of their stupidity: -"About pens and ink, sir?" These officials had the air of -audaciously disturbing the sacrosanct routine of centuries in -order to confer a favour. - -Samuel continued to improve. His cough shook him less, and his -appetite increased. Constance allowed him to establish himself in -the drawing-room, which was next to the bedroom, and of which the -grate was particularly efficient. Here, in an old winter overcoat, -he directed the vast affair of the petition, which grew daily to -vaster proportions. Samuel dreamed of twenty thousand signatures. -Each sheet held twenty signatures, and several times a day he -counted the sheets; the supply of forms actually failed once, and -Constance herself had to hurry to the printers to order more. -Samuel was put into a passion by this carelessness of the -printers. He offered Cyril sixpence for every sheet of signatures -which the boy would obtain. At first Cyril was too shy to canvass, -but his father made him blush, and in a few hours Cyril had -developed into an eager canvasser. One whole day he stayed away -from school to canvas. Altogether he earned over fifteen -shillings, quite honestly except that he got a companion to forge -a couple of signatures with addresses lacking at the end of a last -sheet, generously rewarding him with sixpence, the value of the -entire sheet. - -When Samuel had received a thousand sheets with twenty thousand -signatures, he set his heart on twenty-five thousand signatures. -And he also announced his firm intention of accompanying young -Lawton to London with the petition. The petition had, in fact, -become one of the most remarkable petitions of modern times. So -the Signal said. The Signal gave a daily account of its progress, -and its progress was astonishing. In certain streets every -householder had signed it. The first sheets had been reserved for -the signatures of members of Parliament, ministers of religion, -civic dignitaries, justices of the peace, etc. These sheets were -nobly filled. The aged Rector of Bursley signed first of all; -after him the Mayor of Bursley, as was right; then sundry M.P.'s. - -Samuel emerged from the drawing-room. He went into the parlour, -and, later, into the shop; and no evil consequence followed. His -cough was nearly, but not quite, cured. The weather was -extraordinarily mild for the season. He repeated that he should go -with the petition to London; and he went; Constance could not -validly oppose the journey. She, too, was a little intoxicated by -the petition. It weighed considerably over a hundredweight. The -crowning signature, that of the M.P. for Knype, was duly obtained -in London, and Samuel's one disappointment was that his hope of -twenty-five thousand signatures had fallen short of realization-- -by only a few score. The few score could have been got had not -time urgently pressed. He returned from London a man of mark, full -of confidence; but his cough was worse again. - -His confidence in the power of public opinion and the inherent -virtue of justice might have proved to be well placed, had not the -Home Secretary happened to be one of your humane officials. The -Marquis of Welwyn was celebrated through every stratum of the -governing classes for his humane instincts, which were continually -fighting against his sense of duty. Unfortunately his sense of -duty, which he had inherited from several centuries of ancestors, -made havoc among his humane instincts on nearly every occasion of -conflict. It was reported that he suffered horribly in -consequence. Others also suffered, for he was never known to -advise a remission of a sentence of flogging. Certain capital -sentences he had commuted, but he did not commute Daniel Povey's. -He could not permit himself to be influenced by a wave of popular -sentiment, and assuredly not by his own nephew's signature. He -gave to the case the patient, remorseless examination which he -gave to every case. He spent a sleepless night in trying to -discover a reason for yielding to his humane instincts, but -without success. As Judge Lindley remarked in his confidential -report, the sole arguments in favour of Daniel were provocation -and his previous high character; and these were no sort of an -argument. The provocation was utterly inadequate, and the previous -high character was quite too ludicrously beside the point. So once -more the Marquis's humane instincts were routed and he suffered -horribly. - -On the Sunday morning after the day on which the Signal had -printed the menu of Daniel Povey's supreme breakfast, and the -exact length of the 'drop' which the executioner had administered -to him, Constance and Cyril stood together at the window of the -large bedroom. The boy was in his best clothes; but Constance's -garments gave no sign of the Sabbath. She wore a large apron over -an old dress that was rather tight for her. She was pale and -looked ill. - -"Oh, mother!" Cyril exclaimed suddenly. "Listen! I'm sure I can -hear the band." - -She checked him with a soundless movement of her lips; and they -both glanced anxiously at the silent bed, Cyril with a gesture of -apology for having forgotten that he must make no noise. - -The strains of the band came from down King Street, in the -direction of St. Luke's Church. The music appeared to linger a -long time in the distance, and then it approached, growing louder, -and the Bursley Town Silver Prize Band passed under the window at -the solemn pace of Handel's "Dead March." The effect of that -requiem, heavy with its own inherent beauty and with the vast -weight of harrowing tradition, was to wring the tears from -Constance's eyes; they fell on her aproned bosom, and she sank -into a chair. And though, the cheeks of the trumpeters were puffed -out, and though the drummer had to protrude his stomach and arch -his spine backwards lest he should tumble over his drum, there was -majesty in the passage of the band. The boom of the drum, -desolating the interruptions of the melody, made sick the heart, -but with a lofty grief; and the dirge seemed to be weaving a -purple pall that covered every meanness. - -The bandsmen were not all in black, but they all wore crape on -their sleeves and their instruments were knotted with crape. They -carried in their hats a black-edged card. Cyril held one of these -cards in his hands. It ran thus: - -SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF DANIEL POVEY A TOWN COUNCILLOR OF THIS -TOWN JUDICIALLY MURDERED AT 8 O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING 8TH FEBRUARY -1888 "HE WAS MORE SINNED AGAINST THAN SINNING." - -In the wake of the band came the aged Rector, bare-headed, and -wearing a surplice over his overcoat; his thin white hair was -disarranged by the breeze that played in the chilly sunshine; his -hands were folded on a gilt-edged book. A curate, churchwardens, -and sidesmen followed. And after these, tramping through the dark -mud in a procession that had apparently no end, wound the -unofficial male multitude, nearly all in mourning, and all, save -the more aristocratic, carrying the memorial card in their hats. -Loafers, women, and children had collected on the drying -pavements, and a window just opposite Constance was ornamented -with the entire family of the landlord of the Sun Vaults. In the -great bar of the Vaults a barman was craning over the pitchpine -screen that secured privacy to drinkers. The procession continued -without break, eternally rising over the verge of King Street -'bank,' and eternally vanishing round the corner into St. Luke's -Square; at intervals it was punctuated by a clergyman, a -Nonconformist minister, a town crier, a group of foremen, or a few -Rifle Volunteers. The watching crowd grew as the procession -lengthened. Then another band was heard, also playing the march -from Saul. The first band had now reached the top of the Square, -and was scarcely audible from King Street. The reiterated glitter -in the sun of memorial cards in hats gave the fanciful illusion of -an impossible whitish snake that was straggling across the town. -Three-quarters of an hour elapsed before the tail of the snake -came into view, and a rabble of unkempt boys closed in upon it, -filling the street, - -"I shall go to the drawing-room window, mother," said Cyril. - -She nodded. He crept out of the bedroom. - -St. Luke's Square was a sea of hats and memorial cards. Most of -the occupiers of the Square had hung out flags at half-mast, and a -flag at half-mast was flying over the Town Hall in the distance. -Sightseers were at every window. The two bands had united at the -top of the Square; and behind them, on a North Staffordshire -Railway lorry, stood the white-clad Rector and several black -figures. The Rector was speaking; but only those close to the -lorry could hear his feeble treble voice. - -Such was the massive protest of Bursley against what Bursley -regarded as a callous injustice. The execution of Daniel Povey had -most genuinely excited the indignation of the town. That execution -was not only an injustice; it was an insult, a humiliating snub. -And the worst was that the rest of the country had really -discovered no sympathetic interest in the affair. Certain London -papers, indeed, in commenting casually on the execution, had -slurred the morals and manners of the Five Towns, professing to -regard the district as notoriously beyond the realm of the Ten -Commandments. This had helped to render furious the townsmen. -This, as much as anything, had encouraged the spontaneous outburst -of feeling which had culminated in a St. Luke's Square full of -people with memorial cards in their hats. The demonstration had -scarcely been organized; it had somehow organized itself, -employing the places of worship and a few clubs as centres of -gathering. And it proved an immense success. There were seven or -eight thousand people in the Square, and the pity was that England -as a whole could not have had a glimpse of the spectacle. Since -the execution of the elephant, nothing had so profoundly agitated -Bursley. Constance, who left the bedroom momentarily for the -drawing-room, reflected that the death and burial of Cyril's -honoured grandfather, though a resounding event, had not caused -one-tenth of the stir which she beheld. But then John Baines had -killed nobody. - -The Rector spoke too long; every one felt that. But at length he -finished. The bands performed the Doxology, and the immense -multitudes began to disperse by the eight streets that radiate -from the Square. At the same time one o'clock struck, and the -public-houses opened with their customary admirable promptitude. -Respectable persons, of course, ignored the public-houses and -hastened homewards to a delayed dinner. But in a town of over -thirty thousand souls there are sufficient dregs to fill all the -public-houses on an occasion of ceremonial excitement. Constance -saw the bar of the Vaults crammed with individuals whose sense of -decent fitness was imperfect. The barman and the landlord and the -principal members of the landlord's family were hard put to it to -quench that funereal thirst. Constance, as she ate a little meal -in the bedroom, could not but witness the orgy. A bandsman with -his silver instrument was prominent at the counter. At five -minutes to three the Vaults spewed forth a squirt of roysterers -who walked on the pavement as on a tight-rope; among them was the -bandsman, his silver instrument only half enveloped in its bag of -green serge. He established an equilibrium in the gutter. It would -not have mattered so seriously if he had not been a bandsman. The -barman and the landlord pushed the ultimate sot by force into the -street and bolted the door (till six o'clock) just as a policeman -strolled along, the first policeman of the day. It became known -that similar scenes were enacting at the thresholds of other inns. -And the judicious were sad. - -VI - -When the altercation between the policeman and the musician in the -gutter was at its height, Samuel Povey became restless; but since -he had scarcely stirred through the performances of the bands, it -was probably not the cries of the drunkard that had aroused him. - -He had shown very little interest in the preliminaries of the -great demonstration. The flame of his passion for the case of -Daniel Povey seemed to have shot up on the day before the -execution, and then to have expired. On that day he went to -Stafford in order, by permit of the prison governor, to see his -cousin for the last time. His condition then was undoubtedly not -far removed from monomania. 'Unhinged' was the conventional -expression which frequently rose in Constance's mind as a -description of the mind of her husband; but she fought it down; -she would not have it; it was too crude--with its associations. -She would only admit that the case had 'got on' his mind. A -startling proof of this was that he actually suggested taking -Cyril with him to see the condemned man. He wished Cyril to see -Daniel; he said gravely that he thought Cyril ought to see him. -The proposal was monstrous, inexplicable--or explicable only by -the assumption that his mind, while not unhinged, had temporarily -lost its balance. Constance opposed an absolute negative, and -Samuel being in every way enfeebled, she overcame. As for Cyril, -he was divided between fear and curiosity. On the whole, perhaps -Cyril regretted that he would not be able to say at school that he -had had speech with the most celebrated killer of the age on the -day before his execution. - -Samuel returned hysterical from Stafford. His account of the -scene, which he gave in a very loud voice, was a most absurd and -yet pathetic recital, obviously distorted by memory. When he came -to the point of the entrance of Dick Povey, who was still at the -hospital, and who had been specially driven to Stafford and -carried into the prison, he wept without restraint. His hysteria -was painful in a very high degree. - -He went to bed--of his own accord, for his cough had improved -again. And on the following day, the day of the execution, he -remained in bed till the afternoon. In the evening the Rector sent -for him to the Rectory to discuss the proposed demonstration. On -the next day, Saturday, he said he should not get up. Icy showers -were sweeping the town, and his cough was worse after the evening -visit to the Rector. Constance had no apprehensions about him. The -most dangerous part of the winter was over, and there was nothing -now to force him into indiscretions. She said to herself calmly -that he should stay in bed as long as he liked, that he could not -have too much repose after the cruel fatigues, physical and -spiritual, which he had suffered. His cough was short, but not as -troublesome as in the past; his face flushed, dusky, and settled -in gloom; and he was slightly feverish, with quick pulse and quick -breathing--the symptoms of a renewed cold. He passed a wakeful -night, broken by brief dreams in which he talked. At dawn he had -some hot food, asked what day it was, frowned, and seemed to doze -off at once. At eleven o'clock he had refused food. And he had -intermittently dozed during the progress of the demonstration and -its orgiastic sequel. - -Constance had food ready for his waking, and she approached the -bed and leaned over him. The fever had increased somewhat, the -breathing was more rapid, and his lips were covered with tiny -purple pimples. He feebly shook his head, with a disgusted air, at -her mention of food. It was this obstinate refusal of food which -first alarmed her. A little uncomfortable suspicion shot up in -her: Surely there's nothing the MATTER with him? - -Something--impossible to say what--caused her to bend still lower, -and put her ear to his chest. She heard within that mysterious box -a rapid succession of thin, dry, crackling sounds: sounds such as -she would have produced by rubbing her hair between her fingers -close to her ear. The crepitation ceased, then recommenced, and -she perceived that it coincided with the intake of his breath. He -coughed; the sounds were intensified; a spasm of pain ran over his -face; and he put his damp hand to his side. - -"Pain in my side!" he whispered with difficulty. - -Constance stepped into the drawing-room, where Cyril was sketching -by the fire. - -"Cyril," she said, "go across and ask Dr. Harrop to come round at -once. And if he isn't in, then his new partner." - -"Is it for father?" - -"Yes." - -"What's the matter?" - -"Now do as I say, please," said Constance, sharply, adding: "I -don't know what's the matter. Perhaps nothing. But I'm not -satisfied." - -The venerable Harrop pronounced the word 'pneumonia.' It was acute -double pneumonia that Samuel had got. During the three worst -months of the year, he had escaped the fatal perils which await a -man with a flat chest and a chronic cough, who ignores his -condition and defies the weather. But a journey of five hundred -yards to the Rectory had been one journey too many. The Rectory -was so close to the shop that he had not troubled to wrap himself -up as for an excursion to Stafford. He survived the crisis of the -disease and then died of toxsemia, caused by a heart that would -not do its duty by the blood. A casual death, scarce noticed in -the reaction after the great febrile demonstration! Besides, -Samuel Povey never could impose himself on the burgesses. He -lacked individuality. He was little. I have often laughed at -Samuel Povey. But I liked and respected him. He was a very honest -man. I have always been glad to think that, at the end of his -life, destiny took hold of him and displayed, to the observant, -the vein of greatness which runs through every soul without -exception. He embraced a cause, lost it, and died of it. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE WIDOW - -I - - -Constance, alone in the parlour, stood expectant by the set tea- -table. She was not wearing weeds; her mother and she, on the death -of her father, had talked of the various disadvantages of weeds; -her mother had worn them unwillingly, and only because a public -opinion not sufficiently advanced had intimidated her. Constance -had said: "If ever I'm a widow I won't wear them," positively, in -the tone of youth; and Mrs. Baines had replied: "I hope you won't, -my dear." That was over twenty years ago, but Constance perfectly -remembered. And now, she was a widow! How strange and how -impressive was life! And she had kept her word; not positively, -not without hesitations; for though times were changed, Bursley -was still Bursley; but she had kept it. - -This was the first Monday after Samuel's funeral. Existence in the -house had been resumed on the plane which would henceforth be the -normal plane. Constance had put on for tea a dress of black silk -with a jet brooch of her mother's. Her hands, just meticulously -washed, had that feeling of being dirty which comes from -roughening of the epidermis caused by a day spent in fingering -stuffs. She had been 'going through' Samuel's things, and her own, -and ranging all anew. It was astonishing how little the man had -collected, of 'things,' in the course of over half a century. All -his clothes were contained in two long drawers and a short one. He -had the least possible quantity of haberdashery and linen, for he -invariably took from the shop such articles as he required, when -he required them, and he would never preserve what was done with. -He possessed no jewellery save a set of gold studs, a scarf-ring, -and a wedding-ring; the wedding-ring was buried with him. Once, -when Constance had offered him her father's gold watch and chain, -he had politely refused it, saying that he preferred his own--a -silver watch (with a black cord) which kept excellent time; he had -said later that she might save the gold watch and chain for Cyril -when he was twenty-one. Beyond these trifles and a half-empty box -of cigars and a pair of spectacles, he left nothing personal to -himself. Some men leave behind them a litter which takes months to -sift and distribute. But Samuel had not the mania for owning. -Constance put his clothes in a box to be given away gradually -(all except an overcoat and handkerchiefs which might do for -Cyril); she locked up the watch and its black cord, the spectacles -and the scarf-ring; she gave the gold studs to Cyril; she climbed -on a chair and hid the cigar-box on the top of her wardrobe; and -scarce a trace of Samuel remained! - -By his own wish the funeral had been as simple and private as -possible. One or two distant relations, whom Constance scarcely -knew and who would probably not visit her again until she too was -dead, came--and went. And lo! the affair was over. The simple -celerity of the funeral would have satisfied even Samuel, whose -tremendous self-esteem hid itself so effectually behind such -externals that nobody had ever fully perceived it. Not even -Constance quite knew Samuel's secret opinion of Samuel. Constance -was aware that he had a ridiculous side, that his greatest lack -had been a lack of spectacular dignity. Even in the coffin, where -nevertheless most people are finally effective, he had not been -imposing--with his finicky little grey beard persistently sticking -up. - -The vision of him in his coffin--there in the churchyard, just at -the end of King Street!--with the lid screwed down on that -unimportant beard, recurred frequently in the mind of the widow, -as something untrue and misleading. She had to say to herself: -"Yes, he is really there! And that is why I have this particular -feeling in my heart." She saw him as an object pathetic and -wistful, not majestic. And yet she genuinely thought that there -could not exist another husband quite so honest, quite so just, -quite so reliable, quite so good, as Samuel had been. What a -conscience he had! How he would try, and try, to be fair with her! -Twenty years she could remember, of ceaseless, constant endeavour -on his part to behave rightly to her! She could recall many an -occasion when he had obviously checked himself, striving against -his tendency to cold abruptness and to sullenness, in order to -give her the respect due to a wife. What loyalty was his! How she -could depend on him! How much better he was than herself (she -thought with modesty)! - -His death was an amputation for her. But she faced it with -calmness. She was not bowed with sorrow. She did not nurse the -idea that her life was at an end; on the contrary, she obstinately -put it away from her, dwelling on Cyril. She did not indulge in -the enervating voluptuousness of grief. She had begun in the first -hours of bereavement by picturing herself as one marked out for -the blows of fate. She had lost her father and her mother, and now -her husband. Her career seemed to be punctuated by interments. But -after a while her gentle commonsense came to insist that most -human beings lose their parents, and that every marriage must end -in either a widower or a widow, and that all careers are -punctuated by interments. Had she not had nearly twenty-one years -of happy married life? (Twenty-one years--rolled up! The sudden -thought of their naive ignorance of life, hers and his, when they -were first married, brought tears into her eyes. How wise and -experienced she was now!) And had she not Cyril? Compared to many -women, she was indeed very fortunate. - -The one visitation which had been specially hers was the -disappearance of Sophia. And yet even that was not worse than the -death outright of Sophia, was perhaps not so bad. For Sophia might -return out of the darkness. The blow of Sophia's flight had seemed -unique when it was fresh, and long afterwards; had seemed to -separate the Baines family from all other families in a particular -shame. But at the age of forty-three Constance had learnt that -such events are not uncommon in families, and strange sequels to -them not unknown. Thinking often of Sophia, she hoped wildly and -frequently. - -She looked at the clock; she had a little spasm of nervousness -lest Cyril might fail to keep his word on that first day of their -new regular life together. And at the instant he burst into the -room, invading it like an armed force, having previously laid -waste the shop in his passage. - -"I'm not late, mother! I'm not late!" he cried proudly. - -She smiled warmly, happy in him, drawing out of him balm and -solace. He did not know that in that stout familiar body before -him was a sensitive, trembling soul that clutched at him -ecstatically as the one reality in the universe. He did not know -that that evening meal, partaken of without hurry after school had -released him to her, was to be the ceremonial sign of their -intimate unity and their interdependence, a tender and delicious -proof that they were 'all in all to each other': he saw only his -tea, for which he was hungry--just as hungry as though his father -were not scarcely yet cold in the grave. - -But he saw obscurely that the occasion demanded something not -quite ordinary, and so exerted himself to be boyishly charming to -his mother. She said to herself 'how good he was.' He felt at ease -and confident in the future, because he detected beneath her -customary judicial, impartial mask a clear desire to spoil him. - -After tea, she regretfully left him, at his home-lessons, in order -to go into the shop. The shop was the great unsolved question. -What was she to do with the shop? Was she to continue the business -or to sell it? With the fortunes of her father and her aunt, and -the economies of twenty years, she had more than sufficient means. -She was indeed rich, according to the standards of the Square; -nay, wealthy! Therefore she was under no material compulsion to -keep the shop. Moreover, to keep it would mean personal -superintendence and the burden of responsibility, from which her -calm lethargy shrank. On the other hand, to dispose of the -business would mean the breaking of ties and leaving the premises: -and from this also she shrank. Young Lawton, without being asked, -had advised her to sell. But she did not want to sell. She wanted -the impossible: that matters should proceed in the future as in -the past, that Samuel's death should change nothing save in her -heart. - -In the meantime Miss Insull was priceless. Constance thoroughly -understood one side of the shop; but Miss Insull understood both, -and the finance of it also. Miss Insull could have directed the -establishment with credit, if not with brilliance. She was indeed -directing it at that moment. Constance, however, felt jealous of -Miss Insull; she was conscious of a slight antipathy towards the -faithful one. She did not care to be in the hands of Miss Insull. - -There were one or two customers at the millinery counter. They -greeted her with a deplorable copiousness of tact. Most tactfully -they avoided any reference to Constance's loss; but by their tone, -their glances, at Constance and at each other, and their -heroically restrained sighs, they spread desolation as though they -had been spreading ashes instead of butter on bread. The -assistants, too, had a special demeanour for the poor lone widow -which was excessively trying to her. She wished to be natural, and -she would have succeeded, had they not all of them apparently -conspired together to make her task impossible. - -She moved away to the other side of the shop, to Samuel's desk, at -which he used to stand, staring absently out of the little window -into King Street while murmurously casting figures. She lighted -the gas-jet there, arranged the light exactly to suit her, and -then lifted the large flap of the desk and drew forth some account -books. - -"Miss Insull!" she called, in a low, clear voice, with a touch of -haughtiness and a touch of command in it. The pose, a comical -contradiction of Constance's benevolent character, was -deliberately adopted; it illustrated the effects of jealousy on -even the softest disposition. - -Miss Insull responded. She had no alternative but to respond. And -she gave no sign of resenting her employer's attitude. But then -Miss Insull seldom did give any sign of being human. - -The customers departed, one after another, obsequiously sped by -the assistants, who thereupon lowered the gases somewhat, -according to secular rule; and in the dim eclipse, as they -restored boxes to shelves, they could hear the tranquil, regular, -half-whispered conversation of the two women at the desk, -discussing accounts; and then the chink of gold. - -Suddenly there was an irruption. One of the assistants sprang -instinctively to the gas; but on perceiving that the disturber of -peace was only a slatternly girl, hatless and imperfectly clean, -she decided to leave the gas as it was, and put on a -condescending, suspicious demeanour. - -"If you please, can I speak to the missis?" said the girl, -breathlessly. - -She seemed to be about eighteen years of age, fat and plain. Her -blue frock was torn, and over it she wore a rough brown apron, -caught up at one corner to the waist. Her bare forearms were of -brick-red colour. - -"What is it?" demanded the assistant. - -Miss Insull looked over her shoulder across the shop. "It must be -Maggie's--Mrs. Hollins's daughter!" said Miss Insull under her -breath. - -"What can she want?" said Constance, leaving the desk instantly; -and to the girl, who stood sturdily holding her own against the -group of assistants: "You are Mrs. Hollins's daughter, aren't -you?" - -"Yes, mum." - -"What's your name?" - -"Maggie, mum. And, if you please, mother's sent me to ask if -you'll kindly give her a funeral card." - -"A funeral card?" - -"Yes. Of Mr. Povey. She's been expecting of one, and she thought -as how perhaps you'd forgotten it, especially as she wasn't asked -to the funeral." - -The girl stopped. - -Constance perceived that by mere negligence she had seriously -wounded the feelings of Maggie, senior. The truth was, she had -never thought of Maggie. She ought to have remembered that funeral -cards were almost the sole ornamentation of Maggie's abominable -cottage. - -"Certainly," she replied after a pause. "Miss Insull, there are a -few cards left in the desk, aren't there? Please put me one in an -envelope for Mrs. Hollins." - -She gave the heavily bordered envelope to the ruddy wench, who -enfolded it in her apron, and with hurried, shy thanks ran off. - -"Tell your mother I send her a card with pleasure," Constance -called after the girl. - -The strangeness of the hazards of life made her thoughtful. She, -to whom Maggie had always seemed an old woman, was a widow, but -Maggie's husband survived as a lusty invalid. And she guessed that -Maggie, vilely struggling in squalor and poverty, was somehow -happy in her frowsy, careless way. - -She went back to the accounts, dreaming. - -II - -When the shop had been closed, under her own critical and precise -superintendence, she extinguished the last gas in it and returned -to the parlour, wondering where she might discover some entirely -reliable man or boy to deal with the shutters night and morning. -Samuel had ordinarily dealt with the shutters himself, and on -extraordinary occasions and during holidays Miss Insull and one of -her subordinates had struggled with their unwieldiness. But the -extraordinary occasion had now become ordinary, and Miss Insull -could not be expected to continue indefinitely in the functions of -a male. Constance had a mind to engage an errand-boy, a luxury -against which Samuel had always set his face. She did not dream of -asking the herculean Cyril to open and shut shop. - -He had apparently finished his home-lessons. The books were pushed -aside, and he was sketching in lead-pencil on a drawing-block. To -the right of the fireplace, over the sofa, there hung an engraving -after Landseer, showing a lonely stag paddling into a lake. The -stag at eve had drunk or was about to drink his fill, and Cyril -was copying him. He had already indicated a flight of birds in the -middle distance; vague birds on the wing being easier than -detailed stags, he had begun with the birds. - -Constance put a hand on his shoulder. "Finished your lessons?" she -murmured caressingly. - -Before speaking, Cyril gazed up at the picture with a frowning, -busy expression, and then replied in an absent-minded voice: - -"Yes." And after a pause: "Except my arithmetic. I shall do that -in the morning before breakfast." - -"Oh, Cyril!" she protested. - -It had been a positive ordinance, for a long time past, that there -should be no sketching until lessons were done. In his father's -lifetime Cyril had never dared to break it. - -He bent over his block, feigning an intense absorption. -Constance's hand slipped from his shoulder. She wanted to command -him formally to resume his lessons. But she could not. She feared -an argument; she mistrusted herself. And, moreover, it was so soon -after his father's death! - -"You know you won't have time to-morrow morning!" she said weakly. - -"Oh, mother!" he retorted superiorly. "Don't worry." And then, in -a cajoling tone: "I've wanted to do that stag for ages." - -She sighed and sat down in her rocking-chair. He went on -sketching, rubbing out, and making queer expostulatory noises -against his pencil, or against the difficulties needlessly -invented by Sir Edwin Landseer. Once he rose and changed the -position of the gas-bracket, staring fiercely at the engraving as -though it had committed a sin. - -Amy came to lay the supper. He did not acknowledge that she -existed. - -"Now, Master Cyril, after you with that table, if you please!" She -announced herself brusquely, with the privilege of an old servant -and a woman who would never see thirty again. - -"What a nuisance you are, Amy!" he gruffly answered. "Look here, -mother, can't Amy lay the cloth on that half of the table? I'm -right in the middle of my drawing. There's plenty of room there -for two." - -He seemed not to be aware that, in the phrase 'plenty of room for -two,' he had made a callous reference to their loss. The fact was, -there WAS plenty of room for two. - -Constance said quickly: "Very well, Amy. For this once." - -Amy grunted, but obeyed. - -Constance had to summon him twice from art to nourishment. He ate -with rapidity, frequently regarding the picture with half-shut, -searching eyes. When he had finished, he refilled his glass with -water, and put it next to his sketching-block. - -"You surely aren't thinking of beginning to paint at this time of -night!" Constance exclaimed, astonished. - -"Oh YES, mother!" he fretfully appealed. "It's not late." - -Another positive ordinance of his father's had been that there -should be nothing after supper except bed. Nine o'clock was the -latest permissible moment for going to bed. It was now less than a -quarter to. - -"It only wants twelve minutes to nine," Constance pointed out. - -"Well, what if it does?" - -"Now, Cyril," she said, "I do hope you are going to be a good boy, -and not cause your mother anxiety." - -But she said it too kindly. - -He said sullenly: "I do think you might let me finish it. I've -begun it. It won't take me long." - -She made the mistake of leaving the main point. "How can you -possibly choose your colours properly by gas-light?" she said. - -"I'm going to do it in sepia," he replied in triumph. - -"It mustn't occur again," she said. - -He thanked God for a good supper, and sprang to the harmonium, -where his paint-box was. Amy cleared away. Constance did crochet- -work. There was silence. The clock struck nine, and it also struck -half-past nine. She warned him repeatedly. At ten minutes to ten -she said persuasively: - -"Now, Cyril, when the clock strikes ten I shall really put the gas -out." - -The clock struck ten. - -"Half a mo, half a mo!" he cried. "I've done! I've done!" - -Her hand was arrested. - -Another four minutes elapsed, and then he jumped up. "There you -are!" he said proudly, showing her the block. And all his gestures -were full of grace and cajolery. - -"Yes, it's very good," Constance said, rather indifferently. - -"I don't believe you care for it!" he accused her, but with a -bright smile. - -"I care for your health," she said. "Just look at that clock!" - -He sat down in the other rocking-chair, deliberately. - -"Now, Cyril!" - -"Well, mother, I suppose you'll let me take my boots off!" He said -it with teasing good-humour. - -When he kissed her good night, she wanted to cling to him, so -affectionate was his kiss; but she could not throw off the habits -of restraint which she had been originally taught and had all her -life practised. She keenly regretted the inability. - -In her bedroom, alone, she listened to his movements as he -undressed. The door between the two rooms was unlatched. She had -to control a desire to open it ever so little and peep at him. He -would not have liked that. He could have enriched her heart beyond -all hope, and at no cost to himself; but he did not know his -power. As she could not cling to him with her hands, she clung to -him with that heart of hers, while moving sedately up and down the -room, alone. And her eyes saw him through the solid wood of the -door. At last she got heavily into bed. She thought with placid -anxiety, in the dark: "I shall have to be firm with Cyril." And -she thought also, simultaneously: "He really must be a good boy. -He MUST." And clung to him passionately, without shame! Lying -alone there in the dark, she could be as unrestrained and girlish -as her heart chose. When she loosed her hold she instantly saw the -boy's father arranged in his coffin, or flitting about the room. -Then she would hug that vision too, for the pleasure of the pain -it gave her. - -III - -She was reassured as to Cyril during the next few days. He did not -attempt to repeat his ingenious naughtiness of the Monday evening, -and he came directly home for tea; moreover he had, as a kind of -miracle performed to dazzle her, actually arisen early on the -Tuesday morning and done his arithmetic. To express her -satisfaction she had manufactured a specially elaborate straw- -frame for the sketch after Sir Edwin Landseer, and had hung it in -her bedroom: an honour which Cyril appreciated. She was as happy -as a woman suffering from a recent amputation can be; and compared -with the long nightmare created by Samuel's monomania and illness, -her existence seemed to be now a beneficent calm. - -Cyril, she thought, had realized the importance in her eyes of -tea, of that evening hour and that companionship which were for -her the flowering of the day. And she had such confidence in his -goodness that she would pour the boiling water on the Horniman -tea-leaves even before he arrived: certainty could not be more -sure. And then, on the Friday of the first week, he was late! He -bounded in, after dark, and the state of his clothes indicated too -clearly that he had been playing football in the mud that was a -grassy field in summer. - -"Have you been kept in, my boy?" she asked, for the sake of form. - -"No, mother," he said casually. "We were just kicking the ball -about a bit. Am I late?" - -"Better go and tidy yourself," she said, not replying to his -question. "You can't sit down in that state. And I'll have some -fresh tea made. This is spoilt." - -"Oh, very well!" - -Her sacred tea--the institution which she wanted to hallow by long -habit, and which was to count before everything with both of them ---had been carelessly sacrificed to the kicking of a football in -mud! And his father buried not ten days! She was wounded: a deep, -clean, dangerous wound that would not bleed. She tried to be glad -that he had not lied; he might easily have lied, saying that he -had been detained for a fault and could not help being late. No! -He was not given to lying; he would lie, like any human being, -when a great occasion demanded such prudence, but he was not a -liar; he might fairly be called a truthful boy. She tried to be -glad, and did not succeed. She would have preferred him to have -lied. - -Amy, grumbling, had to boil more water. - -When he returned to the parlour, superficially cleaned, Constance -expected him to apologize in his roundabout boyish way; at any -rate to woo and wheedle her, to show by some gesture that he was -conscious of having put an affront on her. But his attitude was -quite otherwise. His attitude was rather brusque and overbearing -and noisy. He ate a very considerable amount of jam, far too -quickly, and then asked for more, in a tone of a monarch who calls -for his own. And ere tea was finished he said boldly, apropos of -nothing: - -"I say, mother, you'll just have to let me go to the School of Art -after Easter." - -And stared at her with a fixed challenge in his eyes. - -He meant, by the School of Art, the evening classes at the School -of Art. His father had decided absolutely against the project. His -father had said that it would interfere with his lessons, would -keep him up too late at night, and involve absence from home in -the evening. The last had always been the real objection. His -father had not been able to believe that Cyril's desire to study -art sprang purely from his love of art; he could not avoid -suspecting that it was a plan to obtain freedom in the evenings-- -that freedom which Samuel had invariably forbidden. In all Cyril's -suggestions Samuel had been ready to detect the same scheme -lurking. He had finally said that when Cyril left school and took -to a vocation, then he could study art at night if he chose, but -not before. - -"You know what your father said!" Constance replied. - -"But, mother! That's all very well! I'm sure father would have -agreed. If I'm going to take up drawing I ought to do it at once. -That's what the drawing-master says, and I suppose he ought to -know." He finished on a tone of insolence. - -"I can't allow you to do it yet," said Constance, quietly. "It's -quite out of the question. Quite!" - -He pouted and then he sulked. It was war between them. At times he -was the image of his Aunt Sophia. He would not leave the subject -alone; but he would not listen to Constance's reasoning. He openly -accused her of harshness. He asked her how she could expect him to -get on if she thwarted him in his most earnest desires. He pointed -to other boys whose parents were wiser. - -"It's all very fine of you to put it on father!" he observed -sarcastically. - -He gave up his drawing entirely. - -When she hinted that if he attended the School of Art she would be -condemned to solitary evenings, he looked at her as though saying: -"Well, and if you are--?" He seemed to have no heart. - -After several weeks of intense unhappiness she said: "How many -evenings do you want to go?" - -The war was over. - -He was charming again. When she was alone she could cling to him -again. And she said to herself: "If we can be happy together only -when I give way to him, I must give way to him." And there was -ecstasy in her yielding. "After all," she said to herself, -"perhaps it's very important that he should go to the School of -Art." She solaced herself with such thoughts on three solitary -evenings a week, waiting for him to come home. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -BRICKS AND MORTAR - -I - - -In the summer of that year the occurrence of a white rash of -posters on hoardings and on certain houses and shops, was -symptomatic of organic change in the town. The posters were -iterations of a mysterious announcement and summons, which began -with the august words: "By Order of the Trustees of the late -William Clews Mericarp, Esq." Mericarp had been a considerable -owner of property in Bursley. After a prolonged residence at -Southport, he had died, at the age of eighty-two, leaving his -property behind. For sixty years he had been a name, not a figure; -and the news of his death, which was assuredly an event, incited -the burgesses to gossip, for they had come to regard him as one of -the invisible immortals. Constance was shocked, though she had -never seen Mericarp. ("Everybody dies nowadays!" she thought.) He -owned the Baines-Povey shop, and also Mr. Critchlow's shop. -Constance knew not how often her father and, later, her husband, -had renewed the lease of those premises that were now hers; but -from her earliest recollections rose a vague memory of her father -talking to her mother about 'Mericarp's rent,' which was and -always had been a hundred a year. Mericarp had earned the -reputation of being 'a good landlord.' Constance said sadly: "We -shall never have another as good!" When a lawyer's clerk called -and asked her to permit the exhibition of a poster in each of her -shop-windows, she had misgivings for the future; she was worried; -she decided that she would determine the lease next year, so as to -be on the safe side; but immediately afterwards she decided that -she could decide nothing. - -The posters continued: "To be sold by auction, at the Tiger Hotel -at six-thirty for seven o'clock precisely." What six-thirty had to -do with seven o'clock precisely no one knew. Then, after stating -the name and credentials of the auctioneer, the posters at length -arrived at the objects to be sold: "All those freehold messuages -and shops and copyhold tenements namely." Houses were never sold -by auction in Bursley. At moments of auction burgesses were -reminded that the erections they lived in were not houses, as they -had falsely supposed, but messuages. Having got as far as 'namely' -the posters ruled a line and began afresh: "Lot I. All that -extensive and commodious shop and messuage with the offices and -appurtenances thereto belonging situate and being No. 4 St. Luke's -Square in the parish of Bursley in the County of Stafford and at -present in the occupation of Mrs. Constance Povey widow under a -lease expiring in September 1889." Thus clearly asserting that all -Constance's shop was for sale, its whole entirety, and not a -fraction or slice of it merely, the posters proceeded: "Lot 2. All -that extensive and commodious shop and messuage with the offices -and appurtenances thereto belonging situate and being No. 3 St. -Luke's Square in the parish of Bursley in the County of Stafford -and at present in the occupation of Charles Critchlow chemist -under an agreement for a yearly tenancy." The catalogue ran to -fourteen lots. The posters, lest any one should foolishly imagine -that a non-legal intellect could have achieved such explicit and -comprehensive clarity of statement, were signed by a powerful firm -of solicitors in Hanbridge. Happily in the Five Towns there were -no metaphysicians; otherwise the firm might have been expected to -explain, in the 'further particulars and conditions' which the -posters promised, how even a messuage could 'be' the thing at -which it was 'situate.' - -Within a few hours of the outbreak of the rash, Mr. Critchlow -abruptly presented himself before Constance at the millinery -counter; he was waving a poster. - -"Well!" he exclaimed grimly. "What next, eh?" - -"Yes, indeed!" Constance responded. - -"Are ye thinking o' buying?" he asked. All the assistants, -including Miss Insull, were in hearing, but he ignored their -presence. - -"Buying!" repeated Constance. "Not me! I've got quite enough house -property as it is." - -Like all owners of real property, she usually adopted towards her -possessions an attitude implying that she would be willing to pay -somebody to take them from her. - -"Shall you?" she added, with Mr. Critchlow's own brusqueness. - -"Me! Buy property in St. Luke's Square!" Mr. Critchlow sneered. -And then left the shop as suddenly as he had entered it. - -The sneer at St. Luke's Square was his characteristic expression -of an opinion which had been slowly forming for some years. The -Square was no longer what it had been, though individual -businesses might be as good as ever. For nearly twelve months two -shops had been to let in it. And once, bankruptcy had stained its -annals. The tradesmen had naturally searched for a cause in every -direction save the right one, the obvious one; and naturally they -had found a cause. According to the tradesmen, the cause was 'this -football.' The Bursley Football Club had recently swollen into a -genuine rival of the ancient supremacy of the celebrated Knype -Club. It had transformed itself into a limited company, and rented -a ground up the Moorthorne Road, and built a grand stand. The -Bursley F.C. had 'tied' with the Knype F.C. on the Knype ground--a -prodigious achievement, an achievement which occupied a column of -the Athletic News one Monday morning! But were the tradesmen -civically proud of this glory? No! They said that 'this football' -drew people out of the town on Saturday afternoons, to the -complete abolition of shopping. They said also that people thought -of nothing but 'this football;' and, nearly in the same breath, -that only roughs and good-for-nothings could possibly be -interested in such a barbarous game. And they spoke of gate-money, -gambling, and professionalism, and the end of all true sport in -England. In brief, something new had come to the front and was -submitting to the ordeal of the curse. - -The sale of the Mericarp estate had a particular interest for -respectable stake-in-the-town persons. It would indicate to what -extent, if at all, 'this football' was ruining Bursley. Constance -mentioned to Cyril that she fancied she might like to go to the -sale, and as it was dated for one of Cyril's off-nights Cyril said -that he fancied he might like to go too. So they went together; -Samuel used to attend property sales, but he had never taken his -wife to one. Constance and Cyril arrived at the Tiger shortly -after seven o'clock, and were directed to a room furnished and -arranged as for a small public meeting of philanthropists. A few -gentlemen were already present, but not the instigating trustees, -solicitors, and auctioneers. It appeared that 'six-thirty for -seven o'clock precisely' meant seven-fifteen. Constance took a -Windsor chair in the corner nearest the door, and motioned Cyril -to the next chair; they dared not speak; they moved on tiptoe; -Cyril inadvertently dragged his chair along the floor, and -produced a scrunching sound; he blushed, as though he had -desecrated a church, and his mother made a gesture of horror. The -remainder of the company glanced at the corner, apparently pained -by this negligence. Some of them greeted Constance, but self- -consciously, with a sort of shamed air; it might have been that -they had all nefariously gathered together there for the -committing of a crime. Fortunately Constance's widowhood had -already lost its touching novelty, so that the greetings, if self- -conscious, were at any rate given without unendurable -commiseration and did not cause awkwardness. - -When the official world arrived, fussy, bustling, bearing -documents and a hammer, the general feeling of guilty shame was -intensified. Useless for the auctioneer to try to dissipate the -gloom by means of bright gestures and quick, cheerful remarks to -his supporters! Cyril had an idea that the meeting would open with -a hymn, until the apparition of a tapster with wine showed him his -error. The auctioneer very particularly enjoined the tapster to -see to it that no one lacked for his thirst, and the tapster -became self-consciously energetic. He began by choosing Constance -for service. In refusing wine, she blushed; then the fellow -offered a glass to Cyril, who went scarlet, and mumbled 'No' with -a lump in his throat; when the tapster's back was turned, he -smiled sheepishly at his mother. The majority of the company -accepted and sipped. The auctioneer sipped and loudly smacked, and -said: "Ah!" - -Mr. Critchlow came in. - -And the auctioneer said again: "Ah! I'm always glad when the -tenants come. That's always a good sign." - -He glanced round for approval of this sentiment. But everybody -seemed too stiff to move. Even the auctioneer was self-conscious. - -"Waiter! Offer wine to Mr. Critchlow!" he exclaimed bullyingly, as -if saying: "Man! what on earth are you thinking of, to neglect Mr. -Critchlow?" - -"Yes, sir; yes, sir," said the waiter, who was dispensing wine as -fast as a waiter can. - -The auction commenced. - -Seizing the hammer, the auctioneer gave a short biography of -William Clews Mericarp, and, this pious duty accomplished, called -upon a solicitor to read the conditions of sale. The solicitor -complied and made a distressing exhibition of self-consciousness. -The conditions of sale were very lengthy, and apparently composed -in a foreign tongue; and the audience listened to this elocution -with a stoical pretence of breathless interest. - -Then the auctioneer put up all that extensive and commodious -messuage and shop situate and being No. 4, St. Luke's Square. -Constance and Cyril moved their limbs surreptitiously, as though -being at last found out. The auctioneer referred to John Baines -and to Samuel Povey, with a sense of personal loss, and then -expressed his pleasure in the presence of 'the ladies;' he meant -Constance, who once more had to blush. - -"Now, gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "what do you say for these -famous premises? I think I do not exaggerate when I use the word -'famous.'" - -Some one said a thousand pounds, in the terrorized voice of a -delinquent. - -"A thousand pounds," repeated the auctioneer, paused, sipped, and -smacked. - -"Guineas," said another voice self-accused of iniquity. - -"A thousand and fifty," said the auctioneer. - -Then there was a long interval, an interval that tightened the -nerves of the assembly. - -"Now, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer adjured. - -The first voice said sulkily: "Eleven hundred." - -And thus the bids rose to fifteen hundred, lifted bit by bit, as -it were, by the magnetic force of the auctioneer's personality. -The man was now standing up, in domination. He bent down to the -solicitor's head; they whispered together. - -"Gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "I am happy to inform you that -the sale is now open." His tone translated better than words his -calm professional beatitude. Suddenly in a voice of wrath he -hissed at the waiter: "Waiter, why don't you serve these -gentlemen?" - -"Yes, sir; yes, sir." - -The auctioneer sat down and sipped at leisure, chatting with his -clerk and the solicitor and the solicitor's clerk. - -When he rose it was as a conqueror. "Gentlemen, fifteen hundred is -bid. Now, Mr. Critchlow." - -Mr. Critchlow shook his head. The auctioneer threw a courteous -glance at Constance, who avoided it. - -After many adjurations, he reluctantly raised his hammer, -pretended to let it fall, and saved it several times. - -And then Mr. Critchlow said: "And fifty." - -"Fifteen hundred and fifty is bid," the auctioneer informed the -company, electrifying the waiter once more. And when he had sipped -he said, with feigned sadness: "Come, gentlemen, you surely don't -mean to let this magnificent lot go for fifteen hundred and fifty -pounds?" - -But they did mean that. - -The hammer fell, and the auctioneer's clerk and the solicitor's -clerk took Mr. Critchlow aside and wrote with him. - -Nobody was surprised when Mr. Critchlow bought Lot No. 2, his own -shop. - -Constance whispered then to Cyril that she wished to leave. They -left, with unnatural precautions, but instantly regained their -natural demeanour in the dark street. - -"Well, I never! Well, I never!" she murmured outside, astonished -and disturbed. - -She hated the prospect of Mr. Critchlow as a landlord. And yet she -could not persuade herself to leave the place, in spite of -decisions. - -The sale demonstrated that football had not entirely undermined -the commercial basis of society in Bursley; only two Lots had to -be withdrawn. - -II - -On Thursday afternoon of the same week the youth whom Constance -had ended by hiring for the manipulation of shutters and other -jobs unsuitable for fragile women, was closing the shop. The clock -had struck two. All the shutters were up except the last one, in -the midst of the doorway. Miss Insull and her mistress were -walking about the darkened interior, putting dust-sheets well over -the edges of exposed goods; the other assistants had just left. -The bull-terrier had wandered into the shop as he almost -invariably did at closing time--for he slept there, an efficient -guard--and had lain down by the dying stove; though not venerable, -he was stiffening into age. - -"You can shut," said Miss Insull to the youth. - -But as the final shutter was ascending to its position, Mr. -Critchlow appeared on the pavement. - -"Hold on, young fellow!" Mr. Critchlow commanded, and stepped -slowly, lifting up his long apron, over the horizontal shutter on -which the perpendicular shutters rested in the doorway. - -"Shall you be long, Mr. Critchlow?" the youth asked, posing the -shutter. "Or am I to shut?" - -"Shut, lad," said Mr. Critchlow, briefly. "I'll go out by th' side -door." - -"Here's Mr. Critchlow!" Miss Insull called out to Constance, in a -peculiar tone. And a flush, scarcely perceptible, crept very -slowly over her dark features. In the twilight of the shop, lit -only by a few starry holes in the shutters, and by the small side- -window, not the keenest eye could have detected that flush. - -"Mr. Critchlow!" Constance murmured the exclamation. She resented -his future ownership of her shop. She thought he was come to play -the landlord, and she determined to let him see that her mood was -independent and free, that she would as lief give up the business -as keep it. In particular she meant to accuse him of having -deliberately deceived her as to his intentions on his previous -visit. - -"Well, missis!" the aged man greeted her. "We've made it up -between us. Happen some folk'll think we've taken our time, but I -don't know as that's their affair." - -His little blinking eyes had a red border. The skin of his pale -small face was wrinkled in millions of minute creases. His arms -and legs were marvellously thin and sharply angular. The corners -of his heliotrope lips were turned down, as usual, in a mysterious -comment on the world; and his smile, as he fronted Constance with -his excessive height, crowned the mystery. - -Constance stared, at a loss. It surely could not after all be -true, the substance of the rumours that had floated like vapours -in the Square for eight years and more! - -"What ...?" she began. - -"Me, and her!" He jerked his head in the direction of Miss Insull. - -The dog had leisurely strolled forward to inspect the edges of the -fiance's trousers. Miss Insull summoned the animal with a noise of -fingers, and then bent down and caressed it. A strange gesture -proving the validity of Charles Critchlow's discovery that in -Maria Insull a human being was buried! - -Miss Insull was, as near as any one could guess, forty years of -age. For twenty-five years she had served in the shop, passing -about twelve hours a day in the shop; attending regularly at least -three religious services at the Wesleyan Chapel or School on -Sundays, and sleeping with her mother, whom she kept. She had -never earned more than thirty shillings a week, and yet her -situation was considered to be exceptionally good. In the eternal -fusty dusk of the shop she had gradually lost such sexual -characteristics and charms as she had once possessed. She was as -thin and flat as Charles Critchlow himself. It was as though her -bosom had suffered from a prolonged drought at a susceptible -period of development, and had never recovered. The one proof that -blood ran in her veins was the pimply quality of her ruined -complexion, and the pimples of that brickish expanse proved that -the blood was thin and bad. Her hands and feet were large and -ungainly; the skin of the fingers was roughened by coarse contacts -to the texture of emery-paper. On six days a week she wore black; -on the seventh a kind of discreet half-mourning. She was honest, -capable, and industrious; and beyond the confines of her -occupation she had no curiosity, no intelligence, no ideas. -Superstitions and prejudices, deep and violent, served her for -ideas; but she could incomparably sell silks and bonnets, braces -and oilcloth; in widths, lengths, and prices she never erred; she -never annoyed a customer, nor foolishly promised what could not be -performed, nor was late nor negligent, nor disrespectful. No one -knew anything about her, because there was nothing to know. -Subtract the shop-assistant from her, and naught remained. -Benighted and spiritually dead, she existed by habit. - -But for Charles Critchlow she happened to be an illusion. He had -cast eyes on her and had seen youth, innocence, virginity. During -eight years the moth Charles had flitted round the lamp of her -brilliance, and was now singed past escape. He might treat her -with what casualness he chose; he might ignore her in public; he -might talk brutally about women; he might leave her to wonder -dully what he meant, for months at a stretch: but there emerged -indisputable from the sum of his conduct the fact that he wanted -her. He desired her; she charmed him; she was something ornamental -and luxurious for which he was ready to pay--and to commit -follies. He had been a widower since before she was born; to him -she was a slip of a girl. All is relative in this world. As for -her, she was too indifferent to refuse him. Why refuse him? -Oysters do not refuse. - -"I'm sure I congratulate you both," Constance breathed, realizing -the import of Mr. Critchlow's laconic words. "I'm sure I hope -you'll be happy." - -"That'll be all right," said Mr. Critchlow. - -"Thank you, Mrs. Povey," said Maria Insull. - -Nobody seemed to know what to say next. "It's rather sudden," was -on Constance's tongue, but did not achieve utterance, being -patently absurd. - -"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Critchlow, as though himself contemplating -anew the situation. - -Miss Insull gave the dog a final pat. - -"So that's settled," said Mr. Critchlow. "Now, missis, ye want to -give up this shop, don't ye?" - -"I'm not so sure about that," Constance answered uneasily. - -"Don't tell me!" he protested. "Of course ye want to give up the -shop." - -"I've lived here all my life," said Constance. - -"Ye've not lived in th' shop all ye're life. I said th' shop. -Listen here!" he continued. "I've got a proposal to make to you. -You can keep on the house, and I'll take the shop off ye're hands. -Now?" He looked at her inquiringly. - -Constance was taken aback by the brusqueness of the suggestion, -which, moreover, she did not understand. - -"But how--" she faltered. - -"Come here," said Mr. Critchlow, impatiently, and he moved towards -the house-door of the shop, behind the till. - -"Come where? What do you want?" Constance demanded in a maze. - -"Here!" said Mr. Critchlow, with increasing impatience. "Follow -me, will ye?" - -Constance obeyed. Miss Insull sidled after Constance, and the dog -after Miss Insull. Mr. Critchlow went through the doorway and down -the corridor, past the cutting-out room to his right. The corridor -then turned at a right-angle to the left and ended at the parlour -door, the kitchen steps being to the left. - -Mr. Critchlow stopped short of the kitchen steps, and extended his -arms, touching the walls on either side. - -"Here!" he said, tapping the walls with his bony knuckles. "Here! -Suppose I brick ye this up, and th' same upstairs between th' -showroom and th' bedroom passage, ye've got your house to -yourself. Ye say ye've lived here all your life. Well, what's to -prevent ye finishing up here? The fact is," he added, "it would -only be making into two houses again what was two houses to start -with, afore your time, missis." - -"And what about the shop?" cried Constance. - -"Ye can sell us th' stock at a valuation." - -Constance suddenly comprehended the scheme. Mr. Critchlow would -remain the chemist, while Mrs. Critchlow became the head of the -chief drapery business in the town. Doubtless they would knock a -hole through the separating wall on the other side, to balance the -bricking-up on this side. They must have thought it all out in -detail. Constance revolted. - -"Yes!" she said, a little disdainfully. "And my goodwill? Shall -you take that at a valuation too?" - -Mr. Critchlow glanced at the creature for whom he was ready to -scatter thousands of pounds. She might have been a Phryne and he -the infatuated fool. He glanced at her as if to say: "We expected -this, and this is where we agreed it was to stop." - -"Ay!" he said to Constance. "Show me your goodwill. Lap it up in a -bit of paper and hand it over, and I'll take it at a valuation. -But not afore, missis! Not afore! I'm making ye a very good offer. -Twenty pound a year, I'll let ye th' house for. And take th' stock -at a valuation. Think it over, my lass." - -Having said what he had to say, Charles Critchlow departed, -according to his custom. He unceremoniously let himself out by the -side door, and passed with wavy apron round the corner of King -Street into the Square and so to his own shop, which ignored the -Thursday half-holiday. Miss Insull left soon afterwards. - -III - -Constance's pride urged her to refuse the offer. But in truth her -sole objection to it was that she had not thought of the scheme -herself. For the scheme really reconciled her wish to remain where -she was with her wish to be free of the shop. - -"I shall make him put me in a new window in the parlour--one that -will open!" she said positively to Cyril, who accepted Mr. -Critchlow's idea with fatalistic indifference. - -After stipulating for the new window, she closed with the offer. -Then there was the stock-taking, which endured for weeks. And then -a carpenter came and measured for the window. And a builder and a -mason came and inspected doorways, and Constance felt that the end -was upon her. She took up the carpet in the parlour and protected -the furniture by dustsheets. She and Cyril lived between bare -boards and dustsheets for twenty days, and neither carpenter nor -mason reappeared. Then one surprising day the old window was -removed by the carpenter's two journeymen, and late in the -afternoon the carpenter brought the new window, and the three men -worked till ten o'clock at night, fixing it. Cyril wore his cap -and went to bed in his cap, and Constance wore a Paisley shawl. A -painter had bound himself beyond all possibility of failure to -paint the window on the morrow. He was to begin at six a.m.; and -Amy's alarm-clock was altered so that she might be up and dressed -to admit him. He came a week later, administered one coat, and -vanished for another ten days. Then two masons suddenly came with -heavy tools, and were shocked to find that all was not prepared -for them. (After three carpetless weeks Constance had relaid her -floors.) They tore off wall-paper, sent cascades of plaster down -the kitchen steps, withdrew alternate courses of bricks from the -walls, and, sated with destruction, hastened away. After four days -new red bricks began to arrive, carried by a quite guiltless -hodman who had not visited the house before. The hodman met the -full storm of Constance's wrath. It was not a vicious wrath, -rather a good-humoured wrath; but it impressed the hodman. "My -house hasn't been fit to live in for a month," she said in fine. -"If these walls aren't built to-morrow, upstairs AND down--to- -morrow, mind!--don't let any of you dare to show your noses here -again, for I won't have you. Now you've brought your bricks. Off -with you, and tell your master what I say!" - -It was effective. The next day subdued and plausible workmen of -all sorts awoke the house with knocking at six-thirty precisely, -and the two doorways were slowly bricked up. The curious thing was -that, when the barrier was already a foot high on the ground-floor -Constance remembered small possessions of her own which she had -omitted to remove from the cutting-out room. Picking up her -skirts, she stepped over into the region that was no more hers, -and stepped back with the goods. She had a bandanna round her head -to keep the thick dust out of her hair. She was very busy, very -preoccupied with nothings. She had no time for sentimentalities. -Yet when the men arrived at the topmost course and were at last -hidden behind their own erection, and she could see only rough -bricks and mortar, she was disconcertingly overtaken by a misty -blindness and could not even see bricks and mortar. Cyril found -her, with her absurd bandanna, weeping in a sheet-covered rocking- -chair in the sacked parlour. He whistled uneasily, remarked: "I -say, mother, what about tea?" and then, hearing the heavy voices -of workmen above, ran with relief upstairs. Tea had been set in -the drawing-room, he was glad to learn that from Amy, who informed -him also that she should 'never get used to them there new walls,' -not as long as she lived. - -He went to the School of Art that night. Constance, alone, could -find nothing to do. She had willed that the walls should be built, -and they had been built; but days must elapse before they could be -plastered, and after the plaster still more days before the -papering. Not for another month, perhaps, would her house be free -of workmen and ripe for her own labours. She could only sit in the -dust-drifts and contemplate the havoc of change, and keep her eyes -as dry as she could. The legal transactions were all but complete; -little bills announcing the transfer of the business lay on the -counters in the shop at the disposal of customers. In two days -Charles Critchlow would pay the price of a desire realized. The -sign was painted out and new letters sketched thereon in chalk. In -future she would be compelled, if she wished to enter the shop, to -enter it as a customer and from the front. Yes, she saw that, -though the house remained hers, the root of her life had been -wrenched up. - -And the mess! It seemed inconceivable that the material mess could -ever be straightened away! - -Yet, ere the fields of the county were first covered with snow -that season, only one sign survived of the devastating revolution, -and that was a loose sheet of wall-paper that had been too soon -pasted on to new plaster and would not stick. Maria Insull was -Maria Critchlow. Constance had been out into the Square and seen -the altered sign, and seen Mrs. Critchlow's taste in window- -curtains, and seen--most impressive sight of all--that the grimy -window of the abandoned room at the top of the abandoned staircase -next to the bedroom of her girlhood, had been cleaned and a table -put in front of it. She knew that the chamber, which she herself -had never entered, was to be employed as a storeroom, but the -visible proof of its conversion so strangely affected her that she -had not felt able to go boldly into the shop, as she had meant to -do, and make a few purchases in the way of friendliness. "I'm a -silly woman!" she muttered. Later, she did venture, timidly -abrupt, into the shop, and was received with fitting state by Mrs. -Critchlow (as desiccated as ever), who insisted on allowing her -the special trade discount. And she carried her little friendly -purchases round to her own door in King Street. Trivial, trivial -event! Constance, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, did both. -She accused herself of developing a hysterical faculty in tears, -and strove sagely against it. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE PROUDEST MOTHER - -I - - -In the year 1893 there was a new and strange man living at No. 4, -St. Luke's Square. Many people remarked on the phenomenon. Very -few of his like had ever been seen in Bursley before. One of the -striking things about him was the complex way in which he secured -himself by means of glittering chains. A chain stretched across -his waistcoat, passing through a special button-hole, without a -button, in the middle. To this cable were firmly linked a watch at -one end and a pencil-case at the other; the chain also served as a -protection against a thief who might attempt to snatch the fancy -waistcoat entire. Then there were longer chains, beneath the -waistcoat, partly designed, no doubt, to deflect bullets, but -serving mainly to enable the owner to haul up penknives, -cigarette-cases, match-boxes, and key-rings from the profundities -of hip-pockets. An essential portion of the man's braces, visible -sometimes when he played at tennis, consisted of chain, and the -upper and nether halves of his cuff-links were connected by -chains. Occasionally he was to be seen chained to a dog. - -A reversion, conceivably, to a mediaeval type! Yes, but also the -exemplar of the excessively modern! Externally he was a -consequence of the fact that, years previously, the leading tailor -in Bursley had permitted his son to be apprenticed in London. The -father died; the son had the wit to return and make a fortune -while creating a new type in the town, a type of which multiple -chains were but one feature, and that the least expensive if the -most salient. For instance, up to the historic year in which the -young tailor created the type, any cap was a cap in Bursley, and -any collar was a collar. But thenceforward no cap was a cap, and -no collar was a collar, which did not exactly conform in shape and -material to certain sacred caps and collars guarded by the young -tailor in his back shop. None knew why these sacred caps and -collars were sacred, but they were; their sacredness endured for -about six months, and then suddenly--again none knew why--they -fell from their estate and became lower than offal for dogs, and -were supplanted on the altar. The type brought into existence by -the young tailor was to be recognized by its caps and collars, and -in a similar manner by every other article of attire, except its -boots. Unfortunately the tailor did not sell boots, and so imposed -on his creatures no mystical creed as to boots. This was a pity, -for the boot-makers of the town happened not to be inflamed by the -type-creating passion as the tailor was, and thus the new type -finished abruptly at the edges of the tailor's trousers. - -The man at No. 4, St. Luke's Square had comparatively small and -narrow feet, which gave him an advantage; and as he was endowed -with a certain vague general physical distinction he managed, -despite the eternal untidiness of his hair, to be eminent among -the type. Assuredly the frequent sight of him in her house -flattered the pride of Constance's eye, which rested on him almost -always with pleasure. He had come into the house with startling -abruptness soon after Cyril left school and was indentured to the -head-designer at "Peel's," that classic earthenware manufactory. -The presence of a man in her abode disconcerted Constance at the -beginning; but she soon grew accustomed to it, perceiving that a -man would behave as a man, and must be expected to do so. This -man, in truth, did what he liked in all things. Cyril having -always been regarded by both his parents as enormous, one would -have anticipated a giant in the new man; but, queerly, he was -slim, and little above the average height. Neither in enormity nor -in many other particulars did he resemble the Cyril whom he had -supplanted. His gestures were lighter and quicker; he had nothing -of Cyril's ungainliness; he had not Cyril's limitless taste for -sweets, nor Cyril's terrific hatred of gloves, barbers, and soap. -He was much more dreamy than Cyril, and much busier. In fact, -Constance only saw him at meal-times. He was at Peel's in the day -and at the School of Art every night. He would dream during a -meal, even; and, without actually saying so, he gave the -impression that he was the busiest man in Bursley, wrapped in -occupations and preoccupations as in a blanket--a blanket which -Constance had difficulty in penetrating. - -Constance wanted to please him; she lived for nothing but to -please him; he was, however, exceedingly difficult to please, not -in the least because he was hypercritical and exacting, but -because he was indifferent. Constance, in order to satisfy her -desire of pleasing, had to make fifty efforts, in the hope that he -might chance to notice one. He was a good man, amazingly -industrious--when once Constance had got him out of bed in the -morning; with no vices; kind, save when Constance mistakenly tried -to thwart him; charming, with a curious strain of humour that -Constance only half understood. Constance was unquestionably vain -about him, and she could honestly find in him little to blame. But -whereas he was the whole of her universe, she was merely a dim -figure in the background of his. Every now and then, with his -gentle, elegant raillery, he would apparently rediscover her, as -though saying: "Ah! You're still there, are you?" Constance could -not meet him on the plane where his interests lay, and he never -knew the passionate intensity of her absorption in that minor part -of his life which moved on her plane. He never worried about her -solitude, or guessed that in throwing her a smile and a word at -supper he was paying her meagrely for three hours of lone rocking -in a rocking-chair. - -The worst of it was that she was quite incurable. No experience -would suffice to cure her trick of continually expecting him to -notice things which he never did notice. One day he said, in the -midst of a silence: "By the way, didn't father leave any boxes of -cigars?" She had the steps up into her bedroom and reached down -from the dusty top of the wardrobe the box which she had put there -after Samuel's funeral. In handing him the box she was doing a -great deed. His age was nineteen and she was ratifying his -precocious habit of smoking by this solemn gift. He entirely -ignored the box for several days. She said timidly: "Have you -tried those cigars?" "Not yet," he replied. "I'll try 'em one of -these days." Ten days later, on a Sunday when he chanced not to -have gone out with his aristocratic friend Matthew Peel- -Swynnerton, he did at length open the box and take out a cigar. -"Now," he observed roguishly, cutting the cigar, "we shall see, -Mrs. Plover!" He often called her Mrs. Plover, for fun. Though she -liked him to be sufficiently interested in her to tease her, she -did not like being called Mrs. Plover, and she never failed to -say: "I'm not Mrs. Plover." He smoked the cigar slowly, in the -rocking-chair, throwing his head back and sending clouds to the -ceiling. And afterwards he remarked: "The old man's cigars weren't -so bad." "Indeed!" she answered tartly, as if maternally resenting -this easy patronage. But in secret she was delighted. There was -something in her son's favourable verdict on her husband's cigars -that thrilled her. - -And she looked at him. Impossible to see in him any resemblance to -his father! Oh! He was a far more brilliant, more advanced, more -complicated, more seductive being than his homely father! She -wondered where he had come from. And yet ...! If his father had -lived, what would have occurred between them? Would the boy have -been openly smoking cigars in the house at nineteen? - -She laboriously interested herself, so far as he would allow, in -his artistic studies and productions. A back attic on the second -floor was now transformed into a studio--a naked apartment which -smelt of oil and of damp clay. Often there were traces of clay on -the stairs. For working in clay he demanded of his mother a smock, -and she made a smock, on the model of a genuine smock which she -obtained from a country-woman who sold eggs and butter in the -Covered Market. Into the shoulders of the smock she put a week's -fancy-stitching, taking the pattern from an old book of -embroidery. One day when he had seen her stitching morn, noon, and -afternoon, at the smock, he said, as she rocked idly after supper: -"I suppose you haven't forgotten all about the smock I asked you -for, have you, mater?" She knew that he was teasing her; but, -while perfectly realizing how foolish she was, she nearly always -acted as though his teasing was serious; she picked up the smock -again from the sofa. When the smock was finished he examined it -intently; then exclaimed with an air of surprise: "By Jove! That's -beautiful! Where did you get this pattern?" He continued to stare -at it, smiling in pleasure. He turned over the tattered leaves of -the embroidery-book with the same naive, charmed astonishment, and -carried the book away to the studio. "I must show that to -Swynnerton," he said. As for her, the epithet 'beautiful' seemed a -strange epithet to apply to a mere piece of honest stitchery done -in a pattern, and a stitch with which she had been familiar all -her life. The fact was she understood his 'art' less and less. The -sole wall decoration of his studio was a Japanese print, which -struck her as being entirely preposterous, considered as a -picture. She much preferred his own early drawings of moss-roses -and picturesque castles--things that he now mercilessly contemned. -Later, he discovered her cutting out another smock. "What's that -for?" he inquired. "Well," she said, "you can't manage with one -smock. What shall you do when that one has to go to the wash?" -"Wash!" he repeated vaguely. "There's no need for it to go to the -wash." "Cyril," she replied, "don't try my patience! I was -thinking of making you half-a-dozen." He whistled. "With all that -stitching?" he questioned, amazed at the undertaking. "Why not?" -she said. In her young days, no seamstress ever made fewer than -half-a-dozen of anything, and it was usually a dozen; it was -sometimes half-a-dozen dozen. "Well," he murmured, "you have got a -nerve! I'll say that." Similar things happened whenever he showed -that he was pleased. If he said of a dish, in the local tongue: "I -could do a bit of that!" or if he simply smacked his lips over it, -she would surfeit him with that dish. - -II - -On a hot day in August, just before they were to leave Bursley for -a month in the Isle of Man, Cyril came home, pale and perspiring, -and dropped on to the sofa. He wore a grey alpaca suit, and, -except his hair, which in addition to being very untidy was damp -with sweat, he was a masterpiece of slim elegance, despite the -heat. He blew out great sighs, and rested his head on the -antimacassared arm of the sofa. - -"Well, mater," he said, in a voice of factitious calm, "I've got -it." He was looking up at the ceiling. - -"Got what?" - -"The National Scholarship. Swynnerton says it's a sheer fluke. But -I've got it. Great glory for the Bursley School of Art!" - -"National Scholarship?" she said. "What's that? What is it?" - -"Now, mother!" he admonished her, not without testiness. "Don't go -and say I've never breathed a word about it!" - -He lit a cigarette, to cover his self-consciousness, for he -perceived that she was moved far beyond the ordinary. - -Never, in fact, not even by the death of her husband, had she -received such a frightful blow as that which the dreamy Cyril had -just dealt her. - -It was not a complete surprise, but it was nearly a complete -surprise. A few months previously he certainly had mentioned, in -his incidental way, the subject of a National Scholarship. Apropos -of a drinking-cup which he had designed, he had said that the -director of the School of Art had suggested that it was good -enough to compete for the National, and that as he was otherwise -qualified for the competition he might as well send the cup to -South Kensington. He had added that Peel-Swynnerton had laughed at -the notion as absurd. On that occasion she had comprehended that a -National Scholarship involved residence in London. She ought to -have begun to live in fear, for Cyril had a most disturbing habit -of making a mere momentary reference to matters which he deemed -very important and which occupied a large share of his attention. -He was secretive by nature, and the rigidity of his father's rule -had developed this trait in his character. But really he had -spoken of the competition with such an extreme casualness that -with little effort she had dismissed it from her anxieties as -involving a contingency so remote as to be negligible. She had, -genuinely, almost forgotten it. Only at rare intervals had it -wakened in her a dull transitory pain--like the herald of a fatal -malady. And, as a woman in the opening stage of disease, she had -hastily reassured herself: "How silly of me! This can't possibly -be anything serious!" - -And now she was condemned. She knew it. She knew there could be no -appeal. She knew that she might as usefully have besought mercy -from a tiger as from her good, industrious, dreamy son. - -"It means a pound a week," said Cyril, his self-consciousness -intensified by her silence and by the dreadful look on her face. -"And of course free tuition." - -"For how long?" she managed to say. - -"Well," said he, "that depends. Nominally for a year. But if you -behave yourself it's always continued for three years." If he -stayed for three years he would never come back: that was a -certainty. - -How she rebelled, furious and despairing, against the fortuitous -cruelty of things! She was sure that he had not, till then, -thought seriously of going to London. But the fact that the -Government would admit him free to its classrooms and give him a -pound a week besides, somehow forced him to go to London. It was -not the lack of means that would have prevented him from going. -Why, then, should the presence of means induce him to go? There -was no logical reason. The whole affair was disastrously absurd. -The art-master at the Wedgwood Institution had chanced, merely -chanced, to suggest that the drinking-cup should be sent to South -Kensington. And the result of this caprice was that she was -sentenced to solitude for life! It was too monstrously, too -incredibly wicked! - -With what futile and bitter execration she murmured in her heart -the word 'If.' If Cyril's childish predilections had not been -encouraged! If he had only been content to follow his father's -trade! If she had flatly refused to sign his indenture at Peel's -and pay the premium! If he had not turned from, colour to clay! If -the art-master had not had that fatal 'idea'! If the judges for -the competition had decided otherwise! If only she had brought -Cyril up in habits of obedience, sacrificing temporary peace to -permanent security! - -For after all he could not abandon her without her consent. He was -not of age. And he would want a lot more money, which he could -obtain from none but her. She could refuse. ... - -No! She could not refuse. He was the master, the tyrant. For the -sake of daily pleasantness she had weakly yielded to him at the -start! She had behaved badly to herself and to him. He was -spoiled. She had spoiled him. And he was about to repay her with -lifelong misery, and nothing would deflect him from his course. -The usual conduct of the spoilt child! Had she not witnessed it, -and moralized upon it, in other families? - -"You don't seem very chirpy over it, mater!" he said. - -She went out of the room. His joy in the prospect of departure -from the Five Towns, from her, though he masked it, was more -manifest than she could bear. - -The Signal, the next day, made a special item of the news. It -appeared that no National Scholarship had been won in the Five -Towns for eleven years. The citizens were exhorted to remember -that Mr. Povey had gained his success in open competition with the -cleverest young students of the entire kingdom--and in a branch of -art which he had but recently taken up; and further, that the -Government offered only eight scholarships each year. The name of -Cyril Povey passed from lip to lip. And nobody who met Constance, -in street or shop, could refrain from informing her that she ought -to be a proud mother, to have such a son, but that truly they were -not surprised ... and how proud his poor father would have been! A -few sympathetically hinted that maternal pride was one of those -luxuries that may cost too dear. - -III - -The holiday in the Isle of Man was of course ruined for her. She -could scarcely walk because of the weight of a lump of lead that -she carried in her bosom. On the brightest days the lump of lead -was always there. Besides, she was so obese. In ordinary -circumstances they might have stayed beyond the month. An -indentured pupil is not strapped to the wheel like a common -apprentice. Moreover, the indentures were to be cancelled. But -Constance did not care to stay. She had to prepare for his -departure to London. She had to lay the faggots for her own -martyrdom. - -In this business of preparation she showed as much silliness, she -betrayed as perfect a lack of perspective, as the most superior -son could desire for a topic of affectionate irony. Her -preoccupation with petty things of no importance whatever was -worthy of the finest traditions of fond motherhood. However, -Cyril's careless satire had no effect on her, save that once she -got angry, thereby startling him; he quite correctly and sagely -laid this unprecedented outburst to the account of her wrought -nerves, and forgave it. Happily for the smoothness of Cyril's -translation to London, young Peel-Swynnerton was acquainted with -the capital, had a brother in Chelsea, knew of reputable lodgings, -was, indeed, an encyclopaedia of the town, and would himself spend -a portion of the autumn there. Otherwise, the preliminaries which -his mother would have insisted on by means of tears and hysteria -might have proved fatiguing to Cyril. - -The day came when on that day week Cyril would be gone. Constance -steadily fabricated cheerfulness against the prospect. She said: - -"Suppose I come with you?" - -He smiled in toleration of this joke as being a passable quality -of joke. And then she smiled in the same sense, hastening to agree -with him that as a joke it was not a bad joke. - -In the last week he was very loyal to his tailor. Many a young man -would have commanded new clothes after, not before, his arrival in -London. But Cyril had faith in his creator. - -On the day of departure the household, the very house itself, was -in a state of excitation. He was to leave early. He would not -listen to the project of her accompanying him as far as Knype, -where the Loop Line joined the main. She might go to Bursley -Station and no further. When she rebelled he disclosed the merest -hint of his sullen-churlish side, and she at once yielded. During -breakfast she did not cry, but the aspect of her face made him -protest. - -"Now, look here, mater! Just try to remember that I shall be back -for Christmas. It's barely three months." And he lit a cigarette. - -She made no reply. - -Amy lugged a Gladstone bag down the crooked stairs. A trunk was -already close to the door; it had wrinkled the carpet and deranged -the mat. - -"You didn't forget to put the hair-brush in, did you, Amy?" he -asked. - -"N--no, Mr. Cyril," she blubbered. - -"Amy!" Constance sharply corrected her, as Cyril ran upstairs, "I -wonder you can't control yourself better than that." - -Amy weakly apologized. Although treated almost as one of the -family, she ought not to have forgotten that she was a servant. -What right had she to weep over Cyril's luggage? This question was -put to her in Constance's tone. - -The cab came. Cyril tumbled downstairs with exaggerated -carelessness, and with exaggerated carelessness he joked at the -cabman. - -"Now, mother!" he cried, when the luggage was stowed. "Do you want -me to miss this train?" But he knew that the margin of time was -ample. It was his fun! - -"Nay, I can't be hurried!" she said, fixing her bonnet. "Amy, as -soon as we are gone you can clear this table." - -She climbed heavily into the cab. - -"That's it! Smash the springs!" Cyril teased her. - -The horse got a stinging cut to recall him to the seriousness of -life. It was a fine, bracing autumn morning, and the driver felt -the need of communicating his abundant energy to some one or -something. They drove off, Amy staring after them from the door. -Matters had been so marvellously well arranged that they arrived -at the station twenty minutes before the train was due. - -"Never mind!" Cyril mockingly comforted his mother. "You'd rather -be twenty minutes too soon than one minute too late, wouldn't -you?" - -His high spirits had to come out somehow. - -Gradually the minutes passed, and the empty slate-tinted platform -became dotted with people to whom that train was nothing but a -Loop Line train, people who took that train every week-day of -their lives and knew all its eccentricities. - -And they heard the train whistle as it started from Turnhill. And -Cyril had a final word with the porter who was in charge of the -luggage. He made a handsome figure, and he had twenty pounds in -his pocket. When he returned to Constance she was sniffing, and -through her veil he could see that her eyes were circled with red. -But through her veil she could see nothing. The train rolled in, -rattling to a standstill. Constance lifted her veil and kissed -him; and kissed her life out. He smelt the odour of her crape. He -was, for an instant, close to her, close; and he seemed to have an -overwhelmingly intimate glimpse into her secrets; he seemed to be -choked in the sudden strong emotion of that crape. He felt queer. - -"Here you are, sir! Second smoker!" called the porter. - -The daily frequenters of the train boarded it with their customary -disgust. - -"I'll write as soon as ever I get there!" said Cyril, of his own -accord. It was the best he could muster. - -With what grace he raised his hat! - -A sliding-away; clouds of steam; and she shared the dead platform -with milk-cans, two porters, and Smith's noisy boy! - -She walked home, very slowly and painfully. The lump of lead was -heavier than ever before. And the townspeople saw the proudest -mother in Bursley walking home. - -"After all," she argued with her soul angrily, petulantly, "could -you expect the boy to do anything else? He is a serious student, -he has had a brilliant success, and is he to be tied to your -apron-strings? The idea is preposterous. It isn't as if he was an -idler, or a bad son. No mother could have a better son. A nice -thing, that he should stay all his life in Bursley simply because -you don't like being left alone!" - -Unfortunately one might as well argue with a mule as with one's -soul. Her soul only kept on saying monotonously: "I'm a lonely old -woman now. I've nothing to live for any more, and I'm no use to -anybody. Once I was young and proud. And this is what my life has -come to! This is the end!" - -When she reached home, Amy had not touched the breakfast things; -the carpet was still wrinkled, and the mat still out of place. -And, through the desolating atmosphere of reaction after a -terrific crisis, she marched directly upstairs, entered his -plundered room, and beheld the disorder of the bed in which he had -slept. - - - - -BOOK III - -SOPHIA - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE ELOPEMENT - -I - - -Her soberly rich dress had a countrified air, as she waited, ready -for the streets, in the bedroom of the London hotel on the -afternoon of the first of July, 1866; but there was nothing of the -provincial in that beautiful face, nor in that bearing at once shy -and haughty; and her eager heart soared beyond geographical -boundaries. - -It was the Hatfield Hotel, in Salisbury Street, between the Strand -and the river. Both street and hotel are now gone, lost in the -vast foundations of the Savoy and the Cecil; but the type of the -Hatfield lingers with ever-increasing shabbiness in Jermyn Street. -In 1866, with its dark passages and crooked stairs, its candles, -its carpets and stuffs which had outlived their patterns, its -narrow dining-room where a thousand busy flies ate together at one -long table, its acrid stagnant atmosphere, and its disturbing -sensation of dirt everywhere concealing itself, it stood forth in -rectitude as a good average modern hotel. The patched and senile -drabness of the bedroom made an environment that emphasized -Sophia's flashing youth. She alone in it was unsullied. - -There was a knock at the door, apparently gay and jaunty. But she -thought, truly: "He's nearly as nervous as I am!" And in her sick -nervousness she coughed, and then tried to take full possession of -herself. The moment had at last come which would divide her life -as a battle divides the history of a nation. Her mind in an -instant swept backwards through an incredible three months. - -The schemings to obtain and to hide Gerald's letters at the shop, -and to reply to them! The far more complex and dangerous duplicity -practised upon her majestic aunt at Axe! The visits to the Axe -post-office! The three divine meetings with Gerald at early -morning by the canal-feeder, when he had told her of his -inheritance and of the harshness of his uncle Boldero, and with a -rush of words had spread before her the prospect of eternal bliss! -The nights of fear! The sudden, dizzy acquiescence in his plan, -and the feeling of universal unreality which obsessed her! The -audacious departure from her aunt's, showering a cascade of -appalling lies! Her dismay at Knype Station! Her blush as she -asked for a ticket to London! The ironic, sympathetic glance of -the porter, who took charge of her trunk! And then the thunder of -the incoming train! Her renewed dismay when she found that it was -very full, and her distracted plunge into a compartment with six -people already in it! And the abrupt reopening of the carriage- -door and that curt inquisition from an inspector: "Where for, -please? Where for? Where for?" Until her turn was reached: "Where -for, miss?" and her weak little reply: "Euston"! And more violent -blushes! And then the long, steady beating of the train over the -rails, keeping time to the rhythm of the unanswerable voice within -her breast: "Why are you here? Why are you here?" And then Rugby; -and the awful ordeal of meeting Gerald, his entry into the -compartment, the rearrangement of seats, and their excruciatingly -painful attempts at commonplace conversation in the publicity of -the carriage! (She had felt that that part of the enterprise had -not been very well devised by Gerald.) And at last London; the -thousands of cabs, the fabulous streets, the general roar, all -dream-surpassing, intensifying to an extraordinary degree the -obsession of unreality, the illusion that she could not really -have done what she had done, that she was not really doing what -she was doing! - -Supremely and finally, the delicious torture of the clutch of -terror at her heart as she moved by Gerald's side through the -impossible adventure! Who was this rash, mad Sophia? Surely not -herself! - -The knock at the door was impatiently repeated. - -"Come in," she said timidly. - -Gerald Scales came in. Yes, beneath that mien of a commercial -traveller who has been everywhere and through everything, he was -very nervous. It was her privacy that, with her consent, he had -invaded. He had engaged the bedroom only with the intention of -using it as a retreat for Sophia until the evening, when they were -to resume their travels. It ought not to have had any disturbing -significance. But the mere disorder on the washstand, a towel -lying on one of the cane chairs, made him feel that he was -affronting decency, and so increased his jaunty nervousness. The -moment was painful; the moment was difficult beyond his skill to -handle it naturally. - -Approaching her with factitious ease, he kissed her through her -veil, which she then lifted with an impulsive movement, and he -kissed her again, more ardently, perceiving that her ardour was -exceeding his. This was the first time they had been alone -together since her flight from Axe. And yet, with his worldly -experience, he was naive enough to be surprised that he could not -put all the heat of passion into his embrace, and he wondered why -he was not thrilled at the contact with her! However, the powerful -clinging of her lips somewhat startled his senses, and also -delighted him by its silent promise. He could smell the stuff of -her veil, the sarsenet of her bodice, and, as it were wrapped in -these odours as her body was wrapped in its clothes, the faint -fleshly perfume of her body itself. Her face, viewed so close that -he could see the almost imperceptible down on those fruit-like -cheeks, was astonishingly beautiful; the dark eyes were -exquisitely misted; and he could feel the secret loyalty of her -soul ascending to him. She was very slightly taller than her -lover; but somehow she hung from him, her body curved backwards, -and her bosom pressed against his, so that instead of looking up -at her gaze he looked down at it. He preferred that; perfectly -proportioned though he was, his stature was a delicate point with -him. His spirits rose by the uplift of his senses. His fears -slipped away; he began to be very satisfied with himself. He was -the inheritor of twelve thousand pounds, and he had won this -unique creature. She was his capture; he held her close, -permittedly scanning the minutiae of her skin, permittedly -crushing her flimsy silks. Something in him had forced her to lay -her modesty on the altar of his desire. And the sun brightly -shone. So he kissed her yet more ardently, and with the slightest -touch of a victor's condescension; and her burning response more -than restored the self-confidence which he had been losing. - -"I've got no one but you now," she murmured in a melting voice. - -She fancied in her ignorance that the expression of this sentiment -would please him. She was not aware that a man is usually rather -chilled by it, because it proves to him that the other is thinking -about his responsibilities and not about his privileges. Certainly -it calmed Gerald, though without imparting to him her sense of his -responsibilities. He smiled vaguely. To Sophia his smile was a -miracle continually renewed; it mingled dashing gaiety with a hint -of wistful appeal in a manner that never failed to bewitch her. A -less innocent girl than Sophia might have divined from that -adorable half-feminine smile that she could do anything with -Gerald except rely on him. But Sophia had to learn. - -"Are you ready?" he asked, placing his hands on her shoulders and -holding her away from him. - -"Yes," she said, nerving herself. Their faces were still very near -together. - -"Well, would you like to go and see the Dore pictures?" - -A simple enough question! A proposal felicitous enough! Dore was -becoming known even in the Five Towns, not, assuredly, by his -illustrations to the Contes Drolatiques of Balzac--but by his -shuddering Biblical conceits. In pious circles Dore was saving art -from the reproach of futility and frivolity. It was indubitably a -tasteful idea on Gerald's part to take his love of a summer's -afternoon to gaze at the originals of those prints which had so -deeply impressed the Five Towns. It was an idea that sanctified -the profane adventure. - -Yet Sophia showed signs of affliction. Her colour went and came; -her throat made the motion of swallowing; there was a muscular -contraction over her whole body. And she drew herself from him. -Her glance, however, did not leave him, and his eyes fell before -hers. - -"But what about the--wedding?" she breathed. - -That sentence seemed to cost all her pride; but she was obliged to -utter it, and to pay for it. - -"Oh," he said lightly and quickly, just as though she had reminded -him of a detail that might have been forgotten, "I was just going -to tell you. It can't be done here. There's been some change in -the rules. I only found out for certain late last night. But I've -ascertained that it'll be as simple as ABC before the English -Consul at Paris; and as I've got the tickets for us to go over to- -night, as we arranged ..." He stopped. - -She sat down on the towel-covered chair, staggered. She believed -what he said. She did not suspect that he was using the classic -device of the seducer. It was his casualness that staggered her. -Had it really been his intention to set off on an excursion and -remark as an afterthought: "BY THE WAY, we can't be married as I -told you at half-past two to-day"? Despite her extreme ignorance -and innocence, Sophia held a high opinion of her own commonsense -and capacity for looking after herself, and she could scarcely -believe that he was expecting her to go to Paris, and at night, -without being married. She looked pitiably young, virgin, raw, -unsophisticated; helpless in the midst of dreadful dangers. Yet -her head was full of a blank astonishment at being mistaken for a -simpleton! The sole explanation could be that Gerald, in some -matters, must himself be a confiding simpleton. He had not -reflected. He had not sufficiently realized the immensity of her -sacrifice in flying with him even to London. She felt sorry for -him. She had the woman's first glimpse of the necessity for some -adjustment of outlook as an essential preliminary to uninterrupted -happiness. - -"It'll be all right!" Gerald persuasively continued. - -He looked at her, as she was not looking at him. She was nineteen. -But she seemed to him utterly mature and mysterious. Her face -baffled him; her mind was a foreign land. Helpless in one sense -she might be; yet she, and not he, stood for destiny; the future -lay in the secret and capricious workings of that mind. - -"Oh no!" she exclaimed curtly. "Oh no!" - -"Oh no what?" - -"We can't possibly go like that," she said. - -"But don't I tell you it'll be all right?" he protested. "If we -stay here and they come after you ...! Besides, I've got the -tickets and all." - -"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demanded. - -"But how could I?" he grumbled. "Have we had a single minute -alone?" - -This was nearly true. They could not have discussed the -formalities of marriage in the crowded train, nor during the -hurried lunch with a dozen cocked ears at the same table. He saw -himself on sure ground here. - -"Now, could we?" he pressed. - -"And you talk about going to see pictures!" was her reply. - -Undoubtedly this had been a grave error of tact. He recognized -that it was a stupidity. And so he resented it, as though she had -committed it and not he. - -"My dear girl," he said, hurt, "I acted for the best. It isn't my -fault if rules are altered and officials silly." - -"You ought to have told me before," she persisted sullenly. - -"But how could I?" - -He almost believed in that moment that he had really intended to -marry her, and that the ineptitudes of red-tape had prevented him -from achieving his honourable purpose. Whereas he had done nothing -whatever towards the marriage. - -"Oh no! Oh no!" she repeated, with heavy lip and liquid eye. "Oh -no!" - -He gathered that she was flouting his suggestion of Paris. - -Slowly and nervously he approached her. She did not stir nor look -up. Her glance was fixed on the washstand. He bent down and -murmured: - -"Come, now. It'll be all right. You'll travel in the ladies' -saloon on the steam-packet." - -She did not stir. He bent lower and touched the back of her neck -with his lips. And she sprang up, sobbing and angry. Because she -was mad for him she hated him furiously. All tenderness had -vanished. - -"I'll thank you not to touch me!" she said fiercely. She had given -him her lips a moment ago, but now to graze her neck was an -insult. - -He smiled sheepishly. "But really you must be reasonable," he -argued. "What have I done?" - -"It's what you haven't done, I think!" she cried. "Why didn't you -tell me while we were in the cab?" - -"I didn't care to begin worrying you just then," he replied: which -was exactly true. - -The fact was, he had of course shirked telling her that no -marriage would occur that day. Not being a professional seducer of -young girls, he lacked skill to do a difficult thing simply. - -"Now come along, little girl," he went on, with just a trifle of -impatience. "Let's go out and enjoy ourselves. I assure you that -everything will be all right in Paris." - -"That's what you said about coming to London," she retorted -sarcastically through her sobs. "And look at you!" - -Did he imagine for a single instant that she would have come to -London with him save on the understanding that she was to be -married immediately upon arrival? This attitude of an indignant -question was not to be reconciled with her belief that his excuses -for himself were truthful. But she did not remark the discrepancy. - -Her sarcasm wounded his vanity. - -"Oh, very well!" he muttered. "If you don't choose to believe what -I say!" He shrugged his shoulders. - -She said nothing; but the sobs swept at intervals through her -frame, shaking it. - -Reading hesitation in her face, he tried again. "Come along, -little girl. And wipe your eyes." And he approached her. She -stepped back. - -"No, no!" she denied him, passionately. He had esteemed her too -cheaply. And she did not care to be called 'little girl.' - -"Then what shall you do?" he inquired, in a tone which blended -mockery and bullying. She was making a fool of him. - -"I can tell you what I shan't do," she said. "I shan't go to -Paris." Her sobs were less frequent. - -"That's not my question," he said icily. "I want to know what you -will do." - -There was now no pretence of affectionateness either on her part -or on his. They might, to judge from their attitudes, have been -nourished from infancy on mutual hatred. - -"What's that got to do with you?" she demanded. - -"It's got everything to do with me," he said. - -"Well, you can go and find out!" she said. - -It was girlish; it was childish; it was scarcely according to the -canons for conducting a final rupture; but it was not the less -tragically serious. Indeed, the spectacle of this young girl -absurdly behaving like one, in a serious crisis, increased the -tragicalness of the situation even if it did not heighten it. The -idea that ran through Gerald's brain was the ridiculous folly of -having anything to do with young girls. He was quite blind to her -beauty. - -"'Go'?" he repeated her word. "You mean that?" - -"Of course I mean it," she answered promptly. - -The coward in him urged him to take advantage of her ignorant, -helpless pride, and leave her at her word. He remembered the scene -she had made at the pit shaft, and he said to himself that her -charm was not worth her temper, and that he was a fool ever to -have dreamed that it was, and that he would be doubly a fool now -not to seize the opportunity of withdrawing from an insane -enterprise. - -"I am to go?" he asked, with a sneer. - -She nodded. - -"Of course if you order me to leave you, I must. Can I do anything -for you?" - -She signified that he could not, - -"Nothing? You're sure?" - -She frowned. - -"Well, then, good-bye." He turned towards the door. - -"I suppose you'd leave me here without money or anything?" she -said in a cold, cutting voice. And her sneer was far more -destructive than his. It destroyed in him the last trace of -compassion for her. - -"Oh, I beg pardon!" he said, and swaggeringly counted out five -sovereigns on to a chest of drawers. - -She rushed at them. "Do you think I'll take your odious money?" -she snarled, gathering the coins in her gloved hand. - -Her first impulse was to throw them in his face; but she paused -and then flung them into a corner of the room. - -"Pick them up!" she commanded him. - -"No, thanks," he said briefly; and left, shutting the door. - -Only a very little while, and they had been lovers, exuding -tenderness with every gesture, like a perfume! Only a very little -while, and she had been deciding to telegraph condescendingly to -her mother that she was 'all right'! And now the dream was utterly -dissolved. And the voice of that hard commonsense which spake to -her in her wildest moods grew loud in asserting that the -enterprise could never have come to any good, that it was from its -inception an impossible enterprise, unredeemed by the slightest -justification. An enormous folly! Yes, an elopement; but not like -a real elopement; always unreal! She had always known that it was -only an imitation of an elopement, and must end in some awful -disappointment. She had never truly wanted to run away; but -something within her had pricked her forward in spite of her -protests. The strict notions of her elderly relatives were right -after all. It was she who had been wrong. And it was she who would -have to pay. - -"I've been a wicked girl," she said to herself grimly, in the -midst of her ruin. - -She faced the fact. But she would not repent; at any rate she -would never sit on that stool. She would not exchange the remains -of her pride for the means of escape from the worst misery that -life could offer. On that point she knew herself. And she set to -work to repair and renew her pride. - -Whatever happened she would not return to the Five Towns. She -could not, because she had stolen money from her Aunt Harriet. As -much as she had thrown back at Gerald, she had filched from her -aunt, but in the form of a note. A prudent, mysterious instinct -had moved her to take this precaution. And she was glad. She would -never have been able to dart that sneer at Gerald about money if -she had really needed money. So she rejoiced in her crime; though, -since Aunt Harriet would assuredly discover the loss at once, the -crime eternally prevented her from going back to her family. -Never, never would she look at her mother with the eyes of a -thief! - -(In truth Aunt Harriet did discover the loss, and very creditably -said naught about it to anybody. The knowledge of it would have -twisted the knife in the maternal heart.) - -Sophia was also glad that she had refused to proceed to Paris. The -recollection of her firmness in refusing flattered her vanity as a -girl convinced that she could take care of herself. To go to Paris -unmarried would have been an inconceivable madness. The mere -thought of the enormity did outrage to her moral susceptibilities. -No, Gerald had most perfectly mistaken her for another sort of -girl; as, for instance, a shop-assistant or a barmaid! - -With this the catalogue of her satisfactions ended. She had no -idea at all as to what she ought to do, or could do. The mere -prospect of venturing out of the room intimidated her. Had Gerald -left her trunk in the hall? Of course he had. What a question! But -what would happen to her? London ... London had merely dazed her. -She could do nothing for herself. She was as helpless as a rabbit -in London. She drew aside the window-curtain and had a glimpse of -the river. It was inevitable that she should think of suicide; for -she could not suppose that any girl had ever got herself into a -plight more desperate than hers. "I could slip out at night and -drown myself," she thought seriously. "A nice thing that would be -for Gerald!" - -Then loneliness, like a black midnight, overwhelmed her, swiftly -wasting her strength, disintegrating her pride in its horrid -flood. She glanced about for support, as a woman in the open -street who feels she is going to faint, and went blindly to the -bed, falling on it with the upper part of her body, in an attitude -of abandonment. She wept, but without sobbing. - -II - -Gerald Scales walked about the Strand, staring up at its high -narrow houses, crushed one against another as though they had been -packed, unsorted, by a packer who thought of nothing but economy -of space. Except by Somerset House, King's College, and one or two -theatres and banks, the monotony of mean shops, with several -storeys unevenly perched over them, was unbroken, Then Gerald -encountered Exeter Hall, and examined its prominent facade with a -provincial's eye; for despite his travels he was not very familiar -with London. Exeter Hall naturally took his mind back to his Uncle -Boldero, that great and ardent Nonconformist, and his own godly -youth. It was laughable to muse upon what his uncle would say and -think, did the old man know that his nephew had run away with a -girl, meaning to seduce her in Paris. It was enormously funny! - -However, he had done with all that. He was well out of it. She had -told him to go, and he had gone. She had money to get home; she -had nothing to do but use the tongue in her head. The rest was her -affair. He would go to Paris alone, and find another amusement. It -was absurd to have supposed that Sophia would ever have suited -him. Not in such a family as the Baineses could one reasonably -expect to discover an ideal mistress. No! there had been a -mistake. The whole business was wrong. She had nearly made a fool -of him. But he was not the man to be made a fool of. He had kept -his dignity intact. - -So he said to himself. Yet all the time his dignity, and his pride -also, were bleeding, dropping invisible blood along the length of -the Strand pavements. - -He was at Salisbury Street again. He pictured her in the bedroom. -Damn her! He wanted her. He wanted her with an excessive desire. -He hated to think that he had been baulked. He hated to think that -she would remain immaculate. And he continued to picture her in -the exciting privacy of that cursed bedroom. - -Now he was walking down Salisbury Street. He did not wish to be -walking down Salisbury Street; but there he was! - -"Oh, hell!" he murmured. "I suppose I must go through with it." - -He felt desperate. He was ready to pay any price in order to be -able to say to himself that he had accomplished what he had set -his heart on. - -"My wife hasn't gone out, has she?" he asked of the hall-porter. - -"I'm not sure, sir; I think not," said the hall-porter. - -The fear that Sophia had already departed made him sick. When he -noticed her trunk still there, he took hope and ran upstairs. - -He saw her, a dark crumpled, sinuous piece of humanity, half on -and half off the bed, silhouetted against the bluish-white -counterpane; her hat was on the floor, with the spotted veil -trailing away from it. This sight seemed to him to be the most -touching that he had ever seen, though her face was hidden. He -forgot everything except the deep and strange emotion which -affected him. He approached the bed. She did not stir. - -Having heard the entry and knowing that it must be Gerald who had -entered, Sophia forced herself to remain still. A wild, splendid -hope shot up in her. Constrained by all the power of her will not -to move, she could not stifle a sob that had lain in ambush in her -throat. - -The sound of the sob fetched tears to the eyes of Gerald. - -"Sophia!" he appealed to her. - -But she did not stir. Another sob shook her. - -"Very well, then," said Gerald. "We'll stay in London till we can -be married. I'll arrange it. I'll find a nice boarding-house for -you, and I'll tell the people you're my cousin. I shall stay on at -this hotel, and I'll come and see you every day." - -A silence. - -"Thank you!" she blubbered. "Thank you!" - -He saw that her little gloved hand was stretching out towards him, -like a feeler; and he seized it, and knelt down and took her -clumsily by the waist. Somehow he dared not kiss her yet. - -An immense relief surged very slowly through them both. - -"I--I--really--" She began to say something, but the articulation -was lost in her sobs. - -"What? What do you say, dearest?" he questioned eagerly. - -And she made another effort. "I really couldn't have gone to Paris -with you without being married," she succeeded at last. "I really -couldn't." - -"No, no!" he soothed her. "Of course you couldn't. It was I who -was wrong. But you didn't know how I felt. ... Sophia, it's all -right now, isn't it?" - -She sat up and kissed him fairly. - -It was so wonderful and startling that he burst openly into tears. -She saw in the facile intensity of his emotion a guarantee of -their future happiness. And as he had soothed her, so now she -soothed him. They clung together, equally surprised at the sweet, -exquisite, blissful melancholy which drenched them through and -through. It was remorse for having quarrelled, for having lacked -faith in the supreme rightness of the high adventure. Everything -was right, and would be right; and they had been criminally -absurd. It was remorse; but it was pure bliss, and worth the -quarrel! Gerald resumed his perfection again in her eyes! He was -the soul of goodness and honour! And for him she was again the -ideal mistress, who would, however, be also a wife. As in his mind -he rapidly ran over the steps necessary to their marriage, he kept -saying to himself, far off in some remote cavern of the brain: "I -shall have her! I shall have her!" He did not reflect that this -fragile slip of the Baines stock, unconsciously drawing upon the -accumulated strength of generations of honest living, had put a -defeat upon him. - -After tea, Gerald, utterly content with the universe, redeemed his -word and found an irreproachable boarding-house for Sophia in -Westminster, near the Abbey. She was astonished at the glibness of -his lies to the landlady about her, and about their circumstances -generally. He also found a church and a parson, close by, and in -half an hour the formalities preliminary to a marriage were begun. -He explained to her that as she was now resident in London, it -would be simpler to recommence the business entirely. She -sagaciously agreed. As she by no means wished to wound him again, -she made no inquiry about those other formalities which, owing to -red-tape, had so unexpectedly proved abortive! She knew she was -going to be married, and that sufficed. The next day she carried -out her filial idea of telegraphing to her mother. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -SUPPER - -I - - -They had been to Versailles and had dined there. A tram had -sufficed to take them out; but for the return, Gerald, who had -been drinking champagne, would not be content with less than a -carriage. Further, he insisted on entering Paris by way of the -Bois and the Arc de Triomphe. Thoroughly to appease his conceit, -it would have been necessary to swing open the gates of honour in -the Arc and allow his fiacre to pass through; to be forced to -drive round the monument instead of under it hurt the sense of -fitness which champagne engenders. Gerald was in all his pride -that day. He had been displaying the wonders to Sophia, and he -could not escape the cicerone's secret feeling: that he himself -was somehow responsible for the wonders. Moreover, he was -exceedingly satisfied with the effect produced by Sophia. - -Sophia, on arriving in Paris with the ring on her triumphant -finger, had timidly mentioned the subject of frocks. None would -have guessed from her tone that she was possessed by the desire -for French clothes as by a devil. She had been surprised and -delighted by the eagerness of Gerald's response. Gerald, too, was -possessed by a devil. He thirsted to see her in French clothes. He -knew some of the shops and ateliers in the Rue de la Paix, the Rue -de la Chaussee d'Antin, and the Palais Royal. He was much more -skilled in the lore of frocks than she, for his previous business -in Paris had brought him into relations with the great firms; and -Sophia suffered a brief humiliation in the discovery that his -private opinion of her dresses was that they were not dresses at -all. She had been aware that they were not Parisian, nor even of -London; but she had thought them pretty good. It healed her wound, -however, to reflect that Gerald had so marvellously kept his own -counsel in order to spare her self-love. Gerald had taken her to -an establishment in the Chaussee d'Antin. It was not one of what -Gerald called les grandes maisons, but it was on the very fringe -of them, and the real haute couture was practised therein; and -Gerald was remembered there by name. - -Sophia had gone in trembling and ashamed, yet in her heart -courageously determined to emerge uncompromisingly French. But the -models frightened her. They surpassed even the most fantastic -things that she had seen in the streets. She recoiled before them -and seemed to hide for refuge in Gerald, as it were appealing to -him for moral protection, and answering to him instead of to the -saleswoman when the saleswoman offered remarks in stiff English. -The prices also frightened her. The simplest trifle here cost -sixteen pounds; and her mother's historic 'silk,' whose -elaborateness had cost twelve pounds, was supposed to have -approached the inexpressible! Gerald said that she was not to -think about prices. She was, however, forced by some instinct to -think about prices--she who at home had scorned the narrowness of -life in the Square. In the Square she was understood to be quite -without commonsense, hopelessly imprudent; yet here, a spring of -sagacity seemed to be welling up in her all the time, a continual -antidote against the general madness in which she found herself. -With extraordinary rapidity she had formed a habit of preaching -moderation to Gerald. She hated to 'see money thrown away,' and -her notion of the boundary line between throwing money away and -judiciously spending it was still the notion of the Square. - -Gerald would laugh. But she would say, piqued and blushing, but -self-sure: "You can laugh!" It was all deliciously agreeable. - -On this evening she wore the first of the new costumes. She had -worn it all day. Characteristically she had chosen something which -was not too special for either afternoon or evening, for either -warm or cold weather. It was of pale blue taffetas striped in a -darker blue, with the corsage cut in basques, and the underskirt -of a similar taffetas, but unstriped. The effect of the ornate -overskirt falling on the plain underskirt with its small double -volant was, she thought, and Gerald too, adorable. The waist was -higher than any she had had before, and the crinoline expansive. -Tied round her head with a large bow and flying blue ribbons under -the chin, was a fragile flat capote like a baby's bonnet, which -allowed her hair to escape in front and her great chignon behind. -A large spotted veil flew out from the capote over the chignon. -Her double skirts waved amply over Gerald's knees in the carriage, -and she leaned back against the hard cushions and put an arrogant -look into her face, and thought of nothing but the intense -throbbing joy of life, longing with painful ardour for more and -more pleasure, then and for ever. - -As the carriage slipped downwards through the wide, empty gloom of -the Champs Elysees into the brilliant Paris that was waiting for -them, another carriage drawn by two white horses flashed upwards -and was gone in dust. Its only occupant, except the coachman and -footman, was a woman. Gerald stared after it. - -"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "That's Hortense!" - -It might have been Hortense, or it might not. But he instantly -convinced himself that it was. Not every evening did one meet -Hortense driving alone in the Champs Elysees, and in August too! - -"Hortense?" Sophia asked simply. - -"Yes. Hortense Schneider." - -"Who is she?" - -"You've never heard of Hortense Schneider?" - -"No!" - -"Well! Have you ever heard of Offenbach?" - -"I--I don't know. I don't think so." - -He had the mien of utter incredulity. "You don't mean to say -you've never heard of Bluebeard?" - -"I've heard of Bluebeard, of course," said she. "Who hasn't?" - -"I mean the opera--Offenbach's." - -She shook her head, scarce knowing even what an opera was. - -"Well, well! What next?" - -He implied that such ignorance stood alone in his experience. -Really he was delighted at the cleanness of the slate on which he -had to write. And Sophia was not a bit alarmed. She relished -instruction from his lips. It was a pleasure to her to learn from -that exhaustless store of worldly knowledge. To the world she -would do her best to assume omniscience in its ways, but to him, -in her present mood, she liked to play the ignorant, uninitiated -little thing. - -"Why," he said, "the Schneider has been the rage since last year -but one. Absolutely the rage." - -"I do wish I'd noticed her!" said Sophia. - -"As soon as the Varietes reopens we'll go and see her," he -replied, and then gave his detailed version of the career of -Hortense Schneider. - -More joys for her in the near future! She had yet scarcely -penetrated the crust of her bliss. She exulted in the dazzling -destiny which comprised freedom, fortune, eternal gaiety, and the -exquisite Gerald. - -As they crossed the Place de la Concorde, she inquired, "Are we -going back to the hotel?" - -"No," he said. "I thought we'd go and have supper somewhere, if it -isn't too early." - -"After all that dinner?" - -"All what dinner? You ate about five times as much as me, anyhow!" - -"Oh, I'm ready!" she said. - -She was. This day, because it was the first day of her French -frock, she regarded as her debut in the dizzy life of capitals. -She existed in a rapture of bliss, an ecstasy which could feel no -fatigue, either of body or spirit. - -II - -It was after midnight when they went into the Restaurant Sylvain; -Gerald, having decided not to go to the hotel, had changed his -mind and called there, and having called there, had remained a -long time: this of course! Sophia was already accustoming herself -to the idea that, with Gerald, it was impossible to predict -accurately more than five minutes of the future. - -As the chasseur held open the door for them to enter, and Sophia -passed modestly into the glowing yellow interior of the -restaurant, followed by Gerald in his character of man-of-the- -world, they drew the attention of Sylvain's numerous and -glittering guests. No face could have made a more provocative -contrast to the women's faces in those screened rooms than the -face of Sophia, so childlike between the baby's bonnet and the -huge bow of ribbon, so candid, so charmingly conscious of its own -pure beauty and of the fact that she was no longer a virgin, but -the equal in knowledge of any woman alive. She saw around her, -clustered about the white tables, multitudes of violently red -lips, powdered cheeks, cold, hard eyes, self-possessed arrogant -faces, and insolent bosoms. What had impressed her more than -anything else in Paris, more even than the three-horsed omnibuses, -was the extraordinary self-assurance of all the women, their -unashamed posing, their calm acceptance of the public gaze. They -seemed to say: "We are the renowned Parisiennes." They frightened -her: they appeared to her so corrupt and so proud in their -corruption. She had already seen a dozen women in various -situations of conspicuousness apply powder to their complexions -with no more ado than if they had been giving a pat to their hair. -She could not understand such boldness. As for them, they -marvelled at the phenomena presented in Sophia's person; they -admired; they admitted the style of the gown; but they envied -neither her innocence nor her beauty; they envied nothing but her -youth and the fresh tint of her cheeks. - -"Encore des Anglais!" said some of them, as if that explained all. - -Gerald had a very curt way with waiters; and the more obsequious -they were, the haughtier he became; and a head-waiter was no more -to him than a scullion. He gave loud-voiced orders in French of -which both he and Sophia were proud, and a table was laid for them -in a corner near one of the large windows. Sophia settled herself -on the bench of green velvet, and began to ply the ivory fan which -Gerald had given her. It was very hot; all the windows were wide -open, and the sounds of the street mingled clearly with the tinkle -of the supper-room. Outside, against a sky of deepest purple, -Sophia could discern the black skeleton of a gigantic building; it -was the new opera house. - -"All sorts here!" said Gerald, contentedly, after he had ordered -iced soup and sparkling Moselle. Sophia did not know what Moselle -was, but she imagined that anything would be better than -champagne. - -Sylvain's was then typical of the Second Empire, and particularly -famous as a supper-room. Expensive and gay, it provided, with its -discreet decorations, a sumptuous scene where lorettes, actresses, -respectable women, and an occasional grisette in luck, could -satisfy their curiosity as to each other. In its catholicity it -was highly correct as a resort; not many other restaurants in the -centre could have successfully fought against the rival -attractions of the Bois and the dim groves of the Champs Elysees -on a night in August. The complicated richness of the dresses, the -yards and yards of fine stitchery, the endless ruching, the hints, -more or less incautious, of nether treasures of embroidered linen; -and, leaping over all this to the eye, the vivid colourings of -silks and muslins, veils, plumes and flowers, piled as it were -pell-mell in heaps on the universal green cushions to the furthest -vista of the restaurant, and all multiplied in gilt mirrors--the -spectacle intoxicated Sophia. Her eyes gleamed. She drank the soup -with eagerness, and tasted the wine, though no desire on her part -to like wine could make her like it; and then, seeing pineapples -on a large table covered with fruits, she told Gerald that she -should like some pineapple, and Gerald ordered one. - -She gathered her self-esteem and her wits together, and began to -give Gerald her views on the costumes. She could do so with -impunity, because her own was indubitably beyond criticism. Some -she wholly condemned, and there was not one which earned her -unreserved approval. All the absurd fastidiousness of her -schoolgirlish provinciality emerged in that eager, affected -torrent of remarks. However, she was clever enough to read, after -a time, in Gerald's tone and features, that she was making a -tedious fool of herself. And she adroitly shifted her criticism -from the taste to the WORK--she put a strong accent on the word-- -and pronounced that to be miraculous beyond description. She -reckoned that she knew what dressmaking and millinery were, and -her little fund of expert knowledge caused her to picture a whole -necessary cityful of girls stitching, stitching, and stitching day -and night. She had wondered, during the few odd days that they had -spent in Paris, between visits to Chantilly and other places, at -the massed luxury of the shops; she had wondered, starting with -St. Luke's Square as a standard, how they could all thrive. But -now in her first real glimpse of the banal and licentious -profusion of one among a hundred restaurants, she wondered that -the shops were so few. She thought how splendid was all this -expensiveness for trade. Indeed, the notions chasing each other -within that lovely and foolish head were a surprising medley. - -"Well, what do you think of Sylvain's?" Gerald asked, impatient to -be assured that his Sylvain's had duly overwhelmed her. - -"Oh, Gerald!" she murmured, indicating that speech was inadequate. -And she just furtively touched his hand with hers. - -The ennui due to her critical disquisition on the shortcomings of -Parisian costume cleared away from Gerald's face. - -"What do you suppose those people there are talking about?" he -said with a jerk of the head towards a chattering group of three -gorgeous lorettes and two middle-aged men at the next table but -one. - -"What are they talking about?" - -"They're talking about the execution of the murderer Rivain that -takes place at Auxerre the day after to-morrow. They're arranging -to make up a party and go and see it." - -"Oh, what a horrid idea!" said Sophia. - -"Guillotine, you know!" said Gerald. - -"But can people see it?" - -"Yes, of course." - -"Well, I think it's horrible." - -"Yes, that's why people like to go and see it. Besides, the man -isn't an ordinary sort of criminal at all. He's very young and -good-looking, and well connected. And he killed the celebrated -Claudine. ..." - -"Claudine?" - -"Claudine Jacquinot. Of course you wouldn't know. She was a -tremendous--er--wrong 'un here in the forties. Made a lot of -money, and retired to her native town." - -Sophia, in spite of her efforts to maintain the role of a woman -who has nothing to learn, blushed. - -"Then she was older than he is." - -"Thirty-five years older, if a day." - -"What did he kill her for?" - -"She wouldn't give him enough money. She was his mistress--or -rather one of 'em. He wanted money for a young lady friend, you -see. He killed her and took all the jewels she was wearing. -Whenever he went to see her she always wore all her best jewels-- -and you may bet a woman like that had a few. It seems she had been -afraid for a long time that he meant to do for her." - -"Then why did she see him? And why did she wear her jewels?" - -"Because she liked being afraid, goose! Some women only enjoy -themselves when they're terrified. Queer, isn't it?" - -Gerald insisted on meeting his wife's gaze as he finished these -revelations. He pretended that such stories were the commonest -things on earth, and that to be scandalized by them was infantile. -Sophia, thrust suddenly into a strange civilization perfectly -frank in its sensuality and its sensuousness, under the guidance -of a young man to whom her half-formed intelligence was a most -diverting toy--Sophia felt mysteriously uncomfortable, disturbed -by sinister, flitting phantoms of ideas which she only dimly -apprehended. Her eyes fell. Gerald laughed self-consciously. She -would not eat any more pineapple. - -Immediately afterwards there came into the restaurant an -apparition which momentarily stopped every conversation in the -room. It was a tall and mature woman who wore over a dress of -purplish-black silk a vast flowing sortie de bal of vermilion -velvet, looped and tasselled with gold. No other costume could -live by the side of that garment, Arab in shape, Russian in -colour, and Parisian in style. It blazed. The woman's heavy -coiffure was bound with fillets of gold braid and crimson -rosettes. She was followed by a young Englishman in evening dress -and whiskers of the most exact correctness. The woman sailed, a -little breathlessly, to a table next to Gerald's, and took -possession of it with an air of use, almost of tedium. She sat -down, threw the cloak from her majestic bosom, and expanded her -chest. Seeming to ignore the Englishman, who superciliously -assumed the seat opposite to her, she let her large scornful eyes -travel round the restaurant, slowly and imperiously meeting the -curiosity which she had evoked. Her beauty had undoubtedly been -dazzling, it was still effulgent; but the blossom was about to -fall. She was admirably rouged and powdered; her arms were -glorious; her lashes were long. There was little fault, save the -excessive ripeness of a blonde who fights in vain against obesity. -And her clothes combined audacity with the propriety of fashion. -She carelessly deposed costly trinkets on the table, and then, -having intimidated the whole company, she accepted the menu from -the head-waiter and began to study it. - -"That's one of 'em!" Gerald whispered to Sophia. - -"One of what?" Sophia whispered. - -Gerald raised his eyebrows warningly, and winked. The Englishman -had overheard; and a look of frigid displeasure passed across his -proud face. Evidently he belonged to a rank much higher than -Gerald's; and Gerald, though he could always comfort himself by -the thought that he had been to a university with the best, felt -his own inferiority and could not hide that he felt it. Gerald was -wealthy; he came of a wealthy family; but he had not the habit of -wealth. When he spent money furiously, he did it with bravado, too -conscious of grandeur and too conscious of the difficulties of -acquiring that which he threw away. For Gerald had earned money. -This whiskered Englishman had never earned money, never known the -value of it, never imagined himself without as much of it as he -might happen to want. He had the face of one accustomed to give -orders and to look down upon inferiors. He was absolutely sure of -himself. That his companion chiefly ignored him did not appear to -incommode him in the least. She spoke to him in French. He replied -in English, very briefly; and then, in English, he commanded the -supper. As soon as the champagne was served he began to drink; in -the intervals of drinking he gently stroked his whiskers. The -woman spoke no more. - -Gerald talked more loudly. With that aristocratic Englishman -observing him, he could not remain at ease. And not only did he -talk more loudly; he brought into his conversation references to -money, travels, and worldly experiences. While seeking to impress -the Englishman, he was merely becoming ridiculous to the -Englishman; and obscurely he was aware of this. Sophia noticed and -regretted it. Still, feeling very unimportant herself, she was -reconciled to the superiority of the whiskered Englishman as to a -natural fact. Gerald's behaviour slightly lowered him in her -esteem. Then she looked at him--at his well-shaped neatness, his -vivacious face, his excellent clothes, and decided that he was -much to be preferred to any heavy-jawed, long-nosed aristocrat -alive. - -The woman whose vermilion cloak lay around her like a -fortification spoke to her escort. He did not understand. He tried -to express himself in French, and failed. Then the woman -recommenced, talking at length. When she had done he shook his -head. His acquaintance with French was limited to the vocabulary -of food. - -"Guillotine!" he murmured, the sole word of her discourse that he -had understood. - -"Oui, oui! Guillotine. Enfin ...!" cried the woman excitedly. -Encouraged by her success in conveying even one word of her -remarks, she began a third time. - -"Excuse me," said Gerald. "Madame is talking about the execution -at Auxerre the day after to-morrow. N'est-ce-pas, madame, que vous -parliez de Rivain?" - -The Englishman glared angrily at Gerald's officious interruption. -But the woman smiled benevolently on Gerald, and insisted on -talking to her friend through him. And the Englishman had to make -the best of the situation. - -"There isn't a restaurant in Paris to-night where they aren't -talking about that execution," said Gerald on his own account. - -"Indeed!" observed the Englishman. - -Wine affected them in different ways. - -Now a fragile, short young Frenchman, with an extremely pale face -ending in a thin black imperial, appeared at the entrance. He -looked about, and, recognizing the woman of the scarlet cloak, -very discreetly saluted her. Then he saw Gerald, and his worn, -fatigued features showed a sudden, startled smile. He came rapidly -forward, hat in hand, seized Gerald's palm and greeted him -effusively. - -"My wife," said Gerald, with the solemn care of a man who is -determined to prove that he is entirely sober. - -The young man became grave and excessively ceremonious. He bowed -low over Sophia's hand and kissed it. Her impulse was to laugh, -but the gravity of the young man's deference stopped her. She -glanced at Gerald, blushing, as if to say: "This comedy is not my -fault." Gerald said something, the young man turned to him and his -face resumed its welcoming smile. - -"This is Monsieur Chirac," Gerald at length completed the -introduction, "a friend of mine when I lived in Paris." - -He was proud to have met by accident an acquaintance in a -restaurant. It demonstrated that he was a Parisian, and improved -his standing with the whiskered Englishman and the vermilion -cloak. - -"It is the first time you come Paris, madame?" Chirac addressed -himself to Sophia, in limping, timorous English. - -"Yes," she giggled. He bowed again. - -Chirac, with his best compliments, felicitated Gerald upon his -marriage. - -"Don't mention it!" said the humorous Gerald in English, amused at -his own wit; and then: "What about this execution?" - -"Ah!" replied Chirac, breathing out a long breath, and smiling at -Sophia. "Rivain! Rivain!" He made a large, important gesture with -his hand. - -It was at once to be seen that Gerald had touched the topic which -secretly ravaged the supper-world as a subterranean fire ravages a -mine. - -"I go!" said Chirac, with pride, glancing at Sophia, who smiled -self-consciously. - -Chirac entered upon a conversation with Gerald in French. Sophia -comprehended that Gerald was surprised and impressed by what -Chirac told him and that Chirac in turn was surprised. Then Gerald -laboriously found his pocket-book, and after some fumbling with it -handed it to Chirac so that the latter might write in it. - -"Madame!" murmured Chirac, resuming his ceremonious stiffness in -order to take leave. "Alors, c'est entendu, mon cher ami!" he said -to Gerald, who nodded phlegmatically. And Chirac went away to the -next table but one, where were the three lorettes and the two -middle-aged men. He was received there with enthusiasm. - -Sophia began to be teased by a little fear that Gerald was not -quite his usual self. She did not think of him as tipsy. The idea -of his being tipsy would have shocked her. She did not think -clearly at all. She was lost and dazed in the labyrinth of new and -vivid impressions into which Gerald had led her. But her prudence -was awake. - -"I think I'm tired," she said in a low voice. - -"You don't want to go, do you?" he asked, hurt. - -"Well--" - -"Oh, wait a bit!" - -The owner of the vermilion cloak spoke again to Gerald, who showed -that he was flattered. While talking to her he ordered a brandy- -and-soda. And then he could not refrain from displaying to her his -familiarity with Parisian life, and he related how he had met -Hortense Schneider behind a pair of white horses. The vermilion -cloak grew even more sociable at the mention of this resounding -name, and chattered with the most agreeable vivacity. Her friend -stared inimically. - -"Do you hear that?" Gerald explained to Sophia, who was sitting -silent. "About Hortense Schneider--you know, we met her to-night. -It seems she made a bet of a louis with some fellow, and when he -lost he sent her the louis set in diamonds worth a hundred -thousand francs. That's how they go on here." - -"Oh!" cried Sophia, further than ever in the labyrinth. - -"'Scuse me," the Englishman put in heavily. He had heard the words -'Hortense Schneider,' 'Hortense Schneider,' repeating themselves -in the conversation, and at last it had occurred to him that the -conversation was about Hortense Schneider. "'Scuse me," he began -again. "Are you--do you mean Hortense Schneider?" - -"Yes," said Gerald. "We met her to-night." - -"She's in Trouville," said the Englishman, flatly. - -Gerald shook his head positively. - -"I gave a supper to her in Trouville last night," said the -Englishman. "And she plays at the Casino Theatre to-night." - -Gerald was repulsed but not defeated. "What is she playing in to- -night? Tell me that!" he sneered. - -"I don't see why I sh'd tell you." - -"Hm!" Gerald retorted. "If what you say is true, it's a very -strange thing I should have seen her in the Champs Elysees to- -night, isn't it?" - -The Englishman drank more wine. "If you want to insult me, sir--" -he began coldly. - -"Gerald!" Sophia urged in a whisper. - -"Be quiet!" Gerald snapped. - -A fiddler in fancy costume plunged into the restaurant at that -moment and began to play wildly. The shock of his strange advent -momentarily silenced the quarrel; but soon it leaped up again, -under the shelter of the noisy music,--the common, tedious, -tippler's quarrel. It rose higher and higher. The fiddler looked -askance at it over his fiddle. Chirac cautiously observed it. -Instead of attending to the music, the festal company attended to -the quarrel. Three waiters in a group watched it with an impartial -sporting interest. The English voices grew more menacing. - -Then suddenly the whiskered Englishman, jerking his head towards -the door, said more quietly: - -"Hadn't we better settle thish outside?" - -"At your service!" said Gerald, rising. - -The owner of the vermilion cloak lifted her eyebrows to Chirac in -fatigued disgust, but she said nothing. Nor did Sophia say -anything. Sophia was overcome by terror. - -The swain of the cloak, dragging his coat after him across the -floor, left the restaurant without offering any apology or -explanation to his lady. - -"Wait here for me," said Gerald defiantly to Sophia. "I shall be -back in a minute." - -"But, Gerald!" She put her hand on his sleeve. - -He snatched his arm away. "Wait here for me, I tell you," he -repeated. - -The doorkeeper obsequiously opened the door to the two unsteady -carousers, for whom the fiddler drew back, still playing. - -Thus Sophia was left side by side with the vermilion cloak. She -was quite helpless. All the pride of a married woman had abandoned -her. She stood transfixed by intense shame, staring painfully at a -pillar, to avoid the universal assault of eyes. She felt like an -indiscreet little girl, and she looked like one. No youthful -radiant beauty of features, no grace and style of a Parisian -dress, no certificate of a ring, no premature initiation into the -mysteries, could save her from the appearance of a raw fool whose -foolishness had been her undoing. Her face changed to its reddest, -and remained at that, and all the fundamental innocence of her -nature, which had been overlaid by the violent experiences of her -brief companionship with Gerald, rose again to the surface with -that blush. Her situation drew pity from a few hearts and a -careless contempt from the rest. But since once more it was a -question of ces Anglais, nobody could be astonished. - -Without moving her head, she twisted her eyes to the clock: half- -past two. The fiddler ceased his dance and made a collection in -his tasselled cap. The vermilion cloak threw a coin into the cap. -Sophia stared at it moveless, until the fiddler, tired of waiting, -passed to the next table and relieved her agony. She had no money -at all. She set herself to watch the clock; but its fingers would -not stir. - -With an exclamation the lady of the cloak got up and peered out of -the window, chatted with waiters, and then removed herself and her -cloak to the next table, where she was received with amiable -sympathy by the three lorettes, Chirac, and the other two men. The -party surreptitiously examined Sophia from time to time. Then -Chirac went outside with the head-waiter, returned, consulted with -his friends, and finally approached Sophia. It was twenty minutes -past three. - -He renewed his magnificent bow. "Madame," he said carefully, "will -you allow me to bring you to your hotel?" - -He made no reference to Gerald, partly, doubtless, because his -English was treacherous on difficult ground. - -Sophia had not sufficient presence of mind to thank her saviour. - -"But the bill?" she stammered. "The bill isn't paid." - -He did not instantly understand her. But one of the waiters had -caught the sound of a familiar word, and sprang forward with a -slip of paper on a plate. - -"I have no money," said Sophia, with a feeble smile. - -"Je vous arrangerai ca," he said. "What name of the hotel? -Meurice, is it not?" - -"Hotel Meurice," said Sophia. "Yes." - -He spoke to the head-waiter about the bill, which was carried away -like something obscene; and on his arm, which he punctiliously -offered and she could not refuse, Sophia left the scene of her -ignominy. She was so distraught that she could not manage her -crinoline in the doorway. No sign anywhere outside of Gerald or -his foe! - -He put her into an open carriage, and in five minutes they had -clattered down the brilliant silence of the Rue de la Paix, -through the Place Vendome into the Rue de Rivoli; and the night- -porter of the hotel was at the carriage-step. - -"I tell them at the restaurant where you gone," said Chirac, bare- -headed under the long colonnade of the street. "If your husband is -there, I tell him. Till to-morrow ...!" - -His manners were more wonderful than any that Sophia had ever -imagined. He might have been in the dark Tuileries on the opposite -side of the street, saluting an empress, instead of taking leave -of a raw little girl, who was still too disturbed even to thank -him. - -She fled candle in hand up the wide, many-cornered stairs; Gerald -might be already in the bedroom, ... drunk! There was a chance. -But the gilt-fringed bedroom was empty. She sat down at the -velvet-covered table amid the shadows cast by the candle that -wavered in the draught from the open window. And she set her teeth -and a cold fury possessed her in the hot and languorous night. -Gerald was an imbecile. That he should have allowed himself to get -tipsy was bad enough, but that he should have exposed her to the -horrible situation from which Chirac had extricated her, was -unspeakably disgraceful. He was an imbecile. He had no common -sense. With all his captivating charm, he could not be relied upon -not to make himself and her ridiculous, tragically ridiculous. -Compare him with Mr. Chirac! She leaned despairingly on the table. -She would not undress. She would not move. She had to realize her -position; she had to see it. - -Folly! Folly! Fancy a commercial traveller throwing a compromising -piece of paper to the daughter of his customer in the shop itself: -that was the incredible folly with which their relations had -begun! And his mad gesture at the pit-shaft! And his scheme for -bringing her to Paris unmarried! And then to-night! Monstrous -folly! Alone in the bedroom she was a wise and a disillusioned -woman, wiser than any of those dolls in the restaurant. - -And had she not gone to Gerald, as it were, over the dead body of -her father, through lies and lies and again lies? That was how she -phrased it to herself. ... Over the dead body of her father! How -could such a venture succeed? How could she ever have hoped that -it would succeed? In that moment she saw her acts with the -terrible vision of a Hebrew prophet. - -She thought of the Square and of her life there with her mother -and Sophia. Never would her pride allow her to return to that -life, not even if the worst happened to her that could happen. She -was one of those who are prepared to pay without grumbling for -what they have had. - -There was a sound outside. She noticed that the dawn had begun. -The door opened and disclosed Gerald. - -They exchanged a searching glance, and Gerald shut the door. -Gerald infected the air, but she perceived at once that he was -sobered. His lip was bleeding. - -"Mr. Chirac brought me home," she said. - -"So it seems," said Gerald, curtly. "I asked you to wait for me. -Didn't I say I should come back?" - -He was adopting the injured magisterial tone of the man who is -ridiculously trying to conceal from himself and others that he has -recently behaved like an ass. - -She resented the injustice. "I don't think you need talk like -that," she said. - -"Like what?" he bullied her, determined that she should be in the -wrong. - -And what a hard look on his pretty face! - -Her prudence bade her accept the injustice. She was his. Rapt away -from her own world, she was utterly dependent on his good nature. - -"I knocked my chin against the damned balustrade, coming -upstairs," said Gerald, gloomily. - -She knew that was a lie. "Did you?" she replied kindly. "Let me -bathe it." - - - - -CHAPTER III - -AN AMBITION SATISFIED - -I - - -She went to sleep in misery. All the glory of her new life had -been eclipsed. But when she woke up, a few hours later, in the -large, velvety stateliness of the bedroom for which Gerald was -paying so fantastic a price per day, she was in a brighter mood, -and very willing to reconsider her verdicts. Her pride induced her -to put Gerald in the right and herself in the wrong, for she was -too proud to admit that she had married a charming and -irresponsible fool. And, indeed, ought she not to put herself in -the wrong? Gerald had told her to wait, and she had not waited. He -had said that he should return to the restaurant, and he had -returned. Why had she not waited? She had not waited because she -had behaved like a simpleton. She had been terrified about -nothing. Had she not been frequenting restaurants now for a month -past? Ought not a married woman to be capable of waiting an hour -in a restaurant for her lawful husband without looking a ninny? -And as for Gerald's behaviour, how could he have acted -differently? The other Englishman was obviously a brute and had -sought a quarrel. His contradiction of Gerald's statements was -extremely offensive. On being invited by the brute to go outside, -what could Gerald do but comply? Not to have complied might have -meant a fight in the restaurant, as the brute was certainly drunk. -Compared to the brute, Gerald was not at all drunk, merely a -little gay and talkative. Then Gerald's fib about his chin was -natural; he simply wished to minimize the fuss and to spare her -feelings. It was, in fact, just like Gerald to keep perfect -silence as to what had passed between himself and the brute. -However, she was convinced that Gerald, so lithe and quick, had -given that great brute with his supercilious ways as good as he -received, if not better. - -And if she were a man and had asked her wife to wait in a -restaurant, and the wife had gone home under the escort of another -man, she would most assuredly be much more angry than Gerald had -been. She was very glad that she had controlled herself and -exercised a meek diplomacy. A quarrel had thus been avoided. Yes, -the finish of the evening could not be called a quarrel; after her -nursing of his chin, nothing but a slight coolness on his part had -persisted. - -She arose silently and began to dress, full of a determination to -treat Gerald as a good wife ought to treat a husband. Gerald did -not stir; he was an excellent sleeper: one of those organisms that -never want to go to bed and never want to get up. When her toilet -was complete save for her bodice, there was a knock at the door. -She started. - -"Gerald!" She approached the bed, and leaned her nude bosom over -her husband, and put her arms round his neck. This method of being -brought back to consciousness did not displease him. - -The knock was repeated. He gave a grunt. - -"Some one's knocking at the door," she whispered. - -"Then why don't you open it?" he asked dreamily. - -"I'm not dressed, darling." - -He looked at her. "Stick something on your shoulders, girl!" said -he. "What does it matter?" - -There she was, being a simpleton again, despite her resolution! - -She obeyed, and cautiously opened the door, standing behind it. - -A middle-aged whiskered servant, in a long white apron, announced -matters in French which passed her understanding. But Gerald had -heard from the bed, and he replied. - -"Bien, monsieur!" The servant departed, with a bow, down the -obscure corridor. - -"It's Chirac," Gerald explained when she had shut the door. "I was -forgetting I asked him to come and have lunch with us, early. He's -waiting in the drawing-room. Just put your bodice on, and go and -talk to him till I come." - -He jumped out of bed, and then, standing in his night-garb, -stretched himself and terrifically yawned. - -"Me?" Sophia questioned. - -"Who else?" said Gerald, with that curious satiric dryness which -he would sometimes import into his tone. - -"But I can't speak French!" she protested. - -"I didn't suppose you could," said Gerald, with an increase of -dryness; "but you know as well as I do that he can speak English." - -"Oh, very well, then!" she murmured with agreeable alacrity. - -Evidently Gerald had not yet quite recovered from his legitimate -displeasure of the night. He minutely examined his mouth in the -glass of the Louis Philippe wardrobe. It showed scarcely a trace -of battle. - -"I say!" he stopped her, as, nervous at the prospect before her, -she was leaving the room. "I was thinking of going to Auxerre to- -day." - -"Auxerre?" she repeated, wondering under what circumstances she -had recently heard that name. Then she remembered: it was the -place of execution of the murderer Rivain. - -"Yes," he said. "Chirac has to go. He's on a newspaper now. He was -an architect when I knew him. He's got to go and he thinks himself -jolly lucky. So I thought I'd go with him." - -The truth was that he had definitely arranged to go. - -"Not to see the execution?" she stammered. - -"Why not? I've always wanted to see an execution, especially with -the guillotine. And executions are public in France. It's quite -the proper thing to go to them." - -"But why do you want to see an execution?" - -"It just happens that I do want to see an execution. It's a fancy -of mine, that's all. I don't know that any reason is necessary," -he said, pouring out water into the diminutive ewer. - -She was aghast. "And shall you leave me here alone?" - -"Well," said he, "I don't see why my being married should prevent -me from doing something that I've always wanted to do. Do you?" - -"Oh NO!" she eagerly concurred. - -"That's all right," he said. "You can do exactly as you like. -Either stay here, or come with me. If you go to Auxerre there's no -need at all for you to see the execution. It's an interesting old -town--cathedral and so on. But of course if you can't bear to be -in the same town as a guillotine, I'll go alone. I shall come back -to-morrow." - -It was plain where his wish lay. She stopped the phrases that came -to her lips, and did her best to dismiss the thoughts which -prompted them. - -"Of course I'll go," she said quietly. She hesitated, and then -went up to the washstand and kissed a part of his cheek that was -not soapy. That kiss, which comforted and somehow reassured her, -was the expression of a surrender whose monstrousness she would -not admit to herself. - -In the rich and dusty drawing-room, Chirac and Chirac's exquisite -formalities awaited her. Nobody else was there. - -"My husband ..." she began, smiling and blushing. She liked -Chirac. - -It was the first time she had had the opportunity of using that -word to other than a servant. It soothed her and gave her -confidence. She perceived after a few moments that Chirac did -genuinely admire her; more, that she inspired him with something -that resembled awe. Speaking very slowly and distinctly she said -that she should travel with her husband to Auxerre; as he saw no -objection to that course; implying that if he saw no objection she -was perfectly satisfied. Chirac was concurrence itself. In five -minutes it seemed to be the most natural and proper thing in the -world that, on her honeymoon, she should be going with her husband -to a particular town because a notorious murderer was about to be -decapitated there in public. - -"My husband has always wanted to see an execution," she said, -later. "It would be a pity to ..." - -"As psychological experience," replied Chirac, pronouncing the p -of the adjective, "it will be very interessant. ... To observe -one's self, in such circumstances ..." He smiled -enthusiastically. - -She thought how strange even nice Frenchmen were. Imagine going to -an execution in order to observe yourself! - -II - -What continually impressed Sophia as strange, in the behaviour not -only of Gerald but of Chirac and other people with whom she came -into contact, was its quality of casualness. She had all her life -been accustomed to see enterprises, even minor ones, well pondered -and then carefully schemed beforehand. In St. Luke's Square there -was always, in every head, a sort of time-table of existence -prepared at least one week in advance. But in Gerald's world -nothing was prearranged. Elaborate affairs were decided in a -moment and undertaken with extraordinary lightness. Thus the -excursion to Auxerre! During lunch scarcely a word was said as to -it; the conversation, in English for Sophia's advantage, turning, -as usual under such circumstances, upon the difficulty of -languages and the differences between countries. Nobody would have -guessed that any member of the party had any preoccupation -whatever for the rest of the day. The meal was delightful to -Sophia; not merely did she find Chirac comfortingly kind and -sincere, but Gerald was restored to the perfection of his charm -and his good humour. Then suddenly, in the midst of coffee, the -question of trains loomed up like a swift crisis. In five minutes -Chirac had departed--whether to his office or his home Sophia did -not understand, and within a quarter of an hour she and Gerald -were driving rapidly to the Gare de Lyon, Gerald stuffing into his -pocket a large envelope full of papers which he had received by -registered post. They caught the train by about a minute, and -Chirac by a few seconds. Yet neither he nor Gerald seemed to -envisage the risk of inconvenience and annoyance which they had -incurred and escaped. Chirac chattered through the window with -another journalist in the next compartment. When she had leisure -to examine him, Sophia saw that he must have called at his home to -put on old clothes. Everybody except herself and Gerald seemed to -travel in his oldest clothes. - -The train was hot, noisy, and dusty. But, one after another, all -three of them fell asleep and slept heavily, calmly, like healthy -and exhausted young animals. Nothing could disturb them for more -than a moment. To Sophia it appeared to be by simple chance that -Chirac aroused himself and them at Laroche and sleepily seized her -valise and got them all out on the platform, where they yawned and -smiled, full of the deep, half-realized satisfaction of repose. -They drank nectar from a wheeled buffet, drank it eagerly, in -thirsty gulps, and sighed with pleasure and relief, and Gerald -threw down a coin, refusing change with a lord's gesture. The -local train to Auxerre was full, and with a varied and sinister -cargo. At length they were in the zone of the waiting guillotine. -The rumour ran that the executioner was on the train. No one had -seen him; no one was sure of recognizing him, but everyone hugged -the belief that he was on the train. Although the sun was sinking -the heat seemed not to abate. Attitudes grew more limp, more -abandoned. Soot and prickly dust flew in unceasingly at the open -windows. The train stopped at Bonnard, Chemilly, and Moneteau, -each time before a waiting crowd that invaded it. And at last, in -the great station at Auxerre, it poured out an incredible mass of -befouled humanity that spread over everything like an inundation. -Sophia was frightened. Gerald left the initiative to Chirac, and -Chirac took her arm and led her forward, looking behind him to see -that Gerald followed with the valise. Frenzy seemed to reign in -Auxerre. - -The driver of a cab demanded ten francs for transporting them to -the Hotel de l'Epee. - -"Bah!" scornfully exclaimed Chirac, in his quality of experienced -Parisian who is not to be exploited by heavy-witted provincials. - -But the driver of the next cab demanded twelve francs. - -"Jump in," said Gerald to Sophia. Chirac lifted his eyebrows. - -At the same moment a tall, stout man with the hard face of a -flourishing scoundrel, and a young, pallid girl on his arm, pushed -aside both Gerald and Chirac and got into the cab with his -companion. - -Chirac protested, telling him that the cab was already engaged. - -The usurper scowled and swore, and the young girl laughed boldly. - -Sophia, shrinking, expected her escort to execute justice heroic -and final; but she was disappointed. - -"Brute!" murmured Chirac, and shrugged his shoulders, as the -carriage drove off, leaving them foolish on the kerb. - -By this time all the other cabs had been seized. They walked to -the Hotel de l'Epee, jostled by the crowd, Sophia and Chirac in -front, and Gerald following with the valise, whose weight caused -him to lean over to the right and his left arm to rise. The avenue -was long, straight, and misty with a floating dust. Sophia had a -vivid sense of the romantic. They saw towers and spires, and -Chirac talked to her slowly and carefully of the cathedral and the -famous churches. He said that the stained glass was marvellous, -and with much care he catalogued for her all the things she must -visit. They crossed a river. She felt as though she was stepping -into the middle age. At intervals Gerald changed the valise from -hand to hand; obstinately, he would not let Chirac touch it. They -struggled upwards, through narrow curving streets. - -"Voila!" said Chirac. - -They were in front of the Hotel de l'Epee. Across the street was a -cafe crammed with people. Several carriages stood in front. The -Hotel de l'Epee had a reassuring air of mellow respectability, -such as Chirac had claimed for it. He had suggested this hotel for -Madame Scales because it was not near the place of execution. -Gerald had said, "Of course! Of course!" Chirac, who did not mean -to go to bed, required no room for himself. - -The Hotel de l'Epee had one room to offer, at the price of twenty- -five francs. - -Gerald revolted at the attempted imposition. "A nice thing!" he -grumbled, "that ordinary travellers can't get a decent room at a -decent price just because some one's going to be guillotined to- -morrow! We'll try elsewhere!" - -His features expressed disgust, but Sophia fancied that he was -secretly pleased. - -They swaggered out of the busy stir of the hotel, as those must -who, having declined to be swindled, wish to preserve their -importance in the face of the world. In the street a cabman -solicited them, and filled them with hope by saying that he knew -of a hotel that might suit them and would drive them there for -five francs. He furiously lashed his horse. The mere fact of being -in a swiftly moving carriage which wayfarers had to avoid nimbly, -maintained their spirits. They had a near glimpse of the -cathedral. The cab halted with a bump, in a small square, in front -of a repellent building which bore the sign, 'Hotel de Vezelay.' -The horse was bleeding. Gerald instructed Sophia to remain where -she was, and he and Chirac went up four stone steps into the -hotel. Sophia, stared at by loose crowds that were promenading, -gazed about her, and saw that all the windows of the square were -open and most of them occupied by people who laughed and -chattered. Then there was a shout: Gerald's voice. He had appeared -at a window on the second floor of the hotel with Chirac and a -very fat woman. Chirac saluted, and Gerald laughed carelessly, and -nodded. - -"It's all right," said Gerald, having descended. - -"How much do they ask?" Sophia inquired indiscreetly. - -Gerald hesitated, and looked self-conscious. "Thirty-five francs," -he said. "But I've had enough of driving about. It seems we're -lucky to get it even at that." - -And Chirac shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate that the -situation and the price ought to be accepted philosophically. -Gerald gave the driver five francs. He examined the piece and -demanded a pourboire. - -"Oh! Damn!" said Gerald, and, because he had no smaller change, -parted with another two francs. - -"Is any one coming out for this damned valise?" Gerald demanded, -like a tyrant whose wrath would presently fall if the populace did -not instantly set about minding their p's and q's. - -But nobody emerged, and he was compelled to carry the bag himself. - -The hotel was dark and malodorous, and every room seemed to be -crowded with giggling groups of drinkers. - -"We can't both sleep in this bed, surely," said Sophia when, -Chirac having remained downstairs, she faced Gerald in a small, -mean bedroom. - -"You don't suppose I shall go to bed, do you?" said Gerald, rather -brusquely. "It's for you. We're going to eat now. Look sharp." - -III - -It was night. She lay in the narrow, crimson-draped bed. The heavy -crimson curtains had been drawn across the dirty lace curtains of -the window, but the lights of the little square faintly penetrated -through chinks into the room. The sounds of the square also -penetrated, extraordinarily loud and clear, for the unabated heat -had compelled her to leave the window open. She could not sleep. -Exhausted though she was, there was no hope of her being able to -sleep. - -Once again she was profoundly depressed. She remembered the dinner -with horror. The long, crowded table, with semi-circular ends, in -the oppressive and reeking dining-room lighted by oil-lamps! There -must have been at least forty people at that table. Most of them -ate disgustingly, as noisily as pigs, with the ends of the large -coarse napkins tucked in at their necks. All the service was done -by the fat woman whom she had seen at the window with Gerald, and -a young girl whose demeanour was candidly brazen. Both these -creatures were slatterns. Everything was dirty. But the food was -good. Chirac and Gerald were agreed that the food was good, as -well as the wine. "Remarquable!" Chirac had said, of the wine. -Sophia, however, could neither eat nor drink with relish. She was -afraid. The company shocked her by its gestures alone. It was very -heterogeneous in appearance, some of the diners being well -dressed, approaching elegance, and others shabby. But all the -faces, to the youngest, were brutalized, corrupt, and shameless. -The juxtaposition of old men and young women was odious to her, -especially when those pairs kissed, as they did frequently towards -the end of the meal. Happily she was placed between Chirac and -Gerald. That situation seemed to shelter her even from the -conversation. She would have comprehended nothing of the -conversation, had it not been for the presence of a middle-aged -Englishman who sat at the opposite end of the table with a -youngish, stylish Frenchwoman whom she had seen at Sylvain's on -the previous night. The Englishman was evidently under a promise -to teach English to the Frenchwoman. He kept translating for her -into English, slowly and distinctly, and she would repeat the -phrases after him, with strange contortions of the mouth. - -Thus Sophia gathered that the talk was exclusively about -assassinations, executions, criminals, and executioners. Some of -the people there made a practice of attending every execution. -They were fountains of interesting gossip, and the lions of the -meal. There was a woman who could recall the dying words of all -the victims of justice for twenty years past. The table roared -with hysteric laughter at one of this woman's anecdotes. Sophia -learned that she had related how a criminal had said to the priest -who was good-naturedly trying to screen the sight of the -guillotine from him with his body: "Stand away now, parson. -Haven't I paid to see it?" Such was the Englishman's rendering. -The wages of the executioners and their assistants were discussed, -and differences of opinions led to ferocious arguments. A young -and dandiacal fellow told, as a fact which he was ready to vouch -for with a pistol, how Cora Pearl, the renowned English courtesan, -had through her influence over a prefect of police succeeded in -visiting a criminal alone in his cell during the night preceding -his execution, and had only quitted him an hour before the final -summons. The tale won the honours of the dinner. It was regarded -as truly impressive, and inevitably it led to the general inquiry: -what could the highest personages in the empire see to admire in -that red-haired Englishwoman? And of course Rivain himself, the -handsome homicide, the centre and hero of the fete, was never long -out of the conversation. Several of the diners had seen him; one -or two knew him and could give amazing details of his prowess as a -man of pleasure. Despite his crime, he seemed to be the object of -sincere idolatry. It was said positively that a niece of his -victim had been promised a front place at the execution. - -Apropos of this, Sophia gathered, to her intense astonishment and -alarm, that the prison was close by and that the execution would -take place at the corner of the square itself in which the hotel -was situated. Gerald must have known; he had hidden it from her. -She regarded him sideways, with distrust. As the dinner finished, -Gerald's pose of a calm, disinterested, scientific observer of -humanity gradually broke down. He could not maintain it in front -of the increasing license of the scene round the table. He was at -length somewhat ashamed of having exposed his wife to the view of -such an orgy; his restless glance carefully avoided both Sophia -and Chirac. The latter, whose unaffected simplicity of interest in -the affair had more than anything helped to keep Sophia in -countenance, observed the change in Gerald and Sophia's excessive -discomfort, and suggested that they should leave the table without -waiting for the coffee. Gerald agreed quickly. Thus had Sophia -been released from the horror of the dinner. She did not -understand how a man so thoughtful and kindly as Chirac--he had -bidden her good night with the most distinguished courtesy--could -tolerate, much less pleasurably savour, the gluttonous, drunken, -and salacious debauchery of the Hotel de Vezelay; but his theory -was, so far as she could judge from his imperfect English, that -whatever existed might be admitted and examined by serious persons -interested in the study of human nature. His face seemed to say: -"Why not?" His face seemed to say to Gerald and to herself: "If -this incommodes you, what did you come for?" - -Gerald had left her at the bedroom door with a self-conscious nod. -She had partly undressed and lain down, and instantly the hotel -had transformed itself into a kind of sounding-box. It was as if, -beneath and within all the noises of the square, every movement in -the hotel reached her ears through cardboard walls: distant -shoutings and laughter below; rattlings of crockery below; -stampings up and down stairs; stealthy creepings up and down -stairs; brusque calls; fragments of song, whisperings; long sighs -suddenly stifled; mysterious groans as of torture, broken by a -giggle; quarrels and bickering,--she was spared nothing in the -strangely resonant darkness. - -Then there came out of the little square a great uproar and -commotion, with shrieks, and under the shrieks a confused din. In -vain she pressed her face into the pillow and listened to the -irregular, prodigious noise of her eyelashes as they scraped the -rough linen. The thought had somehow introduced itself into her -head that she must arise and go to the window and see all that was -to be seen. She resisted. She said to herself that the idea was -absurd, that she did not wish to go to the window. Nevertheless, -while arguing with herself, she well knew that resistance to the -thought was useless and that ultimately her legs would obey its -command. - -When ultimately she yielded to the fascination and went to the -window and pulled aside one of the curtains, she had a feeling of -relief. The cool, grey beginnings of dawn were in the sky, and -every detail of the square was visible. Without exception all the -windows were wide open and filled with sightseers. In the -background of many windows were burning candles or lamps that the -far distant approach of the sun was already killing. In front of -these, on the frontier of two mingling lights, the attentive -figures of the watchers were curiously silhouetted. On the red- -tiled roofs, too, was a squatted population. Below, a troop of -gendarmes, mounted on caracoling horses stretched in line across -the square, was gradually sweeping the entire square of a packed, -gesticulating, cursing crowd. The operation of this immense besom -was very slow. As the spaces of the square were cleared they began -to be dotted by privileged persons, journalists or law officers or -their friends, who walked to and fro in conscious pride; among -them Sophia descried Gerald and Chirac, strolling arm-in-arm and -talking to two elaborately clad girls, who were also arm-in-arm. - -Then she saw a red reflection coming from one of the side streets -of which she had a vista; it was the swinging lantern of a waggon -drawn by a gaunt grey horse. The vehicle stopped at the end of the -square from which the besom had started, and it was immediately -surrounded by the privileged, who, however, were soon persuaded to -stand away. The crowd amassed now at the principal inlets of the -square, gave a formidable cry and burst into the refrain-- - -"Le voila! Nicolas! Ah! Ah! Ah!" - -The clamour became furious as a group of workmen in blue blouses -drew piece by piece all the components of the guillotine from the -waggon and laid them carefully on the ground, under the -superintendence of a man in a black frock-coat and a silk hat with -broad flat brims; a little fussy man of nervous gestures. And -presently the red columns had risen upright from the ground and -were joined at the top by an acrobatic climber. As each part was -bolted and screwed to the growing machine the man in the high hat -carefully tested it. In a short time that seemed very long, the -guillotine was finished save for the triangular steel blade which -lay shining on the ground, a cynosure. The executioner pointed to -it, and two men picked it up and slipped it into its groove, and -hoisted it to the summit of the machine. The executioner peered at -it interminably amid a universal silence. Then he actuated the -mechanism, and the mass of metal fell with a muffled, -reverberating thud. There were a few faint shrieks, blended -together, and then an overpowering racket of cheers, shouts, -hootings, and fragments of song. The blade was again lifted, -instantly reproducing silence, and again it fell, liberating a new -bedlam. The executioner made a movement of satisfaction. Many -women at the windows clapped enthusiastically, and the gendarmes -had to fight brutally against the fierce pressure of the crowd. -The workmen doffed their blouses and put on coats, and Sophia was -disturbed to see them coming in single file towards the hotel, -followed by the executioner in the silk hat. - -IV - -There was a tremendous opening of doors in the Hotel de Vezelay, -and much whispering on thresholds, as the executioner and his band -entered solemnly. Sophia heard them tramp upstairs; they seemed to -hesitate, and then apparently went into a room on the same landing -as hers. A door banged. But Sophia could hear the regular sound of -new voices talking, and then the rattling of glasses on a tray. -The conversation which came to her from the windows of the hotel -now showed a great increase of excitement. She could not see the -people at these neighbouring windows without showing her own head, -and this she would not do. The boom of a heavy bell striking the -hour vibrated over the roofs of the square; she supposed that it -might be the cathedral clock. In a corner of the square she saw -Gerald talking vivaciously alone with one of the two girls who had -been together. She wondered vaguely how such a girl had been -brought up, and what her parents thought--or knew! And she was -conscious of an intense pride in herself, of a measureless haughty -feeling of superiority. - -Her eye caught the guillotine again, and was held by it. Guarded -by gendarmes, that tall and simple object did most menacingly -dominate the square with its crude red columns. Tools and a large -open box lay on the ground beside it. The enfeebled horse in the -waggon had an air of dozing on his twisted legs. Then the first -rays of the sun shot lengthwise across the square at the level of -the chimneys; and Sophia noticed that nearly all the lamps and -candles had been extinguished. Many people at the windows were -yawning; they laughed foolishly after they had yawned. Some were -eating and drinking. Some were shouting conversations from one -house to another. The mounted gendarmes were still pressing back -the feverish crowds that growled at all the inlets to the square. -She saw Chirac walking to and fro alone. But she could not find -Gerald. He could not have left the square. Perhaps he had returned -to the hotel and would come up to see if she was comfortable or if -she needed anything. Guiltily she sprang back into bed. When last -she had surveyed the room it had been dark; now it was bright and -every detail stood clear. Yet she had the sensation of having been -at the window only a few minutes. - -She waited. But Gerald did not come. She could hear chiefly the -steady hum of the voices of the executioner and his aids. She -reflected that the room in which they were must be at the back. -The other sounds in the hotel grew less noticeable. Then, after an -age, she heard a door open, and a low voice say something -commandingly in French, and then a 'Oui, monsieur,' and a general -descent of the stairs. The executioner and his aids were leaving. -"You," cried a drunken English voice from an upper floor--it was -the middle-aged Englishman translating what the executioner had -said--"you, you will take the head." Then a rough laugh, and the -repeating voice of the Englishman's girl, still pursuing her -studies in English: "You will take ze 'ead. Yess, sair." And -another laugh. At length quiet reigned in the hotel. Sophia said -to herself: "I won't stir from this bed till it's all over and -Gerald comes back!" - -She dozed, under the sheet, and was awakened by a tremendous -shrieking, growling, and yelling: a phenomenon of human bestiality -that far surpassed Sophia's narrow experiences. Shut up though she -was in a room, perfectly secure, the mad fury of that crowd, -balked at the inlets to the square, thrilled and intimidated her. -It sounded as if they would be capable of tearing the very horses -to pieces. "I must stay where I am," she murmured. And even while -saying it she rose and went to the window again and peeped out. -The torture involved was extreme, but she had not sufficient force -within her to resist the fascination. She stared greedily into the -bright square. The first thing she saw was Gerald coming out of a -house opposite, followed after a few seconds by the girl with whom -he had previously been talking. Gerald glanced hastily up at the -facade of the hotel, and then approached as near as he could to -the red columns, in front of which were now drawn a line of -gendarmes with naked swords. A second and larger waggon, with two -horses, waited by the side of the other one. The racket beyond the -square continued and even grew louder. But the couple of hundred -persons within the cordons, and all the inhabitants of the -windows, drunk and sober, gazed in a fixed and sinister -enchantment at the region of the guillotine, as Sophia gazed. "I -cannot stand this!" she told herself in horror, but she could not -move; she could not move even her eyes. - -At intervals the crowd would burst out in a violent staccato-- - -"Le voila! Nicholas! Ah! Ah! Ah!" - -And the final 'Ah' was devilish. - -Then a gigantic passionate roar, the culmination of the mob's -fierce savagery, crashed against the skies. The line of maddened -horses swerved and reared, and seemed to fall on the furious -multitude while the statue-like gendarmes rocked over them. It was -a last effort to break the cordon, and it failed. - -From the little street at the rear of the guillotine appeared a -priest, walking backwards, and holding a crucifix high in his -right hand, and behind him came the handsome hero, his body all -crossed with cords, between two warders, who pressed against him -and supported him on either side. He was certainly very young. He -lifted his chin gallantly, but his face was incredibly white. -Sophia discerned that the priest was trying to hide the sight of -the guillotine from the prisoner with his body, just as in the -story which she had heard at dinner. - -Except the voice of the priest, indistinctly rising and falling in -the prayer for the dying, there was no sound in the square or its -environs. The windows were now occupied by groups turned to stone -with distended eyes fixed on the little procession. Sophia had a -tightening of the throat, and the hand trembled by which she held -the curtain. The central figure did not seem to her to be alive; -but rather a doll, a marionette wound up to imitate the action of -a tragedy. She saw the priest offer the crucifix to the mouth of -the marionette, which with a clumsy unhuman shoving of its corded -shoulders butted the thing away. And as the procession turned and -stopped she could plainly see that the marionette's nape and -shoulders were bare, his shirt having been slit. It was horrible. -"Why do I stay here?" she asked herself hysterically. But she did -not stir. The victim had disappeared now in the midst of a group -of men. Then she perceived him prone under the red column, between -the grooves. The silence was now broken only by the tinkling of -the horses' bits in the corners of the square. The line of -gendarmes in front of the scaffold held their swords tightly and -looked over their noses, ignoring the privileged groups that -peered almost between their shoulders. - -And Sophia waited, horror-struck. She saw nothing but the gleaming -triangle of metal that was suspended high above the prone, -attendant victim. She felt like a lost soul, torn too soon from -shelter, and exposed for ever to the worst hazards of destiny. Why -was she in this strange, incomprehensible town, foreign and -inimical to her, watching with agonized glance this cruel, obscene -spectacle? Her sensibilities were all a bleeding mass of wounds. -Why? Only yesterday, and she had been, an innocent, timid creature -in Bursley, in Axe, a foolish creature who deemed the concealment -of letters a supreme excitement. Either that day or this day was -not real. Why was she imprisoned alone in that odious, -indescribably odious hotel, with no one to soothe and comfort her, -and carry her away? - -The distant bell boomed once. Then a monosyllabic voice sounded, -sharp, low, nervous; she recognized the voice of the executioner, -whose name she had heard but could not remember. There was a -clicking noise. - -She shrank down to the floor in terror and loathing, and hid her -face, and shuddered. Shriek after shriek, from various windows, -rang on her ears in a fusillade; and then the mad yell of the -penned crowd, which, like herself, had not seen but had heard, -extinguished all other noise. Justice was done. The great ambition -of Gerald's life was at last satisfied. - -Later, amid the stir of the hotel, there came a knock at her door, -impatient and nervous. Forgetting, in her tribulation, that she -was without her bodice, she got up from the floor in a kind of -miserable dream, and opened. Chirac stood on the landing, and he -had Gerald by the arm. Chirac looked worn out, curiously fragile -and pathetic; but Gerald was the very image of death. The -attainment of ambition had utterly destroyed his equilibrium; his -curiosity had proved itself stronger than his stomach. Sophia -would have pitied him had she in that moment been capable of pity. -Gerald staggered past her into the room, and sank with a groan on -to the bed. Not long since he had been proudly conversing with -impudent women. Now, in swift collapse, he was as flaccid as a -sick hound and as disgusting as an aged drunkard. - -"He is some little souffrant," said Chirac, weakly. - -Sophia perceived in Chirac's tone the assumption that of course -her present duty was to devote herself to the task of restoring -her shamed husband to his manly pride. - -"And what about me?" she thought bitterly. - -The fat woman ascended the stairs like a tottering blancmange, and -began to gabble to Sophia, who understood nothing whatever. - -"She wants sixty francs," Chirac said, and in answer to Sophia's -startled question, he explained that Gerald had agreed to pay a -hundred francs for the room, which was the landlady's own--fifty -francs in advance and the fifty after the execution. The other ten -was for the dinner. The landlady, distrusting the whole of her -clientele, was collecting her accounts instantly on the completion -of the spectacle. - -Sophia made no remark as to Gerald's lie to her. Indeed, Chirac -had heard it. She knew Gerald for a glib liar to others, but she -was naively surprised when he practised upon herself. - -"Gerald! Do you hear?" she said coldly. - -The amateur of severed heads only groaned. - -With a movement of irritation she went to him and felt in his -pockets for his purse; he acquiesced, still groaning. Chirac -helped her to choose and count the coins. - -The fat woman, appeased, pursued her way. - -"Good-bye, madame!" said Chirac, with his customary courtliness, -transforming the landing of the hideous hotel into some imperial -antechamber. - -"Are you going away?" she asked, in surprise. Her distress was so -obvious that it tremendously flattered him. He would have stayed -if he could. But he had to return to Paris to write and deliver -his article. - -"To-morrow, I hope!" he murmured sympathetically, kissing her -hand. The gesture atoned somewhat for the sordidness of her -situation, and even corrected the faults of her attire. Always -afterwards it seemed to her that Chirac was an old and intimate -friend; he had successfully passed through the ordeal of seeing -'the wrong side' of the stuff of her life. - -She shut the door on him with a lingering glance, and reconciled -herself to her predicament. - -Gerald slept. Just as he was, he slept heavily. - -This was what he had brought her to, then! The horrors of the -night, of the dawn, and of the morning! Ineffable suffering and -humiliation; anguish and torture that could never be forgotten! -And after a fatuous vigil of unguessed license, he had tottered -back, an offensive beast, to sleep the day away in that filthy -chamber! He did not possess even enough spirit to play the role of -roysterer to the end. And she was bound to him; far, far from any -other human aid; cut off irrevocably by her pride from those who -perhaps would have protected her from his dangerous folly. The -deep conviction henceforward formed a permanent part of her -general consciousness that he was simply an irresponsible and -thoughtless fool! He was without sense. Such was her brilliant and -godlike husband, the man who had given her the right to call -herself a married woman! He was a fool. With all her ignorance of -the world she could see that nobody but an arrant imbecile could -have brought her to the present pass. Her native sagacity -revolted. Gusts of feeling came over her in which she could have -thrashed him into the realization of his responsibilities. - -Sticking out of the breast-pocket of his soiled coat was the -packet which he had received on the previous day. If he had not -already lost it, he could only thank his luck. She took it. There -were English bank-notes in it for two hundred pounds, a letter -from a banker, and other papers. With precautions against noise -she tore the envelope and the letter and papers into small pieces, -and then looked about for a place to hide them. A cupboard -suggested itself. She got on a chair, and pushed the fragments out -of sight on the topmost shelf, where they may well be to this day. -She finished dressing, and then sewed the notes into the lining of -her skirt. She had no silly, delicate notions about stealing. She -obscurely felt that, in the care of a man like Gerald, she might -find herself in the most monstrous, the most impossible dilemmas. -Those notes, safe and secret in her skirt, gave her confidence, -reassured her against the perils of the future, and endowed her -with independence. The act was characteristic of her enterprise -and of her fundamental prudence. It approached the heroic. And her -conscience hotly defended its righteousness. - -She decided that when he discovered his loss, she would merely -deny all knowledge of the envelope, for he had not spoken a word -to her about it. He never mentioned the details of money; he had a -fortune. However, the necessity for this untruth did not occur. He -made no reference whatever to his loss. The fact was, he thought -he had been careless enough to let the envelope be filched from -him during the excesses of the night. - -All day till evening Sophia sat on a dirty chair, without food, -while Gerald slept. She kept repeating to herself, in amazed -resentment: "A hundred francs for this room! A hundred francs! And -he hadn't the pluck to tell me!" She could not have expressed her -contempt. - -Long before sheer ennui forced her to look out of the window -again, every sign of justice had been removed from the square. -Nothing whatever remained in the heavy August sunshine save -gathered heaps of filth where the horses had reared and caracoled. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -A CRISIS FOR GERALD - -I - - -For a time there existed in the minds of both Gerald and Sophia -the remarkable notion that twelve thousand pounds represented the -infinity of wealth, that this sum possessed special magical -properties which rendered it insensible to the process of -subtraction. It seemed impossible that twelve thousand pounds, -while continually getting less, could ultimately quite disappear. -The notion lived longer in the mind of Gerald than in that of -Sophia; for Gerald would never look at a disturbing fact, whereas -Sophia's gaze was morbidly fascinated by such phenomena. In a life -devoted to travel and pleasure Gerald meant not to spend more than -six hundred a year, the interest on his fortune. Six hundred a -year is less than two pounds a day, yet Gerald never paid less -than two pounds a day in hotel bills alone. He hoped that he was -living on a thousand a year, had a secret fear that he might be -spending fifteen hundred, and was really spending about two -thousand five hundred. Still, the remarkable notion of the -inexhaustibility of twelve thousand pounds always reassured him. -The faster the money went, the more vigorously this notion -flourished in Gerald's mind. When twelve had unaccountably -dwindled to three, Gerald suddenly decided that he must act, and -in a few months he lost two thousand on the Paris Bourse. The -adventure frightened him, and in his panic he scattered a couple -of hundred in a frenzy of high living. - -But even with only twenty thousand francs left out of three -hundred thousand, he held closely to the belief that natural laws -would in his case somehow be suspended. He had heard of men who -were once rich begging bread and sweeping crossings, but he felt -quite secure against such risks, by simple virtue of the axiom -that he was he. However, he meant to assist the axiom by efforts -to earn money. When these continued to fail, he tried to assist -the axiom by borrowing money; but he found that his uncle had -definitely done with him. He would have assisted the axiom by -stealing money, but he had neither the nerve nor the knowledge to -be a swindler; he was not even sufficiently expert to cheat at -cards. - -He had thought in thousands. Now he began to think in hundreds, in -tens, daily and hourly. He paid two hundred francs in railway -fares in order to live economically in a village, and shortly -afterwards another two hundred francs in railway fares in order to -live economically in Paris. And to celebrate the arrival in Paris -and the definite commencement of an era of strict economy and -serious search for a livelihood, he spent a hundred francs on a -dinner at the Maison Doree and two balcony stalls at the Gymnase. -In brief, he omitted nothing--no act, no resolve, no self- -deception--of the typical fool in his situation; always convinced -that his difficulties and his wisdom were quite exceptional. - -In May, 1870, on an afternoon, he was ranging nervously to and fro -in a three-cornered bedroom of a little hotel at the angle of the -Rue Fontaine and the Rue Laval (now the Rue Victor Masse), within -half a minute of the Boulevard de Clichy. It had come to that--an -exchange of the 'grand boulevard' for the 'boulevard exterieur'! -Sophia sat on a chair at the grimy window, glancing down in idle -disgust of life at the Clichy-Odeon omnibus which was casting off -its tip-horse at the corner of the Rue Chaptal. The noise of -petty, hurried traffic over the bossy paving stones was deafening. -The locality was not one to correspond with an ideal. There was -too much humanity crowded into those narrow hilly streets; -humanity seemed to be bulging out at the windows of the high -houses. Gerald healed his pride by saying that this was, after -all, the real Paris, and that the cookery was as good as could be -got anywhere, pay what you would. He seldom ate a meal in the -little salons on the first floor without becoming ecstatic upon -the cookery. To hear him, he might have chosen the hotel on its -superlative merits, without regard to expense. And with his air of -use and custom, he did indeed look like a connoisseur of Paris who -knew better than to herd with vulgar tourists in the pens of the -Madeleine quarter. He was dressed with some distinction; good -clothes, when put to the test, survive a change of fortune, as a -Roman arch survives the luxury of departed empire. Only his -collar, large V-shaped front, and wristbands, which bore the -ineffaceable signs of cheap laundering, reflected the shadow of -impending disaster. - -He glanced sideways, stealthily, at Sophia. She, too, was still -dressed with distinction; in the robe of black faille, the -cashmere shawl, and the little black hat with its falling veil, -there was no apparent symptom of beggary. She would have been -judged as one of those women who content themselves with few -clothes but good, and, greatly aided by nature, make a little go a -long way. Good black will last for eternity; it discloses no -secrets of modification and mending, and it is not transparent. - -At last Gerald, resuming a suspended conversation, said as it were -doggedly: - -"I tell you I haven't got five francs altogether! and you can feel -my pockets if you like," added the habitual liar in him, fearing -incredulity. - -"Well, and what do you expect me to do?" Sophia inquired. - -The accent, at once ironic and listless, in which she put this -question, showed that strange and vital things had happened to -Sophia in the four years which had elapsed since her marriage. It -did really seem to her, indeed, that the Sophia whom Gerald had -espoused was dead and gone, and that another Sophia had come into -her body: so intensely conscious was she of a fundamental change -in herself under the stress of continuous experience. And though -this was but a seeming, though she was still the same Sophia more -fully disclosed, it was a true seeming. Indisputably more -beautiful than when Gerald had unwillingly made her his legal -wife, she was now nearly twenty-four, and looked perhaps somewhat -older than her age. Her frame was firmly set, her waist thicker, -neither slim nor stout. The lips were rather hard, and she had a -habit of tightening her mouth, on the same provocation as sends a -snail into its shell. No trace was left of immature gawkiness in -her gestures or of simplicity in her intonations. She was a woman -of commanding and slightly arrogant charm, not in the least degree -the charm of innocence and ingenuousness. Her eyes were the eyes -of one who has lost her illusions too violently and too -completely. Her gaze, coldly comprehending, implied familiarity -with the abjectness of human nature. Gerald had begun and had -finished her education. He had not ruined her, as a bad professor -may ruin a fine voice, because her moral force immeasurably -exceeded his; he had unwittingly produced a masterpiece, but it -was a tragic masterpiece. Sophia was such a woman as, by a mere -glance as she utters an opinion, will make a man say to himself, -half in desire and half in alarm lest she reads him too: "By Jove! -she must have been through a thing or two. She knows what people -are!" - -The marriage was, of course, a calamitous folly. From the very -first, from the moment when the commercial traveller had with -incomparable rash fatuity thrown the paper pellet over the -counter, Sophia's awakening commonsense had told her that in -yielding to her instinct she was sowing misery and shame for -herself; but she had gone on, as if under a spell. It had needed -the irretrievableness of flight from home to begin the breaking of -the trance. Once fully awakened out of the trance, she had -recognized her marriage for what it was. She had made neither the -best nor the worst of it. She had accepted Gerald as one accepts a -climate. She saw again and again that he was irreclaimably a fool -and a prodigy of irresponsibleness. She tolerated him, now with -sweetness, now bitterly; accepting always his caprices, and not -permitting herself to have wishes of her own. She was ready to pay -the price of pride and of a moment's imbecility with a lifetime of -self-repression. It was high, but it was the price. She had -acquired nothing but an exceptionally good knowledge of the French -language (she soon learnt to scorn Gerald's glib maltreatment of -the tongue), and she had conserved nothing but her dignity. She -knew that Gerald was sick of her, that he would have danced for -joy to be rid of her; that he was constantly unfaithful; that he -had long since ceased to be excited by her beauty. She knew also -that at bottom he was a little afraid of her; here was her sole -moral consolation. The thing that sometimes struck her as -surprising was that he had not abandoned her, simply and crudely -walked off one day and forgotten to take her with him. - -They hated each other, but in different ways. She loathed him, and -he resented her. - -"What do I expect you to do?" he repeated after her. "Why don't -you write home to your people and get some money out of them?" - -Now that he had said what was in his mind, he faced her with a -bullying swagger. Had he been a bigger man he might have tried the -effect of physical bullying on her. One of his numerous reasons -for resenting her was that she was the taller of the two. - -She made no reply. - -"Now you needn't turn pale and begin all that fuss over again. -What I'm suggesting is a perfectly reasonable thing. If I haven't -got money I haven't got it. I can't invent it." - -She perceived that he was ready for one of their periodical -tempestuous quarrels. But that day she felt too tired and unwell -to quarrel. His warning against a repetition of 'fuss' had -reference to the gastric dizziness from which she had been -suffering for two years. It would take her usually after a meal. -She did not swoon, but her head swam and she could not stand. She -would sink down wherever she happened to be, and, her face -alarmingly white, murmur faintly: "My salts." Within five minutes -the attack had gone and left no trace. She had been through one -just after lunch. He resented this affection. He detested being -compelled to hand the smelling-bottle to her, and he would have -avoided doing so if her pallor did not always alarm him. Nothing -but this pallor convinced him that the attacks were not a deep -ruse to impress him. His attitude invariably implied that she -could cure the malady if she chose, but that through obstinacy she -did not choose. - -"Are you going to have the decency to answer my question, or -aren't you?" - -"What question?" Her vibrating voice was low and restrained. - -"Will you write to your people?" - -"For money?" - -The sarcasm of her tone was diabolic. She could not have kept the -sarcasm out of her tone; she did not attempt to keep it out. She -cared little if it whipped him to fury. Did he imagine, seriously, -that she would be capable of going on her knees to her family? -She? Was he unaware that his wife was the proudest and the most -obstinate woman on earth; that all her behaviour to him was the -expression of her pride and her obstinacy? Ill and weak though she -felt, she marshalled together all the forces of her character to -defend her resolve never, never to eat the bread of humiliation. -She was absolutely determined to be dead to her family. Certainly, -one December, several years previously, she had seen English -Christmas cards in an English shop in the Rue de Rivoli, and in a -sudden gush of tenderness towards Constance, she had despatched a -coloured greeting to Constance and her mother. And having -initiated the custom, she had continued it. That was not like -asking a kindness; it was bestowing a kindness. But except for the -annual card, she was dead to St. Luke's Square. She was one of -those daughters who disappear and are not discussed in the family -circle. The thought of her immense foolishness, the little tender -thoughts of Constance, some flitting souvenir, full of unwilling -admiration, of a regal gesture of her mother,--these things only -steeled her against any sort of resurrection after death. - -And he was urging her to write home for money! Why, she would not -even have paid a visit in splendour to St. Luke's Square. Never -should they know what she had suffered! And especially her Aunt -Harriet, from whom she had stolen! - -"Will you write to your people?" he demanded yet again, -emphasizing and separating each word. - -"No," she said shortly, with terrible disdain. - -"Why not?" - -"Because I won't." The curling line of her lips, as they closed on -each other, said all the rest; all the cruel truths about his -unspeakable, inane, coarse follies, his laziness, his excesses, -his lies, his deceptions, his bad faith, his truculence, his -improvidence, his shameful waste and ruin of his life and hers. -She doubted whether he realized his baseness and her wrongs, but -if he could not read them in her silent contumely, she was too -proud to recite them to him. She had never complained, save in -uncontrolled moments of anger. - -"If that's the way you're going to talk--all right!" he snapped, -furious. Evidently he was baffled. - -She kept silence. She was determined to see what he would do in -the face of her inaction. - -"You know, I'm not joking," he pursued. "We shall starve." - -"Very well," she agreed. "We shall starve." - -She watched him surreptitiously, and she was almost sure that he -really had come to the end of his tether. His voice, which never -alone convinced, carried a sort of conviction now. He was -penniless. In four years he had squandered twelve thousand pounds, -and had nothing to show for it except an enfeebled digestion and a -tragic figure of a wife. One small point of satisfaction there -was--and all the Baines in her clutched at it and tried to suck -satisfaction from it--their manner of travelling about from hotel -to hotel had made it impossible for Gerald to run up debts. A few -debts he might have, unknown to her, but they could not be -serious. - -So they looked at one another, in hatred and despair. The -inevitable had arrived. For months she had fronted it in bravado, -not concealing from herself that it lay in waiting. For years he -had been sure that though the inevitable might happen to others it -could not happen to him. There it was! He was conscious of a heavy -weight in his stomach, and she of a general numbness, enwrapping -her fatigue. Even then he could not believe that it was true, this -disaster. As for Sophia she was reconciling herself with bitter -philosophy to the eccentricities of fate. Who would have dreamed -that she, a young girl brought up, etc? Her mother could not have -improved the occasion more uncompromisingly than Sophia did-- -behind that disdainful mask. - -"Well--if that's it ...!" Gerald exploded at length, puffing. And -he puffed out of the room and was gone in a second. - -II - -She languidly picked up a book, the moment Gerald had departed, -and tried to prove to herself that she was sufficiently in command -of her nerves to read. For a long time reading had been her chief -solace. But she could not read. She glanced round the inhospitable -chamber, and thought of the hundreds of rooms--some splendid and -some vile, but all arid in their unwelcoming aspect--through which -she had passed in her progress from mad exultation to calm and -cold disgust. The ceaseless din of the street annoyed her jaded -ears. And a great wave of desire for peace, peace of no matter -what kind, swept through her. And then her deep distrust of Gerald -reawakened; in spite of his seriously desperate air, which had a -quality of sincerity quite new in her experience of him, she could -not be entirely sure that, in asserting utter penury, he was not -after all merely using a trick to get rid of her. - -She sprang up, threw the book on the bed, and seized her gloves. -She would follow him, if she could. She would do what she had -never done before--she would spy on him. Fighting against her -lassitude, she descended the long winding stairs, and peeped forth -from the doorway into the street. The ground floor of the hotel -was a wine-shop; the stout landlord was lightly flicking one of -the three little yellow tables that stood on the pavement. He -smiled with his customary benevolence, and silently pointed in the -direction of the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. She saw Gerald down -there in the distance. He was smoking a cigar. - -He seemed to be a little man without a care. The smoke of the -cigar came first round his left cheek and then round his right, -sailing away into nothing. He walked with a gay spring, but not -quickly, flourishing his cane as freely as the traffic of the -pavement would permit, glancing into all the shop windows and into -the eyes of all the women under forty. This was not at all the -same man as had a moment ago been spitting angry menaces at her in -the bedroom of the hotel. It was a fellow of blithe charm, ripe -for any adventurous joys that destiny had to offer. - -Supposing he turned round and saw her? - -If he turned round and saw her and asked her what she was doing -there in the street, she would tell him plainly: "I'm following -you, to find out what you do." - -But he did not turn. He went straight forward, deviating at the -church, where the crowd became thicker, into the Rue du Faubourg -Montmartre, and so to the boulevard, which he crossed. The whole -city seemed excited and vivacious. Cannons boomed in slow -succession, and flags were flying. Sophia had no conception of the -significance of those guns, for, though she read a great deal, she -never read a newspaper; the idea of opening a newspaper never -occurred to her. But she was accustomed to the feverish atmosphere -of Paris. She had lately seen regiments of cavalry flashing and -prancing in the Luxembourg Gardens, and had much admired the fine -picture. She accepted the booming as another expression of the -high spirits that had to find vent somehow in this feverish -empire. She so accepted it and forgot it, using all the panorama -of the capital as a dim background for her exacerbated egoism. - -She was obliged to walk slowly, because Gerald walked slowly. A -beautiful woman, or any woman not positively hag-like or -venerable, who walks slowly in the streets of Paris becomes at -once the cause of inconvenient desires, as representing the main -objective on earth, always transcending in importance politics and -affairs. Just as a true patriotic Englishman cannot be too busy to -run after a fox, so a Frenchman is always ready to forsake all in -order to follow a woman whom he has never before set eyes on. Many -men thought twice about her, with her romantic Saxon mystery of -temperament, and her Parisian clothes; but all refrained from -affronting her, not in the least out of respect for the gloom in -her face, but from an expert conviction that those rapt eyes were -fixed immovably on another male. She walked unscathed amid the -frothing hounds as though protected by a spell. - -On the south side of the boulevard, Gerald proceeded down the Rue -Montmartre, and then turned suddenly into the Rue Croissant. -Sophia stopped and asked the price of some combs which were -exposed outside a little shop. Then she went on, boldly passing -the end of the Rue Croissant. No shadow of Gerald! She saw the -signs of newspapers all along the street, Le Bien Public, La -Presse Libre, La Patrie. There was a creamery at the corner. She -entered it, asked for a cup of chocolate and sat down. She wanted -to drink coffee, but every doctor had forbidden coffee to her, on -account of her attacks of dizziness. Then, having ordered -chocolate, she felt that, on this occasion, when she had need of -strength in her great fatigue, only coffee could suffice her, and -she changed the order. She was close to the door, and Gerald could -not escape her vigilance if he emerged at that end of the street. -She drank the coffee with greedy satisfaction, and waited in the -creamery till she began to feel conspicuous there. And then Gerald -went by the door, within six feet of her. He turned the corner and -continued his descent of the Rue Montmartre. She paid for her -coffee and followed the chase. Her blood seemed to be up. Her lips -were tightened, and her thought was: "Wherever he goes, I'll go, -and I don't care what happens." She despised him. She felt herself -above him. She felt that somehow, since quitting the hotel, he had -been gradually growing more and more vile and meet to be -exterminated. She imagined infamies as to the Rue Croissant. There -was no obvious ground for this intensifying of her attitude -towards him; it was merely the result of the chase. All that could -be definitely charged against him was the smoking of a cigar. - -He stepped into a tobacco-shop, and came out with a longer cigar -than the first one, a more expensive article, stripped off its -collar and lighted it as a millionaire might have lighted it. This -was the man who swore that he did not possess five francs. - -She tracked him as far as the Rue de Rivoli, and then lost him. -There were vast surging crowds in the Rue de Rivoli, and much -bunting, and soldiers and gesticulatory policemen. The general -effect of the street was that all things were brightly waving in -the breeze. She was caught in the crowd as in the current of a -stream, and when she tried to sidle out of it into a square, a row -of smiling policemen barred her passage; she was a part of the -traffic that they had to regulate. She drifted till the Louvre -came into view. After all, Gerald had only strolled forth to see -the sight of the day, whatever it might be! She knew not what it -was. She had no curiosity about it. In the middle of all that -thickening mass of humanity, staring with one accord at the vast -monument of royal and imperial vanities, she thought, with her -characteristic grimness, of the sacrifice of her whole career as a -school-teacher for the chance of seeing Gerald once a quarter in -the shop. She gloated over that, as a sick appetite will gloat -over tainted food. And she saw the shop, and the curve of the -stairs up to the showroom, and the pier-glass in the showroom. - -Then the guns began to boom again, and splendid carriages swept -one after another from under a majestic archway and glittered -westward down a lane of spotless splendid uniforms. The carriages -were laden with still more splendid uniforms, and with enchanting -toilets. Sophia, in her modestly stylish black, mechanically -noticed how much easier it was for attired women to sit in a -carriage now that crinolines had gone. That was the sole -impression made upon her by this glimpse of the last fete of the -Napoleonic Empire. She knew not that the supreme pillars of -imperialism were exhibiting themselves before her; and that the -eyes of those uniforms and those toilettes were full of the -legendary beauty of Eugenie, and their ears echoing to the long -phrases of Napoleon the Third about his gratitude to his people -for their confidence in him as shown by the plebiscite, and about -the ratification of constitutional reforms guaranteeing order, and -about the empire having been strengthened at its base, and about -showing force by moderation and envisaging the future without -fear, and about the bosom of peace and liberty, and the eternal -continuance of his dynasty. - -She just wondered vaguely what was afoot. - -When the last carriage had rolled away, and the guns and -acclamations had ceased, the crowd at length began to scatter. She -was carried by it into the Place du Palais Royal, and in a few -moments she managed to withdraw into the Rue des Bons Enfants and -was free. - -The coins in her purse amounted to three sous, and therefore, -though she felt exhausted to the point of illness, she had to -return to the hotel on foot. Very slowly she crawled upwards in -the direction of the Boulevard, through the expiring gaiety of the -city. Near the Bourse a fiacre overtook her, and in the fiacre -were Gerald and a woman. Gerald had not seen her; he was talking -eagerly to his ornate companion. All his body was alive. The -fiacre was out of sight in a moment, but Sophia judged instantly -the grade of the woman, who was evidently of the discreet class -that frequented the big shops of an afternoon with something of -their own to sell. - -Sophia's grimness increased. The pace of the fiacre, her fatigued -body, Gerald's delightful, careless vivacity, the attractive -streaming veil of the nice, modest courtesan--everything conspired -to increase it. - -III - -Gerald returned to the bedroom which contained his wife and all -else that he owned in the world at about nine o'clock that -evening. Sophia was in bed. She had been driven to bed by -weariness. She would have preferred to sit up to receive her -husband, even if it had meant sitting up all night, but her body -was too heavy for her spirit. She lay in the dark. She had eaten -nothing. Gerald came straight into the room. He struck a match, -which burned blue, with a stench, for several seconds, and then -gave a clear, yellow flame. He lit a candle; and saw his wife. - -"Oh!" he said; "you're there, are you?" - -She offered no reply. - -"Won't speak, eh?" he said. "Agreeable sort of wife! Well, have -you made up your mind to do what I told you? I've come back -especially to know." - -She still did not speak. - -He sat down, with his hat on, and stuck out his feet, wagging them -to and fro on the heels. - -"I'm quite without money," he went on. "And I'm sure your people -will be glad to lend us a bit till I get some. Especially as it's -a question of you starving as well as me. If I had enough to pay -your fares to Bursley I'd pack you off. But I haven't." - -She could only hear his exasperating voice. The end of the bed was -between her eyes and his. - -"Liar!" she said, with uncompromising distinctness. The word -reached him barbed with all the poison of her contempt and -disgust. - -There was a pause. - -"Oh! I'm a liar, am I? Thanks. I lied enough to get you, I'll -admit. But you never complained of that. I remember be-ginning the -New Year well with a thumping lie just to have a sight of you, my -vixen. But you didn't complain then. I took you with only the -clothes on your back. And I've spent every cent I had on you. And -now I'm spun, you call me a liar." - -She said nothing. - -"However," he went on, "this is going to come to an end, this is!" - -He rose, changed the position of the candle, putting it on a chest -of drawers, and then drew his trunk from the wall, and knelt in -front of it. - -She gathered that he was packing his clothes. At first she did not -comprehend his reference to beginning the New Year. Then his -meaning revealed itself. That story to her mother about having -been attacked by ruffians at the bottom of King Street had been an -invention, a ruse to account plausibly for his presence on her -mother's doorstep! And she had never suspected that the story was -not true. In spite of her experience of his lying, she had never -suspected that that particular statement was a lie. What a -simpleton she was! - -There was a continual movement in the room for about a quarter of -an hour. Then a key turned in the lock of the trunk. - -His head popped up over the foot of the bed. "This isn't a joke, -you know," he said. - -She kept silence. - -"I give you one more chance. Will you write to your mother--or -Constance if you like--or won't you?" - -She scorned to reply in any way. - -"I'm your husband," he said. "And it's your duty to obey me, -particularly in an affair like this. I order you to write to your -mother." - -The corners of her lips turned downwards. - -Angered by her mute obstinacy, he broke away from the bed with a -sudden gesture. - -"You do as you like," he cried, putting on his overcoat, "and I -shall do as I like. You can't say I haven't warned you. It's your -own deliberate choice, mind you! Whatever happens to you you've -brought on yourself." He lifted and shrugged his shoulders to get -the overcoat exactly into place on his shoulders. - -She would not speak a word, not even to insist that she was -indisposed. - -He pushed his trunk outside the door, and returned to the bed. - -"You understand," he said menacingly; "I'm off." - -She looked up at the foul ceiling. - -"Hm!" he sniffed, bringing his reserves of pride to combat the -persistent silence that was damaging his dignity. And he went off, -sticking his head forward like a pugilist. - -"Here!" she muttered. "You're forgetting this." - -He turned. - -She stretched her hand to the night-table and held up a red -circlet. - -"What is it?" - -"It's the bit of paper off the cigar you bought in the Rue -Montmartre this afternoon," she answered, in a significant tone. - -He hesitated, then swore violently, and bounced out of the room. -He had made her suffer, but she was almost repaid for everything -by that moment of cruel triumph. She exulted in it, and never -forgot it. - -Five minutes later, the gloomy menial in felt slippers and alpaca -jacket, who seemed to pass the whole of his life flitting in and -out of bedrooms like a rabbit in a warren, carried Gerald's trunk -downstairs. She recognized the peculiar tread of his slippers. - -Then there was a knock at the door. The landlady entered, actuated -by a legitimate curiosity. - -"Madame is suffering?" the landlady began. - -Sophia refused offers of food and nursing. - -"Madame knows without doubt that monsieur has gone away?" - -"Has he paid the bill?" Sophia asked bluntly. - -"But yes, madame, till to-morrow. Then madame has want of -nothing?" - -"If you will extinguish the candle," said Sophia. - -He had deserted her, then! - -"All this," she reflected, listening in the dark to the ceaseless -rattle of the street, "because mother and Constance wanted to see -the elephant, and I had to go into father's room! I should never -have caught sight of him from the drawing-room window!" - -IV - -She passed a night of physical misery, exasperated by the tireless -rattling vitality of the street. She kept saying to herself: "I'm -all alone now, and I'm going to be ill. I am ill." She saw herself -dying in Paris, and heard the expressions of facile sympathy and -idle curiosity drawn forth by the sight of the dead body of this -foreign woman in a little Paris hotel. She reached the stage, in -the gradual excruciation of her nerves, when she was obliged to -concentrate her agonized mind on an intense and painful expectancy -of the next new noise, which when it came increased her torture -and decreased her strength to support it. She went through all the -interminable dilatoriness of the dawn, from the moment when she -could scarcely discern the window to the moment when she could -read the word 'Bock' on the red circlet of paper which had tossed -all night on the sea of the counterpane. She knew she would never -sleep again. She could not imagine herself asleep; and then she -was startled by a sound that seemed to clash with the rest of her -impressions. It was a knocking at the door. With a start she -perceived that she must have been asleep. - -"Enter," she murmured. - -There entered the menial in alpaca. His waxen face showed a morose -commiseration. He noiselessly approached the bed--he seemed to -have none of the characteristics of a man, but to be a creature -infinitely mysterious and aloof from humanity--and held out to -Sophia a visiting card in his grey hand. - -It was Chirac's card. - -"Monsieur asked for monsieur," said the waiter. "And then, as -monsieur had gone away he demanded to see madame. He says it is -very important." - -Her heart jumped, partly in vague alarm, and partly with a sense -of relief at this chance of speaking to some one whom she knew. -She tried to reflect rationally. - -"What time is it?" she inquired. - -"Eleven o'clock, madame." - -This was surprising. The fact that it was eleven o'clock destroyed -the remains of her self-confidence. How could it be eleven -o'clock, with the dawn scarcely finished? - -"He says it is very important," repeated the waiter, imperturbably -and solemnly. "Will madame see him an instant?" - -Between resignation and anticipation she said: "Yes." - -"It is well, madame," said the waiter, disappearing without a -sound. - -She sat up and managed to drag her matinee from a chair and put it -around her shoulders. Then she sank back from weakness, physical -and spiritual. She hated to receive Chirac in a bedroom, and -particularly in that bedroom. But the hotel had no public room -except the dining-room, which began to be occupied after eleven -o'clock. Moreover, she could not possibly get up. Yes, on the -whole she was pleased to see Chirac. He was almost her only -acquaintance, assuredly the only being whom she could by any -stretch of meaning call a friend, in the whole of Europe. Gerald -and she had wandered to and fro, skimming always over the real -life of nations, and never penetrating into it. There was no place -for them, because they had made none. With the exception of -Chirac, whom an accident of business had thrown, into Gerald's -company years before, they had no social relations. Gerald was not -a man to make friends; he did not seem to need friends, or at any -rate to feel the want of them. But, as chance had given him -Chirac, he maintained the connection whenever they came to Paris. -Sophia, of course, had not been able to escape from the solitude -imposed by existence in hotels. Since her marriage she had never -spoken to a woman in the way of intimacy. But once or twice she -had approached intimacy with Chirac, whose wistful admiration for -her always aroused into activity her desire to charm. - -Preceded by the menial, he came into the room hurriedly, -apologetically, with an air of acute anxiety. And as he saw her -lying on her back, with flushed features, her hair disarranged, -and only the grace of the silk ribbons of her matinee to mitigate -the melancholy repulsiveness of her surroundings, that anxiety -seemed to deepen. - -"Dear madame," he stammered, "all my excuses!" He hastened to the -bedside and kissed her hand--a little peek according to his -custom. "You are ill?" - -"I have my migraine," she said. "You want Gerald?" - -"Yes," he said diffidently. "He had promised----" - -"He has left me," Sophia interrupted him in her weak and fatigued -voice. She closed her eyes as she uttered the words. - -"Left you?" He glanced round to be sure that the waiter had -retired. - -"Quitted me! Abandoned me! Last night!" - -"Not possible!" he breathed. - -She nodded. She felt intimate with him. Like all secretive -persons, she could be suddenly expansive at times. - -"It is serious?" he questioned. - -"All that is most serious," she replied. - -"And you ill! Ah, the wretch! Ah, the wretch! That, for example!" -He waved his hat about. - -"What is it you want, Chirac?" she demanded, in a confidential -tone. - -"Eh, well," said Chirac. "You do not know where he has gone?" - -"No. What do you want?" she insisted. - -He was nervous. He fidgetted. She guessed that, though warm with -sympathy for her plight, he was preoccupied by interests and -apprehensions of his own. He did not refuse her request -temporarily to leave the astonishing matter of her situation in -order to discuss the matter of his visit. - -"Eh, well! He came to me yesterday afternoon in the Rue Croissant -to borrow some money." - -She understood then the object of Gerald's stroll on the previous -afternoon. - -"I hope you didn't lend him any," she said. - -"Eh, well! It was like this. He said he ought to have received -five thousand francs yesterday morning, but that he had had a -telegram that it would not arrive till to-day. And he had need of -five hundred francs at once. I had not five hundred francs"--he -smiled sadly, as if to insinuate that he did not handle such sums ---"but I borrowed it from the cashbox of the journal. It is -necessary, absolutely, that I should return it this morning." He -spoke with increased seriousness. "Your husband said he would take -a cab and bring me the money immediately on the arrival of the -post this morning--about nine o'clock. Pardon me for deranging you -with such a----" - -He stopped. She could see that he really was grieved to 'derange' -her, but that circumstances pressed. - -"At my paper," he murmured, "it is not so easy as that to--in -fine----!" - -Gerald had genuinely been at his last francs. He had not lied when -she thought he had lied. The nakedness of his character showed -now. Instantly upon the final and definite cessation of the lawful -supply of money, he had set his wits to obtain money unlawfully. -He had, in fact, simply stolen it from Chirac, with the ornamental -addition of endangering Chirac's reputation and situation--as a -sort of reward to Chirac for the kindness! And, further, no sooner -had he got hold of the money than it had intoxicated him, and he -had yielded to the first fatuous temptation. He had no sense of -responsibility, no scruple. And as for common prudence--had he not -risked permanent disgrace and even prison for a paltry sum which -he would certainly squander in two or three days? Yes, it was -indubitable that he would stop at nothing, at nothing whatever. - -"You did not know that he was coming to me?" asked Chirac, pulling -his short, silky brown beard. - -"No," Sophia answered. - -"But he said that you had charged him with your friendlinesses to -me!" He nodded his head once or twice, sadly but candidly -accepting, in his quality of a Latin, the plain facts of human -nature--reconciling himself to them at once. - -Sophia revolted at this crowning detail of the structure of -Gerald's rascality. - -"It is fortunate that I can pay you," she said. - -"But----" he tried to protest. - -"I have quite enough money." - -She did not say this to screen Gerald, but merely from amour- -propre. She would not let Chirac think that she was the wife of a -man bereft of all honour. And so she clothed Gerald with the rag -of having, at any rate, not left her in destitution as well as in -sickness. Her assertion seemed a strange one, in view of the fact -that he had abandoned her on the previous evening--that is to say, -immediately after the borrowing from Chirac. But Chirac did not -examine the statement. - -"Perhaps he has the intention to send me the money. Perhaps, after -all, he is now at the offices----" - -"No," said Sophia. "He is gone. Will you go downstairs and wait -for me. We will go together to Cook's office. It is English money -I have." - -"Cook's?" he repeated. The word now so potent had then little -significance. "But you are ill. You cannot----" - -"I feel better." - -She did. Or rather, she felt nothing except the power of her -resolve to remove the painful anxiety from that wistful brow. The -shame of the trick played on Chirac awakened new forces in her. -She dressed in a physical torment which, however, had no more -reality than a nightmare. She searched in a place where even an -inquisitive husband would not think of looking, and then, -painfully, she descended the long stairs, holding to the rail, -which swam round and round her, carrying the whole staircase with -it. "After all," she thought, "I can't be seriously ill, or I -shouldn't have been able to get up and go out like this. I never -guessed early this morning that I could do it! I can't possibly be -as ill as I thought I was!" - -And in the vestibule she encountered Chirac's face, lightening at -the sight of her, which proved to him that his deliverance was -really to be accomplished. - -"Permit me----" - -"I'm all right," she smiled, tottering. "Get a cab." It suddenly -occurred to her that she might quite as easily have given him the -money in English notes; he could have changed them. But she had -not thought. Her brain would not operate. She was dreaming and -waking together. - -He helped her into the cab. - -V - -In the bureau de change there was a little knot of English, -people, with naive, romantic, and honest faces, quite different -from the faces outside in the street. No corruption in those -faces, but a sort of wondering and infantile sincerity, rather out -of its element and lost in a land too unsophisticated, seeming to -belong to an earlier age! Sophia liked their tourist stare, and -their plain and ugly clothes. She longed to be back in England, -longed for a moment with violence, drowning in that desire. - -The English clerk behind his brass bars took her notes, and -carefully examined them one by one. She watched him, not entirely -convinced of his reality, and thought vaguely of the detestable -morning when she had abstracted the notes from Gerald's pocket. -She was filled with pity for the simple, ignorant Sophia of those -days, the Sophia who still had a few ridiculous illusions -concerning Gerald's character. Often, since, she had been tempted -to break into the money, but she had always withstood the -temptation, saying to herself that an hour of more urgent need -would come. It had come. She was proud of her firmness, of the -force of will which had enabled her to reserve the fund intact. -The clerk gave her a keen look, and then asked her how she would -take the French money. And she saw the notes falling down one -after another on to the counter as the clerk separated them with a -snapping sound of the paper. - -Chirac was beside her. - -"Does that make the count?" she said, having pushed towards him -five hundred-franc notes. - -"I should not know how to thank you," he said, accepting the -notes. "Truly--" - -His joy was unmistakably eager. He had had a shock and a fright, -and he now saw the danger past. He could return to the cashier of -his newspaper, and fling down the money with a lordly and careless -air, as if to say: "When it is a question of these English, one -can always be sure!" But first he would escort her to the hotel. -She declined--she did not know why, for he was her sole point of -moral support in all France. He insisted. She yielded. So she -turned her back, with regret, on that little English oasis in the -Sahara of Paris, and staggered to the fiacre. - -And now that she had done what she had to do, she lost control of -her body, and reclined flaccid and inert. Chirac was evidently -alarmed. He did not speak, but glanced at her from time to time -with eyes full of fear. The carriage appeared to her to be -swimming amid waves over great depths. Then she was aware of a -heavy weight against her shoulder; she had slipped down upon -Chirac, unconscious. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -FEVER - -I - - -Then she was lying in bed in a small room, obscure because it was -heavily curtained; the light came through the inner pair of -curtains of ecru lace, with a beautiful soft silvery quality. A -man was standing by the side of the bed--not Chirac. - -"Now, madame," he said to her, with kind firmness, and speaking -with a charming exaggerated purity of the vowels. "You have the -mucous fever. I have had it myself. You will be forced to take -baths, very frequently. I must ask you to reconcile yourself to -that, to be good." - -She did not reply. It did not occur to her to reply. But she -certainly thought that this doctor--he was probably a doctor--was -overestimating her case. She felt better than she had felt for two -days. Still, she did not desire to move, nor was she in the least -anxious as to her surroundings. She lay quiet. - -A woman in a rather coquettish deshabille watched over her with -expert skill. - -Later, Sophia seemed to be revisiting the sea on whose waves the -cab had swum; but now she was under the sea, in a watery gulf, -terribly deep; and the sounds of the world came to her through the -water, sudden and strange. Hands seized her and forced her from -the subaqueous grotto where she had hidden into new alarms. And -she briefly perceived that there was a large bath by the side of -the bed, and that she was being pushed into it. The water was icy -cold. After that her outlook upon things was for a time clearer -and more precise. She knew from fragments of talk which she heard -that she was put into the cold bath by her bed every three hours, -night and day, and that she remained in it for ten minutes. -Always, before the bath, she had to drink a glass of wine, and -sometimes another glass while she was in the bath. Beyond this -wine, and occasionally a cup of soup, she took nothing, had no -wish to take anything. She grew perfectly accustomed to these -extraordinary habits of life, to this merging of night and day -into one monotonous and endless repetition of the same rite amid -the same circumstances on exactly the same spot. Then followed a -period during which she objected to being constantly wakened up -for this annoying immersion. And she fought against it even in her -dreams. Long days seemed to pass when she could not be sure -whether she had been put into the bath or not, when all external -phenomena were disconcertingly interwoven with matters which she -knew to be merely fanciful. And then she was overwhelmed by the -hopeless gravity of her state. She felt that her state was -desperate. She felt that she was dying. Her unhappiness was -extreme, not because she was dying, but because the veils of sense -were so puzzling, so exasperating, and because her exhausted body -was so vitiated, in every fibre, by disease. She was perfectly -aware that she was going to die. She cried aloud for a pair of -scissors. She wanted to cut off her hair, and to send part of it -to Constance and part of it to her mother, in separate packages. -She insisted upon separate packages. Nobody would give her a pair -of scissors. She implored, meekly, haughtily, furiously, but -nobody would satisfy her. It seemed to her shocking that all her -hair should go with her into her coffin while Constance and her -mother had nothing by which to remember her, no tangible souvenir -of her beauty. Then she fought for the scissors. She clutched at -some one--always through those baffling veils--who was putting her -into the bath by the bedside, and fought frantically. It appeared -to her that this some one was the rather stout woman who had -supped at Sylvain's with the quarrelsome Englishman, four years -ago. She could not rid herself of this singular conceit, though -she knew it to be absurd. ... - -A long time afterwards--it seemed like a century--she did actually -and unmistakably see the woman sitting by her bed, and the woman -was crying. - -"Why are you crying?" Sophia asked wonderingly. - -And the other, younger, woman, who was standing at the foot of the -bed, replied: - -"You do well to ask! It is you who have hurt her, in your -delirium, when you so madly demanded the scissors." - -The stout woman smiled with the tears on her cheeks; but Sophia -wept, from remorse. The stout woman looked old, worn, and untidy. -The other one was much younger. Sophia did not trouble to inquire -from them who they were. - -That little conversation formed a brief interlude in the delirium, -which overtook her again and distorted everything. She forgot, -however, that she was destined to die. - -One day her brain cleared. She could be sure that she had gone to -sleep in the morning and not wakened till the evening. Hence she -had not been put into the bath. - -"Have I had my baths?" she questioned. - -It was the doctor who faced her. - -"No," he said, "the baths are finished." - -She knew from his face that she was out of danger. Moreover, she -was conscious of a new feeling in her body, as though the fount of -physical energy within her, long interrupted, had recommenced to -flow--but very slowly, a trickling. It was a rebirth. She was not -glad, but her body itself was glad; her body had an existence of -its own. - -She was now often left by herself in the bedroom. To the right of -the foot of the bed was a piano in walnut, and to the left a -chimney-piece with a large mirror. She wanted to look at herself -in the mirror. But it was a very long way off. She tried to sit -up, and could not. She hoped that one day she would be able to get -as far as the mirror. She said not a word about this to either of -the two women. - -Often they would sit in the bedroom and talk without ceasing. -Sophia learnt that the stout woman was named Foucault, and the -other Laurence. Sometimes Laurence would address Madame Foucault -as Aimee, but usually she was more formal. Madame Foucault always -called the other Laurence. - -Sophia's curiosity stirred and awoke. But she could not obtain any -very exact information as to where she was, except that the house -was in the Rue Breda, off the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. She -recollected vaguely that the reputation of the street was -sinister. It appeared that, on the day when she had gone out with -Chirac, the upper part of the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette was closed -for repairs--(this she remembered)--and that the cabman had turned -up the Rue Breda in order to make a detour, and that it was just -opposite to the house of Madame Foucault that she had lost -consciousness. Madame Foucault happened to be getting into a cab -at the moment; but she had told Chirac nevertheless to carry -Sophia into the house, and a policeman had helped. Then, when the -doctor came, it was discovered that she could not be moved, save -to a hospital, and both Madame Foucault and Laurence were -determined that no friend of Chirac's should be committed to the -horrors of a Paris hospital. Madame Foucault had suffered in one -as a patient, and Laurence had been a nurse in another. ... - -Chirac was now away. The women talked loosely of a war. - -"How kind you have been!" murmured Sophia, with humid eyes. - -But they silenced her with gestures. She was not to talk. They -seemed to have nothing further to tell her. They said Chirac would -be returning perhaps soon, and that she could talk to him. -Evidently they both held Chirac in affection. They said often that -he was a charming boy. - -Bit by bit Sophia comprehended the length and the seriousness of -her illness, and the immense devotion of the two women, and the -terrific disturbance of their lives, and her own debility. She saw -that the women were strongly attached to her, and she could not -understand why, as she had never done anything for them, whereas -they had done everything for her. She had not learnt that benefits -rendered, not benefits received, are the cause of such -attachments. - -All the time she was plotting, and gathering her strength to -disobey orders and get as far as the mirror. Her preliminary -studies and her preparations were as elaborate as those of a -prisoner arranging to escape from a fortress. The first attempt -was a failure. The second succeeded. Though she could not stand -without support, she managed by clinging to the bed to reach a -chair, and to push the chair in front of her until it approached -the mirror. The enterprise was exciting and terrific. Then she saw -a face in the glass: white, incredibly emaciated, with great, -wild, staring eyes; and the shoulders were bent as though with -age. It was a painful, almost a horrible sight. It frightened her, -so that in her alarm she recoiled from it. Not attending -sufficiently to the chair, she sank to the ground. She could not -pick herself up, and she was caught there, miserably, by her -angered jailers. The vision of her face taught her more -efficiently than anything else the gravity of her adventure. As -the women lifted her inert, repentant mass into the bed, she -reflected, "How queer my life is!" It seemed to her that she ought -to have been trimming hats in the showroom instead of being in -that curtained, mysterious, Parisian interior. - -II - -One day Madame Foucault knocked at the door of Sophia's little -room (this ceremony of knocking was one of the indications that -Sophia, convalescent, had been reinstated in her rights as an -individual), and cried: - -"Madame, one is going to leave you all alone for some time." - -"Come in," said Sophia, who was sitting up in an armchair, and -reading. - -Madame Foucault opened the door. "One is going to leave you all -alone for some time," she repeated in a low, confidential voice, -sharply contrasting with her shriek behind the door. - -Sophia nodded and smiled, and Madame Foucault also nodded and -smiled. But Madame Foucault's face quickly resumed its anxious -expression. - -"The servant's brother marries himself to-day, and she implored me -to accord her two days--what would you? Madame Laurence is out. -And I must go out. It is four o'clock. I shall re-enter at six -o'clock striking. Therefore ..." - -"Perfectly," Sophia concurred. - -She looked curiously at Madame Foucault, who was carefully made up -and arranged for the street, in a dress of yellow tussore with -blue ornaments, bright lemon-coloured gloves, a little blue -bonnet, and a little white parasol not wider when opened than her -shoulders. Cheeks, lips, and eyes were heavily charged with rouge, -powder, or black. And that too abundant waist had been most -cunningly confined in a belt that descended beneath, instead of -rising above, the lower masses of the vast torso. The general -effect was worthy of the effort that must have gone to it. Madame -Foucault was not rejuvenated by her toilette, but it almost -procured her pardon for the crime of being over forty, fat, -creased, and worn out. It was one of those defeats that are a -triumph. - -"You are very chic," said Sophia, uttering her admiration. - -"Ah!" said Madame Foucault, shrugging the shoulders of -disillusion. "Chic! What does that do?" - -But she was pleased. - -The front-door banged. Sophia, by herself for the first time in -the flat into which she had been carried unconscious and which she -had never since left, had the disturbing sensation of being -surrounded by mysterious rooms and mysterious things. She tried to -continue reading, but the sentences conveyed nothing to her. She -rose--she could walk now a little--and looked out of the window, -through the interstices of the pattern of the lace curtains. The -window gave on the courtyard, which was about sixteen feet below -her. A low wall divided the courtyard from that of the next house. -And the windows of the two houses, only to be distinguished by the -different tints of their yellow paint, rose tier above tier in -level floors, continuing beyond Sophia's field of vision. She -pressed her face against the glass, and remembered the St. Luke's -Square of her childhood; and just as there from the showroom -window she could not even by pressing her face against the glass -see the pavement, so here she could not see the roof; the -courtyard was like the bottom of a well. There was no end to the -windows; six storeys she could count, and the sills of a seventh -were the limit of her view. Every window was heavily curtained, -like her own. Some of the upper ones had green sunblinds. Scarcely -any sound! Mysteries brooded without as well as within the flat of -Madame Foucault. Sophia saw a bodiless hand twitch at a curtain -and vanish. She noticed a green bird in a tiny cage on a sill in -the next house. A woman whom she took to be the concierge appeared -in the courtyard, deposited a small plant in the track of a ray of -sunshine that lighted a corner for a couple of hours in the -afternoon, and disappeared again. Then she heard a piano-- -somewhere. That was all. The feeling that secret and strange lives -were being lived behind those baffling windows, that humanity was -everywhere intimately pulsing around her, oppressed her spirit yet -not quite unpleasantly. The environment softened her glance upon -the spectacle of existence, insomuch that sadness became a -voluptuous pleasure. And the environment threw her back on -herself, into a sensuous contemplation of the fundamental fact of -Sophia Scales, formerly Sophia Baines. - -She turned to the room, with the marks of the bath on the floor by -the bed, and the draped piano that was never opened, and her two -trunks filling up the corner opposite the door. She had the idea -of thoroughly examining those trunks, which Chirac or somebody -else must have fetched from the hotel. At the top of one of them -was her purse, tied up with old ribbon and ostentatiously sealed! -How comical these French people were when they deemed it necessary -to be serious! She emptied both trunks, scrutinizing minutely all -her goods, and thinking of the varied occasions upon which she had -obtained them. Then she carefully restored them, her mind full of -souvenirs newly awakened. - -She sighed as she straightened her back. A clock struck in another -room. It seemed to invite her towards discoveries. She had been in -no other room of the flat. She knew nothing of the rest of the -flat save by sound. For neither of the other women had ever -described it, nor had it occurred to them that Sophia might care -to leave her room though she could not leave the house. - -She opened her door, and glanced along the dim corridor, with -which she was familiar. She knew that the kitchen lay next to her -little room, and that next to the kitchen came the front-door. On -the opposite side of the corridor were four double-doors. She -crossed to the pair of doors facing her own little door, and -quietly turned the handle, but the doors were locked; the same -with the next pair. The third pair yielded, and she was in a large -bedroom, with three windows on the street. She saw that the second -pair of doors, which she had failed to unfasten, also opened into -this room. Between the two pairs of doors was a wide bed. In front -of the central window was a large dressing-table. To the left of -the bed, half hiding the locked doors, was a large screen. On the -marble mantelpiece, reflected in a huge mirror, that ascended to -the ornate cornice, was a gilt-and-basalt clock, with pendants to -match. On the opposite side of the room from this was a long wide -couch. The floor was of polished oak, with a skin on either side -of the bed. At the foot of the bed was a small writing-table, with -a penny bottle of ink on it. A few coloured prints and engravings ---representing, for example, Louis Philippe and his family, and -people perishing on a raft--broke the tedium of the walls. The -first impression on Sophia's eye was one of sombre splendour. -Everything had the air of being richly ornamented, draped, looped, -carved, twisted, brocaded into gorgeousness. The dark crimson bed- -hangings fell from massive rosettes in majestic folds. The -counterpane was covered with lace. The window-curtains had -amplitude beyond the necessary, and they were suspended from -behind fringed and pleated valances. The green sofa and its sateen -cushions were stiff with applied embroidery. The chandelier -hanging from the middle of the ceiling, modelled to represent -cupids holding festoons, was a glittering confusion of gilt and -lustres; the lustres tinkled when Sophia stood on a certain part -of the floor. The cane-seated chairs were completely gilded. There -was an effect of spaciousness. And the situation of the bed -between the two double-doors, with the three windows in front and -other pairs of doors communicating with other rooms on either -hand, produced in addition an admirable symmetry. - -But Sophia, with the sharp gaze of a woman brought up in the -traditions of a modesty so proud that it scorns ostentation, -quickly tested and condemned the details of this chamber that -imitated every luxury. Nothing in it, she found, was 'good.' And -in St. Luke's Square 'goodness' meant honest workmanship, -permanence, the absence of pretence. All the stuffs were cheap and -showy and shabby; all the furniture was cracked, warped, or -broken. The clock showed five minutes past twelve at five o'clock. -And further, dust was everywhere, except in those places where -even the most perfunctory cleaning could not have left it. In the -obscurer pleatings of draperies it lay thick. Sophia's lip curled, -and instinctively she lifted her peignoir. One of her mother's -phrases came into her head: 'a lick and a promise.' And then -another: "If you want to leave dirt, leave it where everybody can -see it, not in the corners." - -She peeped behind the screen, and all the horrible welter of a -cabinet de toilette met her gaze: a repulsive medley of foul -waters, stained vessels and cloths, brushes, sponges, powders, and -pastes. Clothes were hung up in disorder on rough nails; among -them she recognized a dressing-gown of Madame Foucault's, and, -behind affairs of later date, the dazzling scarlet cloak in which -she had first seen Madame Foucault, dilapidated now. So this was -Madame Foucault's room! This was the bower from which that -elegance emerged, the filth from which had sprung the mature -blossom! - -She passed from that room direct to another, of which the shutters -were closed, leaving it in twilight. This room too was a bedroom, -rather smaller than the middle one, and having only one window, -but furnished with the same dubious opulence. Dust covered it -everywhere, and small footmarks were visible in the dust on the -floor. At the back was a small door, papered to match the wall, -and within this door was a cabinet de toilette, with no light and -no air; neither in the room nor in the closet was there any sign -of individual habitation. She traversed the main bedroom again and -found another bedroom to balance the second one, but open to the -full light of day, and in a state of extreme disorder; the double- -pillowed bed had not even been made: clothes and towels draped all -the furniture: shoes were about the floor, and on a piece of -string tied across the windows hung a single white stocking, wet. -At the back was a cabinet de toilette, as dark as the other one, a -vile malodorous mess of appliances whose familiar forms loomed -vague and extraordinarily sinister in the dense obscurity. Sophia -turned away with the righteous disgust of one whose preparations -for the gaze of the world are as candid and simple as those of a -child. Concealed dirt shocked her as much as it would have shocked -her mother; and as for the trickeries of the toilet table, she -contemned them as harshly as a young saint who has never been -tempted contemns moral weakness. She thought of the strange -flaccid daily life of those two women, whose hours seemed to slip -unprofitably away without any result of achievement. She had -actually witnessed nothing; but since the beginning of her -convalescence her ears had heard, and she could piece the -evidences together. There was never any sound in the flat, outside -the kitchen, until noon. Then vague noises and smells would -commence. And about one o'clock Madame Foucault, disarrayed, would -come to inquire if the servant had attended to the needs of the -invalid. Then the odours of cookery would accentuate themselves; -bells rang; fragments of conversations escaped through doors ajar; -occasionally a man's voice or a heavy step; then the fragrance of -coffee; sometimes the sound of a kiss, the banging of the front -door, the noise of brushing, or of the shaking of a carpet, a -little scream as at some trifling domestic contretemps. Laurence, -still in a dressing-gown, would lounge into Sophia's room, dirty, -haggard, but polite with a curious stiff ceremony, and would drink -her coffee there. This wandering in peignoirs would continue till -three o'clock, and then Laurence might say, as if nerving herself -to an unusual and immense effort: "I must be dressed by five -o'clock. I have not a moment." Often Madame Foucault did not dress -at all; on such days she would go to bed immediately after dinner, -with the remark that she didn't know what was the matter with her, -but she was exhausted. And then the servant would retire to her -seventh floor, and there would be silence until, now and then, -faint creepings were heard at midnight or after. Once or twice, -through the chinks of her door, Sophia had seen a light at two -o'clock in the morning, just before the dawn. - -Yet these were the women who had saved her life, who between them -had put her into a cold bath every three hours night and day for -weeks! Surely it was impossible after that to despise them for -shiftlessness and talkative idling in peignoirs; impossible to -despise them for anything whatever! But Sophia, conscious of her -inheritance of strong and resolute character, did despise them as -poor things. The one point on which she envied them was their -formal manners to her, which seemed to become more dignified and -graciously distant as her health improved. It was always 'Madame,' -'Madame,' to her, with an intonation of increasing deference. They -might have been apologizing to her for themselves. - -She prowled into all the corners of the flat; but she discovered -no more rooms, nothing but a large cupboard crammed with Madame -Foucault's dresses. Then she went back to the large bedroom, and -enjoyed the busy movement and rattle of the sloping street, and -had long, vague yearnings for strength and for freedom in wide, -sane places. She decided that on the morrow she would dress -herself 'properly,' and never again wear a peignoir; the peignoir -and all that it represented, disgusted her. And while looking at -the street she ceased to see it and saw Cook's office and Chirac -helping her into the carriage. Where was he? Why had he brought -her to this impossible abode? What did he mean by such conduct? -But could he have acted otherwise? He had done the one thing that -he could do. ... Chance! ... Chance! And why an impossible abode? -Was one place more impossible than another? All this came of -running away from home with Gerald. It was remarkable that she -seldom thought of Gerald. He had vanished from her life as he had -come into it--madly, preposterously. She wondered what the next -stage in her career would be. She certainly could not forecast it. -Perhaps Gerald was starving, or in prison ... Bah! That -exclamation expressed her appalling disdain of Gerald and of the -Sophia who had once deemed him the paragon of men. Bah! - -A carriage stopping in front of the house awakened her from her -meditation. Madame Foucault and a man very much younger than -Madame Foucault got out of it. Sophia fled. After all, this prying -into other people's rooms was quite inexcusable. She dropped on to -her own bed and picked up a book, in case Madame Foucault should -come in. - -III - -In the evening, just after night had fallen, Sophia on the bed -heard the sound of raised and acrimonious voices in Madame -Foucault's room. Nothing except dinner had happened since the -arrival of Madame Foucault and the young man. These two had -evidently dined informally in the bedroom on a dish or so prepared -by Madame Foucault, who had herself served Sophia with her -invalid's repast. The odours of cookery still hung in the air. - -The noise of virulent discussion increased and continued, and then -Sophia could hear sobbing, broken by short and fierce phrases from -the man. Then the door of the bedroom opened brusquely. "J'en ai -soupe!" exclaimed the man, in tones of angry disgust. "Laisse-moi, -je te prie!" And then a soft muffled sound, as of a struggle, a -quick step, and the very violent banging of the front door. After -that there was a noticeable silence, save for the regular sobbing. -Sophia wondered when it would cease, that monotonous sobbing. - -"What is the matter?" she called out from her bed. - -The sobbing grew louder, like the sobbing of a child who has -detected an awakening of sympathy and instinctively begins to -practise upon it. In the end Sophia arose and put on the peignoir -which she had almost determined never to wear again. The broad -corridor was lighted by a small, smelling oil-lamp with a crimson -globe. That soft, transforming radiance seemed to paint the whole -corridor with voluptuous luxury: so much so that it was impossible -to believe that the smell came from the lamp. Under the lamp lay -Madame Foucault on the floor, a shapeless mass of lace, frilled -linen, and corset; her light brown hair was loose and spread about -the floor. At the first glance, the creature abandoned to grief -made a romantic and striking picture, and Sophia thought for an -instant that she had at length encountered life on a plane that -would correspond to her dreams of romance. And she was impressed, -with a feeling somewhat akin to that of a middling commoner when -confronted with a viscount. There was, in the distance, something -imposing and sensational about that prone, trembling figure. The -tragic works of love were therein apparently manifest, in a sort -of dignified beauty. But when Sophia bent over Madame Foucault, -and touched her flabbiness, this illusion at once vanished; and -instead of being dramatically pathetic the woman was ridiculous. -Her face, especially as damaged by tears, could not support the -ordeal of inspection; it was horrible; not a picture, but a -palette; or like the coloured design of a pavement artist after a -heavy shower. Her great, relaxed eyelids alone would have rendered -any face absurd; and there were monstrous details far worse than -the eyelids. Then she was amazingly fat; her flesh seemed to be -escaping at all ends from a corset strained to the utmost limit. -And above her boots--she was still wearing dainty, high-heeled, -tightly laced boots--the calves bulged suddenly out. - -As a woman of between forty and fifty, the obese sepulchre of a -dead vulgar beauty, she had no right to passions and tears and -homage, or even the means of life; she had no right to expose -herself picturesquely beneath a crimson glow in all the panoply of -ribboned garters and lacy seductiveness. It was silly; it was -disgraceful. She ought to have known that only youth and slimness -have the right to appeal to the feelings by indecent abandonments. - -Such were the thoughts that mingled with the sympathy of the -beautiful and slim Sophia as she bent down to Madame Foucault. She -was sorry for her landlady, but at the same time she despised her, -and resented her woe. - -"What is the matter?" she asked quietly. - -"He has chucked me!" stammered Madame Foucault. "And he's the -last. I have no one now!" - -She rolled over in the most grotesque manner, kicking up her legs, -with a fresh outburst of sobs. Sophia felt quite ashamed for her. - -"Come and lie down. Come now!" she said, with a touch of -sharpness. "You musn't lie there like that." - -Madame Foucault's behaviour was really too outrageous. Sophia -helped her, morally rather than physically, to rise, and then -persuaded her into the large bedroom. Madame Foucault fell on the -bed, of which the counterpane had been thrown over the foot. -Sophia covered the lower part of her heaving body with the -counterpane. - -"Now, calm yourself, please!" - -This room too was lit in crimson, by a small lamp that stood on -the night-table, and though the shade of the lamp was cracked, the -general effect of the great chamber was incontestably romantic. -Only the pillows of the wide bed and a small semi-circle of floor -were illuminated, all the rest lay in shadow. Madame Foucault's -head had dropped between the pillows. A tray containing dirty -plates and glasses and a wine-bottle was speciously picturesque on -the writing-table. - -Despite her genuine gratitude to Madame Foucault for astounding -care during her illness, Sophia did not like her landlady, and the -present scene made her coldly wrathful. She saw the probability of -having another's troubles piled on the top of her own. She did -not, in her mind, actively object, because she felt that she could -not be more hopelessly miserable than she was; but she passively -resented the imposition. Her reason told her that she ought to -sympathize with this ageing, ugly, disagreeable, undignified -woman; but her heart was reluctant; her heart did not want to know -anything at all about Madame Foucault, nor to enter in any way -into her private life. - -"I have not a single friend now," stammered Madame Foucault. - -"Oh, yes, you have," said Sophia, cheerfully. "You have Madame -Laurence." - -"Laurence--that is not a friend. You know what I mean." - -"And me! I am your friend!" said Sophia, in obedience to her -conscience. - -"You are very kind," replied Madame Foucault, from the pillow. -"But you know what I mean." - -The fact was that Sophia did know what she meant. The terms of -their intercourse had been suddenly changed. There was no -pretentious ceremony now, but the sincerity that disaster brings. -The vast structure of make-believe, which between them they had -gradually built, had crumbled to nothing. - -"I never treated badly any man in my life," whimpered Madame -Foucault. "I have always been a--good girl. There is not a man who -can say I have not been a good girl. Never was I a girl like the -rest. And every one has said so. Ah! when I tell you that once I -had a hotel in the Avenue de la Reine Hortense. Four horses ... I -have sold a horse to Madame Musard. ... You know Madame Musard. -... But one cannot make economies. Impossible to make economies! -Ah! In 'fifty-six I was spending a hundred thousand francs a year. -That cannot last. Always I have said to myself: 'That cannot -last.' Always I had the intention. ... But what would you? I -installed myself here, and borrowed money to pay for the -furniture. There did not remain to me one jewel. The men are -poltroons, all! I could let three bedrooms for three hundred and -fifty francs a month, and with serving meals and so on I could -live." - -"Then that," Sophia interrupted, pointing to her own bedroom -across the corridor, "is your room?" - -"Yes," said Madame Foucault. "I put you in it because at the -moment all these were let. They are so no longer. Only one-- -Laurence--and she does not pay me always. What would you? Tenants ---that does not find itself at the present hour. ... I have -nothing, and I owe. And he quits me. He chooses this moment to -quit me! And why? For nothing. For nothing. That is not for his -money that I regret him. No, no! You know, at his age--he is -twenty-five--and with a woman like me--one is not generous! No. I -loved him. And then a man is a moral support, always. I loved him. -It is at my age, mine, that one knows how to love. Beauty goes -always, but not the temperament! Ah, that--No! ... I loved him. I -love him." - -Sophia's face tingled with a sudden emotion caused by the -repetition of those last three words, whose spell no usage can -mar. But she said nothing. - -"Do you know what I shall become? There is nothing but that for -me. And I know of such, who are there already. A charwoman! Yes, a -charwoman! More soon or more late. Well, that is life. What would -you? One exists always." Then in a different tone: "I demand your -pardon, madame, for talking like this. I ought to have shame." - -And Sophia felt that in listening she also ought to be ashamed. -But she was not ashamed. Everything seemed very natural, and even -ordinary. And, moreover, Sophia was full of the sense of her -superiority over the woman on the bed. Four years ago, in the -Restaurant Sylvain, the ingenuous and ignorant Sophia had shyly -sat in awe of the resplendent courtesan, with her haughty stare, -her large, easy gestures, and her imperturbable contempt for the -man who was paying. And now Sophia knew that she, Sophia, knew all -that was to be known about human nature. She had not merely youth, -beauty, and virtue, but knowledge--knowledge enough to reconcile -her to her own misery. She had a vigorous, clear mind, and a clean -conscience. She could look any one in the face, and judge every -one too as a woman of the world. Whereas this obscene wreck on the -bed had nothing whatever left. She had not merely lost her -effulgent beauty, she had become repulsive. She could never have -had any commonsense, nor any force of character. Her haughtiness -in the day of glory was simply fatuous, based on stupidity. She -had passed the years in idleness, trailing about all day in stuffy -rooms, and emerging at night to impress nincompoops; continually -meaning to do things which she never did, continually surprised at -the lateness of the hour, continually occupied with the most -foolish trifles. And here she was at over forty writhing about on -the bare floor because a boy of twenty-five (who MUST be a -worthless idiot) had abandoned her after a scene of ridiculous -shoutings and stampings. She was dependent on the caprices of a -young scamp, the last donkey to turn from her with loathing! -Sophia thought: "Goodness! If I had been in her place I shouldn't -have been like that. I should have been rich. I should have saved -like a miser. I wouldn't have been dependent on anybody at that -age. If I couldn't have made a better courtesan than this pitiable -woman, I would have drowned myself." - -In the harsh vanity of her conscious capableness and young -strength she thought thus, half forgetting her own follies, and -half excusing them on the ground of inexperience. - -Sophia wanted to go round the flat and destroy every crimson -lampshade in it. She wanted to shake Madame Foucault into self- -respect and sagacity. Moral reprehension, though present in her -mind, was only faint. Certainly she felt the immense gulf between -the honest woman and the wanton, but she did not feel it as she -would have expected to feel it. "What a fool you have been!" she -thought; not: "What a sinner!" With her precocious cynicism, which -was somewhat unsuited to the lovely northern youthfulness of that -face, she said to herself that the whole situation and their -relative attitudes would have been different if only Madame -Foucault had had the wit to amass a fortune, as (according to -Gerald) some of her rivals had succeeded in doing. - -And all the time she was thinking, in another part of her mind: "I -ought not to be here. It's no use arguing. I ought not to be here. -Chirac did the only thing for me there was to do. But I must go -now." - -Madame Foucault continued to recite her woes, chiefly financial, -in a weak voice damp with tears; she also continued to apologize -for mentioning herself. She had finished sobbing, and lay looking -at the wall, away from Sophia, who stood irresolute near the bed, -ashamed for her companion's weakness and incapacity. - -"You must not forget," said Sophia, irritated by the unrelieved -darkness of the picture drawn by Madame Foucault, "that at least I -owe you a considerable sum, and that I am only waiting for you to -tell me how much it is. I have asked you twice already, I think." - -"Oh, you are still suffering!" said Madame Foucault. - -"I am quite well enough to pay my debts," said Sophia. - -"I do not like to accept money from you," said Madame Foucault. - -"But why not?" - -"You will have the doctor to pay." - -"Please do not talk in that way," said Sophia. "I have money, and -I can pay for everything, and I shall pay for everything." - -She was annoyed because she was sure that Madame Foucault was only -making a pretence of delicacy, and that in any case her delicacy -was preposterous. Sophia had remarked this on the two previous -occasions when she had mentioned the subject of bills. Madame -Foucault would not treat her as an ordinary lodger, now that the -illness was past. She wanted, as it were, to complete brilliantly -what she had begun, and to live in Sophia's memory as a unique -figure of lavish philanthropy. This was a sentiment, a luxury that -she desired to offer herself: the thought that she had played -providence to a respectable married lady in distress; she -frequently hinted at Sophia's misfortunes and helplessness. But -she could not afford the luxury. She gazed at it as a poor woman -gazes at costly stuffs through the glass of a shop-window. The -truth was, she wanted the luxury for nothing. For a double reason -Sophia was exasperated: by Madame Foucault's absurd desire, and by -a natural objection to the role of a subject for philanthropy. She -would not admit that Madame Foucault's devotion as a nurse -entitled her to the satisfaction of being a philanthropist when -there was no necessity for philanthropy. - -"How long have I been here?" asked Sophia. - -"I don't know." murmured Madame Foucault. "Eight weeks--or is it -nine?" - -"Suppose we say nine," said Sophia. - -"Very well," agreed Madame Foucault, apparently reluctant. - -"Now, how much must I pay you per week?" - -"I don't want anything--I don't want anything! You are a friend of -Chirac's. You---" - -"Not at all!" Sophia interrupted, tapping her foot and biting her -lip. "Naturally I must pay." - -Madame Foucault wept quietly. - -"Shall I pay you seventy-five francs a week?" said Sophia, anxious -to end the matter. - -"It is too much!" Madame Foucault protested, insincerely. - -"What? For all you have done for me?" - -"I speak not of that," Madame Foucault modestly replied. - -If the devotion was not to be paid for, then seventy-five francs a -week was assuredly too much, as during more than half the time -Sophia had had almost no food. Madame Foucault was therefore -within the truth when she again protested, at sight of the bank- -notes which Sophia brought from her trunk: - -"I am sure that it is too much." - -"Not at all!" Sophia repeated. "Nine weeks at seventy-five. That -makes six hundred and seventy-five. Here are seven hundreds." - -"I have no change," said Madame Foucault. "I have nothing." - -"That will pay for the hire of the bath," said Sophia. - -She laid the notes on the pillow. Madame Foucault looked at them -gluttonously, as any other person would have done in her place. -She did not touch them. After an instant she burst into wild -tears. - -"But why do you cry?" Sophia asked, softened. - -"I--I don't know!" spluttered Madame Foucault. "You are so -beautiful. I am so content that we saved you." Her great wet eyes -rested on Sophia. - -It was sentimentality. Sophia ruthlessly set it down as -sentimentality. But she was touched. She was suddenly moved. Those -women, such as they were in their foolishness, probably had saved -her life--and she a stranger! Flaccid as they were, they had been -capable of resolute perseverance there. It was possible to say -that chance had thrown them upon an enterprise which they could -not have abandoned till they or death had won. It was possible to -say that they hoped vaguely to derive advantage from their -labours. But even then? Judged by an ordinary standard, those -women had been angels of mercy. And Sophia was despising them, -cruelly taking their motives to pieces, accusing them of -incapacity when she herself stood a supreme proof of their -capacity in, at any rate, one direction! In a rush of emotion she -saw her hardness and her injustice. - -She bent down. "Never can I forget how kind you have been to me. -It is incredible! Incredible!" She spoke softly, in tones loaded -with genuine feeling. It was all she said. She could not embroider -on the theme. She had no talent for thanksgiving. - -Madame Foucault made the beginning of a gesture, as if she meant -to kiss Sophia with those thick, marred lips; but refrained. Her -head sank back, and then she had a recurrence of the fit of -nervous sobbing. Immediately afterwards there was the sound of a -latchkey in the front-door of the flat; the bedroom door was open. -Still sobbing very violently, she cocked her ear, and pushed the -bank-notes under the pillow. - -Madame Laurence--as she was called: Sophia had never heard her -surname--came straight into the bedroom, and beheld the scene with -astonishment in her dark twinkling eyes. She was usually dressed -in black, because people said that black suited her, and because -black was never out of fashion; black was an expression of her -idiosyncrasy. She showed a certain elegance, and by comparison -with the extreme disorder of Madame Foucault and the deshabille of -Sophia her appearance, all fresh from a modish restaurant, was -brilliant; it gave her an advantage over the other two--that moral -advantage which ceremonial raiment always gives. - -"What is it that passes?" she demanded. - -"He has chucked me, Laurence!" exclaimed Madame Foucault, in a -sort of hysteric scream which seemed to force its way through her -sobs. From the extraordinary freshness of Madame Foucault's woe, -it might have been supposed that her young man had only that -instant strode out. - -Laurence and Sophia exchanged a swift glance; and Laurence, of -course, perceived that Sophia's relations with her landlady and -nurse were now of a different, a more candid order. She indicated -her perception of the change by a single slight movement of the -eyebrows. - -"But listen, Aimee," she said authoritatively. "You must not let -yourself go like that. He will return." - -"Never!" cried Madame Foucault. "It is finished. And he is the -last!" - -Laurence, ignoring Madame Foucault, approached Sophia. "You have -an air very fatigued," she said, caressing Sophia's shoulder with -her gloved hand. "You are pale like everything. All this is not -for you. It is not reasonable to remain here, you still suffering! -At this hour! Truly not reasonable!" - -Her hands persuaded Sophia towards the corridor. And, in fact, -Sophia did then notice her own exhaustion. She departed from the -room with the ready obedience of physical weakness, and shut her -door. - -After about half an hour, during which she heard confused noises -and murmurings, her door half opened. - -"May I enter, since you are not asleep?" It was Laurence's voice. -Twice, now, she had addressed Sophia without adding the formal -'madame.' - -"Enter, I beg you," Sophia called from the bed. "I am reading." - -Laurence came in. Sophia was both glad and sorry to see her. She -was eager to hear gossip which, however, she felt she ought to -despise. Moreover, she knew that if they talked that night they -would talk as friends, and that Laurence would ever afterwards -treat her with the familiarity of a friend. This she dreaded. -Still, she knew that she would yield, at any rate, to the -temptation to listen to gossip. - -"I have put her to bed," said Laurence, in a whisper, as she -cautiously closed the door. "The poor woman! Oh, what a charming -bracelet! It is a true pearl, naturally?" - -Her roving eye had immediately, with an infallible instinct, -caught sight of a bracelet which, in taking stock of her -possessions, Sophia had accidentally left on the piano. She picked -it up, and then put it down again. - -"Yes," said Sophia. She was about to add: "It's nearly all the -jewellery I possess;" but she stopped. - -Laurence moved towards Sophia's bed, and stood over it as she had -often done in her quality as nurse. She had taken off her gloves, -and she made a piquant, pretty show, with her thirty years, and -her agreeable, slightly roguish face, in which were mingled the -knowingness of a street boy and the confidence of a woman who has -ceased to be surprised at the influence of her snub nose on a -highly intelligent man. - -"Did she tell you what they had quarrelled about?" Laurence -inquired abruptly. And not only the phrasing of the question, but -the assured tone in which it was uttered, showed that Laurence -meant to be the familiar of Sophia. - -"Not a word!" said Sophia. - -In this brief question and reply, all was crudely implied that had -previously been supposed not to exist. The relations between the -two women were altered irretrievably in a moment. - -"It must have been her fault!" said Laurence. "With men she is -insupportable. I have never understood how that poor woman has -made her way. With women she is charming. But she seems to be -incapable of not treating men like dogs. Some men adore that, but -they are few. Is it not?" - -Sophia smiled. - -"I have told her! How many times have I told her! But it is -useless. It is stronger than she is, and if she finishes on straw -one will be able to say that it was because of that. But truly she -ought not to have asked him here! Truly that was too much! If he -knew ...!" - -"Why not?" asked Sophia, awkwardly. The answer startled her. - -"Because her room has not been disinfected." - -"But I thought all the flat had been disinfected?" - -"All except her room." - -"But why not her room?" - -Laurence shrugged her shoulders. "She did not want to disturb her -things! Is it that I know, I? She is like that. She takes an idea ---and then, there you are!" - -"She told me every room had been disinfected." - -"She told the same to the police and the doctor." - -"Then all the disinfection is useless?" - -"Perfectly! But she is like that. This flat might be very -remunerative; but with her, never! She has not even paid for the -furniture--after two years!" - -"But what will become of her?" Sophia asked. - -"Ah--that!" Another shrug of the shoulders. "All that I know is -that it will be necessary for me to leave here. The last time I -brought Monsieur Cerf here, she was excessively rude to him. She -has doubtless told you about Monsieur Cerf?" - -"No. Who is Monsieur Cerf?" - -"Ah! She has not told you? That astonishes me. Monsieur Cerf, that -is my friend, you know." - -"Oh!" murmured Sophia. - -"Yes," Laurence proceeded, impelled by a desire to impress Sophia -and to gossip at large. "That is my friend. I knew him at the -hospital. It was to please him that I left the hospital. After -that we quarrelled for two years; but at the end he gave me right. -I did not budge. Two years! It is long. And I had left the -hospital. I could have gone back. But I would not. That is not a -life, to be nurse in a Paris hospital! No, I drew myself out as -well as I could ... He is the most charming boy you can imagine! -And rich now; that is to say, relatively. He has a cousin -infinitely more rich than he. I dined with them both to-night at -the Maison Doree. For a luxurious boy, he is a luxurious boy--the -cousin I mean. It appears that he has made a fortune in Canada." - -"Truly!" said Sophia, with politeness. Laurence's hand was playing -on the edge of the bed, and Sophia observed for the first time -that it bore a wedding-ring. - -"You remark my ring?" Laurence laughed. "That is he--the cousin. -'What!' he said, 'you do not wear an alliance? An alliance is more -proper. We are going to arrange that after dinner.' I said that -all the jewellers' shops would be closed. 'That is all the same to -me,' he said. 'We will open one.' And in effect ... it passed like -that. He succeeded! Is it not beautiful?" She held forth her hand. - -"Yes," said Sophia. "It is very beautiful." - -"Yours also is beautiful," said Laurence, with an extremely -puzzling intonation. - -"It is just the ordinary English wedding-ring," said Sophia. In -spite of herself she blushed. - -"Now I have married you. It is I, the cure, said he--the cousin-- -when he put the ring on my finger. Oh, he is excessively amusing! -He pleases me much. And he is all alone. He asked me whether I -knew among my friends a sympathetic, pretty girl, to make four -with us three for a picnic. I said I was not sure, but I thought -not. Whom do I know? Nobody. I'm not a woman like the rest. I am -always discreet. I do not like casual relations. ... But he is -very well, the cousin. Brown eyes. ... It is an idea--will you -come, one day? He speaks English. He loves the English. He is all -that is most correct, the perfect gentleman. He would arrange a -dazzling fete. I am sure he would be enchanted to make your -acquaintance. Enchanted! ... As for my Charles, happily he is -completely mad about me--otherwise I should have fear." - -She smiled, and in her smile was a genuine respect for Sophia's -face. - -"I fear I cannot come," said Sophia. She honestly endeavoured to -keep out of her reply any accent of moral superiority, but she did -not quite succeed. She was not at all horrified by Laurence's -suggestion. She meant simply to refuse it; but she could not do so -in a natural voice. - -"It is true you are not yet strong enough," said the imperturbable -Laurence, quickly, and with a perfect imitation of naturalness. -"But soon you must make a little promenade." She stared at her -ring. "After all, it is more proper," she observed judicially. -"With a wedding-ring one is less likely to be annoyed. What is -curious is that the idea never before came to me. Yet ..." - -"You like jewellery?" said Sophia. - -"If I like jewellery!" with a gesture of the hands. - -"Will you pass me that bracelet?" - -Laurence obeyed, and Sophia clasped it round the girl's wrist. - -"Keep it," Sophia said. - -"For me?" Laurence exclaimed, ravished. "It is too much." - -"It is not enough," said Sophia. "And when you look at it, you -must remember how kind you were to me, and how grateful I am." - -"How nicely you say that!" Laurence said ecstatically. - -And Sophia felt that she had indeed said it rather nicely. This -giving of the bracelet, souvenir of one of the few capricious -follies that Gerald had committed for her and not for himself, -pleased Sophia very much. - -"I am afraid your nursing of me forced you to neglect Monsieur -Cerf," she added. - -"Yes, a little!" said Laurence, impartially, with a small pout of -haughtiness. "It is true that he used to complain. But I soon put -him straight. What an idea! He knows there are things upon which I -do not joke. It is not he who will quarrel a second time! Believe -me!" - -Laurence's absolute conviction of her power was what impressed -Sophia. To Sophia she seemed to be a vulgar little piece of goods, -with dubious charm and a glance that was far too brazen. Her -movements were vulgar. And Sophia wondered how she had established -her empire and upon what it rested. - -"I shall not show this to Aimee," whispered Laurence, indicating -the bracelet. - -"As you wish," said Sophia. - -"By the way, have I told you that war is declared?" Laurence -casually remarked. - -"No," said Sophia. "What war?" - -"The scene with Aimee made me forget it ... With Germany. The city -is quite excited. An immense crowd in front of the new Opera. They -say we shall be at Berlin in a month--or at most two months." - -"Oh!" Sophia muttered. "Why is there a war?" - -"Ah! It is I who asked that. Nobody knows. It is those Prussians." - -"Don't you think we ought to begin again with the disinfecting?" -Sophia asked anxiously. "I must speak to Madame Foucault." - -Laurence told her not to worry, and went off to show the bracelet -to Madame Foucault. She had privately decided that this was a -pleasure which, after all, she could not deny herself. - -IV - -About a fortnight later--it was a fine Saturday in early August-- -Sophia, with a large pinafore over her dress, was finishing the -portentous preparations for disinfecting the flat. Part of the -affair was already accomplished, her own room and the corridor -having been fumigated on the previous day, in spite of the -opposition of Madame Foucault, who had taken amiss Laurence's -tale-bearing to Sophia. Laurence had left the flat--under exactly -what circumstances Sophia knew not, but she guessed that it must -have been in consequence of a scene elaborating the tiff caused by -Madame Foucault's resentment against Laurence. The brief, -factitious friendliness between Laurence and Sophia had gone like -a dream, and Laurence had gone like a dream. The servant had been -dismissed; in her place Madame Foucault employed a charwoman each -morning for two hours. Finally, Madame Foucault had been suddenly -called away that morning by a letter to her sick father at St. -Mammes-sur-Seine. Sophia was delighted at the chance. The -disinfecting of the flat had become an obsession with Sophia--the -obsession of a convalescent whose perspective unconsciously twists -things to the most wry shapes. She had had trouble on the day -before with Madame Foucault, and she was expecting more serious -trouble when the moment arrived for ejecting Madame Foucault as -well as all her movable belongings from Madame Foucault's own -room. Nevertheless, Sophia had been determined, whatever should -happen, to complete an honest fumigation of the entire flat. Hence -the eagerness with which, urging Madame Foucault to go to her -father, Sophia had protested that she was perfectly strong and -could manage by herself for a couple of days. Owing to the partial -suppression of the ordinary railway services in favour of military -needs, Madame Foucault could not hope to go and return on the same -day. Sophia had lent her a louis. - -Pans of sulphur were mysteriously burning in each of the three -front rooms, and two pairs of doors had been pasted over with -paper, to prevent the fumes from escaping. The charwoman had -departed. Sophia, with brush, scissors, flour-paste, and news- -sheets, was sealing the third pair of doors, when there was a ring -at the front door. - -She had only to cross the corridor in order to open. - -It was Chirac. She was not surprised to see him. The outbreak of -the war had induced even Sophia and her landlady to look through -at least one newspaper during the day, and she had in this way -learnt, from an article signed by Chirac, that he had returned to -Paris after a mission into the Vosges country for his paper. - -He started on seeing her. "Ah!" He breathed out the exclamation -slowly. And then smiled, seized her hand, and kissed it. - -The sight of his obvious extreme pleasure in meeting her again was -the sweetest experience that had fallen to Sophia for years. - -"Then you are cured?" - -"Quite." - -He sighed. "You know, this is an enormous relief to me, to know, -veritably, that you are no longer in danger. You gave me a fright -... but a fright, my dear madame!" - -She smiled in silence. - -As he glanced inquiringly up and down the corridor, she said-- - -"I'm all alone in the flat. I'm disinfecting it." - -"Then that is sulphur that I smell?" - -She nodded. "Excuse me while I finish this door," she said. - -He closed the front-door. "But you seem to be quite at home here!" -he observed. - -"I ought to be," said she. - -He glanced again inquiringly up and down the corridor. "And you -are really all alone now?" he asked, as though to be doubly sure. - -She explained the circumstances. - -"I owe you my most sincere excuses for bringing you here," he said -confidentially. - -"But why?" she replied, looking intently at her door. "They have -been most kind to me. Nobody could have been kinder. And Madame -Laurence being such a good nurse----" - -"It is true," said he. "That was a reason. In effect they are both -very good-natured little women. ... You comprehend, as journalist -it arrives to me to know all kinds of people ..." He snapped his -fingers ... "And as we were opposite the house. In fine, I pray -you to excuse me." - -"Hold me this paper," she said. "It is necessary that every crack -should be covered; also between the floor and the door." - -"You English are wonderful," he murmured, as he took the paper. -"Imagine you doing that! Then," he added, resuming the -confidential tone, "I suppose you will leave the Foucault now, -hein?" - -"I suppose so," she said carelessly. - -"You go to England?" - -She turned to him, as she patted the creases out of a strip of -paper with a duster, and shook her head. - -"Not to England?" - -"No." - -"If it is not indiscreet, where are you going?" - -"I don't know," she said candidly. - -And she did not know. She was without a plan. Her brain told her -that she ought to return to Bursley, or, at the least, write. But -her pride would not hear of such a surrender. Her situation would -have to be far more desperate than it was before she could confess -her defeat to her family even in a letter. A thousand times no! -That was a point which she had for ever decided. She would face -any disaster, and any other shame, rather than the shame of her -family's forgiving reception of her. - -"And you?" she asked. "How does it go? This war?" - -He told her, in a few words, a few leading facts about himself. -"It must not be said," he added of the war, "but that will turn -out ill! I--I know, you comprehend." - -"Truly?" she answered with casualness. - -"You have heard nothing of him?" Chirac asked. - -"Who? Gerald?" - -He gave a gesture. - -"Nothing! Not a word! Nothing!" - -"He will have gone back to England!" - -"Never!" she said positively. - -"But why not?" - -"Because he prefers France. He really does like France. I think it -is the only real passion he ever had." - -"It is astonishing," reflected Chirac, "how France is loved! And -yet ...! But to live, what will he do? Must live!" - -Sophia merely shrugged her shoulders. - -"Then it is finished between you two?" he muttered awkwardly. - -She nodded. She was on her knees, at the lower crack of the doors. - -"There!" she said, rising. "It's well done, isn't it? That is -all." - -She smiled at him, facing him squarely, in the obscurity of the -untidy and shabby corridor. Both felt that they had become very -intimate. He was intensely flattered by her attitude, and she knew -it. - -"Now," she said, "I will take off my pinafore. Where can I niche -you? There is only my bedroom, and I want that. What are we to -do?" - -"Listen," he suggested diffidently. "Will you do me the honour to -come for a drive? That will do you good. There is sunshine. And -you are always very pale." - -"With pleasure," she agreed cordially. - -While dressing, she heard him walking up and down the corridor; -occasionally they exchanged a few words. Before leaving, Sophia -pulled off the paper from one of the key-holes of the sealed suite -of rooms, and they peered through, one after the other, and saw -the green glow of the sulphur, and were troubled by its -uncanniness. And then Sophia refixed the paper. - -In descending the stairs of the house she felt the infirmity of -her knees; but in other respects, though she had been out only -once before since her illness, she was conscious of a sufficient -strength. A disinclination for any enterprise had prevented her -from taking the air as she ought to have done, but within the flat -she had exercised her limbs in many small tasks. The little -Chirac, nervously active and restless, wanted to take her arm, but -she would not allow it. - -The concierge and part of her family stared curiously at Sophia as -she passed under the archway, for the course of her illness had -excited the interest of the whole house. Just as the carriage was -driving off, the concierge came across the pavement and paid her -compliments, and then said: - -"You do not know by hazard why Madame Foucault has not returned -for lunch, madame?" - -"Returned for lunch!" said Sophia. "She will not come back till -to-morrow." - -The concierge made a face. "Ah! How curious it is! She told my -husband that she would return in two hours. It is very grave! -Question of business." - -"I know nothing, madame," said Sophia. She and Chirac looked at -each other. The concierge murmured thanks and went off muttering -indistinctly. - -The fiacre turned down the Rue Laferriere, the horse slipping and -sliding as usual over the cobblestones. Soon they were on the -boulevard, making for the Champs Elysees and the Bois de Boulogne. - -The fresh breeze and bright sunshine and the large freedom of the -streets quickly intoxicated Sophia--intoxicated her, that is to -say, in quite a physical sense. She was almost drunk, with the -heady savour of life itself. A mild ecstasy of well-being overcame -her. She saw the flat as a horrible, vile prison, and blamed -herself for not leaving it sooner and oftener. The air was -medicine, for body and mind too. Her perspective was instantly -corrected. She was happy, living neither in the past nor in the -future, but in and for that hour. And beneath her happiness moved -a wistful melancholy for the Sophia who had suffered such a -captivity and such woes. She yearned for more and yet more -delight, for careless orgies of passionate pleasure, in the midst -of which she would forget all trouble. Why had she refused the -offer of Laurence? Why had she not rushed at once into the -splendid fire of joyous indulgence, ignoring everything but the -crude, sensuous instinct? Acutely aware as she was of her youth, -her beauty, and her charm, she wondered at her refusal. She did -not regret her refusal. She placidly observed it as the result of -some tremendously powerful motive in herself, which could not be -questioned or reasoned with--which was, in fact, the essential -HER. - -"Do I look like an invalid?" she asked, leaning back luxuriously -in the carriage among the crowd of other vehicles. - -Chirac hesitated. "My faith! Yes!" he said at length. "But it -becomes you. If I did not know that you have little love for -compliments, I--" - -"But I adore compliments!" she exclaimed. "What made you think -that?" - -"Well, then," he youthfully burst out, "you are more ravishing -than ever." - -She gave herself up deliciously to his admiration. - -After a silence, he said: "Ah! if you knew how disquieted I was -about you, away there ...! I should not know how to tell you. -Veritably disquieted, you comprehend! What could I do? Tell me a -little about your illness." - -She recounted details. - -As the fiacre entered the Rue Royale, they noticed a crowd of -people in front of the Madeleine shouting and cheering. - -The cabman turned towards them. "It appears there has been a -victory!" he said. - -"A victory! If only it was true!" murmured Chirac, cynically. - -In the Rue Royale people were running frantically to and fro, -laughing and gesticulating in glee. The customers in the cafes -stood on their chairs, and even on tables, to watch, and -occasionally to join in, the sudden fever. The fiacre was slowed -to a walking pace. Flags and carpets began to show from the upper -storeys of houses. The crowd grew thicker and more febrile. -"Victory! Victory!" rang hoarsely, shrilly, and hoarsely again in -the air. - -"My God!" said Chirac, trembling. "It must be a true victory! We -are saved! We are saved! ... Oh yes, it is true!" - -"But naturally it is true! What are you saying?" demanded the -driver. - -At the Place de la Concorde the fiacre had to stop altogether. The -immense square was a sea of white hats and flowers and happy -faces, with carriages anchored like boats on its surface. Flag -after flag waved out from neighbouring roofs in the breeze that -tempered the August sun. Then hats began to go up, and cheers -rolled across the square like echoes of firing in an enclosed -valley. Chirac's driver jumped madly on to his seat, and cracked -his whip. - -"Vive la France!" he bawled with all the force of his lungs. - -A thousand throats answered him. - -Then there was a stir behind them. Another carriage was being -slowly forced to the front. The crowd was pushing it, and crying, -"Marseillaise! Marseillaise!" In the carriage was a woman alone; -not beautiful, but distinguished, and with the assured gaze of one -who is accustomed to homage and multitudinous applause. - -"It is Gueymard!" said Chirac to Sophia. He was very pale. And he -too shouted, "Marseillaise!" All his features were distorted. - -The woman rose and spoke to her coachman, who offered his hand and -she climbed to the box seat, and stood on it and bowed several -times. - -"Marseillaise!" The cry continued. Then a roar of cheers, and then -silence spread round the square like an inundation. And amid this -silence the woman began to sing the Marseillaise. As she sang, the -tears ran down her cheeks. Everybody in the vicinity was weeping -or sternly frowning. In the pauses of the first verse could be -heard the rattle of horses' bits, or a whistle of a tug on the -river. The refrain, signalled by a proud challenging toss of -Gueymard's head, leapt up like a tropical tempest, formidable, -overpowering. Sophia, who had had no warning of the emotion -gathering within her, sobbed violently. At the close of the hymn -Gueymard's carriage was assaulted by worshippers. All around, in -the tumult of shouting, men were kissing and embracing each other; -and hats went up continually in fountains. Chirac leaned over the -side of the carriage and wrung the hand of a man who was standing -by the wheel. - -"Who is that?" Sophia asked, in an unsteady voice, to break the -inexplicable tension within her. - -"I don't know," said Chirac. He was weeping like a child. And he -sang out: "Victory! To Berlin! Victory!" - -V - -Sophia walked alone, with tired limbs, up the damaged oak stairs -to the flat. Chirac had decided that, in the circumstances of the -victory, he would do well to go to the offices of his paper rather -earlier than usual. He had brought her back to the Rue Breda. They -had taken leave of each other in a sort of dream or general -enchantment due to their participation in the vast national -delirium which somehow dominated individual feelings. They did not -define their relations. They had been conscious only of emotion. - -The stairs, which smelt of damp even in summer, disgusted Sophia. -She thought of the flat with horror and longed for green places -and luxury. On the landing were two stoutish, ill-dressed men, of -middle age, apparently waiting. Sophia found her key and opened -the door. - -"Pardon, madame!" said one of the men, raising his hat, and they -both pushed into the flat after her. They stared, puzzled, at the -strips of paper pasted on the doors. - -"What do you want?" she asked haughtily. She was very frightened. -The extraordinary interruption brought her down with a shock to -the scale of the individual. - -"I am the concierge," said the man who had addressed her. He had -the air of a superior artisan. "It was my wife who spoke to you -this afternoon. This," pointing to his companion, "this is the -law. I regret it, but ..." - -The law saluted and shut the front door. Like the concierge, the -law emitted an odour--the odour of uncleanliness on a hot August -day. - -"The rent?" exclaimed Sophia. - -"No, madame, not the rent: the furniture!" - -Then she learnt the history of the furniture. It had belonged to -the concierge, who had acquired it from a previous tenant and sold -it on credit to Madame Foucault. Madame Foucault had signed bills -and had not met them. She had made promises and broken them. She -had done everything except discharge her liabilities. She had been -warned and warned again. That day had been fixed as the last -limit, and she had solemnly assured her creditor that on that day -she would pay. On leaving the house she had stated precisely and -clearly that she would return before lunch with all the money. She -had made no mention of a sick father. - -Sophia slowly perceived the extent of Madame Foucault's duplicity -and moral cowardice. No doubt the sick father was an invention. -The woman, at the end of a tether which no ingenuity of lies could -further lengthen, had probably absented herself solely to avoid -the pain of witnessing the seizure. She would do anything, however -silly, to avoid an immediate unpleasantness. Or perhaps she had -absented herself without any particular aim, but simply in the -hope that something fortunate might occur. Perhaps she had hoped -that Sophia, taken unawares, would generously pay. Sophia smiled -grimly. - -"Well," she said. "I can't do anything. I suppose you must do what -you have to do. You will let me pack up my own affairs?" - -"Perfectly, madame!" - -She warned them as to the danger of opening the sealed rooms. The -man of the law seemed prepared to stay in the corridor -indefinitely. No prospect of delay disturbed him. - -Strange and disturbing, the triumph of the concierge! He was a -locksmith by trade. He and his wife and their children lived in -two little dark rooms by the archway--an insignificant fragment of -the house. He was away from home about fourteen hours every day, -except Sundays, when he washed the courtyard. All the other duties -of the concierge were performed by the wife. The pair always -looked poor, untidy, dirty, and rather forlorn. But they were -steadily levying toll on everybody in the big house. They amassed -money in forty ways. They lived for money, and all men have what -they live for. With what arrogant gestures Madame Foucault would -descend from a carriage at the great door! What respectful -attitudes and tones the ageing courtesan would receive from the -wife and children of the concierge! But beneath these conventional -fictions the truth was that the concierge held the whip. At last -he was using it. And he had given himself a half-holiday in order -to celebrate his second acquirement of the ostentatious furniture -and the crimson lampshades. This was one of the dramatic crises in -his career as a man of substance. The national thrill of victory -had not penetrated into the flat with the concierge and the law. -The emotions of the concierge were entirely independent of the -Napoleonic foreign policy. - -As Sophia, sick with a sudden disillusion, was putting her things -together, and wondering where she was to go, and whether it would -be politic to consult Chirac, she heard a fluster at the front -door: cries, protestations, implorings. Her own door was thrust -open, and Madame Foucault burst in. - -"Save me!" exclaimed Madame Foucault, sinking to the ground. - -The feeble theatricality of the gesture offended Sophia's taste. -She asked sternly what Madame Foucault expected her to do. Had not -Madame Foucault knowingly exposed her, without the least warning, -to the extreme annoyance of this visit of the law, a visit which -meant practically that Sophia was put into the street? - -"You must not be hard!" Madame Foucault sobbed. - -Sophia learnt the complete history of the woman's efforts to pay -for the furniture: a farrago of folly and deceptions. Madame -Foucault confessed too much. Sophia scorned confession for the -sake of confession. She scorned the impulse which forces a weak -creature to insist on its weakness, to revel in remorse, and to -find an excuse for its conduct in the very fact that there is no -excuse. She gathered that Madame Foucault had in fact gone away in -the hope that Sophia, trapped, would pay; and that in the end, she -had not even had the courage of her own trickery, and had run -back, driven by panic into audacity, to fall at Sophia's feet, -lest Sophia might not have yielded and the furniture have been -seized. From, beginning to end the conduct of Madame Foucault had -been fatuous and despicable and wicked. Sophia coldly condemned -Madame Foucault for having allowed herself to be brought into the -world with such a weak and maudlin character, and for having -allowed herself to grow old and ugly. As a sight the woman was -positively disgraceful. - -"Save me!" she exclaimed again. "I did what I could for you!" - -Sophia hated her. But the logic of the appeal was irresistible. - -"But what can I do?" she asked reluctantly. - -"Lend me the money. You can. If you don't, this will be the end -for me." - -"And a good thing, too!" thought Sophia's hard sense. - -"How much is it?" Sophia glumly asked. - -"It isn't a thousand francs!" said Madame Foucault with eagerness. -"All my beautiful furniture will go for less than a thousand -francs! Save me!" - -She was nauseating Sophia. - -"Please rise," said Sophia, her hands fidgeting undecidedly. - -"I shall repay you, surely!" Madame Foucault asseverated. "I -swear!" - -"Does she take me for a fool?" thought Sophia, "with her oaths!" - -"No!" said Sophia. "I won't lend you the money. But I tell you -what I will do. I will buy the furniture at that price; and I will -promise to re-sell it to you as soon as you can pay me. Like that, -you can be tranquil. But I have very little money. I must have a -guarantee. The furniture must be mine till you pay me." - -"You are an angel of charity!" cried Madame Foucault, embracing -Sophia's skirts. "I will do whatever you wish. Ah! You -Englishwomen are astonishing." - -Sophia was not an angel of charity. What she had promised to do -involved sacrifice and anxiety without the prospect of reward. But -it was not charity. It was part of the price Sophia paid for the -exercise of her logical faculty; she paid it unwillingly. 'I did -what I could for you!' Sophia would have died sooner than remind -any one of a benefit conferred, and Madame Foucault had committed -precisely that enormity. The appeal was inexcusable to a fine -mind; but it was effective. - -The men were behind the door, listening. Sophia paid out of her -stock of notes. Needless to say, the total was more and not less -than a thousand francs. Madame Foucault grew rapidly confidential -with the man. Without consulting Sophia, she asked the bailiff to -draw up a receipt transferring the ownership of all the furniture -to Sophia; and the bailiff, struck into obligingness by glimpses -of Sophia's beauty, consented to do so. There was much conferring -upon forms of words, and flourishing of pens between thick, vile -fingers, and scattering of ink. - -Before the men left Madame Foucault uncorked a bottle of wine for -them, and helped them to drink it. Throughout the evening she was -insupportably deferential to Sophia, who was driven to bed. Madame -Foucault contentedly went up to the sixth floor to occupy the -servant's bedroom. She was glad to get so far away from the -sulphur, of which a few faint fumes had penetrated into the -corridor. - -The next morning, after a stifling night of bad dreams, Sophia was -too ill to get up. She looked round at the furniture in the little -room, and she imagined the furniture in the other rooms, and -dismally thought: "All this furniture is mine. She will never pay -me! I am saddled with it." - -It was cheaply bought, but she probably could not sell it for even -what she had paid. Still, the sense of ownership was reassuring. - -The charwoman brought her coffee, and Chirac's newspaper; from -which she learnt that the news of the victory which had sent the -city mad on the previous day was utterly false. Tears came into -her eyes as she gazed absently at all the curtained windows of the -courtyard. She had youth and loveliness; according to the rules -she ought to have been irresponsible, gay, and indulgently watched -over by the wisdom of admiring age. But she felt towards the -French nation as a mother might feel towards adorable, wilful -children suffering through their own charming foolishness. She saw -France personified in Chirac. How easily, despite his special -knowledge, he had yielded to the fever! Her heart bled for France -and Chirac on that morning of reaction and of truth. She could not -bear to recall the scene in the Place de la Concorde. Madame -Foucault had not descended. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE SIEGE - -I - - -Madame Foucault came into Sophia's room one afternoon with a -peculiar guilty expression on her large face, and she held her -peignoir close to her exuberant body in folds consciously -majestic, as though endeavouring to prove to Sophia by her -carriage that despite her shifting eyes she was the most righteous -and sincere woman that ever lived. - -It was Saturday, the third of September, a beautiful day. Sophia, -suffering from an unimportant relapse, had remained in a state of -inactivity, and had scarcely gone out at all. She loathed the -flat, but lacked the energy to leave it every day. There was no -sufficiently definite object in leaving it. She could not go out -and look for health as she might have looked for flowers. So she -remained in the flat, and stared at the courtyard and the -continual mystery of lives hidden behind curtains that -occasionally moved. And the painted yellow walls of the house, and -the papered walls of her room pressed upon her and crushed her. -For a few days Chirac had called daily, animated by the most -adorable solicitude. Then he had ceased to call. She had tired of -reading the journals; they lay unopened. The relations between -Madame Foucault and herself, and her status in the flat of which -she now legally owned the furniture,--these things were left -unsettled. But the question of her board was arranged on the terms -that she halved the cost of food and service with Madame Foucault; -her expenses were thus reduced to the lowest possible--about -eighteen francs a week. An idea hung in the air--like a scientific -discovery on the point of being made by several independent -investigators simultaneously--that she and Madame Foucault should -co-operate in order to let furnished rooms at a remunerative -profit. Sophia felt the nearness of the idea and she wanted to be -shocked at the notion of any avowed association between herself -and Madame Foucault; but she could not be. - -"Here are a lady and a gentleman who want a bedroom," began Madame -Foucault, "a nice large bedroom, furnished." - -"Oh!" said Sophia; "who are they?" - -"They will pay a hundred and thirty francs a month, in advance, -for the middle bedroom." - -"You've shown it to them already?" said Sophia. And her tone -implied that somehow she was conscious of a right to overlook the -affair of Madame Foucault. - -"No," said the other. "I said to myself that first I would ask you -for a counsel." - -"Then will they pay all that for a room they haven't seen?" - -"The fact is," said Madame Foucault, sheepishly. "The lady has -seen the room before. I know her a little. It is a former tenant. -She lived here some weeks." - -"In that room?" - -"Oh no! She was poor enough then." - -"Where are they?" - -"In the corridor. She is very well, the lady. Naturally one must -live, she like all the world; but she is veritably well. Quite -respectable! One would never say ... Then there would be the -meals. We could demand one franc for the cafe au lait, two and a -half francs for the lunch, and three francs for the dinner. -Without counting other things. That would mean over five hundred -francs a month, at least. And what would they cost us? Almost -nothing! By what appears, he is a plutocrat ... I could thus -quickly repay you." - -"Is it a married couple?" - -"Ah! You know, one cannot demand the marriage certificate." Madame -Foucault indicated by a gesture that the Rue Breda was not the -paradise of saints. - -"When she came before, this lady, was it with the same man?" -Sophia asked coldly. - -"Ah, my faith, no!" exclaimed Madame Foucault, bridling. "It was a -bad sort, the other, a ...! Ah, no." - -"Why do you ask my advice?" Sophia abruptly questioned, in a hard, -inimical voice. "Is it that it concerns me?" - -Tears came at once into the eyes of Madame Foucault. "Do not be -unkind," she implored. - -"I'm not unkind," said Sophia, in the same tone. - -"Shall you leave me if I accept this offer?" - -There was a pause. - -"Yes," said Sophia, bluntly. She tried to be large-hearted, large- -minded, and sympathetic; but there was no sign of these qualities -in her speech. - -"And if you take with you the furniture which is yours ...!" - -Sophia kept silence. - -"How am I to live, I demand of you?" Madame Foucault asked weakly. - -"By being respectable and dealing with respectable people!" said -Sophia, uncompromisingly, in tones of steel. - -"I am unhappy!" murmured the elder woman. "However, you are more -strong than I!" - -She brusquely dabbed her eyes, gave a little sob, and ran out of -the room. Sophia listened at the door, and heard her dismiss the -would-be tenants of the best bedroom. She wondered that she should -possess such moral ascendancy over the woman, she so young and -ingenuous! For, of course, she had not meant to remove the -furniture. She could hear Madame Foucault sobbing quietly in one -of the other rooms; and her lips curled. - -Before evening a truly astonishing event happened. Perceiving that -Madame Foucault showed no signs of bestirring herself, Sophia, -with good nature in her heart but not on her tongue, went to her, -and said: - -"Shall I occupy myself with the dinner?" - -Madame Foucault sobbed more loudly. - -"That would be very amiable on your part," Madame Foucault managed -at last to reply, not very articulately. - -Sophia put a hat on and went to the grocer's. The grocer, who kept -a busy establishment at the corner of the Rue Clausel, was a -middle-aged and wealthy man. He had sent his young wife and two -children to Normandy until victory over the Prussians should be -more assured, and he asked Sophia whether it was true that there -was a good bedroom to let in the flat where she lived. His servant -was ill of smallpox; he was attacked by anxieties and fears on all -sides; he would not enter his own flat on account of possible -infection; he liked Sophia, and Madame Foucault had been a -customer of his, with intervals, for twenty years. Within an hour -he had arranged to rent the middle bedroom at eighty francs a -month, and to take his meals there. The terms were modest, but the -respectability was prodigious. All the glory of this tenancy fell -upon Sophia. - -Madame Foucault was deeply impressed. Characteristically she began -at once to construct a theory that Sophia had only to walk out of -the house in order to discover ideal tenants for the rooms. Also -she regarded the advent of the grocer as a reward from Providence -for her self-denial in refusing the profits of sinfulness. Sophia -felt personally responsible to the grocer for his comfort, and so -she herself undertook the preparation of the room. Madame Foucault -was amazed at the thoroughness of her housewifery, and at the -ingenuity of her ideas for the arrangement of furniture. She sat -and watched with admiration sycophantic but real. - -That night, when Sophia was in bed, Madame Foucault came into the -room, and dropped down by the side of the bed, and begged Sophia -to be her moral support for ever. She confessed herself generally. -She explained how she had always hated the negation of -respectability; how respectability was the one thing that she had -all her life passionately desired. She said that if Sophia would -be her partner in the letting of furnished rooms to respectable -persons, she would obey her in everything. She gave Sophia a list -of all the traits in Sophia's character which she admired. She -asked Sophia to influence her, to stand by her. She insisted that -she would sleep on the sixth floor in the servant's tiny room; and -she had a vision of three bedrooms let to successful tradesmen. -She was in an ecstasy of repentance and good intentions. - -Sophia consented to the business proposition; for she had nothing -else whatever in prospect, and she shared Madame Foucault's rosy -view about the remunerativeness of the bedrooms. With three -tenants who took meals the two women would be able to feed -themselves for nothing and still make a profit on the food; and -the rents would be clear gain. - -And she felt very sorry for the ageing, feckless Madame Foucault, -whose sincerity was obvious. The association between them would be -strange; it would have been impossible to explain it to St. Luke's -Square. ... And yet, if there was anything at all in the virtue of -Christian charity, what could properly be urged against the -association? - -"Ah!" murmured Madame Foucault, kissing Sophia's hands, "it is to- -day, then, that I recommence my life. You will see--you will see! -You have saved me!" - -It was a strange sight, the time-worn, disfigured courtesan, half -prostrate before the beautiful young creature proud and -unassailable in the instinctive force of her own character. It was -almost a didactic tableau, fraught with lessons for the vicious. -Sophia was happier than she had been for years. She had a purpose -in existence; she had a fluid soul to mould to her will according -to her wisdom; and there was a large compassion to her credit. -Public opinion could not intimidate her, for in her case there was -no public opinion; she knew nobody; nobody had the right to -question her doings. - -The next day, Sunday, they both worked hard at the bedrooms from -early morning. The grocer was installed in his chamber, and the -two other rooms were cleansed as they had never been cleansed. At -four o'clock, the weather being more magnificent than ever, Madame -Foucault said: - -"If we took a promenade on the boulevard?" - -Sophia reflected. They were partners. "Very well," she agreed. - -The boulevard was crammed with gay, laughing crowds. All the cafes -were full. None, who did not know, could have guessed that the -news of Sedan was scarcely a day old in the capital. Delirious joy -reigned in the glittering sunshine. As the two women strolled -along, content with their industry and their resolves, they came -to a National Guard, who, perched on a ladder, was chipping away -the "N" from the official sign of a court-tradesman. He was -exchanging jokes with a circle of open mouths. It was in this way -that Madame Foucault and Sophia learnt of the establishment of a -republic. - -"Vive la republique!" cried Madame Foucault, incontinently, and -then apologized to Sophia for the lapse. - -They listened a long while to a man who was telling strange -histories of the Empress. - -Suddenly Sophia noticed that Madame Foucault was no longer at her -elbow. She glanced about, and saw her in earnest conversation with -a young man whose face seemed familiar. She remembered it was the -young man with whom Madame Foucault had quarrelled on the night -when Sophia found her prone in the corridor; the last remaining -worshipper of the courtesan. - -The woman's face was quite changed by her agitation. Sophia drew -away, offended. She watched the pair from a distance for a few -moments, and then, furious in disillusion, she escaped from the -fever of the boulevards and walked quietly home. Madame Foucault -did not return. Apparently Madame Foucault was doomed to be the -toy of chance. Two days later Sophia received a scrawled letter -from her, with the information that her lover had required that -she should accompany him to Brussels, as Paris would soon be -getting dangerous. "He adores me always. He is the most delicious -boy. As I have always said, this is the grand passion of my life. -I am happy. He would not permit me to come to you. He has spent -two thousand francs on clothes for me, since naturally I had -nothing." And so on. No word of apology. Sophia, in reading the -letter, allowed for a certain exaggeration and twisting of the -truth. - -"Young fool! Fool!" she burst out angrily. She did not mean -herself; she meant the fatuous adorer of that dilapidated, -horrible woman. She never saw her again. Doubtless Madame Foucault -fulfilled her own prediction as to her ultimate destiny, but in -Brussels. - -II - -Sophia still possessed about a hundred pounds, and had she chosen -to leave Paris and France, there was nothing to prevent her from -doing so. Perhaps if she had chanced to visit the Gare St. Lazare -or the Gare du Nord, the sight of tens of thousands of people -flying seawards might have stirred in her the desire to flee also -from the vague coming danger. But she did not visit those termini; -she was too busy looking after M. Niepce, her grocer. Moreover, -she would not quit her furniture, which seemed to her to be a sort -of rock. With a flat full of furniture she considered that she -ought to be able to devise a livelihood; the enterprise of -becoming independent was already indeed begun. She ardently wished -to be independent, to utilize in her own behalf the gifts of -organization, foresight, commonsense and tenacity which she knew -she possessed and which had lain idle. And she hated the idea of -flight. - -Chirac returned as unexpectedly as he had gone; an expedition for -his paper had occupied him. With his lips he urged her to go, but -his eyes spoke differently. He had, one afternoon, a mood of -candid despair, such as he would have dared to show only to one in -whom he felt great confidence. "They will come to Paris," he said; -"nothing can stop them. And ... then ...!" He gave a cynical -laugh. But when he urged her to go she said: - -"And what about my furniture? And I've promised M. Niepce to look -after him." - -Then Chirac informed her that he was without a lodging, and that -he would like to rent one of her rooms. She agreed. - -Shortly afterwards he introduced a middle-aged acquaintance named -Carlier, the secretary-general of his newspaper, who wished to -rent a bedroom. Thus by good fortune Sophia let all her rooms -immediately, and was sure of over two hundred francs a month, -apart from the profit on meals supplied. On this latter occasion -Chirac (and his companion too) was quite optimistic, reiterating -an absolute certitude that Paris could never be invested. Briefly, -Sophia did not believe him. She believed the candidly despairing -Chirac. She had no information, no wide theory, to justify her -pessimism; nothing but the inward conviction that the race capable -of behaving as she had seen it behave in the Place de la Concorde, -was bound to be defeated. She loved the French race; but all the -practical Teutonic sagacity in her wanted to take care of it in -its difficulties, and was rather angry with it for being so -unfitted to take care of itself. - -She let the men talk, and with careless disdain of their -discussions and their certainties she went about her business of -preparation. At this period, overworked and harassed by novel -responsibilities and risks, she was happier, for days together, -than she had ever been, simply because she had a purpose in life -and was depending upon herself. Her ignorance of the military and -political situation was complete; the situation did not interest -her. What interested her was that she had three men to feed wholly -or partially, and that the price of eatables was rising. She -bought eatables. She bought fifty pecks of potatoes at a franc a -peck, and another fifty pecks at a franc and a quarter--double the -normal price; ten hams at two and a half francs a pound; a large -quantity of tinned vegetables and fruits, a sack of flour, rice, -biscuits, coffee, Lyons sausage, dried prunes, dried figs, and -much wood and charcoal. But the chief of her purchases was cheese, -of which her mother used to say that bread and cheese and water -made a complete diet. Many of these articles she obtained from her -grocer. All of them, except the flour and the biscuits, she stored -in the cellar belonging to the flat; after several days' delay, -for the Parisian workmen were too elated by the advent of a -republic to stoop to labour, she caused a new lock to be fixed on -the cellar-door. Her activities were the sensation of the house. -Everybody admired, but no one imitated. - -One morning, on going to do her marketing, she found a notice -across the shuttered windows of her creamery in the Rue Notre Dame -de Lorette: "Closed for want of milk." The siege had begun. It was -in the closing of the creamery that the siege was figured for her; -in this, and in eggs at five sous a piece. She went elsewhere for -her milk and paid a franc a litre for it. That evening she told -her lodgers that the price of meals would be doubled, and that if -any gentleman thought that he could get equally good meals -elsewhere, he was at liberty to get them elsewhere. Her position -was strengthened by the appearance of another candidate for a -room, a friend of Niepce. She at once offered him her own room, at -a hundred and fifty francs a month. - -"You see," she said, "there is a piano in it." - -"But I don't play the piano," the man protested, shocked at the -price. - -"That is not my fault," she said. - -He agreed to pay the price demanded for the room because of the -opportunity of getting good meals much cheaper than in the -restaurants. Like M. Niepce, he was a 'siege-widower,' his wife -having been put under shelter in Brittany. Sophia took to the -servant's bedroom on the sixth floor. It measured nine feet by -seven, and had no window save a skylight; but Sophia was in a fair -way to realize a profit of at least four pounds a week, after -paying for everything. - -On the night when she installed herself in that chamber, amid a -world of domestics and poor people, she worked very late, and the -rays of her candles shot up intermittently through the skylight -into a black heaven; at intervals she flitted up and down the -stairs with a candle. Unknown to her a crowd gradually formed -opposite the house in the street, and at about one o'clock in the -morning a file of soldiers woke the concierge and invaded the -courtyard, and every window was suddenly populated with heads. -Sophia was called upon to prove that she was not a spy signalling -to the Prussians. Three quarters of an hour passed before her -innocence was established and the staircases cleared of uniforms -and dishevelled curiosity. The childish, impossible unreason of -the suspicion against her completed in Sophia's mind the ruin of -the reputation of the French people as a sensible race. She was -extremely caustic the next day to her boarders. Except for this -episode, the frequency of military uniforms in the streets, the -price of food, and the fact that at least one house in four was -flying either the ambulance flag or the flag of a foreign embassy -(in an absurd hope of immunity from the impending bombardment) the -siege did not exist for Sophia. The men often talked about their -guard-duty, and disappeared for a day or two to the ramparts, but -she was too busy to listen to them. She thought of nothing but her -enterprise, which absorbed all her powers. She arose at six a.m., -in the dark, and by seven-thirty M. Niepce and his friend had been -served with breakfast, and much general work was already done. At -eight o'clock she went out to market. When asked why she continued -to buy at a high price, articles of which she had a store, she -would reply: "I am keeping all that till things are much dearer." -This was regarded as astounding astuteness. - -On the fifteenth of October she paid the quarter's rent of the -flat, four hundred francs, and was accepted as tenant. Her ears -were soon quite accustomed to the sound of cannon, and she felt -that she had always been a citizeness of Paris, and that Paris had -always been besieged. She did not speculate about the end of the -siege; she lived from day to day. Occasionally she had a qualm of -fear, when the firing grew momentarily louder, or when she heard -that battles had been fought in such and such a suburb. But then -she said it was absurd to be afraid when you were with a couple of -million people, all in the same plight as yourself. She grew -reconciled to everything. She even began to like her tiny bedroom, -partly because it was so easy to keep warm (the question of -artificial heat was growing acute in Paris), and partly because it -ensured her privacy. Down in the flat, whatever was done or said -in one room could be more or less heard in all the others, owing -to the prevalence of doors. - -Her existence, in the first half of November, had become regular -with a monotony almost absolute. Only the number of meals served -to her boarders varied slightly from day to day. All these -repasts, save now and then one in the evening, were carried into -the bedrooms by the charwoman. Sophia did not allow herself to be -seen much, except in the afternoons. Though Sophia continued to -increase her prices, and was now selling her stores at an immense -profit, she never approached the prices current outside. She was -very indignant against the exploitation of Paris by its -shopkeepers, who had vast supplies of provender, and were hoarding -for the rise. But the force of their example was too great for her -to ignore it entirely; she contented herself with about half their -gains. Only to M. Niepce did she charge more than to the others, -because he was a shopkeeper. The four men appreciated their -paradise. In them developed that agreeable feeling of security -which solitary males find only under the roof of a landlady who is -at once prompt, honest, and a votary of cleanliness. Sophia hung a -slate near the frontdoor, and on this slate they wrote their -requests for meals, for being called, for laundry-work, etc. -Sophia never made a mistake, and never forgot. The perfection of -the domestic machine amazed these men, who had been accustomed to -something quite different, and who every day heard harrowing -stories of discomfort and swindling from their acquaintances. They -even admired Sophia for making them pay, if not too high, still -high. They thought it wonderful that she should tell them the -price of all things in advance, and even show them how to avoid -expense, particularly in the matter of warmth. She arranged rugs -for each of them, so that they could sit comfortably in their -rooms with nothing but a small charcoal heater for the hands. -Quite naturally they came to regard her as the paragon and miracle -of women. They endowed her with every fine quality. According to -them there had never been such a woman in the history of mankind; -there could not have been! She became legendary among their -friends: a young and elegant creature, surpassingly beautiful, -proud, queenly, unapproachable, scarcely visible, a marvellous -manager, a fine cook and artificer of strange English dishes, -utterly reliable, utterly exact and with habits of order ...! They -adored the slight English accent which gave a touch of the exotic -to her very correct and freely idiomatic French. In short, Sophia -was perfect for them, an impossible woman. Whatever she did was -right. - -And she went up to her room every night with limbs exhausted, but -with head clear enough to balance her accounts and go through her -money. She did this in bed with thick gloves on. If often she did -not sleep well, it was not because of the distant guns, but -because of her preoccupation with the subject of finance. She was -making money, and she wanted to make more. She was always -inventing ways of economy. She was so anxious to achieve -independence that money was always in her mind. She began to love -gold, to love hoarding it, and to hate paying it away. - -One morning her charwoman, who by good fortune was nearly as -precise as Sophia herself, failed to appear. When the moment came -for serving M. Niepce's breakfast, Sophia hesitated, and then -decided to look after the old man personally. She knocked at his -door, and went boldly in with the tray and candle. He started at -seeing her; she was wearing a blue apron, as the charwoman did, -but there could be no mistaking her for the charwoman. Niepce -looked older in bed than when dressed. He had a rather ridiculous, -undignified appearance, common among old men before their morning -toilette is achieved; and a nightcap did not improve it. His -rotund paunch lifted the bedclothes, upon which, for the sake of -extra warmth, he had spread unmajestic garments. Sophia smiled to -herself; but the contempt implied by that secret smile was -softened by the thought: "Poor old man!" She told him briefly that -she supposed the charwoman to be ill. He coughed and moved -nervously. His benevolent and simple face beamed on her paternally -as she fixed the tray by the bed. - -"I really must open the window for one little second," she said, -and did so. The chill air of the street came through the closed -shutters, and the old man made a noise as of shivering. She pushed -back the shutters, and closed the window, and then did the same -with the other two windows. It was almost day in the room. - -"You will no longer need the candle," she said, and came back to -the bedside to extinguish it. - -The benign and fatherly old man put his arm round her waist. Fresh -from the tonic of pure air, and with the notion of his -ridiculousness still in her mind, she was staggered for an instant -by this gesture. She had never given a thought to the temperament -of the old grocer, the husband of a young wife. She could not -always imaginatively keep in mind the effect of her own radiance, -especially under such circumstances. But after an instant her -precocious cynicism, which had slept, sprang up. "Naturally! I -might have expected it!" she thought with blasting scorn. - -"Take away your hand!" she said bitterly to the amiable old fool. -She did not stir. - -He obeyed, sheepishly. - -"Do you wish to remain with me?" she asked, and as he did not -immediately answer, she said in a most commanding tone: "Answer, -then!" - -"Yes," he said feebly. - -"Well, behave properly." - -She went towards the door. - -"I wished only--" he stammered. - -"I do not wish to know what you wished," she said. - -Afterwards she wondered how much of the incident had been -overheard. The other breakfasts she left outside the respective -doors; and in future Niepce's also. - -The charwoman never came again. She had caught smallpox and she -died of it, thus losing a good situation. Strange to say, Sophia -did not replace her; the temptation to save her wages and food was -too strong. She could not, however, stand waiting for hours at the -door of the official baker and the official butcher, one of a long -line of frozen women, for the daily rations of bread and tri- -weekly rations of meat. She employed the concierge's boy, at two -sous an hour, to do this. Sometimes he would come in with his -hands so blue and cold that he could scarcely hold the precious -cards which gave the right to the rations and which cost Chirac an -hour or two of waiting at the mayoral offices each week. Sophia -might have fed her flock without resorting to the official -rations, but she would not sacrifice the economy which they -represented. She demanded thick clothes for the concierge's boy, -and received boots from Chirac, gloves from Carlier, and a great -overcoat from Niepce. The weather increased in severity, and -provisions in price. One day she sold to the wife of a chemist who -lived on the first floor, for a hundred and ten francs, a ham for -which she had paid less than thirty francs. She was conscious of a -thrill of joy in receiving a beautiful banknote and a gold coin in -exchange for a mere ham. By this time her total cash resources had -grown to nearly five thousand francs. It was astounding. And the -reserves in the cellar were still considerable, and the sack of -flour that encumbered the kitchen was still more than half full. -The death of the faithful charwoman, when she heard of it, -produced but little effect on Sophia, who was so overworked and so -completely absorbed in her own affairs that she had no nervous -energy to spare for sentimental regrets. The charwoman, by whose -side she had regularly passed many hours in the kitchen, so that -she knew every crease in her face and fold of her dress, vanished -out of Sophia's memory. - -Sophia cleaned and arranged two of the bedrooms in the morning, -and two in the afternoon. She had stayed in hotels where fifteen -bedrooms were in charge of a single chambermaid, and she thought -it would be hard if she could not manage four in the intervals of -cooking and other work! This she said to herself by way of excuse -for not engaging another charwoman. One afternoon she was rubbing -the brass knobs of the numerous doors in M. Niepce's room, when -the grocer unexpectedly came in. - -She glanced at him sharply. There was a self-conscious look in his -eye. He had entered the flat noiselessly. She remembered having -told him, in response to a question, that she now did his room in -the afternoon. Why should he have left his shop? He hung up his -hat behind the door, with the meticulous care of an old man. Then -he took off his overcoat and rubbed his hands. - -"You do well to wear gloves, madame," he said. "It is dog's -weather." - -"I do not wear them for the cold," she replied. "I wear them so as -not to spoil my hands." - -"Ah! truly! Very well! Very well! May I demand some wood? Where -shall I find it? I do not wish to derange you." - -She refused his help, and brought wood from the kitchen, counting -the logs audibly before him. - -"Shall I light the fire now?" she asked. - -"I will light it," he said. - -"Give me a match, please." - -As she was arranging the wood and paper, he said: "Madame, will -you listen to me?" - -"What is it?" - -"Do not be angry," he said. "Have I not proved that I am capable -of respecting you? I continue in that respect. It is with all that -respect that I say to you that I love you, madame. ... No, remain -calm, I implore you!" The fact was that Sophia showed no sign of -not remaining calm. "It is true that I have a wife. But what do -you wish ...? She is far away. I love you madly," he proceeded -with dignified respect. "I know I am old; but I am rich. I -understand your character. You are a lady, you are decided, -direct, sincere, and a woman of business. I have the greatest -respect for you. One can talk to you as one could not to another -woman. You prefer directness and sincerity. Madame, I will give -you two thousand francs a month, and all you require from my shop, -if you will be amiable to me. I am very solitary, I need the -society of a charming creature who would be sympathetic. Two -thousand francs a month. It is money." - -He wiped his shiny head with his hand. - -Sophia was bending over the fire. She turned her head towards him. - -"Is that all?" she said quietly. - -"You could count on my discretion," he said in a low voice. "I -appreciate your scruples. I would come, very late, to your room on -the sixth. One could arrange ... You see, I am direct, like you." - -She had an impulse to order him tempestuously out of the flat; but -it was not a genuine impulse. He was an old fool. Why not treat -him as such? To take him seriously would be absurd. Moreover, he -was a very remunerative boarder. - -"Do not be stupid," she said with cruel tranquillity. "Do not be -an old fool." - -And the benign but fatuous middle-aged lecher saw the enchanting -vision of Sophia, with her natty apron and her amusing gloves, -sweep and fade from the room. He left the house, and the expensive -fire warmed an empty room. - -Sophia was angry with him. He had evidently planned the proposal. -If capable of respect, he was evidently also capable of chicane. -But she supposed these Frenchmen were all alike: disgusting; and -decided that it was useless to worry over a universal fact. They -had simply no shame, and she had been very prudent to establish -herself far away on the sixth floor. She hoped that none of the -other boarders had overheard Niepce's outrageous insolence. She -was not sure if Chirac was not writing in his room. - -That night there was no sound of cannon in the distance, and -Sophia for some time was unable to sleep. She woke up with a -start, after a doze, and struck a match to look at her watch. It -had stopped. She had forgotten to wind it up, which omission -indicated that the grocer had perturbed her more than she thought. -She could not be sure how long she had slept. The hour might be -two o'clock or it might be six o'clock. Impossible for her to -rest! She got up and dressed (in case it should be as late as she -feared) and crept down the interminable creaking stairs with the -candle. As she descended, the conviction that it was the middle of -the night grew upon her, and she stepped more softly. There was no -sound save that caused by her footfalls. With her latchkey she -cautiously opened the front door of the flat and entered. She -could then hear the noisy ticking of the small, cheap clock in the -kitchen. At the same moment another door creaked, and Chirac, with -hair all tousled, but fully dressed, appeared in the corridor. - -"So you have decided to sell yourself to him!" Chirac whispered. - -She drew away instinctively, and she could feel herself blushing. -She was at a loss. She saw that Chirac was in a furious rage, -tremendously moved. He crept towards her, half crouching. She had -never seen anything so theatrical as his movement, and the -twitching of his face. She felt that she too ought to be -theatrical, that she ought nobly to scorn his infamous suggestion, -his unwarrantable attack. Even supposing that she had decided to -sell herself to the old pasha, did that concern him? A dignified -silence, an annihilating glance, were all that he deserved. But -she was not capable of this heroic behaviour. - -"What time is it?" she added weakly. - -"Three o'clock," Chirac sneered. - -"I forgot to wind up my watch," she said. "And so I came down to -see." - -"In effect!" He spoke sarcastically, as if saying: "I've waited -for you, and here you are." - -She said to herself that she owed him nothing, but all the time -she felt that he and she were the only young people in that flat, -and that she did owe to him the proof that she was guiltless of -the supreme dishonour of youth. She collected her forces and -looked at him. - -"You should be ashamed," she said. "You will wake the others." - -"And M. Niepce--will he need to be wakened?" - -"M. Niepce is not here," she said. - -Niepce's door was unlatched. She pushed it open, and went into the -room, which was empty and bore no sign of having been used. - -"Come and satisfy yourself!" she insisted. - -Chirac did so. His face fell. - -She took her watch from her pocket. - -"And now wind my watch, and set it, please." - -She saw that he was in anguish. He could not take the watch. Tears -came into his eyes. Then he hid his face, and dashed away. She -heard a sob-impeded murmur that sounded like, "Forgive me!" and -the banging of a door. And in the stillness she heard the regular -snoring of M. Carlier. She too cried. Her vision was blurred by a -mist, and she stumbled into the kitchen and seized the clock, and -carried it with her upstairs, and shivered in the intense cold of -the night. She wept gently for a very long time. "What a shame! -What a shame!" she said to herself. Yet she did not quite blame -Chirac. The frost drove her into bed, but not to sleep. She -continued to cry. At dawn her eyes were inflamed with weeping. She -was back in the kitchen then. Chirac's door was wide open. He had -left the flat. On the slate was written, "I shall not take meals -to-day." - -III - -Their relations were permanently changed. For several days they -did not meet at all; and when at the end of the week Chirac was -obliged at last to face Sophia in order to pay his bill, he had a -most grievous expression. It was obvious that he considered -himself a criminal without any defence to offer for his crime. He -seemed to make no attempt to hide his state of mind. But he said -nothing. As for Sophia, she preserved a mien of amiable -cheerfulness. She exerted herself to convince him by her attitude -that she bore no resentment, that she had determined to forget the -incident, that in short she was the forgiving angel of his dreams. -She did not, however, succeed entirely in being quite natural. -Confronted by his misery, it would have been impossible for her to -be quite natural, and at the same time quite cheerful! - -A little later the social atmosphere of the flat began to grow -querulous, disputatious and perverse. The nerves of everybody were -seriously strained. This applied to the whole city. Days of heavy -rains followed the sharp frosts, and the town was, as it were, -sodden with woe. The gates were closed. And though nine-tenths of -the inhabitants never went outside the gates, the definite and -absolute closing of them demoralized all hearts. Gas was no longer -supplied. Rats, cats, and thorough-bred horses were being eaten -and pronounced 'not bad.' The siege had ceased to be a novelty. -Friends did not invite one another to a 'siege-dinner' as to a -picnic. Sophia, fatigued by regular overwork, became weary of the -situation. She was angry with the Prussians for dilatoriness, and -with the French for inaction, and she poured out her English -spleen on her boarders. The boarders told each other in secret -that the patronne was growing formidable. Chiefly she bore a -grudge against the shopkeepers; and when, upon a rumour of peace, -the shop-windows one day suddenly blossomed with prodigious -quantities of all edibles, at highest prices, thus proving that -the famine was artificially created, Sophia was furious. M. Niepce -in particular, though he sold goods to her at a special discount, -suffered indignities. A few days later that benign and fatherly -man put himself lamentably in the wrong by attempting to introduce -into his room a charming young creature who knew how to be -sympathetic. Sophia, by an accident unfortunate for the grocer, -caught them in the corridor. She was beside herself, but the only -outward symptoms were a white face and a cold steely voice that -grated like a rasp on the susceptibilities of the adherents of -Aphrodite. At this period Sophia had certainly developed into a -termagant--without knowing it! - -She would often insist now on talking about the siege, and hearing -everything that the men could tell her. Her comments, made without -the least regard for the justifiable delicacy of their feelings as -Frenchmen, sometimes led to heated exchanges. When all Montmartre -and the Quartier Breda was impassioned by the appearance from -outside of the Thirty-second battalion, she took the side of the -populace, and would not credit the solemn statement of the -journalists, proved by documents, that these maltreated soldiers -were not cowards in flight. She supported the women who had spit -in the faces of the Thirty-second. She actually said that if she -had met them, she would have spit too. Really, she was convinced -of the innocence of the Thirty-second, but something prevented her -from admitting it. The dispute ended with high words between -herself and Chirac. - -The next day Chirac came home at an unusual hour, knocked at the -kitchen door, and said: - -"I must give notice to leave you." - -"Why?" she demanded curtly. - -She was kneading flour and water for a potato-cake. Her potato- -cakes were the joy of the household. - -"My paper has stopped!" said Chirac. - -"Oh!" she added thoughtfully, but not looking at him. "That is no -reason why you should leave." - -"Yes," he said. "This place is beyond my means. I do not need to -tell you that in ceasing to appear the paper has omitted to pay -its debts. The house owes me a month's salary. So I must leave." - -"No!" said Sophia. "You can pay me when you have money." - -He shook his head. "I have no intention of accepting your -kindness." - -"Haven't you got any money?" she abruptly asked. - -"None," said he. "It is the disaster--quite simply!" - -"Then you will be forced to get into debt somewhere." - -"Yes, but not here! Not to you!" - -"Truly, Chirac," she exclaimed, with a cajoling voice, "you are -not reasonable." - -"Nevertheless it is like that!" he said with decision. - -"Eh, well!" she turned on him menacingly. "It will not be like -that! You understand me? You will stay. And you will pay me when -you can. Otherwise we shall quarrel. Do you imagine I shall -tolerate your childishness? Just because you were angry last -night----" - -"It is not that," he protested. "You ought to know it is not -that." (She did.) "It is solely that I cannot permit myself to----" - -"Enough!" she cried peremptorily, stopping him. And then in a -quieter tone, "And what about Carlier? Is he also in the ditch?" - -"Ah! he has money," said Chirac, with sad envy. - -"You also, one day," said she. "You stop--in any case until after -Christmas, or we quarrel. Is it agreed?" Her accent had softened. - -"You are too good!" he yielded. "I cannot quarrel with you. But it -pains me to accept--" - -"Oh!" she snapped, dropping into the vulgar idiom, "you make me -sweat with your stupid pride. Is it that that you call friendship? -Go away now. How do you wish that I should succeed with this cake -while you station yourself there to distract me?" - -IV - -But in three days' Chirac, with amazing luck, fell into another -situation, and on the Journal des Debats. It was the Prussians who -had found him a place. The celebrated Payenneville, second -greatest chroniqueur of his time, had caught a cold while doing -his duty as a national guard, and had died of pneumonia. The -weather was severe again; soldiers were being frozen to death at -Aubervilliers. Payenneville's position was taken by another man, -whose post was offered to Chirac. He told Sophia of his good -fortune with unconcealed vanity. - -"You with your smile!" she said impatiently. "One can refuse you -nothing!" - -She behaved just as though Chirac had disgusted her. She humbled -him. But with his fellow-lodgers his airs of importance as a -member of the editorial staff of the Debats were comical in their -ingenuousness. On the very same day Carlier gave notice to leave -Sophia. He was comparatively rich; but the habits which had -enabled him to arrive at independence in the uncertain vocation of -a journalist would not allow him, while he was earning nothing, to -spend a sou more than was absolutely necessary. He had decided to -join forces with a widowed sister, who was accustomed to parsimony -as parsimony is understood in France, and who was living on -hoarded potatoes and wine. - -"There!" said Sophia, "you have lost me a tenant!" - -And she insisted, half jocularly and half seriously, that Carlier -was leaving because he could not stand Chirac's infantile conceit. -The flat was full of acrimonious words. - -On Christmas morning Chirac lay in bed rather late; the newspapers -did not appear that day. Paris seemed to be in a sort of stupor. -About eleven o'clock he came to the kitchen door. - -"I must speak with you," he said. His tone impressed Sophia. - -"Enter," said she. - -He went in, and closed the door like a conspirator. "We must have -a little fete," he said. "You and I." - -"Fete!" she repeated. "What an idea! How can I leave?" - -If the idea had not appealed to the secrecies of her heart, -stirring desires and souvenirs upon which the dust of time lay -thick, she would not have begun by suggesting difficulties; she -would have begun by a flat refusal. - -"That is nothing," he said vigorously. "It is Christmas, and I -must have a chat with you. We cannot chat here. I have not had a -true little chat with you since you were ill. You will come with -me to a restaurant for lunch." - -She laughed. "And the lunch of my lodgers?" - -"You will serve it a little earlier. We will go out immediately -afterwards, and we will return in time for you to prepare dinner. -It is quite simple." - -She shook her head. "You are mad," she said crossly. - -"It is necessary that I should offer you something," he went on -scowling. "You comprehend me? I wish you to lunch with me to-day. -I demand it, and you are not going to refuse me." - -He was very close to her in the little kitchen, and he spoke -fiercely, bullyingly, exactly as she had spoken to him when -insisting that he should live on credit with her for a while. - -"You are very rude," she parried. - -"If I am rude, it is all the same to me," he held out -uncompromisingly. "You will lunch with me; I hold to it." - -"How can I be dressed?" she protested. - -"That does not concern me. Arrange that as you can." - -It was the most curious invitation to a Christmas dinner -imaginable. - -At a quarter past twelve they issued forth side by side, heavily -clad, into the mournful streets. The sky, slate-coloured, presaged -snow. The air was bitterly cold, and yet damp. There were no -fiacres in the little three-cornered place which forms the mouth -of the Rue Clausel. In the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, a single -empty omnibus was toiling up the steep glassy slope, the horses -slipping and recovering themselves in response to the whip- -cracking, which sounded in the streets as in an empty vault. -Higher up, in the Rue Fontaine, one of the few shops that were -open displayed this announcement: "A large selection of cheeses -for New Year's gifts." They laughed. - -"Last year at this moment," said Chirac, "I was thinking of only -one thing--the masked ball at the opera. I could not sleep after -it. This year even the churches, are not open. And you?" - -She put her lips together. "Do not ask me," she said. - -They proceeded in silence. - -"We are triste, we others," he said. "But the Prussians, in their -trenches, they cannot be so gay, either! Their families and their -Christmas trees must be lacking to them. Let us laugh!" - -The Place Blanche and the Boulevard de Clichy were no more lively -than the lesser streets and squares. There was no life anywhere, -scarcely a sound; not even the sound of cannon. Nobody knew -anything; Christmas had put the city into a lugubrious trance of -hopelessness. Chirac took Sophia's arm across the Place Blanche, -and a few yards up the Rue Lepic he stopped at a small restaurant, -famous among the initiated, and known as "The Little Louis." They -entered, descending by two steps into a confined and sombrely -picturesque interior. - -Sophia saw that they were expected. Chirac must have paid a -previous visit to the restaurant that morning. Several disordered -tables showed that people had already lunched, and left; but in -the corner was a table for two, freshly laid in the best manner of -such restaurants; that is to say, with a red-and-white checked -cloth, and two other red-and-white cloths, almost as large as the -table-cloth, folded as serviettes and arranged flat on two thick -plates between solid steel cutlery; a salt-cellar, out of which -one ground rock-salt by turning a handle, a pepper-castor, two -knife-rests, and two common tumblers. The phenomena which -differentiated this table from the ordinary table were a champagne -bottle and a couple of champagne glasses. Champagne was one of the -few items which had not increased in price during the siege. - -The landlord and his wife were eating in another corner, a fat, -slatternly pair, whom no privations of a siege could have -emaciated. The landlord rose. He was dressed as a chef, all in -white, with the sacred cap; but a soiled white. Everything in the -place was untidy, unkempt and more or less unclean, except just -the table upon which champagne was waiting. And yet the restaurant -was agreeable, reassuring. The landlord greeted his customers as -honest friends. His greasy face was honest, and so was the pale, -weary, humorous face of his wife. Chirac saluted her. - -"You see," said she, across from the other corner, indicating a -bone on her plate. "This is Diane!" - -"Ah! the poor animal!" exclaimed Chirac, sympathetically. - -"What would you?" said the landlady. "It cost too dear to feed -her. And she was so mignonne! One could not watch her grow thin!" - -"I was saying to my wife," the landlord put in, "how she would -have enjoyed that bone--Diane!" He roared with laughter. - -Sophia and the landlady exchanged a curious sad smile at this -pleasantry, which had been re-discovered by the landlord for -perhaps the thousandth time during the siege, but which he -evidently regarded as quite new and original. - -"Eh, well!" he continued confidentially to Chirac. "I have found -for you something very good--half a duck." And in a still lower -tone: "And it will not cost you too dear." - -No attempt to realize more than a modest profit was ever made in -that restaurant. It possessed a regular clientele who knew the -value of the little money they had, and who knew also how to -appreciate sincere and accomplished cookery. The landlord was the -chef, and he was always referred to as the chef, even by his wife. - -"How did you get that?" Chirac asked. - -"Ah!" said the landlord, mysteriously. "I have one of my friends, -who comes from Villeneuve St. Georges--refugee, you know. In -fine ..." A wave of the fat hands, suggesting that Chirac should not -inquire too closely. - -"In effect!" Chirac commented. "But it is very chic, that!" - -"I believe you that it is chic!" said the landlady, sturdily. - -"It is charming," Sophia murmured politely. - -"And then a quite little salad!" said the landlord. - -"But that--that is still more striking!" said Chirac. - -The landlord winked. The fact was that the commerce which resulted -in fresh green vegetables in the heart of a beleagured town was -notorious. - -"And then also a quite little cheese!" said Sophia, slightly -imitating the tone of the landlord, as she drew from the -inwardness of her cloak a small round parcel. It contained a Brie -cheese, in fairly good condition. It was worth at least fifty -francs, and it had cost Sophia less than two francs. The landlady -joined the landlord in inspecting this wondrous jewel. Sophia -seized a knife and cut a slice for the landlady's table. - -"Madame is too good!" said the landlady, confused by this noble -generosity, and bearing the gift off to her table as a fox-terrier -will hurriedly seek solitude with a sumptuous morsel. The landlord -beamed. Chirac was enchanted. In the intimate and unaffected -cosiness of that interior the vast, stupefied melancholy of the -city seemed to be forgotten, to have lost its sway. - -Then the landlord brought a hot brick for the feet of madame. It -was more an acknowledgment of the slice of cheese than a -necessity, for the restaurant was very warm; the tiny kitchen -opened directly into it, and the door between the two was open; -there was no ventilation whatever. - -"It is a friend of mine," said the landlord, proudly, in the way -of gossip as he served an undescribed soup, "a butcher in the -Faubourg St. Honore, who has bought the three elephants of the -Jardin des Plantes for twenty-seven thousand francs." - -Eyebrows were lifted. He uncorked the champagne. - -As she drank the first mouthful (she had long lost her youthful -aversion for wine), Sophia had a glimpse of herself in a tilted -mirror hung rather high on the opposite wall. It was several -months since she had attired herself with ceremoniousness. The -sudden unexpected vision of elegance and pallid beauty pleased -her. And the instant effect of the champagne was to renew in her -mind a forgotten conception of the goodness of life and of the -joys which she had so long missed. - -V - -At half-past two they were alone in the little salon of the -restaurant, and vaguely in their dreamy and feverish minds that -were too preoccupied to control with precision their warm, relaxed -bodies, there floated the illusion that the restaurant belonged to -them and that in it they were at home. It was no longer a -restaurant, but a retreat and shelter from hard life. The chef and -his wife were dozing in an inner room. The champagne was drunk; -the adorable cheese was eaten; and they were sipping Marc de -Bourgogne. They sat at right angles to one another, close to one -another, with brains aswing; full of good nature and quick -sympathy; their flesh content and yet expectant. In a pause of the -conversation (which, entirely banal and fragmentary, had seemed to -reach the acme of agreeableness), Chirac put his hand on the hand -of Sophia as it rested limp on the littered table. Accidentally -she caught his eye; she had not meant to do so. They both became -self-conscious. His thin, bearded face had more than ever that -wistfulness which always softened towards him the -uncompromisingness of her character. He had the look of a child. -For her, Gerald had sometimes shown the same look. But indeed she -was now one of those women for whom all men, and especially all -men in a tender mood, are invested with a certain incurable -quality of childishness. She had not withdrawn her hand at once, -and so she could not withdraw it at all. - -He gazed at her with timid audacity. Her eyes were liquid. - -"What are you thinking about?" she asked. - -"I was asking myself what I should have done if you had refused to -come." - -"And what SHOULD you have done?" - -"Assuredly something terribly inconvenient," he replied, with the -large importance of a man who is in the domain of pure -supposition. He leaned towards her. "My very dear friend," he said -in a different voice, getting bolder. - -It was infinitely sweet to her, voluptuously sweet, this basking -in the heat of temptation. It certainly did seem to her, then, the -one real pleasure in the world. Her body might have been saying to -his: "See how ready I am!" Her body might have been saying to his: -"Look into my mind. For you I have no modesty. Look and see all -that is there." The veil of convention seemed to have been rent. -Their attitude to each other was almost that of lover and -mistress, between whom a single glance may be charged with the -secrets of the past and promises for the future. Morally she was -his mistress in that moment. - -He released her hand and put his arm round her waist. - -"I love thee," he whispered with great emotion. - -Her face changed and hardened. "You must not do that," she said, -coldly, unkindly, harshly. She scowled. She would not abate one -crease in her forehead to the appeal of his surprised glance. Yet -she did not want to repulse him. The instinct which repulsed him -was not within her control. Just as a shy man will obstinately -refuse an invitation which he is hungering to accept, so, though -not from shyness, she was compelled to repulse Chirac. Perhaps if -her desires had not been laid to sleep by excessive physical -industry and nervous strain, the sequel might have been different. - -Chirac, like most men who have once found a woman weak, imagined -that he understood women profoundly. He thought of women as the -Occidental thinks of the Chinese, as a race apart, mysterious but -capable of being infallibly comprehended by the application of a -few leading principles of psychology. Moreover he was in earnest; -he was hard driven, and he was honest. He continued, respectfully -obedient in withdrawing his arm: - -"Very dear friend," he urged with undaunted confidence, "you must -know that I love you." - -She shook her head impatiently, all the time wondering what it was -that prevented her from slipping into his arms. She knew that she -was treating him badly by this brusque change of front; but she -could not help it. Then she began to feel sorry for him. - -"We have been very good friends," he said. "I have always admired -you enormously. I did not think that I should dare to love you -until that day when I overheard that old villain Niepce make his -advances. Then, when I perceived my acute jealousy, I knew that I -was loving you. Ever since, I have thought only of you. I swear to -you that if you will not belong to me, it is already finished for -me! Altogether! Never have I seen a woman like you! So strong, so -proud, so kind, and so beautiful! You are astonishing, yes, -astonishing! No other woman could have drawn herself out of an -impossible situation as you have done, since the disappearance of -your husband. For me, you are a woman unique. I am very sincere. -Besides, you know it ... Dear friend!" - -She shook her head passionately. - -She did not love him. But she was moved. And she wanted to love -him. She wanted to yield to him, only liking him, and to love -afterwards. But this obstinate instinct held her back. "I do not -say, now," Chirac went on. "Let me hope." - -The Latin theatricality of his gestures and his tone made her -sorrowful for him. - -"My poor Chirac!" she plaintively murmured, and began to put on -her gloves. - -"I shall hope!" he persisted. - -She pursed her lips. He seized her violently by the waist. She -drew her face away from his, firmly. She was not hard, not angry -now. Disconcerted by her compassion, he loosed her. - -"My poor Chirac," she said, "I ought not to have come. I must go. -It is perfectly useless. Believe me." - -"No, no!" he whispered fiercely. - -She stood up and the abrupt movement pushed the table gratingly -across the floor. The throbbing spell of the flesh was snapped -like a stretched string, and the scene over. The landlord, roused -from his doze, stumbled in. Chirac had nothing but the bill as a -reward for his pains. He was baffled. - -They left the restaurant, silently, with a foolish air. - -Dusk was falling on the mournful streets, and the lamp-lighters -were lighting the miserable oil lamps that had replaced gas. They -two, and the lamplighters, and an omnibus were alone in the -streets. The gloom was awful; it was desolating. The universal -silence seemed to be the silence of despair. Steeped in woe, -Sophia thought wearily upon the hopeless problem of existence. For -it seemed to her that she and Chirac had created this woe out of -nothing, and yet it was an incurable woe! - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -SUCCESS - -I - - -Sophia lay awake one night in the room lately quitted by Carlier. -That silent negation of individuality had come and gone, and left -scarcely any record of himself either in his room or in the -memories of those who had surrounded his existence in the house. -Sophia had decided to descend from the sixth floor, partly because -the temptation of a large room, after months in a cubicle, was -rather strong; but more because of late she had been obliged to -barricade the door of the cubicle with a chest of drawers, owing -to the propensities of a new tenant of the sixth floor. It was -useless to complain to the concierge; the sole effective argument -was the chest of drawers, and even that was frailer than Sophia -could have wished. Hence, finally, her retreat. - -She heard the front-door of the flat open; then it was shut with -nervous violence. The resonance of its closing would have -certainly wakened less accomplished sleepers than M. Niepce and -his friend, whose snores continued with undisturbed regularity. -After a pause of shuffling, a match was struck, and feet crept -across the corridor with the most exaggerated precautions against -noise. There followed the unintentional bang of another door. It -was decidedly the entry of a man without the slightest natural -aptitude for furtive irruptions. The clock in M. Niepce's room, -which the grocer had persuaded to exact time-keeping, chimed three -with its delicate ting. - -For several days past Chirac had been mysteriously engaged very -late at the bureaux of the Debats. No one knew the nature of his -employment; he said nothing, except to inform Sophia that he would -continue to come home about three o'clock until further notice. -She had insisted on leaving in his room the materials and -apparatus for a light meal. Naturally he had protested, with the -irrational obstinacy of a physically weak man who sticks to it -that he can defy the laws of nature. But he had protested in vain. - -His general conduct since Christmas Day had frightened Sophia, in -spite of her tendency to stifle facile alarms at their birth. He -had eaten scarcely anything at all, and he went about with the -face of a man dying of a broken heart. The change in him was -indeed tragic. And instead of improving, he grew worse. "Have I -done this?" Sophia asked herself. "It is impossible that I should -have done this! It is absurd and ridiculous that he should behave -so!" Her thoughts were employed alternately in sympathizing with -him and in despising him, in blaming herself and in blaming him. -When they spoke, they spoke awkwardly, as though one or both of -them had committed a shameful crime, which could not even be -mentioned. The atmosphere of the flat was tainted by the horror. -And Sophia could not offer him a bowl of soup without wondering -how he would look at her or avoid looking, and without carefully -arranging in advance her own gestures and speech. Existence was a -nightmare of self-consciousness. - -"At last they have unmasked their batteries!" he had exclaimed -with painful gaiety two days after Christmas, when the besiegers -had recommenced their cannonade. He tried to imitate the strange, -general joy of the city, which had been roused from apathy by the -recurrence of a familiar noise; but the effort was a deplorable -failure. And Sophia condemned not merely the failure of Chirac's -imitation, but the thing imitated. "Childish!" she thought. Yet, -despise the feebleness of Chirac's behaviour as she might, she was -deeply impressed, genuinely astonished, by the gravity and -persistence of the symptoms. "He must have been getting himself -into a state about me for a long time," she thought. "Surely he -could not have gone mad like this all in a day or two! But I never -noticed anything. No; honestly I never noticed anything!" And just -as her behaviour in the restaurant had shaken Chirac's confidence -in his knowledge of the other sex, so now the singular behaviour -of Chirac shook hers. She was taken aback. She was frightened, -though she pretended not to be frightened. - -She had lived over and over again the scene in the restaurant. She -asked herself over and over again if really she had not beforehand -expected him to make love to her in the restaurant. She could not -decide exactly when she had begun to expect a declaration; but -probably a long time before the meal was finished. She had -foreseen it, and might have stopped it. But she had not chosen to -stop it. Curiosity concerning not merely him, but also herself, -had tempted her tacitly to encourage him. She asked herself over -and over again why she had repulsed him. It struck her as curious -that she had repulsed him. Was it because she was a married woman? -Was it because she had moral scruples? Was it at bottom because -she did not care for him? Was it because she could not care for -anybody? Was it because his fervid manner of love-making offended -her English phlegm? And did she feel pleased or displeased by his -forbearance in not renewing the assault? She could not answer. She -did not know. - -But all the time she knew that she wanted love. Only, she -conceived a different kind of love: placid, regular, somewhat -stern, somewhat above the plane of whims, moods, caresses, and all -mere fleshly contacts. Not that she considered that she despised -these things (though she did)! What she wanted was a love that was -too proud, too independent, to exhibit frankly either its joy or -its pain. She hated a display of sentiment. And even in the most -intimate abandonments she would have made reserves, and would have -expected reserves, trusting to a lover's powers of divination, and -to her own! The foundation of her character was a haughty moral -independence, and this quality was what she most admired in -others. - -Chirac's inability to draw from his own pride strength to sustain -himself against the blow of her refusal gradually killed in her -the sexual desire which he had aroused, and which during a few -days flickered up under the stimulus of fancy and of regret. -Sophia saw with increasing clearness that her unreasoning instinct -had been right in saying him nay. And when, in spite of this, -regrets still visited her, she would comfort herself in thinking: -"I cannot be bothered with all that sort of thing. It is not worth -while. What does it lead to? Is not life complicated enough -without that? No, no! I will stay as I am. At any rate I know what -I am in for, as things are!" And she would reflect upon her -hopeful financial situation, and the approaching prospect of a -constantly sufficient income. And a little thrill of impatience -against the interminable and gigantic foolishness of the siege -would take her. - -But her self-consciousness in presence of Chirac did not abate. - -As she lay in bed she awaited accustomed sounds which should have -connoted Chirac's definite retirement for the night. Her ear, -however, caught no sound whatever from his room. Then she imagined -that there was a smell of burning in the flat. She sat up, and -sniffed anxiously, of a sudden wideawake and apprehensive. And -then she was sure that the smell of burning was not in her -imagination. The bedroom was in perfect darkness. Feverishly she -searched with her right hand for the matches on the night-table, -and knocked candlestick and matches to the floor. She seized her -dressing-gown, which was spread over the bed, and put it on, -aiming for the door. Her feet were bare. She discovered the door. -In the passage she could discern nothing at first, and then she -made out a thin line of light, which indicated the bottom of -Chirac's door. The smell of burning was strong and unmistakable. -She went towards the faint light, fumbled for the door-handle with -her palm, and opened. It did not occur to her to call out and ask -what was the matter. - -The house was not on fire; but it might have been. She had left on -the table at the foot of Chirac's bed a small cooking-lamp, and a -saucepan of bouillon. All that Chirac had to do was to ignite the -lamp and put the saucepan on it. He had ignited the lamp, having -previously raised the double wicks, and had then dropped into the -chair by the table just as he was, and sunk forward and gone to -sleep with his head lying sideways on the table. He had not put -the saucepan on the lamp; he had not lowered the wicks, and the -flames, capped with thick black smoke, were waving slowly to and -fro within a few inches of his loose hair. His hat had rolled -along the floor; he was wearing his great overcoat and one woollen -glove; the other glove had lodged on his slanting knee. A candle -was also burning. - -Sophia hastened forward, as it were surreptitiously, and with a -forward-reaching movement turned down the wicks of the lamp; black -specks were falling on the table; happily the saucepan was -covered, or the bouillon would have been ruined. - -Chirac made a heart-rending spectacle, and Sophia was aware of -deep and painful emotion in seeing him thus. He must have been -utterly exhausted and broken by loss of sleep. He was a man -incapable of regular hours, incapable of treating his body with -decency. Though going to bed at three o'clock, he had continued to -rise at his usual hour. He looked like one dead; but more sad, -more wistful. Outside in the street a fog reigned, and his thin -draggled beard was jewelled with the moisture of it. His attitude -had the unconsidered and violent prostration of an overspent dog. -The beaten animal in him was expressed in every detail of that -posture. It showed even in his white, drawn eyelids, and in the -falling of a finger. All his face was very sad. It appealed for -mercy as the undefended face of sleep always appeals; it was so -helpless, so exposed, so simple. It recalled Sophia to a sense of -the inner mysteries of life, reminding her somehow that humanity -walks ever on a thin crust over terrific abysses. She did not -physically shudder; but her soul shuddered. - -She mechanically placed the saucepan on the lamp, and the noise -awakened Chirac. He groaned. At first he did not perceive her. -When he saw that some one was looking down at him, he did not -immediately realize who this some one was. He rubbed his eyes with -his fists, exactly like a baby, and sat up, and the chair cracked. - -"What then?" he demanded. "Oh, madame, I ask pardon. What?" - -"You have nearly destroyed the house," she said. "I smelt fire, -and I came in. I was just in time. There is no danger now. But -please be careful." She made as if to move towards the door. - -"But what did I do?" he asked, his eyelids wavering. - -She explained. - -He rose from his chair unsteadily. She told him to sit down again, -and he obeyed as though in a dream. - -"I can go now," she said. - -"Wait one moment," he murmured. "I ask pardon. I should not know -how to thank you. You are truly too good. Will you wait one -moment?" - -His tone was one of supplication. He gazed at her, a little -dazzled by the light and by her. The lamp and the candle -illuminated the lower part of her face, theatrically, and showed -the texture of her blue flannel peignoir; the pattern of a part of -the lace collar was silhouetted in shadow on her cheek. Her face -was flushed, and her hair hung down unconfined. Evidently he could -not recover from his excusable astonishment at the apparition of -such a figure in his room. - -"What is it--now?" she said. The faint, quizzical emphasis which -she put on the 'now' indicated the essential of her thought. The -sight of him touched her and filled her with a womanly sympathy. -But that sympathy was only the envelope of her disdain of him. She -could not admire weakness. She could but pity it with a pity in -which scorn was mingled. Her instinct was to treat him as a child. -He had failed in human dignity. And it seemed to her as if she had -not previously been quite certain whether she could not love him, -but that now she was quite certain. She was close to him. She saw -the wounds of a soul that could not hide its wounds, and she -resented the sight. She was hard. She would not make allowances. -And she revelled in her hardness. Contempt--a good-natured, -kindly, forgiving contempt--that was the kernel of the sympathy -which exteriorly warmed her! Contempt for the lack of self-control -which had resulted in this swift degeneration of a man into a -tortured victim! Contempt for the lack of perspective which -magnified a mere mushroom passion till it filled the whole field -of life! Contempt for this feminine slavery to sentiment! She felt -that she might have been able to give herself to Chirac as one -gives a toy to an infant. But of loving him ...! No! She was -conscious of an immeasurable superiority to him, for she was -conscious of the freedom of a strong mind. - -"I wanted to tell you," said he, "I am going away." - -"Where?" she asked. - -"Out of Paris." - -"Out of Paris? How?" - -"By balloon! My journal ...! It is an affair of great importance. -You understand. I offered myself. What would you?" - -"It is dangerous," she observed, waiting to see if he would put on -the silly air of one who does not understand fear. - -"Oh!" the poor fellow muttered with a fatuous intonation and -snapping of the fingers. "That is all the same to me. Yes, it is -dangerous. Yes, it is dangerous!" he repeated. "But what would -you ...? For me ...!" - -She wished that she had not mentioned danger. It hurt her to watch -him incurring her ironic disdain. - -"It will be the night after to-morrow," he said. "In the courtyard -of the Gare du Nord. I want you to come and see me go. I -particularly want you to come and see me go. I have asked Carlier -to escort you." - -He might have been saying, "I am offering myself to martyrdom, and -you must assist at the spectacle." - -She despised him yet more. - -"Oh! Be tranquil," he said. "I shall not worry you. Never shall I -speak to you again of my love. I know you. I know it would be -useless. But I hope you will come and wish me bon voyage." - -"Of course, if you really wish it," she replied with cheerful -coolness. - -He seized her hand and kissed it. - -Once it had pleased her when he kissed her hand. But now she did -not like it. It seemed hysterical and foolish to her. She felt her -feet to be stone-cold on the floor. - -"I'll leave you now," she said. "Please eat your soup." - -She escaped, hoping he would not espy her feet. - -II - -The courtyard of the Nord Railway Station was lighted by oil-lamps -taken from locomotives; their silvered reflectors threw dazzling -rays from all sides on the under portion of the immense yellow -mass of the balloon; the upper portion was swaying to and fro with -gigantic ungainliness in the strong breeze. It was only a small -balloon, as balloons are measured, but it seemed monstrous as it -wavered over the human forms that were agitating themselves -beneath it. The cordage was silhouetted against the yellow -taffetas as high up as the widest diameter of the balloon, but -above that all was vague, and even spectators standing at a -distance could not clearly separate the summit of the great sphere -from the darkly moving sky. The car, held by ropes fastened to -stakes, rose now and then a few inches uneasily from the ground. -The sombre and severe architecture of the station-buildings -enclosed the balloon on every hand; it had only one way of escape. -Over the roofs of that architecture, which shut out the sounds of -the city, came the irregular booming of the bombardment. Shells -were falling in the southern quarters of Paris, doing perhaps not -a great deal of damage, but still plunging occasionally into the -midst of some domestic interior and making a sad mess of it. The -Parisians were convinced that the shells were aimed maliciously at -hospitals and museums; and when a child happened to be blown to -pieces their unspoken comments upon the Prussian savagery were -bitter. Their faces said: "Those barbarians cannot even spare our -children!" They amused themselves by creating a market in shells, -paying more for a live shell than a dead one, and modifying the -tariff according to the supply. And as the cattle-market was -empty, and the vegetable-market was empty, and beasts no longer -pastured on the grass of the parks, and the twenty-five million -rats of the metropolis were too numerous to furnish interest to -spectators, and the Bourse was practically deserted, the traffic -in shells sustained the starving mercantile instinct during a very -dull period. But the effect on the nerves was deleterious. The -nerves of everybody were like nothing but a raw wound. Violent -anger would spring up magically out of laughter, and blows out of -caresses. This indirect consequence of the bombardment was -particularly noticeable in the group of men under the balloon. -Each behaved as if he were controlling his temper in the most -difficult circumstances. Constantly they all gazed upwards into -the sky, though nothing could possibly be distinguished there save -the blurred edge of a flying cloud. But the booming came from that -sky; the shells that were dropping on Montrouge came out of that -sky; and the balloon was going up into it; the balloon was -ascending into its mysteries, to brave its dangers, to sweep over -the encircling ring of fire and savages. - -Sophia stood apart with Carlier. Carlier had indicated a -particular spot, under the shelter of the colonnade, where he said -it was imperative that they should post themselves. Having guided -Sophia to this spot, and impressed upon her that they were not to -move, he seemed to consider that the activity of his role was -finished, and spoke no word. With the very high silk hat which he -always wore, and a thin old-fashioned overcoat whose collar was -turned up, he made a rather grotesque figure. Fortunately the -night was not very cold, or he might have passively frozen to -death on the edge of that feverish group. Sophia soon ignored him. -She watched the balloon. An aristocratic old man leaned against -the car, watch in hand; at intervals he scowled, or stamped his -foot. An old sailor, tranquilly smoking a pipe, walked round and -round the balloon, staring at it; once he climbed up into the -rigging, and once he jumped into the car and angrily threw out of -it a bag, which some one had placed in it. But for the most part -he was calm. Other persons of authority hurried about, talking and -gesticulating; and a number of workmen waited idly for orders. - -"Where is Chirac?" suddenly cried the old man with the watch. - -Several voices deferentially answered, and a man ran away into the -gloom on an errand. - -Then Chirac appeared, nervous, self-conscious, restless. He was -enveloped in a fur coat that Sophia had never seen before, and he -carried dangling in his hand a cage containing six pigeons whose -whiteness stirred uneasily within it. The sailor took the cage -from him and all the persons of authority gathered round to -inspect the wonderful birds upon which, apparently, momentous -affairs depended. When the group separated, the sailor was to be -seen bending over the edge of the car to deposit the cage safely. -He then got into the car, still smoking his pipe, and perched -himself negligently on the wicker-work. The man with the watch was -conversing with Chirac; Chirac nodded his head frequently in -acquiescence, and seemed to be saying all the time: "Yes, sir! -Perfectly sir! I understand, sir! Yes, sir!" - -Suddenly Chirac turned to the car and put a question to the -sailor, who shook his head. Whereupon Chirac gave a gesture of -submissive despair to the man with the watch. And in an instant -the whole throng was in a ferment. - -"The victuals!" cried the man with the watch. "The victuals, name -of God! Must one be indeed an idiot to forget the victuals! Name -of God--of God!" - -Sophia smiled at the agitation, and at the inefficient management -which had never thought of food. For it appeared that the food had -not merely been forgotten; it was a question which had not even -been considered. She could not help despising all that crowd of -self-important and fussy males to whom the idea had not occurred -that even balloonists must eat. And she wondered whether -everything was done like that. After a delay that seemed very -long, the problem of victuals was solved, chiefly, as far as -Sophia could judge, by means of cakes of chocolate and bottles of -wine. - -"It is enough! It is enough!" Chirac shouted passionately several -times to a knot of men who began to argue with him. - -Then he gazed round furtively, and with an inflation of the chest -and a patting of his fur coat he came directly towards Sophia. -Evidently Sophia's position had been prearranged between him and -Carlier. They could forget food, but they could think of Sophia's -position! - -All eyes followed him. Those eyes could not, in the gloom, -distinguish Sophia's beauty, but they could see that she was young -and slim and elegant, and of foreign carriage. That was enough. -The very air seemed to vibrate with the intense curiosity of those -eyes. And immediately Chirac grew into the hero of some brilliant -and romantic adventure. Immediately he was envied and admired by -every man of authority present. What was she? Who was she? Was it -a serious passion or simply a caprice? Had she flung herself at -him? It was undeniable that lovely creatures did sometimes fling -themselves at lucky mediocrities. Was she a married woman? An -artiste? A girl? Such queries thumped beneath overcoats, while the -correctness of a ceremonious demeanour was strictly observed. - -Chirac uncovered, and kissed her hand. The wind disarranged his -hair. She saw that his face was very pale and anxious beneath the -swagger of a sincere desire to be brave. - -"Well, it is the moment!" he said. - -"Did you all forget the food?" she asked. - -He shrugged his shoulders. "What will you? One cannot think of -everything." - -"I hope you will have a safe voyage," she said. - -She had already taken leave of him once, in the house, and heard -all about the balloon and the sailor-aeronaut and the -preparations; and now she had nothing to say, nothing whatever. - -He shrugged his shoulders again. "I hope so!" he murmured, but in -a tone to convey that he had no such hope. - -"The wind isn't too strong?" she suggested. - -He shrugged his shoulders again. "What would you?" - -"Is it in the direction you want?" - -"Yes, nearly," he admitted unwillingly. Then rousing himself: "Eh, -well, madame. You have been extremely amiable to come. I held to -it very much--that you should come. It is because of you I quit -Paris." - -She resented the speech by a frown. - -"Ah!" he implored in a whisper. "Do not do that. Smile on me. -After all, it is not my fault. Remember that this may be the last -time I see you, the last time I regard your eyes." - -She smiled. She was convinced of the genuineness of the emotion -which expressed itself in all this flamboyant behaviour. And she -had to make excuses to herself on behalf of Chirac. She smiled to -give him pleasure. The hard commonsense in her might sneer, but -indubitably she was the centre of a romantic episode. The balloon -darkly swinging there! The men waiting! The secrecy of the -mission! And Chirac, bare-headed in the wind that was to whisk him -away, telling her in fatalistic accents that her image had -devastated his life, while envious aspirants watched their -colloquy! Yes, it was romantic. And she was beautiful! Her beauty -was an active reality that went about the world playing tricks in -spite of herself. The thoughts that passed through her mind were -the large, splendid thoughts of romance. And it was Chirac who had -aroused them! A real drama existed, then, triumphing over the -accidental absurdities and pettinesses of the situation. Her final -words to Chirac were tender and encouraging. - -He hurried back to the balloon, resuming his cap. He was received -with the respect due to one who comes fresh from conquest. He was -sacred. - -Sophia rejoined Carlier, who had withdrawn, and began to talk to -him with a self-conscious garrulity. She spoke without reason and -scarcely noticed what she was saying. Already Chirac was snatched -out of her life, as other beings, so many of them, had been -snatched. She thought of their first meetings, and of the sympathy -which had always united them. He had lost his simplicity, now, in -the self-created crisis of his fate, and had sunk in her esteem. -And she was determined to like him all the more because he had -sunk in her esteem. She wondered whether he really had undertaken -this adventure from sentimental disappointment. She wondered -whether, if she had not forgotten to wind her watch one night, -they would still have been living quietly under the same roof in -the Rue Breda. - -The sailor climbed definitely into the car; he had covered himself -with a large cloak. Chirac had got one leg over the side of the -car, and eight men were standing by the ropes, when a horse's -hoofs clattered through the guarded entrance to the courtyard, -amid an uproar of sudden excitement. The shiny chest of the horse -was flecked with the classic foam. - -"A telegram from the Governor of Paris!" - -As the orderly, checking his mount, approached the group, even the -old man with the watch raised his hat. The orderly responded, bent -down to make an inquiry, which Chirac answered, and then, with -another exchange of salutes, the official telegram was handed over -to Chirac, and the horse backed away from the crowd. It was quite -thrilling. Carlier was thrilled. - -"He is never too prompt, the Governor. It is a quality!" said -Carlier, with irony. - -Chirac entered the car. And then the old man with the watch drew a -black bag from the shadow behind him and entrusted it to Chirac, -who accepted it with a profound deference and hid it. The sailor -began to issue commands. The men at the ropes were bending down -now. Suddenly the balloon rose about a foot and trembled. The -sailor continued to shout. All the persons of authority gazed -motionless at the balloon. The moment of suspense was eternal. - -"Let go all!" cried the sailor, standing up, and clinging to the -cordage. Chirac was seated in the car, a mass of dark fur with a -small patch of white in it. The men at the ropes were a knot of -struggling confused figures. - -One side of the car tilted up, and the sailor was nearly pitched -out. Three men at the other side had failed to free the ropes. - -"Let go, corpses!" the sailor yelled at them. - -The balloon jumped, as if it were drawn by some terrific impulse -from the skies. - -"Adieu!" called Chirac, pulling his cap off and waving it. -"Adieu!" - -"Bon voyage! Bon voyage!" the little crowd cheered. And then, -"Vive la France!" Throats tightened, including Sophia's. - -But the top of the balloon had leaned over, destroying its pear- -shape, and the whole mass swerved violently towards the wall of -the station, the car swinging under it like a toy, and an anchor -under the car. There was a cry of alarm. Then the great ball -leaped again, and swept over the high glass roof, escaping by -inches the spouting. The cheers expired instantly. ... The balloon -was gone. It was spirited away as if by some furious and mighty -power that had grown impatient in waiting for it. There remained -for a few seconds on the collective retina of the spectators a -vision of the inclined car swinging near the roof like the tail of -a kite. And then nothing! Blankness! Blackness! Already the -balloon was lost to sight in the vast stormy ocean of the night, a -plaything of the winds. The spectators became once more aware of -the dull booming of the cannonade. The balloon was already perhaps -flying unseen amid the wrack over those guns. - -Sophia involuntarily caught her breath. A chill sense of -loneliness, of purposelessness, numbed her being. - -Nobody ever saw Chirac or the old sailor again. The sea must have -swallowed them. Of the sixty-five balloons that left Paris during -the siege, two were not heard of. This was the first of the two. -Chirac had, at any rate, not magnified the peril, though his -intention was undoubtedly to magnify it. - -III - -This was the end of Sophia's romantic adventures in France. Soon -afterwards the Germans entered Paris, by mutual agreement, and -made a point of seeing the Louvre, and departed, amid the silence -of a city. For Sophia the conclusion of the siege meant chiefly -that prices went down. Long before supplies from outside could -reach Paris, the shop-windows were suddenly full of goods which -had arrived from the shopkeepers alone knew where. Sophia, with -the stock in her cellar, could have held out for several weeks -more, and it annoyed her that she had not sold more of her good -things while good things were worth gold. The signing of a treaty -at Versailles reduced the value of Sophia's two remaining hams -from about five pounds apiece to the usual price of hams. However, -at the end of January she found herself in possession of a capital -of about eight thousand francs, all the furniture of the flat, and -a reputation. She had earned it all. Nothing could destroy the -structure of her beauty, but she looked worn and appreciably -older. She wondered often when Chirac would return. She might have -written to Carlier or to the paper; but she did not. It was Niepce -who discovered in a newspaper that Chirac's balloon had -miscarried. At the moment the news did not affect her at all; but -after several days she began to feel her loss in a dull sort of -way; and she felt it more and more, though never acutely. She was -perfectly convinced that Chirac could never have attracted her -powerfully. She continued to dream, at rare intervals, of the kind -of passion that would have satisfied her, glowing but banked down -like a fire in some fine chamber of a rich but careful household. - -She was speculating upon what her future would be, and whether by -inertia she was doomed to stay for ever in the Rue Breda, when the -Commune caught her. She was more vexed than frightened by the -Commune; vexed that a city so in need of repose and industry -should indulge in such antics. For many people the Commune was a -worse experience than the siege; but not for Sophia. She was a -woman and a foreigner. Niepce was infinitely more disturbed than -Sophia; he went in fear of his life. Sophia would go out to market -and take her chances. It is true that during one period the whole -population of the house went to live in the cellars, and orders to -the butcher and other tradesmen were given over the party-wall -into the adjoining courtyard, which communicated with an alley. A -strange existence, and possibly perilous! But the women who passed -through it and had also passed through the siege, were not very -much intimidated by it, unless they happened to have husbands or -lovers who were active politicians. - -Sophia did not cease, during the greater part of the year 1871, to -make a living and to save money. She watched every sou, and she -developed a tendency to demand from her tenants all that they -could pay. She excused this to herself by ostentatiously declaring -every detail of her prices in advance. It came to the same thing -in the end, with this advantage, that the bills did not lead to -unpleasantness. Her difficulties commenced when Paris at last -definitely resumed its normal aspect and life, when all the women -and children came back to those city termini which they had left -in such huddled, hysterical throngs, when flats were re-opened -that had long been shut, and men who for a whole year had had the -disadvantages and the advantages of being without wife and family, -anchored themselves once more to the hearth. Then it was that -Sophia failed to keep all her rooms let. She could have let them -easily and constantly and at high rents; but not to men without -encumbrances. Nearly every day she refused attractive tenants in -pretty hats, or agreeable gentlemen who only wanted a room on -condition that they might offer hospitality to a dashing -petticoat. It was useless to proclaim aloud that her house was -'serious.' The ambition of the majority of these joyous persons -was to live in a 'serious' house, because each was sure that at -bottom he or she was a 'serious' person, and quite different from -the rest of the joyous world. The character of Sophia's flat, -instead of repelling the wrong kind of aspirant, infallibly drew -just that kind. Hope was inextinguishable in these bosoms. They -heard that there would be no chance for them at Sophia's; but they -tried nevertheless. And occasionally Sophia would make a mistake, -and grave unpleasantness would occur before the mistake could be -rectified. The fact was that the street was too much for her. Few -people would credit that there was a serious boarding-house in the -Rue Breda. The police themselves would not credit it. And Sophia's -beauty was against her. At that time the Rue Breda was perhaps the -most notorious street in the centre of Paris; at the height of its -reputation as a warren of individual improprieties; most busily -creating that prejudice against itself which, over thirty years -later, forced the authorities to change its name in obedience to -the wish of its tradesmen. When Sophia went out at about eleven -o'clock in the morning with her reticule to buy, the street was -littered with women who had gone out with reticules to buy. But -whereas Sophia was fully dressed, and wore headgear, the others -were in dressing-gown and slippers, or opera-cloak and slippers, -having slid directly out of unspeakable beds and omitted to brush -their hair out of their puffy eyes. In the little shops of the Rue -Breda, the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and the Rue des Martyrs, you -were very close indeed to the primitive instincts of human nature. -It was wonderful; it was amusing; it was excitingly picturesque; -and the universality of the manners rendered moral indignation -absurd. But the neighbourhood was certainly not one in which a -woman of Sophia's race, training, and character, could comfortably -earn a living, or even exist. She could not fight against the -entire street. She, and not the street, was out of place and in -the wrong. Little wonder that the neighbours lifted their -shoulders when they spoke of her! What beautiful woman but a mad -Englishwoman would have had the idea of establishing herself in -the Rue Breda with the intention of living like a nun and -compelling others to do the same? - -By dint of continual ingenuity, Sophia contrived to win somewhat -more than her expenses, but she was slowly driven to admit to -herself that the situation could not last. - -Then one day she saw in Galignani's Messenger an advertisement of -an English pension for sale in the Rue Lord Byron, in the Champs -Elysees quarter. It belonged to some people named Frensham, and -had enjoyed a certain popularity before the war. The proprietor -and his wife, however, had not sufficiently allowed for the -vicissitudes of politics in Paris. Instead of saving money during -their popularity they had put it on the back and on the fingers of -Mrs. Frensham. The siege and the Commune had almost ruined them. -With capital they might have restored themselves to their former -pride; but their capital was exhausted. Sophia answered the -advertisement. She impressed the Frenshams, who were delighted -with the prospect of dealing in business with an honest English -face. Like many English people abroad they were most strangely -obsessed by the notion that they had quitted an island of honest -men to live among thieves and robbers. They always implied that -dishonesty was unknown in Britain. They offered, if she would take -over the lease, to sell all their furniture and their renown for -ten thousand francs. She declined, the price seeming absurd to -her. When they asked her to name a price, she said that she -preferred not to do so. Upon entreaty, she said four thousand -francs. They then allowed her to see that they considered her to -have been quite right in hesitating to name a price so ridiculous. -And their confidence in the honest English face seemed to have -been shocked. Sophia left. When she got back to the Rue Breda she -was relieved that the matter had come to nothing. She did not -precisely foresee what her future was to be, but at any rate she -knew she shrank from the responsibility of the Pension Frensham. -The next morning she received a letter offering to accept six -thousand. She wrote and declined. She was indifferent and she -would not budge from four thousand. The Frenshams gave way. They -were pained, but they gave way. The glitter of four thousand -francs in cash, and freedom, was too tempting. - -Thus Sophia became the proprietress of the Pension Frensham in the -cold and correct Rue Lord Byron. She made room in it for nearly -all her other furniture, so that instead of being under-furnished, -as pensions usually are, it was over-furnished. She was extremely -timid at first, for the rent alone was four thousand francs a -year; and the prices of the quarter were alarmingly different from -those of the Rue Breda. She lost a lot of sleep. For some nights, -after she had been installed in the Rue Lord Byron about a -fortnight, she scarcely slept at all, and she ate no more than she -slept. She cut down expenditure to the very lowest, and frequently -walked over to the Rue Breda to do her marketing. With the aid of -a charwoman at six sous an hour she accomplished everything. And -though clients were few, the feat was in the nature of a miracle; -for Sophia had to cook. - -The articles which George Augustus Sala wrote under the title -"Paris herself again" ought to have been paid for in gold by the -hotel and pension-keepers of Paris. They awakened English -curiosity and the desire to witness the scene of terrible events. -Their effect was immediately noticeable. In less than a year after -her adventurous purchase, Sophia had acquired confidence, and she -was employing two servants, working them very hard at low wages. -She had also acquired the landlady's manner. She was known as Mrs. -Frensham. Across the balconies of two windows the Frenshams had -left a gilded sign, "Pension Frensham," and Sophia had not removed -it. She often explained that her name was not Frensham; but in -vain. Every visitor inevitably and persistently addressed her -according to the sign. It was past the general comprehension that -the proprietress of the Pension Frensham might bear another name -than Frensham. But later there came into being a class of persons, -habitues of the Pension Frensham, who knew the real name of the -proprietress and were proud of knowing it, and by this knowledge -were distinguished from the herd. What struck Sophia was the -astounding similarity of her guests. They all asked the same -questions, made the same exclamations, went out on the same -excursions, returned with the same judgments, and exhibited the -same unimpaired assurance that foreigners were really very -peculiar people. They never seemed to advance in knowledge. There -was a constant stream of explorers from England who had to be set -on their way to the Louvre or the Bon Marche. - -Sophia's sole interest was in her profits. The excellence of her -house was firmly established. She kept it up, and she kept the -modest prices up. Often she had to refuse guests. She naturally -did so with a certain distant condescension. Her manner to guests -increased in stiff formality; and she was excessively firm with -undesirables. She grew to be seriously convinced that no pension -as good as hers existed in the world, or ever had existed, or ever -could exist. Hers was the acme of niceness and respectability. Her -preference for the respectable rose to a passion. And there were -no faults in her establishment. Even the once despised showy -furniture of Madame Foucault had mysteriously changed into the -best conceivable furniture; and its cracks were hallowed. - -She never heard a word of Gerald nor of her family. In the -thousands of people who stayed under her perfect roof, not one -mentioned Bursley nor disclosed a knowledge of anybody that Sophia -had known. Several men had the wit to propose marriage to her with -more or less skilfulness, but none of them was skilful enough to -perturb her heart. She had forgotten the face of love. She was a -landlady. She was THE landlady: efficient, stylish, diplomatic, -and tremendously experienced. There was no trickery, no baseness -of Parisian life that she was not acquainted with and armed -against. She could not be startled and she could not be swindled. - -Years passed, until there was a vista of years behind her. -Sometimes she would think, in an unoccupied moment, "How strange -it is that I should be here, doing what I am doing!" But the -regular ordinariness of her existence would instantly seize her -again. At the end of 1878, the Exhibition Year, her Pension -consisted of two floors instead of one, and she had turned the two -hundred pounds stolen from Gerald into over two thousand. - - - - -BOOK IV - -WHAT LIFE IS - - - - -CHAPTER I - -FRENSHAM'S - -I - - -Matthew Peel-Swynnerton sat in the long dining-room of the Pension -Frensham, Rue Lord Byron, Paris; and he looked out of place there. -It was an apartment about thirty feet in length, and of the width -of two windows, which sufficiently lighted one half of a very long -table with round ends. The gloom of the other extremity was -illumined by a large mirror in a tarnished gilt frame, which -filled a good portion of the wall opposite the windows. Near the -mirror was a high folding-screen of four leaves, and behind this -screen could be heard the sound of a door continually shutting and -opening. In the long wall to the left of the windows were two -doors, one dark and important, a door of state, through which a -procession of hungry and a procession of sated solemn self- -conscious persons passed twice daily, and the other, a smaller -door, glazed, its glass painted with wreaths of roses, not an -original door of the house, but a late breach in the wall, that -seemed to lead to the dangerous and to the naughty. The wall-paper -and the window drapery were rich and forbidding, dark in hue, -mysterious of pattern. Over the state-door was a pair of antlers. -And at intervals, so high up as to defy inspection, engravings and -oil-paintings made oblong patches on the walls. They were hung -from immense nails with porcelain heads, and they appeared to -depict the more majestic aspect of man and nature. One engraving, -over the mantelpiece and nearer earth than the rest, unmistakably -showed Louis Philippe and his family in attitudes of virtue. -Beneath this royal group, a vast gilt clock, flanked by pendants -of the same period, gave the right time--a quarter past seven. - -And down the room, filling it, ran the great white table, bordered -with bowed heads and the backs of chairs. There were over thirty -people at the table, and the peculiarly restrained noisiness of -their knives and forks on the plates proved that they were a -discreet and a correct people. Their clothes--blouses, bodices, -and jackets--did not flatter the lust of the eye. Only two or -three were in evening dress. They spoke little, and generally in a -timorous tone, as though silence had been enjoined. Somebody would -half-whisper a remark, and then his neighbour, absently fingering -her bread and lifting gaze from her plate into vacancy, would -conscientiously weigh the remark and half-whisper in reply: "I -dare say." But a few spoke loudly and volubly, and were regarded -by the rest, who envied them, as underbred. - -Food was quite properly the chief preoccupation. The diners ate as -those eat who are paying a fixed price per day for as much as they -can consume while observing the rules of the game. Without moving -their heads they glanced out of the corners of their eyes, -watching the manoeuvres of the three starched maids who served. -They had no conception of food save as portions laid out in rows -on large silver dishes, and when a maid bent over them -deferentially, balancing the dish, they summed up the offering in -an instant, and in an instant decided how much they could decently -take, and to what extent they could practise the theoretic liberty -of choice. And if the food for any reason did not tempt them, or -if it egregiously failed to coincide with their aspirations, they -considered themselves aggrieved. For, according to the game, they -might not command; they had the right to seize all that was -presented under their noses, like genteel tigers; and they had the -right to refuse: that was all. The dinner was thus a series of -emotional crises for the diners, who knew only that full dishes -and clean plates came endlessly from the banging door behind the -screen, and that ravaged dishes and dirty plates vanished -endlessly through the same door. They were all eating similar food -simultaneously; they began together and they finished together. -The flies that haunted the paper-bunches which hung from the -chandeliers to the level of the flower-vases, were more free. The -sole event that chequered the exact regularity of the repast was -the occasional arrival of a wine-bottle for one of the guests. The -receiver of the wine-bottle signed a small paper in exchange for -it and wrote largely a number on the label of the bottle; then, -staring at the number and fearing that after all it might be -misread by a stupid maid or an unscrupulous compeer, he would re- -write the number on another part of the label, even more largely. - -Matthew Peel-Swynnerton obviously did not belong to this world. He -was a young man of twenty-five or so, not handsome, but elegant. -Though he was not in evening dress, though he was, as a fact, in a -very light grey suit, entirely improper to a dinner, he was -elegant. The suit was admirably cut, and nearly new; but he wore -it as though he had never worn anything else. Also his demeanour, -reserved yet free from self-consciousness, his method of handling -a knife and fork, the niceties of his manner in transferring food -from the silver dishes to his plate, the tone in which he ordered -half a bottle of wine--all these details infallibly indicated to -the company that Matthew Peel-Swynnerton was their superior. Some -folks hoped that he was the son of a lord, or even a lord. He -happened to be fixed at the end of the table, with his back to the -window, and there was a vacant chair on either side of him; this -situation favoured the hope of his high rank. In truth, he was the -son, the grandson, and several times the nephew, of earthenware -manufacturers. He noticed that the large 'compote' (as it was -called in his trade) which marked the centre of the table, was the -production of his firm. This surprised him, for Peel, Swynnerton -and Co., known and revered throughout the Five Towns as 'Peels,' -did not cater for cheap markets. A late guest startled the room, a -fat, flabby, middle-aged man whose nose would have roused the -provisional hostility of those who have convinced themselves that -Jews are not as other men. His nose did not definitely brand him -as a usurer and a murderer of Christ, but it was suspicious. His -clothes hung loose, and might have been anybody's clothes. He -advanced with brisk assurance to the table, bowed, somewhat too -effusively, to several people, and sat down next to Peel- -Swynnerton. One of the maids at once brought him a plate of soup, -and he said: "Thank you, Marie," smiling at her. He was evidently -a habitue of the house. His spectacled eyes beamed the superiority -which comes of knowing girls by their names. He was seriously -handicapped in the race for sustenance, being two and a half -courses behind, but he drew level with speed and then, having -accomplished this, he sighed, and pointedly engaged Peel- -Swynnerton with his sociable glance. - -"Ah!" he breathed out. "Nuisance when you come in late, sir!" - -Peel-Swynnerton gave a reluctant affirmative. - -"Doesn't only upset you! It upsets the house! Servants don't like -it!" - -"No," murmured Peel-Swynnerton, "I suppose not." - -"However, it's not often _I_'m late," said the man. "Can't help it -sometimes. Business! Worst of these French business people is that -they've no notion of time. Appointments ...! God bless my soul!" - -"Do you come here often?" asked Peel-Swynnerton. He detested the -fellow, quite inexcusably, perhaps because his serviette was -tucked under his chin; but he saw that the fellow was one of your -determined talkers, who always win in the end. Moreover, as being -clearly not an ordinary tourist in Paris, the fellow mildly -excited his curiosity. - -"I live here," said the other. "Very convenient for a bachelor, -you know. Have done for years. My office is just close by. You may -know my name--Lewis Mardon." - -Peel-Swynnerton hesitated. The hesitation convicted him of not -'knowing his Paris' well. - -"House-agent," said Lewis Mardon, quickly. - -"Oh yes," said Peel-Swynnerton, vaguely recalling a vision of the -name among the advertisements on newspaper kiosks. - -"I expect," Mr. Mardon went on, "my name is as well-known as -anybody's in Paris." - -"I suppose so," assented Peel-Swynnerton. - -The conversation fell for a few moments. - -"Staying here long?" Mr. Mardon demanded, having added up Peel- -Swynnerton as a man of style and of means, and being puzzled by -his presence at that table. - -"I don't know," said Peel-Swynnerton. - -This was a lie, justified in the utterer's opinion as a repulse to -Mr. Mardon's vulgar inquisitiveness, such inquisitiveness as might -have been expected from a fellow who tucked his serviette under -his chin. Peel-Swynnerton knew exactly how long he would stay. He -would stay until the day after the morrow; he had only about fifty -francs in his pocket. He had been making a fool of himself in -another quarter of Paris, and he had descended to the Pension -Frensham as a place where he could be absolutely sure of spending -not more than twelve francs a day. Its reputation was high, and it -was convenient for the Galliera Museum, where he was making some -drawings which he had come to Paris expressly to make, and without -which he could not reputably return to England. He was capable of -foolishness, but he was also capable of wisdom, and scarcely any -pressure of need would have induced him to write home for money to -replace the money spent on making himself into a fool. - -Mr. Mardon was conscious of a check. But, being of an -accommodating disposition, he at once tried another direction. - -"Good food here, eh?" he suggested. - -"Very," said Peel-Swynnerton, with sincerity. "I was quite--" - -At that moment, a tall straight woman of uncertain age pushed open -the principal door and stood for an instant in the doorway. Peel- -Swynnerton had just time to notice that she was handsome and pale, -and that her hair was black, and then she was gone again, followed -by a clipped poodle that accompanied her. She had signed with a -brief gesture to one of the servants, who at once set about -lighting the gas-jets over the table. - -"Who is that?" asked Peel-Swynnerton, without reflecting that it -was now he who was making advances to the fellow whose napkin -covered all his shirt-front. - -"That's the missis, that is," said Mr. Mardon, in a lower and -semi-confidential voice. - -"Oh! Mrs. Frensham?" - -"Yes. But her real name is Scales," said Mr. Mardon, proudly. - -"Widow, I suppose?" - -"Yes." - -"And she runs the whole show?" - -"She runs the entire contraption," said Mr. Mardon, solemnly; "and -don't you make any mistake!" He was getting familiar. - -Peel-Swynnerton beat him off once more, glancing with careful, -uninterested nonchalance at the gas-burners which exploded one -after another with a little plop under the application of the -maid's taper. The white table gleamed more whitely than ever under -the flaring gas. People at the end of the room away from the -window instinctively smiled, as though the sun had begun to shine. -The aspect of the dinner was changed, ameliorated; and with the -reiterated statement that the evenings were drawing in though it -was only July, conversation became almost general. In two minutes -Mr. Mardon was genially talking across the whole length of the -table. The meal finished in a state that resembled conviviality. - -Matthew Peel-Swynnerton might not go out into the crepuscular -delights of Paris. Unless he remained within the shelter of the -Pension, he could not hope to complete successfully his re- -conversion from folly to wisdom. So he bravely passed through the -small rose-embroidered door into a small glass-covered courtyard, -furnished with palms, wicker armchairs, and two small tables; and -he lighted a pipe and pulled out of his pocket a copy of The -Referee. That retreat was called the Lounge; it was the only part -of the Pension where smoking was not either a positive crime or a -transgression against good form. He felt lonely. He said to -himself grimly in one breath that pleasure was all rot, and in the -next he sullenly demanded of the universe how it was that pleasure -could not go on for ever, and why he was not Mr. Barney Barnato. -Two old men entered the retreat and burnt cigarettes with many -precautions. Then Mr. Lewis Mardon appeared and sat down boldly -next to Matthew, like a privileged friend. After all, Mr. Mardon -was better than nobody whatever, and Matthew decided to suffer -him, especially as he began without preliminary skirmishing to -talk about life in Paris. An irresistible subject! Mr. Mardon said -in a worldly tone that the existence of a bachelor in Paris might -easily be made agreeable. But that, of course, for himself--well, -he preferred, as a general rule, the Pension Frensham sort of -thing; and it was excellent for his business. Still he could not -... he knew ... He compared the advantages of what he called -'knocking about' in Paris, with the equivalent in London. His -information about London was out of date, and Peel-Swynnerton was -able to set him right on important details. But his information -about Paris was infinitely precious and interesting to the younger -man,, who saw that he had hitherto lived under strange -misconceptions. - -"Have a whiskey?" asked Mr. Mardon, suddenly. "Very good here!" he -added. - -"Thanks!" drawled Peel-Swynnerton. - -The temptation to listen to Mr. Mardon as long as Mr. Mardon would -talk was not to be overcome. And presently, when the old men had -departed, they were frankly telling each other stories in the -dimness of the retreat. Then, when the supply of stories came to -an end, Mr. Mardon smacked his lips over the last drop of whiskey -and ejaculated: "Yes!" as if giving a general confirmation to all -that had been said. - -"Do have one with me," said Matthew, politely. It was the least he -could do. - -The second supply of whiskies was brought into the Lounge by Mr. -Mardon's Marie. He smiled on her familiarly, and remarked that he -supposed she would soon be going to bed after a hard day's work. -She gave a moue and a flounce in reply, and swished out. - -"Carries herself well, doesn't she?" observed Mr. Mardon, as -though Marie had been an exhibit at an agricultural show. "Ten -years ago she was very fresh and pretty, but of course it takes it -out of 'em, a place like this!" - -"But still," said Peel-Swynnerton, "they must like it or they -wouldn't stay--that is, unless things are very different here from -what they are in England." - -The conversation seemed to have stimulated him to examine the -woman question in all its bearings, with philosophic curiosity. - -"Oh! They LIKE it," Mr. Mardon assured him, as one who knew. -"Besides, Mrs. Scales treats 'em very well. I know THAT. She's -told me. She's very particular"--he looked around to see if walls -had ears--"and, by Jove, you've got to be; but she treats 'em -well. You'd scarcely believe the wages they get, and pickings. Now -at the Hotel Moscow--know the Hotel Moscow?" - -Happily Peel-Swynnerton did. He had been advised to avoid it -because it catered exclusively for English visitors, but in the -Pension Frensham he had accepted something even more exclusively -British than the Hotel Moscow. Mr. Mardon was quite relieved at -his affirmative. - -"The Hotel Moscow is a limited company now," said he; "English." - -"Really?" - -"Yes. I floated it. It was my idea. A great success! That's how I -know all about the Hotel Moscow." He looked at the walls again. "I -wanted to do the same here," he murmured, and Peel-Swynnerton had -to show that he appreciated this confidence. "But she never would -agree. I've tried her all ways. No go! It's a thousand pities." - -"Paying thing, eh?" - -"This place? I should say it was! And I ought to be able to judge, -I reckon. Mrs. Scales is one of the shrewdest women you'd meet in -a day's march. She's made a lot of money here, a lot of money. And -there's no reason why a place like this shouldn't be five times as -big as it is. Ten times. The scope's unlimited, my dear sir. All -that's wanted is capital. Naturally she has capital of her own, -and she could get more. But then, as she says, she doesn't want -the place any bigger. She says it's now just as big as she can -handle. That isn't so. She's a woman who could handle anything--a -born manager--but even if it was so, all she would have to do -would be to retire--only leave us the place and the name. It's the -name that counts. And she's made the name of Frensham worth -something, I can tell you!" - -"Did she get the place from her husband?" asked Peel-Swynnerton. -Her own name of Scales intrigued him. - -Mr. Mardon shook his head. "Bought it on her own, after the -husband's time, for a song--a song! I know, because I knew the -original Frenshams." - -"You must have been in Paris a long time," said Peel-Swynnerton. - -Mr. Mardon could never resist an opportunity to talk about -himself. His was a wonderful history. And Peel-Swynnerton, while -scorning the man for his fatuity, was impressed. And when that was -finished-- - -"Yes!" said Mr. Mardon after a pause,, reaffirming everything in -general by a single monosyllable. - -Shortly afterwards he rose, saying that his habits were regular. - -"Good-night,' he said with a mechanical smile. - -"G-good-night," said Peel-Swynnerton, trying to force the tone of -fellowship and not succeeding. Their intimacy, which had sprung up -like a mushroom, suddenly fell into dust. Peel-Swynnerton's -unspoken comment to Mr. Mardon's back was: "Ass!" Still, the sum -of Peel-Swynnerton's knowledge had indubitably been increased -during the evening. And the hour was yet early. Half-past ten! The -Folies-Marigny, with its beautiful architecture and its crowds of -white toilettes, and its frothing of champagne and of beer, and -its musicians in tight red coats, was just beginning to be alive-- -and at a distance of scarcely a stone's-throw! Peel-Swynnerton -pictured the terraced, glittering hall, which had been the prime -origin of his exceeding foolishness. And he pictured all the other -resorts, great and small, garlanded with white lanterns, in the -Champs Elysees; and the sombre aisles of the Champs Elysees where -mysterious pale figures walked troublingly under the shade of -trees, while snatches of wild song or absurd brassy music floated -up from the resorts and restaurants. He wanted to go out and spend -those fifty francs that remained in his pocket. After all, why not -telegraph to England for more money? "Oh, damn it!" he said -savagely, and stretched his arms and got up. The Lounge was very -small, gloomy and dreary. - -One brilliant incandescent light burned in the hall, crudely -illuminating the wicker fauteuils, a corded trunk with a blue-and- -red label on it, a Fitzroy barometer, a map of Paris, a coloured -poster of the Compagnie Transatlantique, and the mahogany retreat -of the hall-portress. In that retreat was not only the hall- -portress--an aged woman with a white cap above her wrinkled pink -face--but the mistress of the establishment. They were murmuring -together softly; they seemed to be well disposed to one another. -The portress was respectful, but the mistress was respectful also. -The hall, with its one light tranquilly burning, was bathed in an -honest calm, the calm of a day's work accomplished, of gradual -relaxation from tension, of growing expectation of repose. In its -simplicity it affected Peel-Swynnerton as a medicine tonic for -nerves might have affected him. In that hall, though exterior -nocturnal life was but just stirring into activity, it seemed that -the middle of the night had come, and that these two women alone -watched in a mansion full of sleepers. And all the recitals which -Peel-Swynnerton and Mr. Mardon had exchanged sank to the level of -pitiably foolish gossip. Peel-Swynnerton felt that his duty to the -house was to retire to bed. He felt, too, that he could not leave -the house without saying that he was going out, and that he lacked -the courage deliberately to tell these two women that he was going -out--at that time of night! He dropped into one of the chairs and -made a second attempt to peruse The Referee. Useless! Either his -mind was outside in the Champs Elysees, or his gaze would wander -surreptitiously to the figure of Mrs. Scales. He could not well -distinguish her face because it was in the shadow of the mahogany. - -Then the portress came forth from her box, and, slightly bent, -sped actively across the hall, smiling pleasantly at the guest as -she passed him, and disappeared up the stairs. The mistress was -alone in the retreat. Peel-Swynnerton jumped up brusquely, -dropping the paper with a rustle, and approached her. - -"Excuse me," he said deferentially. "Have any letters come for me -to-night?" - -He knew that the arrival of letters for him was impossible, since -nobody knew his address. - -"What name?" The question was coldly polite, and the questioner -looked him full in the face. Undoubtedly she was a handsome woman. -Her hair was greying at the temples, and the skin was withered and -crossed with lines. But she was handsome. She was one of those -women of whom to their last on earth the stranger will say: "When -she was young she must have been worth looking at!"--with a little -transient regret that beautiful young women cannot remain for ever -young. Her voice was firm and even, sweet in tone, and yet morally -harsh from incessant traffic--with all varieties of human nature. -Her eyes were the impartial eyes of one who is always judging. And -evidently she was a proud, even a haughty creature, with her -careful, controlled politeness. Evidently she considered herself -superior to no matter what guest. Her eyes announced that she had -lived and learnt, that she knew more about life than any one whom -she was likely to meet, and that having pre-eminently succeeded in -life, she had tremendous confidence in herself. The proof of her -success was the unique Frensham's. A consciousness of the -uniqueness of Frensham's was also in those eyes. Theoretically -Matthew Peel-Swynnerton's mental attitude towards lodging-house -keepers was condescending, but here it was not condescending. It -had the real respectfulness of a man who for the moment at any -rate is impressed beyond his calculations. His glance fell as he -said-- - -"Peel-Swynnerton." Then he looked up again. - -He said the words awkwardly, and rather fearfully, as if aware -that he was playing with fire. If this Mrs. Scales was the long- -vanished aunt of his friend, Cyril Povey, she must know those two -names, locally so famous. Did she start? Did she show a sign of -being perturbed? At first he thought he detected a symptom of -emotion, but in an instant he was sure that he had detected -nothing of the sort, and that it was silly to suppose that he was -treading on the edge of a romance. Then she turned towards the -letter-rack at her side, and he saw her face in profile. It bore a -sudden and astonishing likeness to the profile of Cyril Povey; a -resemblance unmistakable and finally decisive. The nose, and the -curve of the upper lip were absolutely Cyril's. Matthew Peel- -Swynnerton felt very queer. He felt like a criminal in peril of -being caught in the act, and he could not understand why he should -feel so. The landlady looked in the 'P' pigeon-hole, and in the -'S' pigeon-hole. - -"No," she said quietly, "I see nothing for you." - -Taken with a swift rash audacity, he said: "Have you had any one -named Povey here recently?" - -"Povey?" - -"Yes. Cyril Povey, of Bursley--in the Five Towns." - -He was very impressionable, very sensitive, was Matthew Peel- -Swynnerton. His voice trembled as he spoke. But hers also trembled -in reply. - -"Not that I remember! No! Were you expecting him to be here?" - -"Well, it wasn't at all sure," he muttered. "Thank you. Good- -night." - -"Good-night," she said, apparently with the simple perfunctoriness -of the landlady who says good-night to dozens of strangers every -evening. - -He hurried away upstairs, and met the portress coming down. "Well, -well!" he thought. "Of all the queer things--!" And he kept -nodding his head. At last he had encountered something REALLY -strange in the spectacle of existence. It had fallen to him to -discover the legendary woman who had fled from Bursley before he -was born, and of whom nobody knew anything. What news for Cyril! -What a staggering episode! He had scarcely any sleep that night. -He wondered whether he would be able to meet Mrs. Scales without -self-consciousness on the morrow. However, he was spared the -curious ordeal of meeting her. She did not appear at all on the -following day; nor did he see her before he left. He could not -find a pretext for asking why she was invisible. - -II - -The hansom of Matthew Peel-Swynnerton drew up in front of No. 26, -Victoria Grove, Chelsea; his kit-bag was on the roof of the cab. -The cabman had a red flower in his buttonhole. Matthew leaped out -of the vehicle, holding his straw hat on his head with one hand. -On reaching the pavement he checked himself suddenly and became -carelessly calm. Another straw-hatted and grey-clad figure was -standing at the side-gate of No. 26 in the act of lighting a -cigarette. - -"Hello, Matt!" exclaimed the second figure, languidly, and in a -veiled voice due to the fact that he was still holding the match -to the cigarette and puffing. "What's the meaning of all this -fluster? You're just the man I want to see." - -He threw away the match with a wave of the arm, and took Matthew's -hand for a moment, blowing a double shaft of smoke through his -nose - -"I want to see you, too," said Matthew. "And I've only got a -minute. I'm on my way to Euston. I must catch the twelve-five." - -He looked at his friend, and could positively see no feature of it -that was not a feature of Mrs. Scales's face. Also, the elderly -woman held her body in exactly the same way as the young man. It -was entirely disconcerting. - -"Have a cigarette," answered Cyril Povey, imperturbably. He was -two years younger than Matthew, from whom he had acquired most of -his vast and intricate knowledge of life and art, with certain -leading notions of deportment; whose pupil indeed he was in all -the things that matter to young men. But he had already surpassed -his professor. He could pretend to be old much more successfully -than Matthew could. - -The cabman approvingly watched the ignition of the second -cigarette, and then the cabman pulled out a cigar, and showed his -large, white teeth, as he bit the end off it. The appearance and -manner of his fare, the quality of the kit-bag, and the opening -gestures of the interview between the two young dukes, had put the -cabman in an optimistic mood. He had no apprehensions of miserly -and ungentlemanly conduct by his fare upon the arrival at Euston. -He knew the language of the tilt of a straw hat. And it was a -magnificent day in London. The group of the two elegances -dominated by the perfection of the cabman made a striking tableau -of triumphant masculinity, content with itself, and needing -nothing. - -Matthew lightly took Cyril's arm and drew him further down the -street, past the gate leading to the studio (hidden behind a -house) which Cyril rented. - -"Look here, my boy," he began, "I've found your aunt." - -"Well, that's very nice of you," said Cyril, solemnly. "That's a -friendly act. May I ask what aunt?" - -"Mrs. Scales," said Matthew. "You know--" - -"Not the--" Cyril's face changed. - -"Yes, precisely!" said Matthew, feeling that he was not being -cheated of the legitimate joy caused by making a sensation. -Assuredly he had made a sensation in Victoria Grove. - -When he had related the whole story, Cyril said: "Then she doesn't -know you know?" - -"I don't think so. No, I'm sure she doesn't. She may guess." - -"But how can you be certain you haven't made a mistake? It may be -that--" - -"Look here, my boy," Matthew interrupted him. "I've not made any -mistake." - -"But you've no proof." - -"Proof be damned!" said Matthew, nettled. "I tell you it's HER!" - -"Oh! All right! All right! What puzzles me most is what the devil -you were doing in a place like that. According to your description -of it, it must be a--" - -"I went there because I was broke," said Matthew. - -"Razzle?" - -Matthew nodded. - -"Pretty stiff, that!" commented Cyril, when Matthew had narrated -the prologue to Frensham's. - -"Well, she absolutely swore she never took less than two hundred -francs. And she looked it, too! And she was worth it! I had the -time of my life with that woman. I can tell you one thing--no more -English for me! They simply aren't in it." - -"How old was she?" - -Matthew reflected judicially. "I should say she was thirty." The -gaze of admiration and envy was upon him. He had the legitimate -joy of making a second sensation. "I'll let you know more about -that when I come back," he added. "I can open your eyes, my -child." - -Cyril smiled sheepishly. "Why can't you stay now?" he asked. "I'm -going to take the cast of that Verrall girl's arm this afternoon, -and I know I can't do it alone. And Robson's no good. You're just -the man I want." - -"Can't!" said Matthew. - -"Well, come into the studio a minute, anyhow." - -"Haven't time; I shall miss my train." - -"I don't care if you miss forty trains. You must come in. You've -got to see that fountain," Cyril insisted crossly. - -Matthew yielded. When they emerged into the street again, after -six minutes of Cyril's savage interest in his own work, Matthew -remembered Mrs. Scales. - -"Of course you'll write to your mother?" he said. - -"Yes," said Cyril, "I'll write; but if you happen to see her, you -might tell her." - -"I will," said Matthew. "Shall you go over to Paris?" - -"What! To see Auntie?" He smiled. "I don't know. Depends. If the -mater will fork out all my exes ... it's an idea," he said -lightly, and then without any change of tone, "Naturally, if -you're going to idle about here all morning you aren't likely to -catch the twelve-five." - -Matthew got into the cab, while the driver, the stump of a cigar -between his exposed teeth, leaned forward and lifted the reins -away from the tilted straw hat. - -"By-the-by, lend me some silver," Matthew demanded. "It's a good -thing I've got my return ticket. I've run it as fine as ever I did -in my life." - -Cyril produced eight shillings in silver. Secure in the possession -of these riches, Matthew called to the driver-- - -"Euston--like hell!" - -"Yes, sir," said the driver, calmly. - -"Not coming my way I suppose?" Matthew shouted as an afterthought, -just when the cab began to move. - -"No. Barber's," Cyril shouted in answer, and waved his hand. - -The horse rattled into Fulham Road. - -III - -Three days later Matthew Peel-Swynnerton was walking along Bursley -Market Place when, just opposite the Town Hall, he met a short, -fat, middle-aged lady dressed in black, with a black embroidered -mantle, and a small bonnet tied with black ribbon and ornamented -with jet fruit and crape leaves. As she stepped slowly and -carefully forward she had the dignified, important look of a -provincial woman who has always been accustomed to deference in -her native town, and whose income is ample enough to extort -obsequiousness from the vulgar of all ranks. But immediately she -caught sight of Matthew, her face changed. She became simple and -naive. She blushed slightly, smiling with a timid pleasure. For -her, Matthew belonged to a superior race. He bore the almost -sacred name of Peel. His family had been distinguished in the -district for generations. 'Peel!' You could without impropriety -utter it in the same breath with 'Wedgwood.' And 'Swynnerton' -stood not much lower. Neither her self-respect, which was great, -nor her commonsense, which far exceeded the average, could enable -her to extend as far as the Peels the theory that one man is as -good as another. The Peels never shopped in St. Luke's Square. -Even in its golden days the Square could not have expected such a -condescension. The Peels shopped in London or in Stafford; at a -pinch, in Oldcastle. That was the distinction for the ageing stout -lady in black. Why, she had not in six years recovered from her -surprise that her son and Matthew Peel-Swynnerton treated each -other rudely as equals! She and Matthew did not often meet, but -they liked each other. Her involuntary meekness flattered him. And -his rather elaborate homage flattered her. He admired her -fundamental goodness, and her occasional raps at Cyril seemed to -put him into ecstasies of joy. - -"Well, Mrs. Povey," he greeted her, standing over her with his hat -raised. (It was a fashion he had picked up in Paris.) "Here I am, -you see." - -"You're quite a stranger, Mr. Matthew. I needn't ask you how you -are. Have you been seeing anything of my boy lately?" - -"Not since Wednesday," said Matthew. "Of course he's written to -you?" - -"There's no 'of course' about it," she laughed faintly. "I had a -short letter from him on Wednesday morning. He said you were in -Paris." - -"But since that--hasn't he written?" - -"If I hear from him on Sunday I shall be lucky, bless ye!" said -Constance, grimly. "It's not letter-writing that will kill Cyril." - -"But do you mean to say he hasn't--" Matthew stopped. - -"Whatever's amiss?" asked Constance. Matthew was at a loss to know -what to do or say. "Oh, nothing." - -"Now, Mr. Matthew, do please--" Constance's tone had suddenly -quite changed. It had become firm, commanding, and gravely -suspicious. The conversation had ceased to be small-talk for her. - -Matthew saw how nervous and how fragile she was. He had never -noticed before that she was so sensitive to trifles, though it was -notorious that nobody could safely discuss Cyril with her in terms -of chaff. He was really astounded at that youth's carelessness, -shameful carelessness. That Cyril's attitude to his mother was -marked by a certain benevolent negligence--this Matthew knew; but -not to have written to her with the important news concerning Mrs. -Scales was utterly inexcusable; and Matthew determined that he -would tell Cyril so. He felt very sorry for Mrs. Povey. She seemed -pathetic to him, standing there in ignorance of a tremendous fact -which she ought to have been aware of. He was very content that he -had said nothing about Mrs. Scales to anybody except his own -mother, who had prudently enjoined silence upon him, saying that -his one duty, having told Cyril, was to keep his mouth shut until -the Poveys talked. Had it not been for his mother's advice he -would assuredly have spread the amazing tale, and Mrs. Povey might -have first heard of it from a stranger's gossip, which would have -been too cruel upon her. - -"Oh!" Matthew tried to smile gaily, archly. "You're bound to hear -from Cyril to-morrow." - -He wanted to persuade her that he was concealing merely some -delightful surprise from her. But he did not succeed. With all his -experience of the world and of women he was not clever enough to -deceive that simple woman. - -"I'm waiting, Mr. Matthew," she said, in a tone that flattened the -smile out of Matthew's sympathetic face. She was ruthless. The -fact was, she had in an instant convinced herself that Cyril had -met some girl and was engaged to be married. She could think of -nothing else. "What has Cyril been doing?" she added, after a -pause. - -"It's nothing to do with Cyril," said he. - -"Then what is it?" - -"It was about--Mrs. Scales," he murmured, nearly trembling. As she -offered no response, merely looking around her in a peculiar -fashion, he said: "Shall we walk along a bit?" And he turned in -the direction in which she had been going. She obeyed the -suggestion. - -"What did ye say?" she asked. The name of Scales for a moment had -no significance for her. But when she comprehended it she was -afraid, and so she said vacantly, as though wishing to postpone a -shock: "What did ye say?" - -"I said it was about Mrs. Scales. You know I m-met her in Paris." -And he was saying to himself: "I ought not to be telling this poor -old thing here in the street. But what can I do?" "Nay, nay!" she -muttered. - -She stopped and looked at him with a worried expression. Then he -observed that the hand that carried her reticule was making -strange purposeless curves in the air, and her rosy face went the -colour of cream, as though it had been painted with one stroke of -an unseen brush. Matthew was very much put about. - -"Hadn't you better--" he began. - -"Eh," she said; "I must sit me--" Her bag dropped. - -He supported her to the door of Allman's shop, the ironmonger's. -Unfortunately, there were two steps up into the shop, and she -could not climb them. She collapsed like a sack of flour on the -first step. Young Edward Allman ran to the door. He was wearing a -black apron and fidgeting with it in his excitement. - -"Don't lift her up--don't try to lift her up, Mr. Peel- -Swynnerton!" he cried, as Matthew instinctively began to do the -wrong thing. - -Matthew stopped, looking a fool and feeling one, and he and young -Allman contemplated each other helpless for a second across the -body of Constance Povey. A part of the Market Place now perceived -that the unusual was occurring. It was Mr. Shawcross, the chemist -next door to Allman's who dealt adequately with the situation. He -had seen all, while selling a Kodak to a young lady, and he ran -out with salts. Constance recovered very rapidly. She had not -quite swooned. She gave a long sigh, and whispered weakly that she -was all right. The three men helped her into the lofty dark shop, -which smelt of nails and of stove-polish, and she was balanced on -a ricketty chair. - -"My word!" exclaimed young Allman, in his loud voice, when she -could smile and the pink was returning reluctantly to her cheeks. -"You mustn't frighten us like that, Mrs. Povey!" - -Matthew said nothing. He had at last created a genuine sensation. -Once again he felt like a criminal, and could not understand why. - -Constance announced that she would walk slowly home, down the -Cock-yard and along Wedgwood Street. But when, glancing round in -her returned strength, she saw the hedge of faces at the doorway, -she agreed with Mr. Shawcross that she would do better to have a -cab. Young Allman went to the door and whistled to the unique cab -that stands for ever at the grand entrance to the Town Hall. - -"Mr. Matthew will come with me," said Constance. - -"Certainly, with pleasure," said Matthew. - -And she passed through the little crowd of gapers on Mr. -Shawcross's arm. - -"Just take care of yourself, missis," said Mr. Shawcross to her, -through the window of the cab. "It's fainting weather, and we're -none of us any younger, seemingly." - -She nodded. - -"I'm awfully sorry I upset you, Mrs. Povey," said Matthew, when -the cab moved. - -She shook her head, refusing his apology as unnecessary. Tears -filled her eyes. In less than a minute the cab had stopped in -front of Constance's light-grained door. She demanded her reticule -from Matthew, who had carried it since it fell. She would pay the -cabman. Never before had Matthew permitted a woman to pay for a -cab in which he had ridden; but there was no arguing with -Constance. Constance was dangerous. - -Amy Bates, still inhabiting the cave, had seen the cab-wheels -through the grating of her window and had panted up the kitchen -stairs to open the door ere Constance had climbed the steps. Amy, -decidedly over forty, was a woman of authority. She wanted to know -what was the matter, and Constance had to tell her that she had -'felt unwell.' Amy took the hat and mantle and departed to prepare -a cup of tea. When they were alone Constance said to Matthew: - -"Now. Mr. Matthew, will you please tell me?" - -"It's only this," he began. - -And as he told it, in quite a few words, it indeed had the air of -being 'only that.' And yet his voice shook, in sympathy with the -ageing woman's controlled but visible emotion. It seemed to him -that gladness should have filled the absurd little parlour, but -the spirit that presided had no name; it was certainly not joy. He -himself felt very sad, desolated. He would have given much money -to have been spared the experience. He knew simply that in the -memory of the stout, comical, nice woman in the rocking-chair he -had stirred old, old things, wakened slumbers that might have been -eternal. He did not know that he was sitting on the very spot -where the sofa had been on which Samuel Povey lay when a beautiful -and shameless young creature of fifteen extracted his tooth. He -did not know that Constance was sitting in the very chair in which -the memorable Mrs. Baines had sat in vain conflict with that same -unconquerable girl. He did not know ten thousand matters that were -rushing violently about in the vast heart of Constance. - -She cross-questioned him in detail. But she did not put the -questions which he in his innocence expected; such as, if her -sister looked old, if her hair was grey, if she was stout or thin. -And until Amy, mystified and resentful, had served the tea, on a -little silver tray, she remained comparatively calm. It was in the -middle of a gulp of tea that she broke down, and Matthew had to -take the cup from her. - -"I can't thank you, Mr. Matthew," she wept. "I couldn't thank you -enough." - -"But I've done nothing," he protested. - -She shook her head. "I never hoped for this. Never hoped for it!" -she went on. "It makes me so happy--in a way. ... You mustn't take -any notice of me. I'm silly. You must kindly write down that -address for me. And I must write to Cyril at once. And I must see -Mr. Critchlow." - -"It's really very funny that Cyril hasn't written to you," said -Matthew. - -"Cyril has not been a good son," she said with sudden, solemn -coldness. "To think that he should have kept that ...!" She wept -again. - -At length Matthew saw the possibility of leaving. He felt her -warm, soft, crinkled hand round his fingers. - -"You've behaved very nicely over this," she said. "And very -cleverly. In EVERY thing--both over there and here. Nobody could -have shown a nicer feeling than you've shown. It's a great comfort -to me that my son has got you for a friend." - -When he thought of his escapades, and of all the knowledge, -unutterable in Bursley, fantastically impossible in Bursley, which -he had imparted to her son, he marvelled that the maternal -instinct should be so deceived. Still, he felt that her praise of -him was deserved. - -Outside, he gave vent to a 'Phew' of relief. He smiled, in his -worldliest manner. But the smile was a sham. A pretence to -himself! A childish attempt to disguise from himself how -profoundly he had been moved by a natural scene! - -IV - -On the night when Matthew Peel-Swynnerton spoke to Mrs. Scales, -Matthew was not the only person in the Pension Frensham who failed -to sleep. When the old portress came downstairs from her errand, -she observed that her mistress was leaving the mahogany retreat. - -"She is sleeping tranquilly, the poor one!" said the portress, -discharging her commission, which had been to learn the latest -news of the mistress's indisposed dog, Fossette. In saying this -her ancient, vibrant voice was rich with sympathy for the -suffering animal. And she smiled. She was rather like a figure out -of an almshouse, with her pink, apparently brittle skin, her tight -black dress, and frilled white cap. She stooped habitually, and -always walked quickly, with her head a few inches in advance of -her feet. Her grey hair was scanty. She was old; nobody perhaps -knew exactly how old. Sophia had taken her with the Pension, over -a quarter of a century before, because she was old and could not -easily have found another place. Although the clientele was almost -exclusively English, she spoke only French, explaining herself to -Britons by means of benevolent smiles. - -"I think I shall go to bed, Jacqueline," said the mistress, in -reply. - -A strange reply, thought Jacqueline. The unalterable custom of -Jacqueline was to retire at midnight and to rise at five-thirty. -Her mistress also usually retired about midnight, and during the -final hour mistress and portress saw a good deal of each other. -And considering that Jacqueline had just been sent up into the -mistress's own bedroom to glance at Fossette, and that the -bulletin was satisfactory, and that madame and Jacqueline had -several customary daily matters to discuss, it seemed odd that -madame should thus be going instantly to bed. However, Jacqueline -said nothing but: - -"Very well, madame. And the number 32?" - -"Arrange yourself as you can," said the mistress, curtly. - -"It is well, madame. Good evening, madame, and a good night." - -Jacqueline, alone in the hall, re-entered her box and set upon one -of those endless, mysterious tasks which occupied her when she was -not rushing to and fro or whistling up the tubes. - -Sophia, scarcely troubling even to glance into Fossette's round -basket, undressed, put out the light, and got into bed. She felt -extremely and inexplicably gloomy. She did not wish to reflect; -she strongly wished not to reflect; but her mind insisted on -reflection--a monotonous, futile, and distressing reflection. -Povey! Povey! Could this be Constance's Povey, the unique Samuel -Povey? That is to say, not he, but his son, Constance's son. Had -Constance a grown-up son? Constance must be over fifty now, -perhaps a grandmother! Had she really married Samuel Povey? -Possibly she was dead. Certainly her mother must be dead, and Aunt -Harriet and Mr. Critchlow. If alive, her mother must be at least -eighty years of age. - -The cumulative effect of merely remaining inactive when one ought -to be active, was terrible. Undoubtedly she should have -communicated with her family. It was silly not to have done so. -After all, even if she had, as a child, stolen a trifle of money -from her wealthy aunt, what would that have mattered? She had been -proud. She was criminally proud. That was her vice. She admitted -it frankly. But she could not alter her pride. Everybody had some -weak spot. Her reputation for sagacity, for commonsense, was, she -knew, enormous; she always felt, when people were talking to her, -that they regarded her as a very unusually wise woman. And yet she -had been guilty of the capital folly of cutting herself off from -her family. She was ageing, and she was alone in the world. She -was enriching herself; she had the most perfectly managed and the -most respectable Pension in the world (she sincerely believed), -and she was alone in the world. Acquaintances she had--French -people who never offered nor accepted hospitality other than tea -or wine, and one or two members of the English commercial colony-- -but her one friend was Fossette, aged three years! She was the -most solitary person on earth. She had heard no word of Gerald, no -word of anybody. Nobody whatever could truly be interested in her -fate. This was what she had achieved after a quarter of a century -of ceaseless labour and anxiety, during which she had not once -been away from the Rue Lord Byron for more than thirty hours at a -stretch. It was appalling--the passage of years; and the passage -of years would grow more appalling. Ten years hence, where would -she be? She pictured herself dying. Horrible! - -Of course there was nothing to prevent her from going back to -Bursley and repairing the grand error of her girlhood. No, nothing -except the fact that her whole soul recoiled from the mere idea of -any such enterprise! She was a fixture in the Rue Lord Byron. She -was a part of the street. She knew all that happened or could -happen there. She was attached to it by the heavy chains of habit. -In the chill way of long use she loved it. There! The incandescent -gas-burner of the street-lamp outside had been turned down, as it -was turned down every night! If it is possible to love such a -phenomenon, she loved that phenomenon. That phenomenon was a -portion of her life, dear to her. - -An agreeable young man, that Peel-Swynnerton! Then evidently, -since her days in Bursley, the Peels and the Swynnertons, partners -in business, must have intermarried, or there must have been some -affair of a will. Did he suspect who she was? He had had a very -self-conscious, guilty look. No! He could not have suspected who -she was. The idea was ridiculous. Probably he did not even know -that her name was Scales. And even if he knew her name, he had -probably never heard of Gerald Scales, or the story of her flight. -Why, he could not have been born until after she had left Bursley! -Besides, the Peels were always quite aloof from the ordinary -social life of the town. No! He could not have suspected her -identity. It was infantile to conceive such a thing. - -And yet, she inconsequently proceeded in the tangle of her -afflicted mind, supposing he had suspected it! Supposing by some -queer chance, he had heard her forgotten story, and casually put -two and two together! Supposing even that he were merely to -mention in the Five Towns that the Pension Frensham was kept by a -Mrs. Scales. 'Scales? Scales?' people might repeat. 'Now, what -does that remind me of?' And the ball might roll and roll till -Constance or somebody picked it up! And then ... - -Moreover--a detail of which she had at first unaccountably failed -to mark the significance--this Peel-Swynnerton was a friend of the -Mr. Povey as to whom he had inquired. In that case it could not be -the same Povey. Impossible that the Peels should be on terms of -friendship with Samuel Povey or his connections! But supposing -after all they were! Supposing something utterly unanticipated and -revolutionary had happened in the Five Towns! - -She was disturbed. She was insecure. She foresaw inquiries being -made concerning her. She foresaw an immense family fuss, endless -tomfoolery, the upsetting of her existence, the destruction of her -calm. And she sank away from that prospect. She could not face it. -She did not want to face it. "No," she cried passionately in her -soul, "I've lived alone, and I'll stay as I am. I can't change at -my time of life." And her attitude towards a possible invasion of -her solitude became one of resentment. "I won't have it! I won't -have it! I will be left alone. Constance! What can Constance be to -me, or I to her, now?" The vision of any change in her existence -was in the highest degree painful to her. And not only painful! It -frightened her. It made her shrink. But she could not dismiss it. -... She could not argue herself out of it. The apparition of -Matthew Peel-Swynnerton had somehow altered the very stuff of her -fibres. - -And surging on the outskirts of the central storm of her brain -were ten thousand apprehensions about the management of the -Pension. All was black, hopeless. The Pension might have been the -most complete business failure that gross carelessness and -incapacity had ever provoked. Was it not the fact that she had to -supervise everything herself, that she could depend on no one? -Were she to be absent even for a single day the entire structure -would inevitably fall. Instead of working less she worked harder. -And who could guarantee that her investments were safe? - -When dawn announced itself, slowly discovering each object in the -chamber, she was ill. Fever seemed to rage in her head. And in and -round her mouth she had strange sensations. Fossette stirred in -the basket near the large desk on which multifarious files and -papers were ranged with minute particularity. - -"Fossette!" she tried to call out; but no sound issued from her -lips. She could not move her tongue. She tried to protrude it, and -could not. For hours she had been conscious of a headache. Her -heart sank. She was sick with fear. Her memory flashed to her -father and his seizure. She was his daughter! Paralysis! "Ca -serait le comble!" she thought in French, horrified. Her fear -became abject! "Can I move at all?" she thought, and madly jerked -her head. Yes, she could move her head slightly on the pillow, and -she could stretch her right arm, both arms. Absurd cowardice! Of -course it was not a seizure! She reassured herself. Still, she -could not put her tongue out. Suddenly she began to hiccough, and -she had no control over the hiccough. She put her hand to the -bell, whose ringing would summon the man who slept in a pantry off -the hall, and suddenly the hiccough ceased. Her hand dropped. She -was better. Besides, what use in ringing for a man if she could -not speak to him through the door? She must wait for Jacqueline. -At six o'clock every morning, summer and winter, Jacqueline -entered her mistress's bedroom to release the dog for a moment's -airing under her own supervision. The clock on the mantelpiece -showed five minutes past three. She had three hours to wait. -Fossette pattered across the room, and sprang on to the bed and -nestled down. Sophia ignored her, but Fossette, being herself -unwell and torpid, did not seem to care. - -Jacqueline was late. In the quarter of an hour between six o'clock -and a quarter past, Sophia suffered the supreme pangs of despair -and verged upon insanity. It appeared to her that her cranium -would blow off under pressure from within. Then the door opened -silently, a few inches. Usually Jacqueline came into the room, but -sometimes she stood behind the door and called in her soft, -trembling voice, "Fossette! Fossette!" And on this morning she did -not come into the room. The dog did not immediately respond. -Sophia was in an agony. She marshalled all her volition, all her -self-control and strength, to shout: - -"Jacqueline!" - -It came out of her, a horribly difficult and misshapen birth, but -it came. She was exhausted. - -"Yes, madame." Jacqueline entered. - -As soon as she had a glimpse of Sophia she threw up her hands. -Sophia stared at her, wordless. - -"I will fetch the doctor--myself," whispered Jacqueline, and fled. - -"Jacqueline!" The woman stopped. Then Sophia determined to force -herself to make a speech, and she braced her muscles to an -unprecedented effort. "Say not a word to the others." She could -not bear that the whole household should know of her illness. -Jacqueline nodded and vanished, the dog following. Jacqueline -understood. She lived in the place with her mistress as with a -fellow-conspirator. - -Sophia began to feel better. She could get into a sitting posture, -though the movement made her dizzy. By working to the foot of the -bed she could see herself in the glass of the wardrobe. And she -saw that the lower part of her face was twisted out of shape. - -The doctor, who knew her, and who earned a lot of money in her -house, told her frankly what had happened. Paralysie glosso-labio- -laryngee was the phrase he used. She understood. A very slight -attack; due to overwork and worry. He ordered absolute rest and -quiet. - -"Impossible!" she said, genuinely convinced that she alone was -indispensable. - -"Repose the most absolute!" he repeated. - -She marvelled that a few words with a man who chanced to be named -Peel-Swynnerton could have resulted in such a disaster, and drew a -curious satisfaction from this fearful proof that she was so -highly-strung. But even then she did not realize how profoundly -she had been disturbed. - -V - -"My darling Sophia--" - -The inevitable miracle had occurred. Her suspicions concerning -that Mr. Peel-Swynnerton were well-founded, after all! Here was a -letter from Constance! The writing on the envelope was not -Constance's; but even before examining it she had had a peculiar -qualm. She received letters from England nearly every day asking -about rooms and prices (and on many of them she had to pay -threepence excess postage, because the writers carelessly or -carefully forgot that a penny stamp was not sufficient); there was -nothing to distinguish this envelope, and yet her first glance at -it had startled her; and when, deciphering the smudged post-mark, -she made out the word 'Bursley,' her heart did literally seem to -stop, and she opened the letter in quite violent tremulation, -thinking to herself: "The doctor would say this is very bad for -me." Six days had elapsed since her attack, and she was -wonderfully better; the distortion of her face had almost -disappeared. But the doctor was grave; he ordered no medicine, -merely a tonic; and monotonously insisted on 'repose the most -absolute,' on perfect mental calm. He said little else, allowing -Sophia to judge from his silences the seriousness of her -condition. Yes, the receipt of such a letter must be bad for her! - -She controlled herself while she read it, lying in her dressing- -gown against several pillows on the bed; a mist did not form in -her eyes, nor did she sob, nor betray physically that she was not -reading an order for two rooms for a week. But the expenditure of -nervous force necessary to self-control was terrific. - -Constance's handwriting had changed; it was, however, easily -recognizable as a development of the neat calligraphy of the girl -who could print window-tickets. The 'S' of Sophia was formed in -the same way as she had formed it in the last letter which she had -received from her at Axe! - -"MY DARLING SOPHIA, - -"I cannot tell you how overjoyed I was to learn that after all -these years you are alive and well, and doing so well too. I long -to see you, my dear sister. It was Mr. Peel-Swynnerton who told -me. He is a friend of Cyril's. Cyril is the name of my son. I -married Samuel in 1867. Cyril was born in 1874 at Christmas. He is -now twenty-two, and doing very well in London as a student of -sculpture, though so young. He won a National Scholarship. There -were only eight, of which he won one, in all England. Samuel died -in 1888. If you read the papers you must have seen about the Povey -affair. I mean of course Mr. Daniel Povey, Confectioner. It was -that that killed poor Samuel. Poor mother died in 1875. It doesn't -seem so long. Aunt Harriet and Aunt Maria are both dead. Old Dr. -Harrop is dead, and his son has practically retired. He has a -partner, a Scotchman. Mr. Critchlow has married Miss Insull. Did -you ever hear of such a thing? They have taken over the shop, and -I live in the house part, the other being bricked up. Business in -the Square is not what it used to be. The steam trams take all the -custom to Hanbridge, and they are talking of electric trams, but I -dare say it is only talk. I have a fairly good servant. She has -been with me a long time, but servants are not what they were. I -keep pretty well, except for my sciatica and palpitation. Since -Cyril went to London I have been very lonely. But I try to cheer -up and count my blessings. I am sure I have a great deal to be -thankful for. And now this news of you! Please write to me a long -letter, and tell me all about yourself. It is a long way to Paris. -But surely now you know I am still here, you will come and pay me -a visit--at least. Everybody would be most glad to see you. And I -should be so proud and glad. As I say, I am all alone. Mr. -Critchlow says I am to say there is a deal of money waiting for -you. You know he is the trustee. There is the half-share of -mother's and also of Aunt Harriet's, and it has been accumulating. -By the way, they are getting up a subscription for Miss Chetwynd, -poor old thing. Her sister is dead, and she is in poverty. I have -put myself down for L20. Now, my dear sister, please do write to -me at once. You see it is still the old address. I remain, my -darling Sophia, with much love, your affectionate sister, - -"CONSTANCE POVEY. - -"P.S.--I should have written yesterday, but I was not fit. Every -time I sat down to write, I cried." - -"Of course," said Sophia to Fossette, "she expects me to go to -her, instead of her coming to me! And yet who's the busiest?" - -But this observation was not serious. It was merely a trifle of -affectionate malicious embroidery that Sophia put on the edge of -her deep satisfaction. The very spirit of simple love seemed to -emanate from the paper on which Constance had written. And this -spirit woke suddenly and completely Sophia's love for Constance. -Constance! At that moment there was assuredly for Sophia no -creature in the world like Constance. Constance personified for -her the qualities of the Baines family. Constance's letter was a -great letter, a perfect letter, perfect in its artlessness; the -natural expression of the Baines character at its best. Not an -awkward reference in the whole of it! No clumsy expression of -surprise at anything that she, Sophia, had done, or failed to do! -No mention of Gerald! Just a sublime acceptance of the situation -as it was, and the assurance of undiminished love! Tact? No; it -was something finer than tact! Tact was conscious, skilful. Sophia -was certain that the notion of tactfulness had not entered -Constance's head. Constance had simply written out of her heart. -And that was what made the letter so splendid. Sophia was -convinced that no one but a Baines could have written such a -letter. She felt that she must rise to the height of that letter, -that she too must show her Baines blood. And she went primly to -her desk, and began to write (on private notepaper) in that -imperious large hand of hers that was so different from -Constance's. She began a little stiffly, but after a few lines her -generous and passionate soul was responding freely to the appeal -of Constance. She asked that Mr. Critchlow should pay L20 for her -to the Miss Chetwynd fund. She spoke of her Pension and of Paris, -and of her pleasure in Constance's letter. But she said nothing as -to Gerald, nor as to the possibility of a visit to the Five Towns. -She finished the letter in a blaze of love, and passed from it as -from a dream to the sterile banality of the daily life of the -Pension Frensham, feeling that, compared to Constance's affection, -nothing else had any worth. - -But she would not consider the project of going to Bursley. Never, -never would she go to Bursley. If Constance chose to come to Paris -and see her, she would be delighted, but she herself would not -budge. The mere notion of any change in her existence intimidated -her. And as for returning to Bursley itself ... no, no! - -Nevertheless, at the Pension Frensham, the future could not be as -the past. Sophia's health forbade that. She knew that the doctor -was right. Every time that she made an effort, she knew intimately -and speedily that the doctor was right. Only her will-power was -unimpaired; the machinery by which will-power is converted into -action was mysteriously damaged. She was aware of the fact. But -she could not face it yet. Time would have to elapse before she -could bring herself to face that fact. She was getting an old -woman. She could no longer draw on reserves. Yet she persisted to -every one that she was quite recovered, and was abstaining from -her customary work simply from an excess of prudence. Certainly -her face had recovered. And the Pension, being a machine all of -whose parts were in order, continued to run, apparently, with its -usual smoothness. It is true that the excellent chef began to -peculate, but as his cuisine did not suffer, the result was not -noticeable for a long period. The whole staff and many of the -guests knew that Sophia had been indisposed; and they knew no -more. - -When by hazard Sophia observed a fault in the daily conduct of the -house, her first impulse was to go to the root of it and cure it, -her second was to leave it alone, or to palliate it by some -superficial remedy. Unperceived, and yet vaguely suspected by -various people, the decline of the Pension Frensham had set in. -The tide, having risen to its highest, was receding, but so little -that no one could be sure that it had turned. Every now and then -it rushed up again and washed the furthest stone. - -Sophia and Constance exchanged several letters. Sophia said -repeatedly that she could not leave Paris. At length she roundly -asked Constance to come and pay her a visit. She made the -suggestion with fear--for the prospect of actually seeing her -beloved Constance alarmed her--but she could do no less than make -it. And in a few days she had a reply to say that Constance would -have come, under Cyril's charge, but that her sciatica was -suddenly much worse, and she was obliged to lie down every day -after dinner to rest her legs. Travelling was impossible for her. -The fates were combining against Sophia's decision. - -And now Sophia began to ask herself about her duty to Constance. -The truth was that she was groping round to find an excuse for -reversing her decision. She was afraid to reverse it, yet tempted. -She had the desire to do something which she objected to doing. It -was like the desire to throw one's self over a high balcony. It -drew her, drew her, and she drew back against it. The Pension was -now tedious to her. It bored her even to pretend to be the -supervising head of the Pension. Throughout the house discipline -had loosened. - -She wondered when Mr. Mardon would renew his overtures for the -transformation of her enterprise into a limited company. In spite -of herself she would deliberately cross his path and give him -opportunities to begin on the old theme. He had never before left -her in peace for so long a period. No doubt she had, upon his last -assault, absolutely convinced him that his efforts had no smallest -chance of success, and he had made up his mind to cease them. With -a single word she could wind him up again. The merest hint, one -day when he was paying his bill, and he would be beseeching her. -But she could not utter the word. - -Then she began to say openly that she did not feel well, that the -house was too much for her, and that the doctor had imperatively -commanded rest. She said this to every one except Mardon. And -every one somehow persisted in not saying it to Mardon. The doctor -having advised that she should spend more time in the open air, -she would take afternoon drives in the Bois with Fossette. It was -October. But Mr. Mardon never seemed to hear of those drives. - -One morning he met her in the street outside the house. - -"I'm sorry to hear you're so unwell," he said confidentially, -after they had discussed the health of Fossette. - -"So unwell!" she exclaimed as if resenting the statement. "Who -told you I was so unwell?" - -"Jacqueline. She told me you often said that what you needed was a -complete change. And it seems the doctor says so, too." - -"Oh! doctors!" she murmured, without however denying the truth of -Jacqueline's assertion. She saw hope in Mr. Mardon's eyes. - -"Of course, you know," he said, still more confidentially, "if you -SHOULD happen to change your mind, I'm always ready to form a -little syndicate to take this"--he waved discreetly at the -Pension--"off your hands." - -She shook her head violently, which was strange, considering that -for weeks she had been wishing to hear such words from Mr. Mardon. - -"You needn't give it up altogether," he said. "You could retain -your hold on it. We'd make you manageress, with a salary and a -share in the profits. You'd be mistress just as much as you are -now." - -"Oh!" said she carelessly. "IF _I_ GAVE IT UP, _I_ SHOULD GIVE IT -UP ENTIRELY. No half measures for me." - -With the utterance of that sentence, the history of Frensham's as -a private understanding was brought to a close. Sophia knew it. -Mr. Mardon knew it. Mr. Mardon's heart leapt. He saw in his -imagination the formation of the preliminary syndicate, with -himself at its head, and then the re-sale by the syndicate to a -limited company at a profit. He saw a nice little profit for his -own private personal self of a thousand or so--gained in a moment. -The plant, his hope, which he had deemed dead, blossomed with -miraculous suddenness. - -"Well," he said. "Give it up entirely, then! Take a holiday for -life. You've deserved it, Mrs. Scales." - -She shook her head once again. - -"Think it over," he said. - -"I gave you my answer years ago," she said obstinately, while -fearing lest he should take her at her word. - -"Oblige me by thinking it over," he said. "I'll mention it to you -again in a few days." - -"It will be no use," she said. - -He took his leave, waddling down the street in his vague clothes, -conscious of his fame as Lewis Mardon, the great house-agent of -the Champs Elysees, known throughout Europe and America. - -In a few days he did mention it again. - -"There's only one thing that makes me dream of it even for a -moment," said Sophia. "And that is my sister's health." - -"Your sister!" he exclaimed. He did not know she had a sister. -Never had she spoken of her family. - -"Yes. Her letters are beginning to worry me." - -"Does she live in Paris?" - -"No. In Staffordshire. She has never left home." - -And to preserve her pride intact she led Mr. Mardon to think that -Constance was in a most serious way, whereas in truth Constance -had nothing worse than her sciatica, and even that was somewhat -better. - -Thus she yielded. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE MEETING - -I - - -Soon after dinner one day in the following spring, Mr. Critchlow -knocked at Constance's door. She was seated in the rocking-chair -in front of the fire in the parlour. She wore a large 'rough' -apron, and with the outlying parts of the apron she was rubbing -the moisture out of the coat of a young wire-haired fox-terrier, -for whom no more original name had been found than 'Spot.' It is -true that he had a spot. Constance had more than once called the -world to witness that she would never have a young dog again, -because, as she said, she could not be always running about after -them, and they ate the stuffing out of the furniture. But her last -dog had lived too long; a dog can do worse things than eat -furniture; and, in her natural reaction against age in dogs, and -also in the hope of postponing as long as possible the inevitable -sorrow and upset which death causes when it takes off a domestic -pet, she had not known how to refuse the very desirable fox- -terrier aged ten months that an acquaintance had offered to her. -Spot's beautiful pink skin could be seen under his disturbed hair; -he was exquisitely soft to the touch, and to himself he was -loathsome. His eyes continually peeped forth between corners of -the agitated towel, and they were full of inquietude and shame. - -Amy was assisting at this performance, gravely on the watch to see -that Spot did not escape into the coal-cellar. She opened the door -to Mr. Critchlow's knock. Mr. Critchlow entered without any -formalities, as usual. He did not seem to have changed. He had the -same quantity of white hair, he wore the same long white apron, -and his voice (which showed however an occasional tendency to -shrillness) had the same grating quality. He stood fairly -straight. He was carrying a newspaper in his vellum hand. - -"Well, missis!" he said. - -"That will do, thank you, Amy," said Constance, quietly. Amy went -slowly. - -"So ye're washing him for her!" said Mr. Critchlow. - -"Yes," Constance admitted. Spot glanced sharply at the aged man. - -"An' ye seen this bit in the paper about Sophia?" he asked, -holding the Signal for her inspection. - -"About Sophia?" cried Constance. "What's amiss?" - -"Nothing's amiss. But they've got it. It's in the 'Staffordshire -day by day' column. Here! I'll read it ye." He drew a long wooden -spectacle-case from his waistcoat pocket, and placed a second pair -of spectacles on his nose. Then he sat down on the sofa, his knees -sticking out pointedly, and read: "'We understand that Mrs. Sophia -Scales, proprietress of the famous Pension Frensham in the Rue -Lord Byron, Paris'--it's that famous that nobody in th' Five Towns -has ever heard of it--'is about to pay a visit to her native town, -Bursley, after an absence of over thirty years. Mrs. Scales -belonged to the well-known and highly respected family of Baines. -She has recently disposed of the Pension Frensham to a limited -company, and we are betraying no secret in stating that the price -paid ran well into five figures.' So ye see!" Mr. Critchlow -commented. - -"How do those Signal people find out things?" Constance murmured. - -"Eh, bless ye, I don't know," said Mr. Critchlow. - -This was an untruth. Mr. Critchlow had himself given the -information to the new editor of the Signal, who had soon been -made aware of Critchlow's passion for the press, and who knew how -to make use of it. - -"I wish it hadn't appeared just to-day," said Constance. - -"Why?" - -"Oh! I don't know, I wish it hadn't." - -"Well, I'll be touring on, missis," said Mr. Critchlow, meaning -that he would go. - -He left the paper, and descended the steps with senile -deliberation. It was characteristic that he had shown no curiosity -whatever as to the details of Sophia's arrival. - -Constance removed her apron,, wrapped Spot up in it, and put him -in a corner of the sofa. She then abruptly sent Amy out to buy a -penny time-table. - -"I thought you were going by tram to Knype," Amy observed. - -"I have decided to go by train," said Constance, with cold -dignity, as if she had decided the fate of nations. She hated such -observations from Amy, who unfortunately lacked, in an increasing -degree, the supreme gift of unquestioning obedience. - -When Amy came breathlessly back, she found Constance in her -bedroom, withdrawing crumpled balls of paper from the sleeves of -her second-best mantle. Constance scarcely ever wore this mantle. -In theory it was destined for chapel on wet Sundays; in practice -it had remained long in the wardrobe, Sundays having been -obstinately fine for weeks and weeks together. It was a mantle -that Constance had never really liked. But she was not going to -Knype to meet Sophia in her everyday mantle; and she had no -intention of donning her best mantle for such an excursion. To -make her first appearance before Sophia in the best mantle she -had--this would have been a sad mistake of tactics! Not only would -it have led to an anti-climax on Sunday, but it would have given -to Constance the air of being in awe of Sophia. Now Constance was -in truth a little afraid of Sophia; in thirty years Sophia might -have grown into anything, whereas Constance had remained just -Constance. Paris was a great place; and it was immensely far off. -And the mere sound of that limited company business was -intimidating. Imagine Sophia having by her own efforts created -something which a real limited company wanted to buy and had -bought! Yes, Constance was afraid, but she did not mean to show -her fear in her mantle. After all, she was the elder. And she had -her dignity too--and a lot of it--tucked away in her secret heart, -hidden within the mildness of that soft exterior. So she had -decided on the second-best mantle, which, being seldom used, had -its sleeves stuffed with paper to the end that they might keep -their shape and their 'fall.' The little balls of paper were -strewed over the bed. - -"There's a train at a quarter to three, gets to Knype at ten -minutes past." said Amy. officiously. "But supposing it was only -three minutes late and the London train was prompt, then you might -miss her. Happen you'd better take the two fifteen to be on the -safe side." - -"Let me look," said Constance, firmly. "Please put all this paper -in the wardrobe." - -She would have preferred not to follow Amy's suggestion, but it -was so incontestably wise that she was obliged to accept it. - -"Unless ye go by tram," said Amy. "That won't mean starting quite -so soon." - -But Constance would not go by tram. If she took the tram she would -be bound to meet people who had read the Signal, and who would -say, with their stupid vacuity: "Going to meet your sister at -Knype?" And then tiresome conversations would follow. Whereas, in -the train, she would choose a compartment, and would be far less -likely to encounter chatterers. - -There was now not a minute to lose. And the excitement which had -been growing in that house for days past, under a pretence of -calm, leapt out swiftly into the light of the sun, and was -unashamed. Amy had to help her mistress make herself as comely as -she could be made without her best dress, mantle, and bonnet. Amy -was frankly consulted as to effects. The barrier of class was -lowered for a space. Many years had elapsed since Constance had -been conscious of a keen desire to look smart. She was reminded of -the days when, in full fig for chapel, she would dash downstairs -on a Sunday morning, and, assuming a pose for inspection at the -threshold of the parlour, would demand of Samuel: "Shall I do?" -Yes, she used to dash downstairs, like a child, and yet in those -days she had thought herself so sedate and mature! She sighed, -half with lancinating regret, and half in gentle disdain of that -mercurial creature aged less than thirty. At fifty-one she -regarded herself as old. And she was old. And Amy had the tricks -and manners of an old spinster. Thus the excitement in the house -was an 'old' excitement, and, like Constance's desire to look -smart, it had its ridiculous side, which was also its tragic side, -the side that would have made a boor guffaw, and a hysterical fool -cry, and a wise man meditate sadly upon the earth's fashion of -renewing itself. - -At half-past one Constance was dressed, with the exception of her -gloves. She looked at the clock a second time to make sure that -she might safely glance round the house without fear of missing -the train. She went up into the bedroom on the second-floor, her -and Sophia's old bedroom, which she had prepared with enormous -care for Sophia. The airing of that room had been an enterprise of -days, for, save by a minister during the sittings of the Wesleyan -Methodist Conference at Bursley, it had never been occupied since -the era when Maria Insull used occasionally to sleep in the house. -Cyril clung to his old room on his visits. Constance had an ample -supply of solid and stately furniture, and the chamber destined -for Sophia was lightened in every corner by the reflections of -polished mahogany. It was also fairly impregnated with the odour -of furniture paste--an odour of which no housewife need be -ashamed. Further, it had been re-papered in a delicate blue, with -one of the new 'art' patterns. It was a 'Baines' room. And -Constance did not care where Sophia came from, nor what Sophia had -been accustomed to, nor into what limited company Sophia had been -transformed--that room was adequate! It could not have been -improved upon. You had only to look at the crocheted mats--even -those on the washstand under the white-and-gold ewer and other -utensils. It was folly to expose such mats to the splashings of a -washstand, but it was sublime folly. Sophia might remove them if -she cared. Constance was house-proud; house-pride had slumbered -within her; now it blazed forth. - -A fire brightened the drawing-room, which was a truly magnificent -apartment, a museum of valuables collected by the Baines and the -Maddack families since the year 1840, tempered by the latest -novelties in antimacassars and cloths. In all Bursley there could -have been few drawing-rooms to compare with Constance's. Constance -knew it. She was not afraid of her drawing-room being seen by -anybody. - -She passed for an instant into her own bedroom, where Amy was -patiently picking balls of paper from the bed. - -"Now you quite understand about tea?" Constance asked. - -"Oh yes, 'm," said Amy, as if to say: "How much oftener are you -going to ask me that question?" "Are you off now, 'm?" - -"Yes," said Constance. "Come and fasten the front-door after me." - -They descended together to the parlour. A white cloth for tea lay -folded on the table. It was of the finest damask that skill could -choose and money buy. It was fifteen years old, and had never been -spread. Constance would not have produced it for the first meal, -had she not possessed two other of equal eminence. On the -harmonium were ranged several jams and cakes, a Bursley pork-pie, -and some pickled salmon; with the necessary silver. All was there. -Amy could not go wrong. And crocuses were in the vases on the -mantelpiece. Her 'garden,' in the phrase which used to cause -Samuel to think how extraordinarily feminine she was! It was a -long time since she had had a 'garden' on the mantelpiece. Her -interest in her chronic sciatica and in her palpitations had grown -at the expense of her interest in gardens. Often, when she had -finished the complicated processes by which her furniture and -other goods were kept in order, she had strength only to 'rest.' -She was rather a fragile, small, fat woman, soon out of breath, -easily marred. This business of preparing for the advent of Sophia -had appeared to her genuinely colossal. However, she had come -through it very well. She was in pretty good health; only a little -tired, and more than a little anxious and nervous, as she gave the -last glance. - -"Take away that apron, do!" she said to Amy, pointing to the rough -apron in the corner of the sofa. "By the way, where is Spot?" - -"Spot, m'm?" Amy ejaculated. - -Both their hearts jumped. Amy instinctively looked out of the -window. He was there, sure enough, in the gutter, studying the -indescribabilities of King Street. He had obviously escaped when -Amy came in from buying the time-table. The woman's face was -guilty. - -"Amy, I wonder AT you!" exclaimed Constance, tragically. She -opened the door. - -"Well, I never did see the like of that dog!" murmured Amy. - -"Spot!" his mistress commanded. "Come here at once. Do you hear -me?" - -Spot turned sharply and gazed motionless at Constance. Then with a -toss of the head he dashed off to the corner of the Square, and -gazed motionless again. Amy went forth to catch him. After an age -she brought him in, squealing. He was in a state exceedingly -offensive to the eye and to the nose. He had effectively got rid -of the smell of soap, which he loathed. Constance could have wept. -It did really appear to her that nothing had gone right that day. -And Spot had the most innocent, trustful air. Impossible to make -him realize that his aunt Sophia was coming. He would have sold -his entire family into servitude in order to buy ten yards of King -Street gutter. - -"You must wash him in the scullery, that's all there is for it," -said Constance, controlling herself. "Put that apron on, and don't -forget one of your new aprons when you open the door. Better shut -him up in Mr. Cyril's bedroom when you've dried him." - -And she went, charged with worries, clasping her bag and her -umbrella and smoothing her gloves, and spying downwards at the -folds of her mantle. - -"That's a funny way to go to Bursley Station, that is," said Amy, -observing that Constance was descending King Street instead of -crossing it into Wedgwood Street. And she caught Spot 'a fair -clout on the head,' to indicate to him that she had him alone in -the house now. - -Constance was taking a round-about route to the station, so that, -if stopped by acquaintances, she should not be too obviously going -to the station. Her feelings concerning the arrival of Sophia, and -concerning the town's attitude towards it, were very complex. - -She was forced to hurry. And she had risen that morning with plans -perfectly contrived for the avoidance of hurry. She disliked hurry -because it always 'put her about.' - -II - -The express from London was late, so that Constance had three- -quarters of an hour of the stony calmness of Knype platform when -it is waiting for a great train. At last the porters began to cry, -"Macclesfield, Stockport, and Manchester train;" the immense -engine glided round the curve, dwarfing the carriages behind it, -and Constance had a supreme tremor. The calmness of the platform -was transformed into a melee. Little Constance found herself left -on the fringe of a physically agitated crowd which was apparently -trying to scale a precipice surmounted by windows and doors from -whose apertures looked forth defenders of the train. Knype -platform seemed as if it would never be reduced to order again. -And Constance did not estimate highly the chances of picking out -an unknown Sophia from that welter. She was very seriously -perturbed. All the muscles of her face were drawn as her gaze -wandered anxiously from end to end of the train. - -Presently she saw a singular dog. Other people also saw it. It was -of the colour of chocolate; it had a head and shoulders richly -covered with hair that hung down in thousands of tufts like the -tufts of a modern mop such as is bought in shops. This hair -stopped suddenly rather less than halfway along the length of the -dog's body, the remainder of which was naked and as smooth as -marble. The effect was to give to the inhabitants of the Five -Towns the impression that the dog had forgotten an essential part -of its attire and was outraging decency. The ball of hair which -had been allowed to grow on the dog's tail, and the circles of -hair which ornamented its ankles, only served to intensify the -impression of indecency. A pink ribbon round its neck completed -the outrage. The animal had absolutely the air of a decked -trollop. A chain ran taut from the creature's neck into the middle -of a small crowd of persons gesticulating over trunks, and -Constance traced it to a tall and distinguished woman in a coat -and skirt with a rather striking hat. A beautiful and aristocratic -woman, Constance thought, at a distance! Then the strange idea -came to her: "That's Sophia!" She was sure. ... She was not sure. ... -She was sure. The woman emerged from the crowd. Her eye fell -on Constance. They both hesitated, and, as it were, wavered -uncertainly towards each other. - -"I should have known you anywhere," said Sophia, with apparently -careless tranquillity, as she stooped to kiss Constance, raising -her veil. - -Constance saw that this marvellous tranquillity must be imitated, -and she imitated it very well. It was a 'Baines' tranquillity. But -she noticed a twitching of her sister's lips. The twitching -comforted Constance, proving to her that she was not alone in -foolishness. There was also something queer about the permanent -lines of Sophia's mouth. That must be due to the 'attack' about -which Sophia had written. - -"Did Cyril meet you?" asked Constance. It was all that she could -think of to say. - -"Oh yes!" said Sophia, eagerly. "And I went to his studio, and he -saw me off at Euston. He is a VERY nice boy. I love him." - -She said 'I love him' with the intonation of Sophia aged fifteen. -Her tone and imperious gesture sent Constance flying back to the -'sixties. "She hasn't altered one bit," Constance thought with -joy. "Nothing could change Sophia." And at the back of that notion -was a more general notion: "Nothing could change a Baines." It was -true that Constance's Sophia had not changed. Powerful -individualities remain undisfigured by no matter what -vicissitudes. After this revelation of the original Sophia, -arising as it did out of praise of Cyril, Constance felt easier, -felt reassured. - -"This is Fossette," said Sophia, pulling at the chain. - -Constance knew not what to reply. Surely Sophia could not be aware -what she did in bringing such a dog to a place where people were -so particular as they are in the Five Towns. - -"Fossette!" She repeated the name in an endearing accent, half -stooping towards the dog. After all, it was not the dog's fault. -Sophia had certainly mentioned a dog in her letters, but she had -not prepared Constance for the spectacle of Fossette. - -All that happened in a moment. A porter appeared with two trunks -belonging to Sophia. Constance observed that they were -superlatively 'good' trunks; also that Sophia's clothes, though -'on the showy side,' were superlatively 'good.' The getting of -Sophia's ticket to Bursley occupied them next, and soon the first -shock of meeting had worn off. - -In a second-class compartment of the Loop Line train, with Sophia -and Fossette opposite to her, Constance had leisure to 'take in' -Sophia. She came to the conclusion that, despite her slenderness -and straightness and the general effect of the long oval of her -face under the hat, Sophia looked her age. She saw that Sophia -must have been through a great deal; her experiences were -damagingly printed in the details of feature. Seen at a distance, -she might have passed for a woman of thirty, even for a girl, but -seen across a narrow railway carriage she was a woman whom -suffering had aged. Yet obviously her spirit was unbroken. Hear -her tell a doubtful porter that of course she should take Fossette -with her into the carriage! See her shut the carriage door with -the expressed intention of keeping other people out! She was -accustomed to command. At the same time her face had an almost set -smile, as though she had said to herself: "I will die smiling." -Constance felt sorry for her. While recognizing in Sophia a -superior in charm, in experience, in knowledge of the world and in -force of personality, she yet with a kind of undisturbed, -fundamental superiority felt sorry for Sophia. - -"What do you think?" said Sophia, absently fingering Fossette. "A -man came up to me at Euston, while Cyril was getting my ticket, -and said, 'Eh, Miss Baines, I haven't seen ye for over thirty -years, but I know you're Miss Baines, or WERE--and you're looking -bonny.' Then he went off. I think it must have been Holl, the -grocer." - -"Had he got a long white beard?" - -"Yes." - -"Then it was Mr. Holl. He's been Mayor twice. He's an alderman, -you know." - -"Really!" said Sophia. "But wasn't it queer?" - -"Eh! Bless us!" exclaimed Constance. "Don't talk about queer! It's -terrible how time flies." - -The conversation stopped, and it refused to start again. Two women -who are full of affectionate curiosity about each other, and who -have not seen each other for thirty years, and who are anxious to -confide in each other, ought to discover no difficulty in talking; -but somehow these two could not talk. Constance perceived that -Sophia was impeded by the same awkwardness as herself. - -"Well I never!" cried Sophia, suddenly. She had glanced out of the -window and had seen two camels and an elephant in a field close to -the line, amid manufactories and warehouses and advertisements of -soap. - -"Oh!" said Constance. "That's Barnum's, you know. They have -what they call a central depot here, because it's the middle -of England." Constance spoke proudly. (After all, there can -be only one middle.) It was on her tongue to say, in her 'tart' -manner, that Fossette ought to be with the camels, but she -refrained. Sophia hit on the excellent idea of noting all the -buildings that were new to her and all the landmarks that she -remembered. It was surprising how little the district had altered. - -"Same smoke!" said Sophia. - -"Same smoke!" Constance agreed. - -"It's even worse," said Sophia. - -"Do you think so?" Constance was slightly piqued. "But they're -doing something now for smoke abatement." - -"I must have forgotten how dirty it was!" said Sophia. "I suppose -that's it. I'd no idea ...!" - -"Really!" said Constance. Then, in candid admission, "The fact is, -it is dirty. You can't imagine what work it makes, especially with -window-curtains." - -As the train puffed under Trafalgar Road, Constance pointed to a -new station that was being built there, to be called 'Trafalgar -Road' station. - -"Won't it be strange?" said she, accustomed to the eternal -sequence of Loop Lane stations--Turnhill, Bursley, Bleakridge, -Hanbridge, Cauldon, Knype, Trent Vale, and Longshaw. A 'Trafalgar -Road' inserting itself between Bleakridge and Hanbridge seemed to -her excessively curious. - -"Yes, I suppose it will," Sophia agreed. - -"But of course it's not the same to you," said Constance, dashed. -She indicated the glories of Bursley Park, as the train slackened -for Bursley, with modesty. Sophia gazed, and vaguely recognized -the slopes where she had taken her first walk with Gerald Scales. - -Nobody accosted them at Bursley Station, and they drove to the -Square in a cab. Amy was at the window; she held up Spot, who was -in a plenary state of cleanliness, rivalling the purity of Amy's -apron. - -"Good afternoon, m'm," said Amy, officiously, to Sophia, as Sophia -came up the steps. - -"Good afternoon, Amy," Sophia replied. She flattered Amy in thus -showing that she was acquainted with her name; but if ever a -servant was put into her place by mere tone, Amy was put into her -place on that occasion. Constance trembled at Sophia's frigid and -arrogant politeness. Certainly Sophia was not used to being -addressed first by servants. But Amy was not quite the ordinary -servant. She was much older than the ordinary servant, and she had -acquired a partial moral dominion over Constance, though Constance -would have warmly denied it. Hence Constance's apprehension. -However, nothing happened. Amy apparently did not feel the snub. - -"Take Spot and put him in Mr. Cyril's bedroom," Constance murmured -to her, as if implying: "Have I not already told you to do that?" -The fact was, she was afraid for Spot's life. - -"Now, Fossette!" She welcomed the incoming poodle kindly; the -poodle began at once to sniff. - -The fat, red cabman was handling the trunks on the pavement, and -Amy was upstairs. For a moment the sisters were alone together in -the parlour. - -"So here I am!" exclaimed the tall, majestic woman of fifty. And -her lips twitched again as she looked round the room--so small to -her. - -"Yes, here you are!" Constance agreed. She bit her lip, and, as a -measure of prudence to avoid breaking down, she bustled out to the -cabman. A passing instant of emotion, like a fleck of foam on a -wide and calm sea! - -The cabman blundered up and downstairs with trunks, and saluted -Sophia's haughty generosity, and then there was quietness. Amy was -already brewing the tea in the cave. The prepared tea-table in -front of the fire made a glittering array. - -"Now, what about Fossette?" Constance voiced anxieties that had -been growing on her. - -"Fossette will be quite right with me," said Sophia, firmly. - -They ascended to the guest's room, which drew Sophia's admiration -for its prettiness. She hurried to the window and looked out into -the Square. - -"Would you like a fire?" Constance asked, in a rather perfunctory -manner. For a bedroom fire, in seasons of normal health, was still -regarded as absurd in the Square. - -"Oh, no!" said Sophia; but with a slight failure to rebut the -suggestion as utterly ridiculous. - -"Sure?" Constance questioned. - -"Quite, thank you," said Sophia. - -"Well, I'll leave you. I expect Amy will have tea ready directly." -She went down into the kitchen. "Amy," she said, "as soon as we've -finished tea, light a fire in Mrs. Scales's bedroom." - -"In the top bedroom, m'm?" - -"Yes." - -Constance climbed again to her own bedroom, and shut the door. She -needed a moment to herself, in the midst of this terrific affair. -She sighed with relief as she removed her mantle. She thought: "At -any rate we've met, and I've got her here. She's very nice. No, -she isn't a bit altered." She hesitated to admit that to her -Sophia was the least in the world formidable. And so she said once -more: "She's very nice. She isn't a bit altered." And then: "Fancy -her being here! She really is here." With her perfect simplicity -it did not occur to Constance to speculate as to what Sophia -thought of her. - -Sophia was downstairs first, and Constance found her looking at -the blank wall beyond the door leading to the kitchen steps. - -"So this is where you had it bricked up?" said Sophia. - -"Yes," said Constance. "That's the place." - -"It makes me feel like people feel when they have tickling in a -limb that's been cut off!" said Sophia. - -"Oh, Sophia!" - -The tea received a great deal of praise from Sophia, but neither -of them ate much. Constance found that Sophia was like herself: -she had to be particular about her food. She tasted dainties for -the sake of tasting, but it was a bird's pecking. Not the twelfth -part of the tea was consumed. They dared not indulge caprices. -Only their eyes could feed. - -After tea they went up to the drawing-room, and in the corridor -had the startling pleasure of seeing two dogs who scurried about -after each other in amity. Spot had found Fossette, with the aid -of Amy's incurable carelessness, and had at once examined her with -great particularity. She seemed to be of an amiable disposition, -and not averse from the lighter distractions. For a long time the -sisters sat chatting together in the lit drawing-room to the -agreeable sound of happy dogs playing in the dark corridor. Those -dogs saved the situation, because they needed constant attention. -When the dogs dozed, the sisters began to look through photograph -albums, of which Constance had several, bound in plush or morocco. -Nothing will sharpen the memory, evoke the past, raise the dead, -rejuvenate the ageing, and cause both sighs and smiles, like a -collection of photographs gathered together during long years of -life. Constance had an astonishing menagerie of unknown cousins -and their connections, and of townspeople; she had Cyril at all -ages; she had weird daguerreotypes of her parents and their -parents. The strangest of all was a portrait of Samuel Povey as an -infant in arms. Sophia checked an impulse to laugh at it. But when -Constance said: "Isn't it funny?" she did allow herself to laugh. -A photograph of Samuel in the year before his death was really -imposing. Sophia stared at it, impressed. It was the portrait of -an honest man. - -"How long have you been a widow?" Constance asked in a low voice, -glancing at upright Sophia over her spectacles, a leaf of the -album raised against her finger. - -Sophia unmistakably flushed. "I don't know that I am a widow," -said she, with an air. "My husband left me in 1870, and I've never -seen nor heard of him since." - -"Oh, my dear!" cried Constance, alarmed and deafened as by a clap -of awful thunder. "I thought ye were a widow. Mr. Peel-Swynnerton -said he was told positively ye were a widow. That's why I never. ..." -She stopped. Her face was troubled. - -"Of course I always passed for a widow, over there," said Sophia. - -"Of course," said Constance quickly. "I see. ..." - -"And I may be a widow," said Sophia. - -Constance made no remark. This was a blow. Bursley was such a -particular place. Doubtless, Gerald Scales had behaved like a -scoundrel. That was sure! - -When, immediately afterwards, Amy opened the drawing-room door -(having first knocked--the practice of encouraging a servant to -plunge without warning of any kind into a drawing-room had never -been favoured in that house) she saw the sisters sitting rather -near to each other at the walnut oval table, Mrs. Scales very -upright, and staring into the fire, and Mrs. Povey 'bunched up' -and staring at the photograph album; both seeming to Amy aged and -apprehensive; Mrs. Povey's hair was quite grey, though Mrs. -Scales' hair was nearly as black as Amy's own. Mrs. Scales started -at the sound of the knock, and turned her head. - -"Here's Mr. and Mrs. Critchlow, m'm," announced Amy. - -The sisters glanced at one another, with lifted foreheads. Then -Mrs. Povey spoke to Amy as though visits at half-past eight at -night were a customary phenomenon of the household. Nevertheless, -she trembled to think what outrageous thing Mr. Critchlow might -say to Sophia after thirty years' absence. The occasion was great, -and it might also be terrible. - -"Ask them to come up," she said calmly. - -But Amy had the best of that encounter. "I have done," she -replied, and instantly produced them out of the darkness of the -corridor. It was providential: the sisters had made no remark that -the Critchlows might not hear. - -Then Maria Critchlow, simpering, had to greet Sophia. Mrs. -Critchlow was very agitated, from sheer nervousness. She -curvetted; she almost pranced; and she made noises with her mouth -as though she saw some one eating a sour apple. She wanted to show -Sophia how greatly she had changed from the young, timid -apprentice. Certainly since her marriage she had changed. As -manager of other people's business she had not felt the necessity -of being effusive to customers, but as proprietress, anxiety to -succeed had dragged her out of her capable and mechanical -indifference. It was a pity. Her consistent dullness had had a -sort of dignity; but genial, she was merely ridiculous. Animation -cruelly displayed her appalling commonness and physical -shabbiness. Sophia's demeanour was not chilly; but it indicated -that Sophia had no wish to be eyed over as a freak of nature. - -Mr. Critchlow advanced very slowly into the room. "Ye still carry -your head on a stiff neck," said he, deliberately examining -Sophia. Then with great care he put out his long thin arm and took -her hand. "Well, I'm rare and glad to see ye!" - -Every one was thunderstruck at this expression of joy. Mr. -Critchlow had never been known to be glad to see anybody. - -"Yes," twittered Maria, "Mr. Critchlow would come in to-night. -Nothing would do but he must come in to-night." - -"You didn't tell me this afternoon," said Constance, "that you -were going to give us the pleasure of your company like this." - -He looked momentarily at Constance. "No," he grated, "I don't know -as I did." - -His gaze flattered Sophia. Evidently he treated this experienced -and sad woman of fifty as a young girl. And in presence of his -extreme age she felt like a young girl, remembering the while how -as a young girl she had hated him. Repulsing the assistance of his -wife, he arranged an armchair in front of the fire and -meticulously put himself into it. Assuredly he was much older in a -drawing-room than behind the counter of his shop. Constance had -noticed that in the afternoon. A live coal fell out of the fire. -He bent forward, wet his fingers, picked up the coal and threw it -back into the fire. - -"Well," said Sophia. "I wouldn't have done that." - -"I never saw Mr. Critchlow's equal for picking up hot cinders," -Maria giggled. - -Mr. Critchlow deigned no remark. "When did ye leave this Paris?" -he demanded of Sophia, leaning back, and putting his hands on the -arms of the chair. - -"Yesterday morning," said Sophia, - -"And what'n ye been doing with yeself since yesterday morning?" - -"I spent last night in London," Sophia replied. - -"Oh, in London, did ye?" - -"Yes. Cyril and I had an evening together." - -"Eh? Cyril! What's yer opinion o' Cyril, Sophia?" - -"I'm very proud to have Cyril for a nephew," said Sophia. - -"Oh! Are ye?" The old man was obviously ironic. - -"Yes I am," Sophia insisted sharply. "I'm not going to hear a word -said against Cyril." - -She proceeded to an enthusiastic laudation of Cyril which rather -overwhelmed his mother. Constance was pleased; she was delighted. -And yet somewhere in her mind was an uncomfortable feeling that -Cyril, having taken a fancy to his brilliant aunt, had tried to -charm her as he seldom or never tried to charm his mother. Cyril -and Sophia had dazzled and conquered each other; they were of the -same type; whereas she, Constance, being but a plain person, could -not glitter. - -She rang the bell and gave instructions to Amy about food--fruit -cakes, coffee and hot milk, on a tray; and Sophia also spoke to -Amy murmuring a request as to Fossette. - -"Yes, Mrs. Scales," said Amy, with eager deference. - -Mrs. Critchlow smiled vaguely from a low chair near the curtained -window. Then Constance lit another burner of the chandelier. In -doing so, she gave a little sigh; it was a sigh of relief. Mr. -Critchlow had behaved himself. Now that he and Sophia had met, the -worst was over. Had Constance known beforehand that he would pay a -call, she would have been agonized by apprehensions, but now that -he had actually come she was glad he had come. - -When he had silently sipped some hot milk, he drew a thick bunch -of papers, white and blue, from his bulging breast-pocket. - -"Now, Maria Critchlow," he called, edging round his chair -slightly. "Ye'd best go back home." - -Maria Critchlow was biting at a bit of walnut cake, while in her -right hand, all seamed with black lines, she held a cup of coffee. - -"But, Mr. Critchlow----!" Constance protested. - -"I've got business with Sophia, and I must get it done. I've got -for to render an account of my stewardship to Sophia, under her -father's will, and her mother's will, and her aunt's will, and -it's nobody's business but mine and Sophia's, I reckon. Now then," -he glanced at his wife, "off with ye!" - -Maria rose, half-kittenish and half-ashamed. - -"Surely you don't want to go into all that to-night," said Sophia. -She spoke softly, for she had already fully perceived that Mr. -Critchlow must be managed with the tact which the capricious -obstinacies of advanced age demanded. "Surely you can wait a day -or two. I'm in no hurry." - -"HAVEN'T I WAITED LONG ENOUGH?" he retorted fiercely. - -There was a pause. Maria Critchlow moved. - -"As for you being in no hurry, Sophia," the old man went on, -"nobody can say as you've been in a hurry." - -Sophia had suffered a check. She glanced hesitatingly at -Constance. - -"Mrs. Critchlow and I will go down into the parlour," said -Constance, quickly. "There is a bit of fire there." - -"Oh no. I won't hear of such a thing!" - -"Yes, we will, won't we, Mrs. Critchlow?" Constance insisted, -cheerfully but firmly. She was determined that in her house Sophia -should have all the freedom and conveniences that she could have -had in her own. If a private room was needed for discussions -between Sophia and her trustee, Constance's pride was piqued to -supply that room. Further, Constance was glad to get Maria out of -Sophia's sight. She was accustomed to Maria; with her it did not -matter; but she did not care that the teeth of Sophia should be -set on edge by the ridiculous demeanour of Maria. So those two -left the drawing-room, and the old man began to open the papers -which he had been preparing for weeks. - -There was very little fire in the parlour, and Constance, in -addition to being bored by Mrs. Critchlow's inane and inquisitive -remarks, felt chilly, which was bad for her sciatica. She wondered -whether Sophia would have to confess to Mr. Critchlow that she was -not certainly a widow. She thought that steps ought to be taken to -ascertain, through Birkinshaws, if anything was known of Gerald -Scales. But even that course was set with perils. Supposing that -he still lived, an unspeakable villain (Constance could only think -of him as an unspeakable villain), and supposing that he molested -Sophia,--what scenes! What shame in the town! Such frightful -thoughts ran endlessly through Constance's mind as she bent over -the fire endeavouring to keep alive a silly conversation with -Maria Critchlow. - -Amy passed through the parlour to go to bed. There was no other -way of reaching the upper part of the house. - -"Are you going to bed, Amy?" - -"Yes'm." - -"Where is Fossette?" - -"In the kitchen, m'm," said Amy, defending herself. "Mrs. Scales -told me the dog might sleep in the kitchen with Spot, as they was -such good friends. I've opened the bottom drawer, and Fossit is -lying in that." - -"Mrs. Scales has brought a dog with her!" exclaimed Maria. - -"Yes'm!" said Amy, drily, before Constance could answer. She -implied everything in that affirmative. - -"You are a family for dogs," said Maria. "What sort of dog is it?" - -"Well," said Constance. "I don't know exactly what they call it. -It's a French dog, one of those French dogs." Amy was lingering at -the stairfoot. "Good night, Amy, thank you." - -Amy ascended, shutting the door. - -"Oh! I see!" Maria muttered. "Well, I never!" - -It was ten o'clock before sounds above indicated that the first -interview between trustee and beneficiary was finished. - -"I'll be going on to open our side-door," said Maria. "Say good -night to Mrs. Scales for me." She was not sure whether Charles -Critchlow had really meant her to go home, or whether her mere -absence from the drawing-room had contented him. So she departed. -He came down the stairs with the most tiresome slowness, went -through the parlour in silence, ignoring Constance, and also -Sophia, who was at his heels, and vanished. - -As Constance shut and bolted the front-door, the sisters looked at -each other, Sophia faintly smiling. It seemed to them that they -understood each other better when they did not speak. With a -glance, they exchanged their ideas on the subject of Charles -Critchlow and Maria, and learnt that their ideas were similar. -Constance said nothing as to the private interview. Nor did -Sophia. At present, on this the first day, they could only achieve -intimacy by intermittent flashes. - -"What about bed?" asked Sophia. - -"You must be tired," said Constance. - -Sophia got to the stairs, which received a little light from the -corridor gas, before Constance, having tested the window- -fastening, turned out the gas in the parlour. They climbed the -lower flight of stairs together. - -"I must just see that your room is all right," Constance said. - -"Must you?" Sophia smiled. - -They climbed the second flight, slowly. Constance was out of -breath. - -"Oh, a fire! How nice!" cried Sophia. "But why did you go to all -that trouble? I told you not to." - -"It's no trouble at all," said Constance, raising the gas in the -bedroom. Her tone implied that bedroom fires were a quite ordinary -incident of daily life in a place like Bursley. - -"Well, my dear, I hope you'll find everything comfortable," said -Constance. - -"I'm sure I shall. Good night, dear." - -"Good night, then." - -They looked at each other again, with timid affectionateness. They -did not kiss. The thought in both their minds was: "We couldn't -keep on kissing every day." But there was a vast amount of quiet, -restrained affection, of mutual confidence and respect, even of -tenderness, in their tones. - -About half an hour later a dreadful hullaballoo smote the ear of -Constance. She was just getting into bed. She listened intently, -in great alarm. It was undoubtedly those dogs fighting, and -fighting to the death. She pictured the kitchen as a battlefield, -and Spot slain. Opening the door, she stepped out into the -corridor, - -"Constance," said a low voice above her. She jumped. "Is that -you?" - -"Yes." - -"Well, don't bother to go down to the dogs; they'll stop in a -moment. Fossette won't bite. I'm so sorry she's upsetting the -house." - -Constance stared upwards, and discerned a pale shadow. The dogs -did soon cease their altercation. This short colloquy in the dark -affected Constance strangely. - -III - -The next morning, after a night varied by periods of wakefulness -not unpleasant, Sophia arose and, taking due precautions against -cold, went to the window. It was Saturday; she had left Paris on -the Thursday. She looked forth upon the Square, holding aside the -blind. She had expected, of course, to find that the Square had -shrunk in size; but nevertheless she was startled to see how small -it was. It seemed to her scarcely bigger than a courtyard. She -could remember a winter morning when from the window she had -watched the Square under virgin snow in the lamplight, and the -Square had been vast, and the first wayfarer, crossing it -diagonally and leaving behind him the irregular impress of his -feet, had appeared to travel for hours over an interminable white -waste before vanishing past Holl's shop in the direction of the -Town Hall. She chiefly recalled the Square under snow; cold -mornings, and the coldness of the oil-cloth at the window, and the -draught of cold air through the ill-fitting sash (it was put right -now)! These visions of herself seemed beautiful to her; her -childish existence seemed beautiful; the storms and tempests of -her girlhood seemed beautiful; even the great sterile expanse of -tedium when, after giving up a scholastic career, she had served -for two years in the shop--even this had a strange charm in her -memory. - -And she thought that not for millions of pounds would she live her -life over again. - -In its contents the Square had not surprisingly changed during the -immense, the terrifying interval that separated her from her -virginity. On the east side, several shops had been thrown into -one, and forced into a semblance of eternal unity by means of a -coat of stucco. And there was a fountain at the north end which -was new to her. No other constructional change! But the moral -change, the sad declension from the ancient proud spirit of the -Square--this was painfully depressing. Several establishments -lacked tenants, had obviously lacked tenants for a long time; 'To -let' notices hung in their stained and dirty upper windows, and -clung insecurely to their closed shutters. And on the sign-boards -of these establishments were names that Sophia did not know. The -character of most of the shops seemed to have worsened; they had -become pettifogging little holes, unkempt, shabby, poor; they had -no brightness, no feeling of vitality. And the floor of the Square -was littered with nondescript refuse. The whole scene, paltry, -confined, and dull, reached for her the extreme of provinciality. -It was what the French called, with a pregnant intonation, la -province. This--being said, there was nothing else to say. -Bursley, of course, was in the provinces; Bursley must, in the -nature of things, be typically provincial. But in her mind it had -always been differentiated from the common province; it had always -had an air, a distinction, and especially St. Luke's Square! That -illusion was now gone. Still, the alteration was not wholly in -herself; it was not wholly subjective. The Square really had -changed for the worse; it might not be smaller, but it had -deteriorated. As a centre of commerce it had assuredly approached -very near to death. On a Saturday morning thirty years ago it -would have been covered with linen-roofed stalls, and chattering -country-folk, and the stir of bargains. Now, Saturday morning was -like any other morning in the Square, and the glass-roof of St. -Luke's market in Wedgwood Street, which she could see from her -window, echoed to the sounds of noisy commerce. In that instance -business had simply moved a few yards to the east; but Sophia -knew, from hints in Constance's letters and in her talk, that -business in general had moved more than a few yards, it had moved -a couple of miles--to arrogant and pushing Hanbridge, with its -electric light and its theatres and its big, advertising shops. -The heaven of thick smoke over the Square, the black deposit on -painted woodwork, the intermittent hooting of steam syrens, showed -that the wholesale trade of Bursley still flourished. But Sophia -had no memories of the wholesale trade of Bursley; it meant -nothing to the youth of her heart; she was attached by intimate -links to the retail traffic of Bursley, and as a mart old Bursley -was done for. - -She thought: "It would kill me if I had to live here. It's -deadening. It weighs on you. And the dirt, and the horrible -ugliness! And the--way they talk, and the way they think! I felt -it first at Knype station. The Square is rather picturesque, but -it's such a poor, poor little thing! Fancy having to look at it -every morning of one's life! No!" She almost shuddered. - -For the time being she had no home. To Constance she was 'paying a -visit.' - -Constance did not appear to realize the awful conditions of dirt, -decay, and provinciality in which she was living. Even Constance's -house was extremely inconvenient, dark, and no doubt unhealthy. -Cellar-kitchen, no hall, abominable stairs, and as to hygiene, -simply mediaeval. She could not understand why Constance had -remained in the house. Constance had plenty of money and might -live where she liked, and in a good modern house. Yet she stayed -in the Square. "I daresay she's got used to it," Sophia thought -leniently. "I daresay I should be just the same in her place." But -she did not really think so, and she could not understand -Constance's state of mind. - -Certainly she could not claim to have 'added up' Constance yet. -She considered that her sister was in some respects utterly -provincial--what they used to call in the Five Towns a 'body.' -Somewhat too diffident, not assertive enough, not erect enough; -with curious provincial pronunciations, accents, gestures, -mannerisms, and inarticulate ejaculations; with a curious -narrowness of outlook! But at the same time Constance was very -shrewd, and she was often proving by some bit of a remark that she -knew what was what, despite her provinciality. In judgments upon -human nature they undoubtedly thought alike, and there was a -strong natural general sympathy between them. And at the bottom of -Constance was something fine. At intervals Sophia discovered -herself secretly patronizing Constance, but reflection would -always cause her to cease from patronage and to examine her own -defences. Constance, besides being the essence of kindness, was no -fool. Constance could see through a pretence, an absurdity, as -quickly as any one. Constance did honestly appear to Sophia to be -superior to any Frenchwoman that she had ever encountered. She saw -supreme in Constance that quality which she had recognized in the -porters at Newhaven on landing--the quality of an honest and naive -goodwill, of powerful simplicity. That quality presented itself to -her as the greatest in the world, and it seemed to be in the very -air of England. She could even detect it in Mr. Critchlow, whom, -for the rest, she liked, admiring the brutal force of his -character. She pardoned his brutality to his wife. She found it -proper. "After all," she said, "supposing he hadn't married her, -what would she have been? Nothing but a slave! She's infinitely -better off as his wife. In fact she's lucky. And it would be -absurd for him to treat her otherwise than he does treat her." -(Sophia did not divine that her masterful Critchlow had once -wanted Maria as one might want a star.) - -But to be always with such people! To be always with Constance! To -be always in the Bursley atmosphere, physical and mental! - -She pictured Paris as it would be on that very morning--bright, -clean, glittering; the neatness of the Rue Lord Byron, and the -magnificent slanting splendour of the Champs Elysees. Paris had -always seemed beautiful to her; but the life of Paris had not -seemed beautiful to her. Yet now it did seem beautiful. She could -delve down into the earlier years of her ownership of the Pension, -and see a regular, placid beauty in her daily life there. Her life -there, even so late as a fortnight ago, seemed beautiful; sad, but -beautiful. It had passed into history. She sighed when she thought -of the innumerable interviews with Mardon, the endless formalities -required by the English and the French law and by the -particularity of the Syndicate. She had been through all that. She -had actually been through it and it was over. She had bought the -Pension for a song and sold it for great riches. She had developed -from a nobody into the desired of Syndicates. And after long, -long, monotonous, strenuous years of possession the day had come, -the emotional moment had come, when she had yielded up the keys of -ownership to Mr. Mardon and a man from the Hotel Moscow, and had -paid her servants for the last time and signed the last receipted -bill. The men had been very gallant, and had requested her to stay -in the Pension as their guest until she was ready to leave Paris. -But she had declined that. She could not have borne to remain in -the Pension under the reign of another. She had left at once and -gone to a hotel with her few goods while finally disposing of -certain financial questions. And one evening Jacqueline had come -to see her, and had wept. - -Her exit from the Pension Frensham struck her now as poignantly -pathetic, in its quickness and its absence of ceremonial. Ten -steps, and her career was finished, closed. Astonishing with what -liquid tenderness she turned and looked back on that hard, -fighting, exhausting life in Paris! For, even if she had -unconsciously liked it, she had never enjoyed it. She had always -compared France disadvantageously with England, always resented -the French temperament in business, always been convinced that -'you never knew where you were' with French tradespeople. And now -they flitted before her endowed with a wondrous charm; so polite -in their lying, so eager to spare your feelings and to reassure -you, so neat and prim. And the French shops, so exquisitely -arranged! Even a butcher's shop in Paris was a pleasure to the -eye, whereas the butcher's shop in Wedgwood Street, which she -remembered of old, and which she had glimpsed from the cab--what a -bloody shambles! She longed for Paris again. She longed to stretch -her lungs in Paris. These people in Bursley did not suspect what -Paris was. They did not appreciate and they never would appreciate -the marvels that she had accomplished in a theatre of marvels. -They probably never realized that the whole of the rest of the -world was not more or less like Bursley. They had no curiosity. -Even Constance was a thousand times more interested in relating -trifles of Bursley gossip than in listening to details of life in -Paris. Occasionally she had expressed a mild, vapid surprise at -things told to her by Sophia; but she was not really impressed, -because her curiosity did not extend beyond Bursley. She, like the -rest, had the formidable, thrice-callous egotism of the provinces. -And if Sophia had informed her that the heads of Parisians grew -out of their navels she would have murmured: "Well, well! Bless -us! I never heard of such things! Mrs. Brindley's second boy has -got his head quite crooked, poor little fellow!" - -Why should Sophia feel sorrowful? She did not know. She was free; -free to go where she liked and do what she liked, She had no -responsibilities, no cares. The thought of her husband had long -ago ceased to rouse in her any feeling of any kind. She was rich. -Mr. Critchlow had accumulated for her about as much money as she -had herself acquired. Never could she spend her income! She did -not know how to spend it. She lacked nothing that was procurable. -She had no desires except the direct desire for happiness. If -thirty thousand pounds or so could have bought a son like Cyril, -she would have bought one for herself. She bitterly regretted that -she had no child. In this, she envied Constance. A child seemed to -be the one commodity worth having. She was too free, too exempt -from responsibilities. In spite of Constance she was alone in the -world. The strangeness of the hazards of life overwhelmed her. -Here she was at fifty, alone. - -But the idea of leaving Constance, having once rejoined her, did -not please Sophia. It disquieted her. She could not see herself -living away from Constance. She was alone--but Constance was -there. - -She was downstairs first, and she had a little conversation with -Amy. And she stood on the step of the front-door while Fossette -made a preliminary inspection of Spot's gutter. She found the air -nipping. - -Constance, when she descended, saw stretching across one side of -the breakfast-table an umbrella, Sophia's present to her from -Paris. It was an umbrella such that a better could not be bought. -It would have impressed even Aunt Harriet. The handle was of gold, -set with a circlet of opalines. The tips of the ribs were also of -gold. It was this detail which staggered Constance. Frankly, this -development of luxury had been unknown and unsuspected in the -Square. That the tips of the ribs should match the handle ... that -did truly beat everything! Sophia said calmly that the device was -quite common. But she did not conceal that the umbrella was -strictly of the highest class and that it might be shown to queens -without shame. She intimated that the frame (a 'Fox's Paragon'), -handle, and tips, would outlast many silks. Constance was childish -with pleasure. - -They decided to go out marketing together. The unspoken thought in -their minds was that as Sophia would have to be introduced to the -town sooner or later, it might as well be sooner. Constance looked -at the sky. "It can't possibly rain," she said. "I shall take my -umbrella." - - - - -CHAPTER III - -TOWARDS HOTEL LIFE - -I - - -SOPHIA wore list slippers in the morning. It was a habit which she -had formed in the Rue Lord Byron--by accident rather than with an -intention to utilize list slippers for the effective supervision -of servants. These list slippers were the immediate cause of -important happenings in St. Luke's Square. Sophia had been with -Constance one calendar month--it was, of course, astonishing how -quickly the time had passed!--and she had become familiar with the -house. Restraint had gradually ceased to mark the relations of the -sisters. Constance, in particular, hid nothing from Sophia, who -was made aware of the minor and major defects of Amy and all the -other creakings of the household machine. Meals were eaten off the -ordinary tablecloths, and on the days for 'turning out' the -parlour, Constance assumed, with a little laugh, that Sophia would -excuse Amy's apron, which she had not had time to change. In -brief, Sophia was no longer a stranger, and nobody felt bound to -pretend that things were not exactly what they were. In spite of -the foulness and the provinciality of Bursley, Sophia enjoyed the -intimacy with Constance. As for Constance, she was enchanted. The -inflections of their voices, when they were talking to each other -very privately, were often tender, and these sudden surprising -tendernesses secretly thrilled both of them. - -On the fourth Sunday morning Sophia put on her dressing-gown and -those list slippers very early, and paid a visit to Constance's -bedroom. She was somewhat concerned about Constance, and her -concern was pleasurable to her. She made the most of it. Amy, with -her lifelong carelessness about doors, had criminally failed to -latch the street-door of the parlour on the previous morning, and -Constance had only perceived the omission by the phenomenon of -frigidity in her legs at breakfast. She always sat with her back -to the door, in her mother's fluted rocking-chair; and Sophia on -the spot, but not in the chair, occupied by John Baines in the -forties, and in the seventies and later by Samuel Povey. Constance -had been alarmed by that frigidity. "I shall have a return of my -sciatica!" she had exclaimed, and Sophia was startled by the -apprehension in her tone. Before evening the sciatica had indeed -revisited Constance's sciatic nerve, and Sophia for the first time -gained an idea of what a pulsating sciatica can do in the way of -torturing its victim. Constance, in addition to the sciatica, had -caught a sneezing cold, and the act of sneezing caused her the -most acute pain. Sophia had soon stopped the sneezing. Constance -was got to bed. Sophia wished to summon the doctor, but Constance -assured her that the doctor would have nothing new to advise. -Constance suffered angelically. The weak and exquisite sweetness -of her smile, as she lay in bed under the stress of twinging pain -amid hot-water bottles, was amazing to Sophia. It made her think -upon the reserves of Constance's character, and upon the variety -of the manifestations of the Baines' blood. - -So on the Sunday morning she had arisen early, just after Amy. - -She discovered Constance to be a little better, as regards the -neuralgia, but exhausted by the torments of a sleepless night. -Sophia, though she had herself not slept well, felt somehow -conscience-stricken for having slept at all. - -"You poor dear!" she murmured, brimming with sympathy. "I shall -make you some tea at once, myself." - -"Oh, Amy will do it," said Constance. - -Sophia repeated with a resolute intonation: "I shall make it -myself." And after being satisfied that there was no instant need -for a renewal of hot-water bottles, she went further downstairs in -those list slippers. - -As she was descending the dark kitchen steps she heard Amy's voice -in pettish exclamation: "Oh, get out, YOU!" followed by a yelp -from Fossette. She had a swift movement of anger, which she -controlled. The relations between her and Fossette were not marked -by transports, and her rule over dogs in general was severe; even -when alone she very seldom kissed the animal passionately, -according to the general habit of people owning dogs. But she -loved Fossette. And, moreover, her love for Fossette had been -lately sharpened by the ridicule which Bursley had showered upon -that strange beast. Happily for Sophia's amour propre, there was -no means of getting Fossette shaved in Bursley, and thus Fossette -was daily growing less comic to the Bursley eye. Sophia could -therefore without loss of dignity yield to force of circumstances -what she would not have yielded to popular opinion. She guessed -that Amy had no liking for the dog, but the accent which Amy had -put upon the 'you' seemed to indicate that Amy was making -distinctions between Fossette and Spot, and this disturbed Sophia -much more than Fossette's yelp. - -Sophia coughed, and entered the kitchen. - -Spot was lapping his morning milk out of a saucer, while Fossette -stood wistfully, an amorphous mass of thick hair, under the table. - -"Good morning, Amy," said Sophia, with dreadful politeness. - -"Good morning, m'm," said Amy, glumly. - -Amy knew that Sophia had heard that yelp, and Sophia knew that she -knew. The pretence of politeness was horrible. Both the women felt -as though the kitchen was sanded with gunpowder and there were -lighted matches about. Sophia had a very proper grievance against -Amy on account of the open door of the previous day. Sophia -thought that, after such a sin, the least Amy could do was to show -contrition and amiability and an anxiety to please: which things -Amy had not shown. Amy had a grievance against Sophia because -Sophia had recently thrust upon her a fresh method of cooking -green vegetables. Amy was a strong opponent of new or foreign -methods. Sophia was not aware of this grievance, for Amy had -hidden it under her customary cringing politeness to Sophia. - -They surveyed each other like opposing armies. - -"What a pity you have no gas-stove here! I want to make some tea -at once for Mrs. Povey," said Sophia, inspecting the just-born -fire. - -"Gas-stove, m'm?" said Amy, hostilely. It was Sophia's list -slippers which had finally decided Amy to drop the mask of -deference. - -She made no effort to aid Sophia; she gave no indication as to -where the various necessaries for tea were to be found. Sophia got -the kettle, and washed it out. Sophia got the smallest tea-pot, -and, as the tea-leaves had been left in it, she washed out the -teapot also, with exaggerated noise and meticulousness. Sophia got -the sugar and the other trifles, and Sophia blew up the fire with -the bellows. And Amy did nothing in particular except encourage -Spot to drink. - -"Is that all the milk you give to Fossette?" Sophia demanded -coldly, when it had come to Fossette's turn. She was waiting for -the water to boil. The saucer for the bigger dog, who would have -made two of Spot, was not half full. - -"It's all there is to spare, m'm," Amy rasped. - -Sophia made no reply. Soon afterwards she departed, with the tea -successfully made. If Amy had not been a mature woman of over -forty she would have snorted as Sophia went away. But Amy was -scarcely the ordinary silly girl. - -Save for a certain primness as she offered the tray to her sister, -Sophia's demeanour gave no sign whatever that the Amazon in her -was aroused. Constance's eager trembling pleasure in the tea -touched her deeply, and she was exceedingly thankful that -Constance had her, Sophia, as a succour in time of distress. - -A few minutes later, Constance, having first asked Sophia what -time it was by the watch in the watch-case on the chest of drawers -(the Swiss clock had long since ceased to work), pulled the red -tassel of the bell-cord over her bed. A bell tinkled far away in -the kitchen. - -"Anything I can do?" Sophia inquired. - -"Oh no, thanks," said Constance. "I only want my letters, if the -postman has come. He ought to have been here long ago." Sophia had -learned during her stay that Sunday morning was the morning on -which Constance expected a letter from Cyril. It was a definite -arrangement between mother and son that Cyril should write on -Saturdays, and Constance on Sundays. Sophia knew that Constance -set store by this letter, becoming more and more preoccupied about -Cyril as the end of the week approached. Since Sophia's arrival -Cyril's letter had not failed to come, but once it had been naught -save a scribbled line or two, and Sophia gathered that it was -never a certainty, and that Constance was accustomed, though not -reconciled, to disappointments. Sophia had been allowed to read -the letters. They left a faint impression on her mind that her -favourite was perhaps somewhat negligent in his relations with his -mother. - -There was no reply to the bell. Constance rang again without -effect. - -With a brusque movement Sophia left the bedroom by way of Cyril's -room. - -"Amy," she called over the banisters, "do you not hear your -mistress's bell?" - -"I'm coming as quick as I can, m'm." The voice was still very -glum. - -Sophia murmured something inarticulate, staying till assured that -Amy really was coming, and then she passed back into Cyril's -bedroom. She waited there, hesitant, not exactly on the watch, not -exactly unwilling to assist at an interview between Amy and Amy's -mistress; indeed, she could not have surely analyzed her motive -for remaining in Cyril's bedroom, with the door ajar between that -room and Constance's. - -Amy reluctantly mounted the stairs and went into her mistress's -bedroom with her chin in the air. She thought that Sophia had gone -up to the second storey, where she 'belonged.' She stood in -silence by the bed, showing no sympathy with Constance, no -curiosity as to the indisposition. She objected to Constance's -attack of sciatica, as being a too permanent reproof of her -carelessness as to doors. - -Constance also waited, for the fraction of a second, as if -expectant. - -"Well, Amy," she said at length in her voice weakened by fatigue -and pain. "The letters?" - -"There ain't no letters," said Amy, grimly. "You might have known, -if there'd been any, I should have brought 'em up. Postman went -past twenty minutes agone. I'm always being interrupted, and it -isn't as if I hadn't got enough to do--now!" - -She turned to leave, and was pulling the door open. - -"Amy!" said a voice sharply. It was Sophia's. - -The servant jumped, and in spite of herself obeyed the implicit, -imperious command to stop. - -"You will please not speak to your mistress in that tone, at any -rate while I'm here," said Sophia, icily. "You know she is ill and -weak. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." - -"I never---" Amy began. - -"I don't want to argue," Sophia said angrily. "Please leave the -room." - -Amy obeyed. She was cowed, in addition to being staggered. - -To the persons involved in it, this episode was intensely -dramatic. Sophia had surmised that Constance permitted liberties -of speech to Amy; she had even guessed that Amy sometimes took -licence to be rude. But that the relations between them were such -as to allow the bullying of Constance by an Amy downright -insolent--this had shocked and wounded Sophia, who suddenly had a -vision of Constance as the victim of a reign of terror. "If the -creature will do this while I'm here," said Sophia to herself, -"what does she do when they are alone together in the house?" - -"Well," she exclaimed, "I never heard of such goings-on! And you -let her talk to you in that style! My dear Constance!" - -Constance was sitting up in bed, the small tea-tray on her knees. -Her eyes were moist. The tears had filled them when she knew that -there was no letter. Ordinarily the failure of Cyril's letter -would not have made her cry, but weakness had impaired her self- -control. And the tears having once got into her eyes, she could -not dismiss them. There they were! - -"She's been with me such a long time," Constance murmured. "She -takes liberties. I've corrected her once or twice." - -"Liberties!" Sophia repeated the word. "Liberties!" - -"Of course I really ought not to allow it," said Constance. "I -ought to have put a stop to it long since." - -"Well," said Sophia, rather relieved by this symptom of -Constance's secret mind, "I do hope you won't think I'm -meddlesome, but truly it was too much for me. The words were out -of my mouth before I----" She stopped. - -"You were quite right, quite right," said Constance, seeing before -her in the woman of fifty the passionate girl of fifteen. - -"I've had a good deal of experience of servants," said Sophia. - -"I know you have," Constance put in. - -"And I'm convinced that it never pays to stand any sauce. Servants -don't understand kindness and forbearance. And this sort of thing -grows and grows till you can't call your soul your own." - -"You are quite right," Constance said again, with even more -positiveness. - -Not merely the conviction that Sophia was quite right, but the -desire to assure Sophia that Sophia was not meddlesome, gave force -to her utterance. Amy's allusion to extra work shamed Amy's -mistress as a hostess, and she was bound to make amends. - -"Now as to that woman," said Sophia in a lower voice, as she sat -down confidentially on the edge of the bed. And she told Constance -about Amy and the dogs, and about Amy's rudeness in the kitchen. -"I should never have DREAMT of mentioning such things," she -finished. "But under the circumstances I feel it right that you -should know. I feel you ought to know." - -And Constance nodded her head in thorough agreement. She did not -trouble to go into articulate apologies to her guest for the -actual misdeeds of her servant. The sisters were now on a plane of -intimacy where such apologies would have been supererogatory. -Their voices fell lower and lower, and the case of Amy was laid -bare and discussed to the minutest detail. - -Gradually they realized that what had occurred was a crisis. They -were both very excited, apprehensive, and rather too consciously -defiant. At the same time they were drawn very close to each -other, by Sophia's generous indignation and by Constance's -absolute loyalty. - -A long time passed before Constance said, thinking about something -else: - -"I expect it's been delayed in the post." - -"Cyril's letter? Oh, no doubt! If you knew the posts in France, my -word!" - -Then they determined, with little sighs, to face the crisis -cheerfully. - -In truth it was a crisis, and a great one. The sensation of the -crisis affected the atmosphere of the entire house. Constance got -up for tea and managed to walk to the drawing-room. And when -Sophia, after an absence in her own room, came down to tea and -found the tea all served, Constance whispered: - -"She's given notice! And Sunday too!" - -"What did she say?" - -"She didn't say much," Constance replied vaguely, hiding from -Sophia that Amy had harped on the too great profusion of -mistresses in that house. "After all, it's just as well. She'll be -all right. She's saved a good bit of money, and she has friends." - -"But how foolish of her to give up such a good place!" - -"She simply doesn't care," said Constance, who was a little hurt -by Amy's defection. "When she takes a thing into her head she -simply doesn't care. She's got no common sense. I've always known -that." - -"So you're going to leave, Amy?" said Sophia that evening, as Amy -was passing through the parlour on her way to bed. Constance was -already arranged for the night. - -"I am, m'm," answered Amy, precisely. - -Her tone was not rude, but it was firm. She had apparently -reconnoitred her position in calmness. - -"I'm sorry I was obliged to correct you this morning," said -Sophia, with cheerful amicableness, pleased in spite of herself -with the woman's tone. "But I think you will see that I had reason -to." - -"I've been thinking it over, m'm," said Amy, with dignity, "and I -see as I must leave." - -There was a pause. - -"Well, you know best. ... Good night, Amy." - -"Good night, m'm." - -"She's a decent woman," thought Sophia, "but hopeless for this -place now." - -The sisters were fronted with the fact that Constance had a month -in which to find a new servant, and that a new servant would have -to be trained in well-doing and might easily prove disastrous. -Both Constance and Amy were profoundly disturbed by the -prospective dissolution of a bond which dated from the seventies. -And both were decided that there was no alternative to the -dissolution. Outsiders knew merely that Mrs. Povey's old servant -was leaving. Outsiders merely saw Mrs. Povey's advertisement in -the Signal for a new servant. They could not read hearts. Some of -the younger generation even said superiorly that old-fashioned -women like Mrs. Povey seemed to have servants on the brain, etc., -etc. - -II - -"Well, have you got your letter?" Sophia demanded cheerfully of -Constance when she entered the bedroom the next morning. - -Constance merely shook her head. She was very depressed. Sophia's -cheerfulness died out. As she hated to be insincerely optimistic, -she said nothing. Otherwise she might have remarked: "Perhaps the -afternoon post will bring it." Gloom reigned. To Constance -particularly, as Amy had given notice and as Cyril was 'remiss,' -it seemed really that the time was out of joint and life unworth -living. Even the presence of Sophia did not bring her much -comfort. Immediately Sophia left the room Constance's sciatica -began to return, and in a severe form. She had regretted this, -less for the pain than because she had just assured Sophia, quite -honestly, that she was not suffering; Sophia had been sceptical. -After that it was of course imperative that Constance should get -up as usual. She had said that she would get up as usual. Besides, -there was the immense enterprise of obtaining a new servant! -Worries loomed mountainous. Suppose Cyril were dangerously ill, -and unable to write! Suppose something had happened to him! -Supposing she never did obtain a new servant! - -Sophia, up in her room, was endeavouring to be philosophical, and -to see the world brightly. She was saying to herself that she must -take Constance in hand, that what Constance lacked was energy, -that Constance must be stirred out of her groove. And in the -cavernous kitchen Amy, preparing the nine-o'clock breakfast, was -meditating upon the ingratitude of employers and wondering what -the future held for her. She had a widowed mother in the -picturesque village of Sneyd, where the mortal and immortal -welfare of every inhabitant was watched over by God's vicegerent, -the busy Countess of Chell; she possessed about two hundred pounds -of her own; her mother for years had been begging Amy to share her -home free of expense. But nevertheless Amy's mind was black with -foreboding and vague dejection. The house was a house of sorrow, -and these three women, each solitary, the devotees of sorrow. And -the two dogs wandered disconsolate up and down, aware of the -necessity for circumspection, never guessing that the highly -peculiar state of the atmosphere had been brought about by nothing -but a half-shut door and an incorrect tone. - -As Sophia, fully dressed this time, was descending to breakfast, -she heard Constance's voice, feebly calling her, and found the -convalescent still in bed. The truth could not be concealed. -Constance was once more in great pain, and her moral condition was -not favourable to fortitude. - -"I wish you had told me, to begin with," Sophia could not help -saying, "then I should have known what to do." - -Constance did not defend herself by saying that the pain had only -recurred since their first interview that morning. She just wept. - -"I'm very low!" she blubbered. - -Sophia was surprised. She felt that this was not 'being a Baines.' - -During the progress of that interminable April morning, her -acquaintance with the possibilities of sciatica as an agent -destructive of moral fibre was further increased. Constance had no -force at all to resist its activity. The sweetness of her -resignation seemed to melt into nullity. She held to it that the -doctor could do nothing for her. - -About noon, when Sophia was moving anxiously around her, she -suddenly screamed. - -"I feel as if my leg was going to burst!" she cried. - -That decided Sophia. As soon as Constance was a little easier she -went downstairs to Amy. - -"Amy," she said, "it's a Doctor Stirling that your mistress has -when she's ill, isn't it?" - -"Yes, m'm." - -"Where is his surgery?" - -"Well, m'm, he did live just opposite, with Dr. Harrop, but -latterly he's gone to live at Bleakridge." - -"I wish you would put your things on, and run up there and ask him -to call as soon as he can." - -"I will, m'm," said Amy, with the greatest willingness. "I thought -I heard missis cry out." She was not effusive. She was better than -effusive: kindly and helpful with a certain reserve. - -"There's something about that woman I like," said Sophia, to -herself. For a proved fool, Amy was indeed holding her own rather -well. - -Dr. Stirling drove down about two o'clock. He had now been -established in the Five Towns for more than a decade, and the -stamp of success was on his brow and on the proud forehead of his -trotting horse. He had, in the phrase of the Signal, 'identified -himself with the local life of the district.' He was liked, being -a man of broad sympathies. In his rich Scotch accent he could -discuss with equal ability the flavour of whisky or of a sermon, -and he had more than sufficient tact never to discuss either -whiskies or sermons in the wrong place. He had made a speech -(responding for the learned professions) at the annual dinner of -the Society for the Prosecution of Felons, and this speech (in -which praise of red wine was rendered innocuous by praise of -books--his fine library was notorious) had classed him as a wit -with the American consul, whose post-prandial manner was modelled -on Mark Twain's. He was thirty-five years of age, tall and -stoutish, with a chubby boyish face that the razor left chiefly -blue every morning. - -The immediate effect of his arrival on Constance was miraculous. -His presence almost cured her for a moment, just as though her -malady had been toothache and he a dentist. Then, when he had -finished his examination, the pain resumed its sway over her. - -In talking to her and to Sophia, he listened very seriously to all -that they said; he seemed to regard the case as the one case that -had ever aroused his genuine professional interest; but as it -unfolded itself, in all its difficulty and urgency, so he seemed, -in his mind, to be discovering wondrous ways of dealing with it; -these mysterious discoveries seemed to give him confidence, and -his confidence was communicated to the patient by means of faint -sallies of humour. He was a highly skilled doctor. This fact, -however, had no share in his popularity; which was due solely to -his rare gift of taking a case very seriously while remaining -cheerful. - -He said he would return in a quarter of an hour, and he returned -in thirteen minutes with a hypodermic syringe, with which he -attacked the pain in its central strongholds. - -"What is it?" asked Constance, breathing gratitude for the relief. - -He paused, looking at her roguishly from under lowered eyelids. - -"I'd better not tell ye," he said. "It might lead ye into -mischief." - -"Oh, but you must tell me, doctor," Constance insisted, anxious -that he should live up to his reputation for Sophia's benefit. - -"It's hydrochloride of cocaine," he said, and lifted a finger. -"Beware of the cocaine habit. It's ruined many a respectable -family. But if I hadn't had a certain amount of confidence in yer -strength of character, Mrs. Povey, I wouldn't have risked it." - -"He will have his joke, will the doctor!" Constance smiled, in a -brighter world. - -He said he should come again about half-past five, and he arrived -about half-past six, and injected more cocaine. The special -importance of the case was thereby established. On this second -visit, he and Sophia soon grew rather friendly. When she conducted -him downstairs again he stopped chatting with her in the parlour -for a long time, as though he had nothing else on earth to do, -while his coachman walked the horse to and fro in front of the -door. - -His attitude to her flattered Sophia, for it showed that he took -her for no ordinary woman. It implied a continual assumption that -she must be a mine of interest for any one who was privileged to -delve into her memory. So far, among Constance's acquaintance, -Sophia had met no one who showed more than a perfunctory curiosity -as to her life. Her return was accepted with indifference. Her -escapade of thirty years ago had entirely lost its dramatic -quality. Many people indeed had never heard that she had run away -from home to marry a commercial traveller; and to those who -remembered, or had been told, it seemed a sufficiently banal -exploit--after thirty years! Her fear, and Constance's, that the -town would be murmurous with gossip was ludicrously unfounded. The -effect of time was such that even Mr. Critchlow appeared to have -forgotten even that she had been indirectly responsible for her -father's death. She had nearly forgotten it herself; when she -happened to think of it she felt no shame, no remorse, seeing the -death as purely accidental, and not altogether unfortunate. On two -points only was the town inquisitive: as to her husband, and as to -the precise figure at which she had sold the pension. The town -knew that she was probably not a widow, for she had been obliged -to tell Mr. Critchlow, and Mr. Critchlow in some hour of -tenderness had told Maria. But nobody had dared to mention the -name of Gerald Scales to her. With her fashionable clothes, her -striking mien of command, and the legend of her wealth, she -inspired respect, if not awe, in the townsfolk. In the doctor's -attitude there was something of amaze; she felt it. Though the -dull apathy of the people she had hitherto met was assuredly not -without its advantageous side for her tranquillity of mind, it had -touched her vanity, and the gaze of the doctor soothed the smart. -He had so obviously divined her interestingness; he so obviously -wanted to enjoy it. - -"I've just been reading Zola's 'Downfall,'" he said. - -Her mind searched backwards, and recalled a poster. - -"Oh!" she replied. "'La Debacle'?" - -"Yes. What do ye think of it?" His eyes lighted at the prospect of -a talk. He was even pleased to hear her give him the title in -French. - -"I haven't read it," she said, and she was momentarily sorry that -she had not read it, for she could see that he was dashed. The -doctor had supposed that residence in a foreign country involved a -knowledge of the literature of that country. Yet he had never -supposed that residence in England involved a knowledge of English -literature. Sophia had read practically nothing since 1870; for -her the latest author was Cherbuliez. Moreover, her impression of -Zola was that he was not at all nice, and that he was the enemy of -his race, though at that date the world had scarcely heard of -Dreyfus. Dr. Stirling had too hastily assumed that the opinions of -the bourgeois upon art differ in different countries. - -"And ye actually were in the siege of Paris?" he questioned, -trying again. - -"Yes." - -"AND the commune?" - -"Yes, the commune too." - -"Well!" he exclaimed. "It's incredible! When I was reading the -'Downfall' the night before last, I said to myself that you must -have been through a lot of all that. I didn't know I was going to -have the pleasure of a chat with ye so soon." - -She smiled. "But how did you know I was in the siege of Paris?" -she asked, curious. - -"How do I know? I know because I've seen that birthday card ye -sent to Mrs. Povey in 1871, after it was over. It's one of her -possessions, that card is. She showed it me one day when she told -me ye were coming." - -Sophia started. She had quite forgotten that card. It had not -occurred to her that Constance would have treasured all those -cards that she had despatched during the early years of her exile. -She responded as well as she could to his eagerness for personal -details concerning the siege and the commune. He might have been -disappointed at the prose of her answers, had he not been -determined not to be disappointed. - -"Ye seem to have taken it all very quietly," he observed. - -"Eh yes!" she agreed, not without pride. "But it's a long time -since." - -Those events, as they existed in her memory, scarcely warranted -the tremendous fuss subsequently made about them. What were they, -after all? Such was her secret thought. Chirac himself was now -nothing but a faint shadow. Still, were the estimate of those -events true or false, she was a woman who had been through them, -and Dr. Stirling's high appreciation of that fact was very -pleasant to her. Their friendliness approached intimacy. Night had -fallen. Outside could be heard the champing of a bit. - -"I must be getting on," he said at last; but he did not move. - -"Then there is nothing else I am to do for my sister?" Sophia -inquired. - -"I don't think so," said he. "It isn't a question of medicine." - -"Then what is it a question of?" Sophia demanded bluntly. - -"Nerves," he said. "It's nearly all nerves. I know something about -Mrs. Povey's constitution now, and I was hoping that your visit -would do her good." - -"She's been quite well--I mean what you may call quite well--until -the day before yesterday, when she sat in that draught. She was -better last night, and then this morning I find her ever so much -worse." - -"No worries?" The doctor looked at her confidentially. - -"What CAN she have in the way of worries?" exclaimed Sophia. -"That's to say--real worries." - -"Exactly!" the doctor agreed. - -"I tell her she doesn't know what worry is," said Sophia. - -"So do I!" said the doctor, his eyes twinkling. - -"She was a little upset because she didn't receive her usual -Sunday letter from Cyril yesterday. But then she was weak and -low." - -"Clever youth, Cyril!" mused the doctor. - -"I think he's a particularly nice boy," said Sophia, eagerly, - -"So you've seen him?" - -"Of course," said Sophia, rather stiffly. Did the doctor suppose -that she did not know her own nephew? She went back to the subject -of her sister. "She is also a little bothered, I think, because -the servant is going to leave." - -"Oh! So Amy is going to leave, is she?" He spoke still lower. -"Between you and me, it's no bad thing." - -"I'm so glad you think so." - -"In another few years the servant would have been the mistress -here. One can see these things coming on, but it's so difficult to -do anything. In fact ye can't do anything." - -"I did something," said Sophia, sharply. "I told the woman -straight that it shouldn't go on while I was in the house. I -didn't suspect it at first--but when I found it out ... I can tell -you!" She let the doctor imagine what she could tell him. - -He smiled. "No," he said. "I can easily understand that ye didn't -suspect anything at first. When she's well and bright Mrs. Povey -could hold her own--so I'm told. But it was certainly slowly -getting worse." - -"Then people talk about it?" said Sophia, shocked. - -"As a native of Bursley, Mrs. Scales," said the doctor, "ye ought -to know what people in Bursley do!" Sophia put her lips together. -The doctor rose, smoothing his waistcoat. "What does she bother -with servants at all for?" he burst out. "She's perfectly free. -She hasn't got a care in the world, if she only knew it. Why -doesn't she go out and about, and enjoy herself? She wants -stirring up, that's what your sister wants." - -"You're quite right," Sophia burst out in her turn. "That's -precisely what I say to myself; precisely! I was thinking it over -only this morning. She wants stirring up. She's got into a rut." - -"She needs to be jolly. Why doesn't she go to some seaside place, -and live in a hotel, and enjoy herself? Is there anything to -prevent her?" - -"Nothing whatever." - -"Instead of being dependent on a servant! I believe in enjoying -one's self--when ye've got the money to do it with! Can ye imagine -anybody living in Bursley, for pleasure? And especially in St. -Luke's Square, right in the thick of it all! Smoke! Dirt! No air! -No light! No scenery! No amusements! What does she do it for? -She's in a rut." - -"Yes, she's in a rut," Sophia repeated her own phrase, which he -had copied. - -"My word!" said the doctor. "Wouldn't I clear out and enjoy myself -if I could! Your sister's a young woman." - -"Of course she is!" Sophia concurred, feeling that she herself was -even younger. "Of course she is!" - -"And except that she's nervously organized, and has certain -predispositions, there's nothing the matter with her. This -sciatica--I don't say it would be cured, but it might be, by a -complete change and throwing off all these ridiculous worries. Not -only does she live in the most depressing conditions, but she -suffers tortures for it, and there's absolutely no need for her to -be here at all." - -"Doctor," said Sophia, solemnly, impressed, "you are quite right. -I agree with every word you say." - -"Naturally she's attached to the place," he continued, glancing -round the room. "I know all about that. After living here all her -life! But she's got to break herself of her attachment. It's her -duty to do so. She ought to show a little energy. I'm deeply -attached to my bed in the morning, but I have to leave it." - -"Of course," said Sophia, in an impatient tone, as though -disgusted with every person who could not perceive, or would not -subscribe to, these obvious truths that the doctor was uttering. -"Of course!" - -"What she needs is the bustle of life in a good hotel, a good -hydro, for instance. Among jolly people. Parties! Games! -Excursions! She wouldn't be the same woman. You'd see. Wouldn't I -do it, if I could? Strathpeffer. She'd soon forget her sciatica. I -don't know what Mrs. Povey's annual income is, but I expect that -if she took it into her head to live in the dearest hotel in -England, there would be no reason why she shouldn't." - -Sophia lifted her head and smiled in calm amusement. "I expect -so," she said superiorly. - -"A hotel--that's the life. No worries. If ye want anything ye ring -a bell. If a waiter gives notice, it's some one else who has the -worry, not you. But you know all about that, Mrs. Scales." - -"No one better," murmured Sophia. - -"Good evening," he said abruptly, sticking out his hand. "I'll be -down in the morning." - -"Did you ever mention this to my sister?" Sophia asked him, -rising. - -"Yes," said he. "But it's no use. Oh yes, I've told her. But she -does really think it's quite impossible. She wouldn't even hear of -going to live in London with her beloved son. She won't listen." - -"I never thought of that," said Sophia. "Good night." - -Their hand-grasp was very intimate and mutually comprehending. He -was pleased by the quick responsiveness of her temperament, and -the masterful vigour which occasionally flashed out in her -replies. He noticed the hardly perceptible distortion of her -handsome, worn face, and he said to himself: "She's been through a -thing or two," and: "She'll have to mind her p's and q's." Sophia -was pleased because he admired her, and because with her he -dropped his bedside jocularities, and talked plainly as a sensible -man will talk when he meets an uncommonly wise woman, and because -he echoed and amplified her own thoughts. She honoured him by -standing at the door till he had driven off. - -For a few moments she mused solitary in the parlour, and then, -lowering the gas, she went upstairs to her sister, who lay in the -dark. Sophia struck a match. - -"You've been having quite a long chat with the doctor," said -Constance. "He's very good company, isn't he? What did he talk -about this time?" - -"He wanted to know about Paris and so on," Sophia answered. - -"Oh! I believe he's a rare student." - -Lying there in the dark, the simple Constance never suspected that -those two active and strenuous ones had been arranging her life -for her, so that she should be jolly and live for twenty years -yet. She did not suspect that she had been tried and found guilty -of sinful attachments, and of being in a rut, and of lacking the -elements of ordinary sagacity. It had not occurred to her that if -she was worried and ill, the reason was to be found in her own -blind and stupid obstinacy. She had thought herself a fairly -sensible kind of creature. - -III - -The sisters had an early supper together in Constance's bedroom. -Constance was much easier. Having a fancy that a little movement -would be beneficial, she had even got up for a few moments and -moved about the room. Now she sat ensconced in pillows. A fire -burned in the old-fashioned ineffectual grate. From the Sun Vaults -opposite came the sound of a phonograph singing an invitation to -God to save its gracious queen. This phonograph was a wonderful -novelty, and filled the Sun nightly. For a few evenings it had -interested the sisters, in spite of themselves, but they had soon -sickened of it and loathed it. Sophia became more and more -obsessed by the monstrous absurdity of the simple fact that she -and Constance were there, in that dark inconvenient house, wearied -by the gaiety of public-houses, blackened by smoke, surrounded by -mud, instead of being luxuriously installed in a beautiful -climate, amid scenes of beauty and white cleanliness. Secretly she -became more and more indignant. - -Amy entered, bearing a letter in her coarse hand. As Amy -unceremoniously handed the letter to Constance, Sophia thought: -"If she was my servant she would hand letters on a tray." (An -advertisement had already been sent to the Signal.) - -Constance took the letter trembling. "Here it is at last," she -cried. - -When she had put on her spectacles and read it, she exclaimed: - -"Bless us! Here's news! He's coming down! That's why he didn't -write on Saturday as usual." - -She gave the letter to Sophia to read. It ran-- - -"Sunday midnight. - -"DEAR MOTHER, - -"Just a line to say I am coming down to Bursley on Wednesday, on -business with Peels. I shall get to Knype at 5.28, and take the -Loop. I've been very busy, and as I was coming down I didn't write -on Saturday. I hope you didn't worry. Love to yourself and Aunt -Sophia. - -"Yours, C." - -"I must send him a line," said Constance, excitedly. - -"What? To-night?" - -"Yes. Amy can easily catch the last post with it. Otherwise he -won't know that I've got his letter." - -She rang the bell. - -Sophia thought: "His coming down is really no excuse for his not -writing on Saturday. How could she guess that he was coming down? -I shall have to put in a little word to that young man. I wonder -Constance is so blind. She is quite satisfied now that his letter -has come." On behalf of the elder generation she rather resented -Constance's eagerness to write in answer. - -But Constance was not so blind. Constance thought exactly as -Sophia thought. In her heart she did not at all justify or excuse -Cyril. She remembered separately almost every instance of his -carelessness in her regard. "Hope I didn't worry, indeed!" she -said to herself with a faint touch of bitterness, apropos of the -phrase in his letter. - -Nevertheless she insisted on writing at once. And Amy had to bring -the writing materials. - -"Mr. Cyril is coming down on Wednesday," she said to Amy with -great dignity. - -Amy's stony calmness was shaken, for Mr. Cyril was a great deal to -Amy. Amy wondered how she would be able to look Mr. Cyril in the -face when he knew that she had given notice. - -In the middle of writing, on her knee, Constance looked up at -Sophia, and said, as though defending herself against an -accusation: "I didn't write to him yesterday, you know, or to- -day." - -"No," Sophia murmured assentingly. - -Constance rang the bell yet again, and Amy was sent out to the -post. - -Soon afterwards the bell was rung for a fourth time, and not -answered. - -"I suppose she hasn't come back yet. But I thought I heard the -door. What a long time she is!" - -"What do you want?" Sophia asked. - -"I just want to speak to her," said Constance. - -When the bell had been rung seven or eight times, Amy at length -re-appeared, somewhat breathless. - -"Amy," said Constance, "let me examine those sheets, will you?" - -"Yes'm," said Amy, apparently knowing what sheets, of all the -various and multitudinous sheets in that house. - -"And the pillow-cases," Constance added as Amy left the room. - -So it continued. The next day the fever heightened. Constance was -up early, before Sophia, and trotting about the house like a girl. -Immediately after breakfast Cyril's bedroom was invested and -revolutionized; not till evening was order restored in that -chamber. And on the Wednesday morning it had to be dusted afresh. -Sophia watched the preparations, and the increasing agitation of -Constance's demeanour, with an astonishment which she had real -difficulty in concealing. "Is the woman absolutely mad?" she asked -herself. The spectacle was ludicrous: or it seemed so to Sophia, -whose career had not embraced much experience of mothers. It was -not as if the manifestations of Constance's anxiety were dignified -or original or splendid. They were just silly, ordinary -fussinesses; they had no sense in them. Sophia was very careful to -make no observation. She felt that before she and Constance were -very much older she had a very great deal to do, and that a subtle -diplomacy and wary tactics would be necessary. Moreover, -Constance's angelic temper was slightly affected by the strain of -expectation. She had a tendency to rasp. After the high-tea was -set she suddenly sprang on to the sofa and lifted down the 'Stag -at Eve' engraving. The dust on the top of the frame incensed her. - -"What are you going to do?" Sophia asked, in a final marvel. - -"I'm going to change it with that one," said Constance, pointing -to another engraving opposite the fireplace. "He said the effect -would be very much better if they were changed. And his lordship -is very particular." - -Constance did not go to Bursley station to meet her son. She -explained that it upset her to do so, and that also Cyril -preferred her not to come. - -"Suppose I go to meet him," said Sophia, at half-past five. The -idea had visited her suddenly. She thought: "Then I could talk to -him before any one else." - -"Oh, do!" Constance agreed. - -Sophia put her things on with remarkable expedition. She arrived -at the station a minute before the train came in. Only a few -persons emerged from the train, and Cyril was not among them. A -porter said that there was not supposed to be any connection -between the Loop Line trains and the main line expresses, and that -probably the express had missed the Loop. She waited thirty-five -minutes for the next Loop, and Cyril did not emerge from that -train either. - -Constance opened the front-door to her, and showed a telegram-- - -"Sorry prevented last moment. Writing. CYRIL." - -Sophia had known it. Somehow she had known that it was useless to -wait for the second train. Constance was silent and calm; Sophia -also. - -"What a shame! What a shame!" thumped Sophia's heart. - -It was the most ordinary episode. But beneath her calm she was -furious against her favourite. She hesitated. - -"I'm just going out a minute," she said. - -"Where?" asked Constance. "Hadn't we better have tea? I suppose we -must have tea." - -"I shan't be long. I want to buy something." - -Sophia went to the post-office and despatched a telegram. Then, -partially eased, she returned to the arid and painful desolation -of the house. - -IV - -The next evening Cyril sat at the tea-table in the parlour with -his mother and his aunt. To Constance his presence there had -something of the miraculous in it. He had come, after all! Sophia -was in a rich robe, and for ornament wore an old silver-gilt neck- -chain, which was clasped at the throat, and fell in double to her -waist, where it was caught in her belt. This chain interested -Cyril. He referred to it once or twice, and then he said: "Just -let me have a LOOK at that chain," and put out his hand; and -Sophia leaned forward so that he could handle it. His fingers -played with it thus for some seconds; the picture strikingly -affected Constance. At length he dropped it, and said: "H'm!" -After a pause he said: "Louis Sixteenth, eh?" and Sophia said: - -"They told me so. But it's nothing; it only cost thirty francs, -you know." And Cyril took her up sharply: - -"What does that matter?" Then after another pause he asked: "How -often do you break a link of it?" - -"Oh, often," she said. "It's always getting shorter." - -And he murmured mysteriously: "H'm!" - -He was still mysterious, withdrawn within himself extraordinarily -uninterested in his physical surroundings. But that evening he -talked more than he usually did. He was benevolent, and showed a -particular benevolence towards his mother, apparently exerting -himself to answer her questions with fullness and heartiness, as -though admitting frankly her right to be curious. He praised the -tea; he seemed to notice what he was eating. He took Spot on his -knee, and gazed in admiration at Fossette. - -"By Jove!" he said, "that's a dog, that is! ... All the same. ... -" And he burst out laughing. - -"I won't have Fossette laughed at," Sophia warned him. - -"No, seriously," he said, in his quality of an amateur of dogs; -"she is very fine." Even then he could not help adding: "What you -can see of her!" - -Whereupon Sophia shook her head, deprecating such wit. Sophia was -very lenient towards him. Her leniency could be perceived in her -eyes, which followed his movements all the time. "Do you think he -is like me, Constance?" she asked. - -"I wish I was half as good-looking," said Cyril, quickly; and -Constance said: - -"As a baby he was very like you. He was a handsome baby. He wasn't -at all like you when he was at school. These last few years he's -begun to be like you again. He's very much changed since he left -school; he was rather heavy and clumsy then." - -"Heavy and clumsy!" exclaimed Sophia. "Well, I should never have -believed it!" - -"Oh, but he was!" Constance insisted. - -"Now, mater," said Cyril, "it's a pity you don't want that cake -cutting into. I think I could have eaten a bit of that cake. But -of course if it's only for show ...!" - -Constance sprang up, seizing a knife. - -"You shouldn't tease your mother," Sophia told him. "He doesn't -really want any, Constance; he's regularly stuffed himself." - -And Cyril agreed, "No, no, mater, don't cut it; I really couldn't. -I was only gassing." - -But Constance could never clearly see through humour of that sort. -She cut three slices of cake, and she held the plate towards -Cyril. - -"I tell you I really couldn't!" he protested. - -"Come!" she said obstinately. "I'm waiting! How much longer must I -hold this plate?" - -And he had to take a slice. So had Sophia. When she was roused, -they both of them had to yield to Constance. - -With the dogs, and the splendour of the tea-table under the gas, -and the distinction of Sophia and Cyril, and the conversation, -which on the whole was gay and free, rising at times to jolly -garrulity, the scene in her parlour ought surely to have satisfied -Constance utterly. She ought to have been quite happy, as her -sciatica had raised the siege for a space. But she was not quite -happy. The circumstances of Cyril's arrival had disturbed her; -they had in fact wounded her, though she would scarcely admit the -wound. In the morning she had received a brief letter from Cyril -to say that he had not been able to come, and vaguely promising, -or half-promising, to run down at a later date. That letter had -the cardinal defects of all Cyril's relations with his mother; it -was casual, and it was not candid. It gave no hint of the nature -of the obstacle which had prevented him from coming. Cyril had -always been too secretive. She was gravely depressed by the -letter, which she did not show to Sophia, because it impaired her -dignity as a mother, and displayed her son in a bad light. Then -about eleven o'clock a telegram had come for Sophia. - -"That's all right," Sophia had said, on reading it. "He'll be here -this evening!" And she had handed over the telegram, which read-- - -"Very well. Will come same train to-day." - -And Constance learned that when Sophia had rushed out just before -tea on the previous evening, it was to telegraph to Cyril. - -"What did you say to him?" Constance asked. - -"Oh!" said Sophia, with a careless air, "I told him I thought he -ought to come. After all, you're more important than any business, -Constance! And I don't like him behaving like that. I was -determined he should come!" - -Sophia had tossed her proud head. - -Constance had pretended to be pleased and grateful. But the -existence of a wound was incontestable. Sophia, then, could do -more with Cyril than she could! Sophia had only met him once, and -could simply twist him round her little finger. He would never -have done so much for his mother. A fine sort of an obstacle it -must have been, if a single telegram from Sophia could overcome it -...! And Sophia, too, was secretive. She had gone out and had -telegraphed, and had not breathed a word until she got the reply, -sixteen hours later. She was secretive, and Cyril was secretive. -They resembled one another. They had taken to one another. But -Sophia was a curious mixture. When Constance had asked her if she -should go to the station again to meet Cyril, she had replied -scornfully: "No, indeed! I've done going to meet Cyril. People who -don't arrive must not expect to be met." - -When Cyril drove up to the door, Sophia had been in attendance. -She hurried down the steps. "Don't say anything about my -telegram," she had rapidly whispered to Cyril; there was no time -for further explanation. Constance was at the top of the steps. -Constance had not heard the whisper, but she had seen it; and she -saw a guilty, puzzled look on Cyril's face, afterwards an -ineffectively concealed conspiratorial look on both their faces. -They had 'something between them,' from which she, the mother, was -shut out! Was it not natural that she should be wounded? She was -far too proud to mention the telegrams. And as neither Cyril nor -Sophia mentioned them, the circumstances leading to Cyril's change -of plan were not referred to at all, which was very curious. Then -Cyril was more sociable than he had ever been; he was different, -under his aunt's gaze. Certainly he treated his mother -faultlessly. But Constance said to herself: "It is because she is -here that he is so specially nice to me." - -When tea was finished and they were going upstairs to the drawing- -room, she asked him, with her eye on the 'Stag at Eve' engraving: - -"Well, is it a success?" - -"What?" His eye followed hers. "Oh, you've changed it! What did -you do that for, mater?" - -"You said it would be better like that," she reminded him. - -"Did I?" He seemed genuinely surprised. "I don't remember. I -believe it is better, though," he added. "It might be even better -still if you turned it the other way up." - -He pulled a face to Sophia, and screwed up his shoulders, as if to -indicate: "I've done it, this time!" - -"How? The other way up?" Constance queried. Then as she -comprehended that he was teasing her, she said: "Get away with -you!" and pretended to box his ears. "You were fond enough of that -picture at one time!" she said ironically. - -"Yes, I was, mater," he submissively agreed. "There's no getting -over that." And he pressed her cheeks between his hands and kissed -her. - -In the drawing-room he smoked cigarettes and played the piano-- -waltzes of his own composition. Constance and Sophia did not -entirely comprehend those waltzes. But they agreed that all were -wonderful and that one was very pretty indeed. (It soothed -Constance that Sophia's opinion coincided with hers.) He said that -that waltz was the worst of the lot. When he had finished with the -piano, Constance informed him about Amy. "Oh! She told me," he -said, "when she brought me my water. I didn't mention it because I -thought it would be rather a sore subject." Beneath the casualness -of his tone there lurked a certain curiosity, a willingness to -hear details. He heard them. - -At five minutes to ten, when Constance had yawned, he threw a bomb -among them on the hearthrug. - -"Well," he said, "I've got an appointment with Matthew at the -Conservative Club at ten o'clock. I must go. Don't wait up for -me." - -Both women protested, Sophia the more vivaciously. It was Sophia -now who was wounded. - -"It's business," he said, defending himself. "He's going away -early to-morrow, and it's my only chance." And as Constance did -not brighten he went on: "Business has to be attended to. You -mustn't think I've got nothing to do but enjoy myself." - -No hint of the nature of the business! He never explained. As to -business, Constance knew only that she allowed him three hundred a -year, and paid his local tailor. The sum had at first seemed to -her enormous, but she had grown accustomed to it. - -"I should have preferred you to see Mr. Peel-Swynnerton here," -said Constance. "You could have had a room to yourselves. I do not -like you going out at ten o'clock at night to a club." - -"Well, good night, mater," he said, getting up. "See you to- -morrow. I shall take the key out of the door. It's true my pocket -will never be the same again." - -Sophia saw Constance into bed, and provided her with two hot-water -bottles against sciatica. They did not talk much. - -V - -Sophia sat waiting on the sofa in the parlour. It appeared to her -that, though little more than a month had elapsed since her -arrival in Bursley, she had already acquired a new set of -interests and anxieties. Paris and her life there had receded in -the strangest way. Sometimes for hours she would absolutely forget -Paris. Thoughts of Paris were disconcerting; for either Paris or -Bursley must surely be unreal! As she sat waiting on the sofa -Paris kept coming into her mind. Certainly it was astonishing that -she should be just as preoccupied with her schemes for the welfare -of Constance as she had ever been preoccupied with schemes for the -improvement of the Pension Frensham. She said to herself: "My life -has been so queer--and yet every part of it separately seemed -ordinary enough--how will it end?" - -Then there were footfalls on the steps outside, and a key was put -into the door, which she at once opened. - -"Oh!" exclaimed Cyril, startled, and also somewhat out of -countenance. "You're still up! Thanks." He came in, smoking the -end of a cigar. "Fancy having to cart that about!" he murmured, -holding up the great old-fashioned key before inserting it in the -lock on the inside. - -"I stayed up," said Sophia, "because I wanted to talk to you about -your mother, and it's so difficult to get a chance." - -Cyril smiled, not without self-consciousness, and dropped into his -mother's rocking-chair, which he had twisted round with his feet -to face the sofa. - -"Yes," he said. "I was wondering what was the real meaning of your -telegram. What was it?" He blew out a lot of smoke and waited for -her reply. - -"I thought you ought to come down," said Sophia, cheerfully but -firmly. "It was a fearful disappointment to your mother that you -didn't come yesterday. And when she's expecting a letter from you -and it doesn't come, it makes her ill." - -"Oh, well!" he said. "I'm glad it's no worse. I thought from your -telegram there was something seriously wrong. And then when you -told me not to mention it--when I came in ...!" - -She saw that he failed to realize the situation, and she lifted -her head challengingly. - -"You neglect your mother, young man," she said. - -"Oh, come now, auntie!" he answered quite gently. "You mustn't -talk like that. I write to her every week. I've never missed a -week. I come down as often as----" - -"You miss the Sunday sometimes," Sophia interrupted him. - -"Perhaps," he said doubtfully. "But what---" - -"Don't you understand that she simply lives for your letters? And -if one doesn't come, she's very upset indeed--can't eat! And it -brings on her sciatica, and I don't know what!" - -He was taken aback by her boldness, her directness. - -"But how silly of her! A fellow can't always----" - -"It may be silly. But there it is. You can't alter her. And, after -all, what would it cost you to be more attentive, even to write to -her twice a week? You aren't going to tell me you're so busy as -all that! I know a great deal more about young men than your -mother does." She smiled like an aunt. - -He answered her smile sheepishly. - -"If you'll only put yourself in your mother's place ...!" - -"I expect you're quite right," he said at length. "And I'm much -obliged to you for telling me. How was I to know?" He threw the -end of the cigar, with a large sweeping gesture, into the fire. - -"Well, anyhow, you know now!" she said curtly; and she thought: -"You OUGHT to have known. It was your business to know." But she -was pleased with the way in which he had accepted her criticism, -and the gesture with which he threw away the cigar-end struck her -as very distinguished. - -"That's all right!" he said dreamily, as if to say: "That's done -with." And he rose. - -Sophia, however, did not stir. - -"Your mother's health is not what it ought to be," she went on, -and gave him a full account of her conversation with the doctor. - -"Really!" Cyril murmured, leaning on the mantel-piece with his -elbow and looking down at her. "Stirling said that, did he? I -should have thought she would have been better where she is, in -the Square." - -"Why better in the Square?" - -"Oh, I don't know!" - -"Neither do I!" - -"She's always been here." - -"Yes." said Sophia, "she's been here a great deal too long." - -"What do YOU suggest?" Cyril asked, with impatience in his voice -against this new anxiety that was being thrust upon him. - -"Well," said Sophia, "what should you say to her coming to London -and living with you?" - -Cyril started back. Sophia could see that he was genuinely -shocked. "I don't think that would do at all," he said. - -"Why?" - -"Oh! I don't think it would. London wouldn't suit her. She's not -that sort of woman. I really thought she was quite all right down -here. She wouldn't like London." He shook his head, looking up at -the gas; his eyes had a dangerous glare. - -"But supposing she said she did?" - -"Look here," Cyril began in a new and brighter tone. "Why don't -you and she keep house together somewhere? That would be the -very--" - -He turned his head sharply. There was a noise on the staircase, -and the staircase door opened with its eternal creak. - -"Yes," said Sophia. "The Champs Elysees begins at the Place de la -Concorde, and ends----. Is that you, Constance?" - -The figure of Constance filled the doorway. Her face was troubled. -She had heard Cyril in the street, and had come down to see why he -remained so long in the parlour. She was astounded to find Sophia -with him. There they were, as intimate as cronies, chattering -about Paris! Undoubtedly she was jealous! Never did Cyril talk -like that to her! - -"I thought you were in bed and asleep, Sophia," she said weakly. -"It's nearly one o'clock." - -"No," said Sophia. "I didn't seem to feel like going to bed; and -then Cyril happened to come in." - -But neither she nor Cyril could look innocent. And Constance -glanced from one to the other apprehensively. - -The next morning Cyril received a letter which, he said--with no -further explanation--forced him to leave at once. He intimated -that there had been danger in his coming just then, and that -matters had turned out as he had feared. - -"You think over what I said," he whispered to Sophia when they -were alone for an instant, "and let me know." - -VI - -A week before Easter the guests of the Rutland Hotel in the Broad -Walk, Buxton, being assembled for afternoon tea in the "lounge" of -that establishment, witnessed the arrival of two middle-aged -ladies and two dogs. Critically to examine newcomers was one of -the amusements of the occupants of the lounge. This apartment, -furnished "in the oriental style," made a pretty show among the -photographs in the illustrated brochure of the hotel, and, though -draughty, it was of all the public rooms the favourite. It was -draughty because only separated from the street (if the Broad Walk -can be called a street) by two pairs of swinging-doors--in charge -of two page-boys. Every visitor entering the hotel was obliged to -pass through the lounge, and for newcomers the passage was an -ordeal; they were made to feel that they had so much to learn, so -much to get accustomed to; like passengers who join a ship at a -port of call, they felt that the business lay before them of -creating a niche for themselves in a hostile and haughty society. -The two ladies produced a fairly favourable impression at the -outset by reason of their two dogs. It is not every one who has -the courage to bring dogs into an expensive private hotel; to -bring one dog indicates that you are not accustomed to deny -yourself small pleasures for the sake of a few extra shillings; to -bring two indicates that you have no fear of hotel-managers and -that you are in the habit of regarding your own whim as nature's -law. The shorter and stouter of the two ladies did not impose -herself with much force on the collective vision of the Rutland; -she was dressed in black, not fashionably, though with a certain -unpretending richness; her gestures were timid and nervous; -evidently she relied upon her tall companion to shield her in the -first trying contacts of hotel life. The tall lady was of a -different stamp. Handsome, stately, deliberate, and handsomely -dressed in colours, she had the assured hard gaze of a person who -is thoroughly habituated to the inspection of strangers. She -curtly asked one of the page-boys for the manager, and the -manager's wife tripped rapidly down the stairs in response, and -was noticeably deferential--Her voice was quiet and commanding, -the voice of one who gives orders that are obeyed. The opinion of -the lounge was divided as to whether or not they were sisters. - -They vanished quietly upstairs in convoy of the manager's wife, -and they did not re-appear for the lounge tea, which in any case -would have been undrinkably stewed. It then became known, by the -agency of one of those guests, to be found in every hotel, who -acquire all the secrets of the hotel by the exercise of unabashed -curiosity on the personnel, that the two ladies had engaged two -bedrooms, Nos. 17 and 18, and the sumptuous private parlour with a -balcony on the first floor, styled "C" in the nomenclature of -rooms. This fact definitely established the position of the new -arrivals in the moral fabric of the hotel. They were wealthy. They -had money to throw away. For even in a select hotel like the -Rutland it is not everybody who indulges in a private sitting- -room; there were only four such apartments in the hotel, as -against fifty bedrooms. - -At dinner they had a small table to themselves in a corner. The -short lady wore a white shawl over her shoulders. Her almost -apologetic manner during the meal confirmed the view that she must -be a very simple person, unused to the world and its ways. The -other continued to be imperial. She ordered half-a-bottle of wine -and drank two glasses. She stared about her quite self- -unconsciously, whereas the little woman divided her glances -between her companion and her plate. They did not talk much. -Immediately after dinner they retired. "Widows in easy -circumstances" was the verdict; but the contrast between the pair -held puzzles that piqued the inquisitive. - -Sophia had conquered again. Once more Sophia had resolved to -accomplish a thing and she had accomplished it. Events had fallen -out thus. The advertisement for a general servant in the Signal -had been a disheartening failure. A few answers were received, but -of an entirely unsatisfactory character. Constance, a great deal -more than Sophia, had been astounded by the bearing and the -demands of modern servants. Constance was in despair. If Constance -had not had an immense pride she would have been ready to suggest -to Sophia that Amy should be asked to 'stay on.' But Constance -would have accepted a modern impudent wench first. It was Maria -Critchlow who got Constance out of her difficulty by giving her -particulars of a reliable servant who was about to leave a -situation in which she had stayed for eight years. Constance did -not imagine that a servant recommended by Maria Critchlow would -suit her, but, being in a quandary, she arranged to see the -servant, and both she and Sophia were very pleased with the girl-- -Rose Bennion by name. The mischief was that Rose would not be free -until about a month after Amy had left. Rose would have left her -old situation, but she had a fancy to go and spend a fortnight -with a married sister at Manchester before settling into new -quarters. Constance and Sophia felt that this caprice of Rose's -was really very tiresome and unnecessary. Of course Amy might have -been asked to 'stay on' just for a month. Amy would probably have -volunteered to do so had she been aware of the circumstances. She -was not, however, aware of the circumstances. And Constance was -determined not to be beholden to Amy for anything. What could the -sisters do? Sophia, who conducted all the interviews with Rose and -other candidates, said that it would be a grave error to let Rose -slip. Besides, they had no one to take her place, no one who could -come at once. - -The dilemma was appalling. At least, it seemed appalling to -Constance, who really believed that no mistress had ever been so -'awkwardly fixed.' And yet, when Sophia first proposed her -solution, Constance considered it to be a quite impossible -solution. Sophia's idea was that they should lock up the house and -leave it on the same day as Amy left it, to spend a few weeks in -some holiday resort. To begin with, the idea of leaving the house -empty seemed to Constance a mad idea. The house had never been -left empty. And then--going for a holiday in April! Constance had -never been for a holiday except in the month of August. No! The -project was beset with difficulties and dangers which could not be -overcome nor provided against. For example, "We can't come back to -a dirty house," said Constance. "And we can't have a strange -servant coming here before us." To which Sophia had replied: "Then -what SHALL you do?" And Constance, after prodigious reflection on -the frightful pass to which destiny had brought her, had said that -she supposed she would have to manage with a charwoman until -Rose's advent. She asked Sophia if she remembered old Maggie. -Sophia, of course, perfectly remembered. Old Maggie was dead, as -well as the drunken, amiable Hollins, but there was a young Maggie -(wife of a bricklayer) who went out charing in the spare time left -from looking after seven children. The more Constance meditated -upon young Maggie, the more was she convinced that young Maggie -would meet the case. Constance felt she could trust young Maggie. - -This expression of trust in Maggie was Constance's undoing. Why -should they not go away, and arrange with Maggie to come to the -house a few days before their return, to clean and ventilate? The -weight of reason overbore Constance. She yielded unwillingly, but -she yielded. It was the mention of Buxton that finally moved her. -She knew Buxton. Her old landlady at Buxton was dead, and -Constance had not visited the place since before Samuel's death; -nevertheless its name had a reassuring sound to her ears, and for -sciatica its waters and climate were admitted to be the best in -England. Gradually Constance permitted herself to be embarked on -this perilous enterprise of shutting up the house for twenty-five -days. She imparted the information to Amy, who was astounded. Then -she commenced upon her domestic preparations. She wrapped Samuel's -Family Bible in brown paper; she put Cyril's straw-framed copy of -Sir Edwin Landseer away in a drawer, and she took ten thousand -other precautions. It was grotesque; it was farcical; it was what -you please. And when, with the cab at the door and the luggage on -the cab, and the dogs chained together, and Maria Critchlow -waiting on the pavement to receive the key, Constance put the key -into the door on the outside, and locked up the empty house, -Constance's face was tragic with innumerable apprehensions. And -Sophia felt that she had performed a miracle. She had. - -On the whole the sisters were well received in the hotel, though -they were not at an age which commands popularity. In the -criticism which was passed upon them--the free, realistic and -relentless criticism of private hotels--Sophia was at first set -down as overbearing. But in a few days this view was modified, and -Sophia rose in esteem. The fact was that Sophia's behaviour -changed after forty-eight hours. The Rutland Hotel was very good. -It was so good as to disturb Sophia's profound beliefs that there -was in the world only one truly high-class pension, and that -nobody could teach the creator of that unique pension anything -about the art of management. The food was excellent; the -attendance in the bedrooms was excellent (and Sophia knew how -difficult of attainment was excellent bedroom attendance); and to -the eye the interior of the Rutland presented a spectacle far -richer than the Pension Frensham could show. The standard of -comfort was higher. The guests had a more distinguished -appearance. It is true that the prices were much higher. Sophia -was humbled. She had enough sense to adjust her perspective. -Further, she found herself ignorant of many matters which by the -other guests were taken for granted and used as a basis for -conversation. Prolonged residence in Paris would not justify this -ignorance; it seemed rather to intensify its strangeness. Thus, -when someone of cosmopolitan experience, having learnt that she -had lived in Paris for many years, asked what had been going on -lately at the Comedie Francaise, she had to admit that she had not -been in a French theatre for nearly thirty years. And when, on a -Sunday, the same person questioned her about the English chaplain -in Paris, lo! she knew nothing but his name, had never even seen -him. Sophia's life, in its way, had been as narrow as Constance's. -Though her experience of human nature was wide, she had been in a -groove as deep as Constance's. She had been utterly absorbed in -doing one single thing. - -By tacit agreement she had charge of the expedition. She paid all -the bills. Constance protested against the expensiveness of the -affair several times, but Sophia quietened her by sheer force of -individuality. Constance had one advantage over Sophia. She knew -Buxton and its neighbourhood intimately, and she was therefore in -a position to show off the sights and to deal with local -peculiarities. In all other respects Sophia led. - -They very soon became acclimatized to the hotel. They moved easily -between Turkey carpets and sculptured ceilings; their eyes grew -used to the eternal vision of themselves and other slow-moving -dignities in gilt mirrors, to the heaviness of great oil-paintings -of picturesque scenery, to the indications of surreptitious dirt -behind massive furniture, to the grey-brown of the shirt-fronts of -the waiters, to the litter of trays, boots and pails in long -corridors; their ears were always awake to the sounds of gongs and -bells. They consulted the barometer and ordered the daily carriage -with the perfunctoriness of habit. They discovered what can be -learnt of other people's needlework in a hotel on a wet day. They -performed co-operative outings with fellow-guests. They invited -fellow-guests into their sitting-room. When there was an -entertainment they did not avoid it. Sophia was determined to do -everything that could with propriety be done, partly as an outlet -for her own energy (which since she left Paris had been -accumulating), but more on Constance's account. She remembered all -that Dr. Stirling had said, and the heartiness of her own -agreement with his opinions. It was a great day when, under -tuition of an aged lady and in the privacy of their parlour, they -both began to study the elements of Patience. Neither had ever -played at cards. Constance was almost afraid to touch cards, as -though in the very cardboard there had been something unrighteous -and perilous. But the respectability of a luxurious private hotel -makes proper every act that passes within its walls. And Constance -plausibly argued that no harm could come from a game which you -played by yourself. She acquired with some aptitude several -varieties of Patience. She said: "I think I could enjoy that, if I -kept at it. But it does make my head whirl." - -Nevertheless Constance was not happy in the hotel. She worried the -whole time about her empty house. She anticipated difficulties and -even disasters. She wondered again and again whether she could -trust the second Maggie in her house alone, whether it would not -be better to return home earlier and participate personally in the -cleaning. She would have decided to do so had it not been that she -hesitated to subject Sophia to the inconvenience of a house upside -down. The matter was on her mind, always. Always she was -restlessly anticipating the day when they would leave. She had -carelessly left her heart behind in St. Luke's Square. She had -never stayed in a hotel before, and she did not like it. Sciatica -occasionally harassed her. Yet when it came to the point she would -not drink the waters. She said she never had drunk them, and -seemed to regard that as a reason why she never should. Sophia had -achieved a miracle in getting her to Buxton for nearly a month, -but the ultimate grand effect lacked brilliance. - -Then came the fatal letter, the desolating letter, which -vindicated Constance's dark apprehensions. Rose Bennion calmly -wrote to say that she had decided not to come to St. Luke's -Square. She expressed regret for any inconvenience which might -possibly be caused; she was polite. But the monstrousness of it! -Constance felt that this actually and truly was the deepest depth -of her calamities. There she was, far from a dirty home, with no -servant and no prospect of a servant! She bore herself bravely, -nobly; but she was stricken. She wanted to return to the dirty -home at once. - -Sophia felt that the situation created by this letter would demand -her highest powers of dealing with situations, and she determined -to deal with it adequately. Great measures were needed, for -Constance's health and happiness were at stake. She alone could -act. She knew that she could not rely upon Cyril. She still had an -immense partiality for Cyril; she thought him the most charming -young man she had ever known; she knew him to be industrious and -clever; but in his relations with his mother there was a hardness, -a touch of callousness. She explained it vaguely by saying that -'they did not get on well together'; which was strange, -considering Constance's sweet affectionateness. Still, Constance -could be a little trying--at times. Anyhow, it was soon clear to -Sophia that the idea of mother and son living together in London -was entirely impracticable. No! If Constance was to be saved from -herself, there was no one but Sophia to save her. - -After half a morning spent chiefly in listening to Constance's -hopeless comments on the monstrous letter, Sophia said suddenly -that she must take the dogs for an airing. Constance did not feel -equal to walking out, and she would not drive. She did not want -Sophia to 'venture,' because the sky threatened. However, Sophia -did venture, and she returned a few minutes late for lunch, full -of vigour, with two happy dogs. Constance was moodily awaiting her -in the dining-room. Constance could not eat. But Sophia ate, and -she poured out cheerfulness and energy as from a source -inexhaustible. After lunch it began to rain. Constance said she -thought she should retire directly to the sitting-room. "I'm -coming too," said Sophia, who was still wearing her hat and coat -and carried her gloves in her hand. In the pretentious and banal -sitting-room they sat down on either side the fire. Constance put -a little shawl round her shoulders, pushed her spectacles into her -grey hair, folded her hands, and sighed an enormous sigh: "Oh, -dear!" She was the tragic muse, aged, and in black silk. - -"I tell you what I've been thinking," said Sophia, folding up her -gloves. - -"What?" asked Constance, expecting some wonderful solution to come -out of Sophia's active brain. - -"There's no earthly reason why you should go back to Bursley. The -house won't run away, and it's costing nothing but the rent. Why -not take things easy for a bit?" - -"And stay here?" said Constance, with an inflection that -enlightened Sophia as to the intensity of her dislike of the -existence at the Rutland. - -"No, not here," Sophia answered with quick deprecation. "There are -plenty of other places we could go to." - -"I don't think I should be easy in my mind," said Constance. "What -with nothing being settled, the house----" - -"What does it matter about the house?" - -"It matters a great deal," said Constance, seriously, and slightly -hurt. "I didn't leave things as if we were going to be away for a -long time. It wouldn't do." - -"I don't see that anything could come to any harm, I really -don't!" said Sophia, persuasively. "Dirt can always be cleaned, -after all. I think you ought to go about more. It would do you -good--all the good in the world. And there is no reason why you -shouldn't go about. You are perfectly free. Why shouldn't we go -abroad together, for instance, you and I? I'm sure you would enjoy -it very much." - -"Abroad?" murmured Constance, aghast, recoiling from the -proposition as from a grave danger. - -"Yes," said Sophia, brightly and eagerly. She was determined to -take Constance abroad. "There are lots of places we could go to, -and live very comfortably among nice English people." She thought -of the resorts she had visited with Gerald in the sixties. They -seemed to her like cities of a dream. They came back to her as a -dream recurs. - -"I don't think going abroad would suit me," said Constance. - -"But why not? You don't know. You've never tried, my dear." She -smiled encouragingly. But Constance did not smile. Constance was -inclined to be grim. - -"I don't think it would," said she, obstinately. "I'm one of your -stay-at-homes. I'm not like you. We can't all be alike," she -added, with her 'tart' accent. - -Sophia suppressed a feeling of irritation. She knew that she had a -stronger individuality than Constance's. - -"Well, then," she said, with undiminished persuasiveness, "in -England or Scotland. There are several places I should like to -visit--Torquay, Tunbridge Wells. I've always under-stood that -Tunbridge Wells is a very nice town indeed, with very superior -people, and a beautiful climate." - -"I think I shall have to be getting back to St. Luke's Square," -said Constance, ignoring all that Sophia had said. "There's so -much to be done." - -Then Sophia looked at Constance with a more serious and resolute -air; but still kindly, as though looking thus at Constance for -Constance's own good. - -"You are making a mistake, Constance," she said, "if you will -allow me to say so." - -"A mistake!" exclaimed Constance, startled. - -"A very great mistake," Sophia insisted, observing that she was -creating an effect. - -"I don't see how I can be making a mistake," Constance said, -gaining confidence in herself, as she thought the matter over. - -"No," said Sophia, "I'm sure you don't see it. But you are. You -know, you are just a little apt to let yourself be a slave to that -house of yours. Instead of the house existing for you, you exist -for the house." - -"Oh! Sophia!" Constance muttered awkwardly. "What ideas you do -have, to be sure!" In her nervousness she rose and picked up some -embroidery, adjusting her spectacles and coughing. When she sat -down she said: "No one could take things easier than I do as -regards housekeeping. I can assure you I let dozens of little -matters go, rather than bother myself." - -"Then why do you bother now?" Sophia posed her. - -"I can't leave the place like that." Constance was hurt. - -"There's one thing I can't understand," said Sophia, raising her -head and gazing at Constance again, "and that is, why you live in -St. Luke's Square at all." - -"I must live somewhere. And I'm sure it's very pleasant." - -"In all that smoke! And with that dirt! And the house is very -old." - -"It's a great deal better built than a lot of those new houses by -the Park," Constance sharply retorted. In spite of herself she -resented any criticism of her house. She even resented the obvious -truth that it was old. - -"You'll never get a servant to stay in that cellar-kitchen, for -one thing," said Sophia, keeping calm. - -"Oh! I don't know about that! I don't know about that! That -Bennion woman didn't object to it, anyway. It's all very well for -you, Sophia, to talk like that. But I know Bursley perhaps better -than you do." She was tart again. "And I can assure you that my -house is looked upon as a very good house indeed." - -"Oh! I don't say it isn't; I don't say it isn't. But you would be -better away from it. Every one says that." - -"Every one?" Constance looked up, dropping her work. "Who? Who's -been talking about me?" - -"Well," said Sophia, "the doctor, for instance." - -"Dr. Stirling? I like that! He's always saying that Bursley is one -of the healthiest climates in England. He's always sticking up for -Bursley." - -"Dr. Stirling thinks you ought to go away more--not stay always in -that dark house." If Sophia had sufficiently reflected she would -not have used the adjective 'dark.' It did not help her cause. - -"Oh, does he!" Constance fairly snorted. "Well, if it's of any -interest to Dr. Stirling, I like my dark house." - -"Hasn't he ever told you you ought to go away more?" Sophia -persisted. - -"He may have mentioned it," Constance reluctantly admitted. - -"When he was talking to me he did a good deal more than mention -it. And I've a good mind to tell you what he said." - -"Do!" said Constance, politely. - -"You don't realize how serious it is, I'm afraid," said Sophia. -"You can't see yourself." She hesitated a moment. Her blood being -stirred by Constance's peculiar inflection of the phrase 'my dark -house,' her judgment was slightly obscured. She decided to give -Constance a fairly full version of the conversation between -herself and the doctor. - -"It's a question of your health," she finished. "I think it's my -duty to talk to you seriously, and I have done. I hope you'll take -it as it's meant." - -"Oh, of course!" Constance hastened to say. And she thought: "It -isn't yet three months that we've been together, and she's trying -already to get me under her thumb." - -A pause ensued. Sophia at length said: "There's no doubt that both -your sciatica and your palpitations are due to nerves. And you let -your nerves get into a state because you worry over trifles. A -change would do you a tremendous amount of good. It's just what -you need. Really, you must admit, Constance, that the idea of -living always in a place like St. Luke's Square, when you are -perfectly free to do what you like and go where you like--you must -admit it's rather too much." - -Constance put her lips together and bent over her embroidery. - -"Now, what do you say?" Sophia gently entreated. - -"There's some of us like Bursley, black as it is!" said Constance. -And Sophia was surprised to detect tears in her sister's voice. - -"Now, my dear Constance," she remonstrated. - -"It's no use!" cried Constance, flinging away her work, and -letting her tears flow suddenly. Her face was distorted. She was -behaving just like a child. "It's no use! I've got to go back home -and look after things. It's no use. Here we are pitching money -about in this place. It's perfectly sinful. Drives, carriages, -extras! A shilling a day extra for each dog. I never heard of such -goings-on. And I'd sooner be at home. That's it. I'd sooner be at -home." This was the first reference that Constance had made for a -long time to the question of expense, and incomparably the most -violent. It angered Sophia. - -"We will count it that you are here as my guest," said Sophia, -loftily, "if that is how you look at it." - -"Oh no!" said Constance. "It isn't the money I grudge. Oh no, we -won't." And her tears were falling thick. - -"Yes, we will," said Sophia, coldly. "I've only been talking to -you for your own good. I--" - -"Well," Constance interrupted her despairingly, "I wish you -wouldn't try to domineer over me!" - -"Domineer!" exclaimed Sophia, aghast. "Well, Constance, I do -think--" - -She got up and went to her bedroom, where the dogs were -imprisoned. They escaped to the stairs. She was shaking with -emotion. This was what came of trying to help other people! -Imagine Constance ...! Truly Constance was most unjust, and quite -unlike her usual self! And Sophia encouraged in her breast the -feeling of injustice suffered. But a voice kept saying to her: -"You've made a mess of this. You've not conquered this time. -You're beaten. And the situation is unworthy of you, of both of -you. Two women of fifty quarreling like this! It's undignified. -You've made a mess of things." And to strangle the voice, she did -her best to encourage the feeling of injustice suffered. - -'Domineer!' - -And Constance was absolutely in the wrong. She had not argued at -all. She had merely stuck to her idea like a mule! How difficult -and painful would be the next meeting with Constance, after this -grievous miscarriage! - -As she was reflecting thus the door burst open, and Constance -stumbled, as it were blindly, into the bedroom. She was still -weeping. - -"Sophia!" she sobbed, supplicatingly, and all her fat body was -trembling. "You mustn't kill me ... I'm like that--you can't alter -me. I'm like that. I know I'm silly. But it's no use!" She made a -piteous figure. - -Sophia was aware of a lump in her throat. - -"It's all right, Constance; it's all right. I quite understand. -Don't bother any more." - -Constance, catching her breath at intervals, raised her wet, worn -face and kissed her. - -Sophia remembered the very words, 'You can't alter her,' which she -had used in remonstrating with Cyril. And now she had been guilty -of precisely the same unreason as that with which she had -reproached Cyril! She was ashamed, both for herself and for -Constance. Assuredly it had not been such a scene as women of -their age would want to go through often. It was humiliating. She -wished that it could have been blotted out as though it had never -happened. Neither of them ever forgot it. They had had a lesson. -And particularly Sophia had had a lesson. Having learnt, they left -the Rutland, amid due ceremonies, and returned to St. Luke's -Square. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -END OF SOPHIA - -I - - -The kitchen steps were as steep, dark, and difficult as ever. Up -those steps Sophia Scales, nine years older than when she had -failed to persuade Constance to leave the Square, was carrying a -large basket, weighted with all the heaviness of Fossette. Sophia, -despite her age, climbed the steps violently, and burst with equal -violence into the parlour, where she deposited the basket on the -floor near the empty fireplace. She was triumphant and breathless. -She looked at Constance, who had been standing near the door in -the attitude of a shocked listener. - -"There!" said Sophia. "Did you hear how she talked?" - -"Yes," said Constance. "What shall you do?" - -"Well," said Sophia. "I had a very good mind to order her out of -the house at once. But then I thought I would take no notice. Her -time will be up in three weeks. It's best to be indifferent. If -once they see they can upset you However, I wasn't going to leave -Fossette down there to her tender mercies a moment longer. She's -simply not looked after her at all." - -Sophia went on her knees to the basket, and, pulling aside the -dog's hair, round about the head, examined the skin. Fossette was -a sick dog and behaved like one. Fossette, too, was nine years -older, and her senility was offensive. She was to no sense a -pleasant object. - -"See here," said Sophia. - -Constance also knelt to the basket. - -"And here," said Sophia. "And here." - -The dog sighed, the insincere and pity-seeking sigh of a spoilt -animal. Fossette foolishly hoped by such appeals to be spared the -annoying treatment prescribed for her by the veterinary surgeon. - -While the sisters were coddling her, and protecting her from her -own paws, and trying to persuade her that all was for the best, -another aged dog wandered vaguely into the room: Spot. Spot had -very few teeth, and his legs were stiff. He had only one vice, -jealousy. Fearing that Fossette might be receiving the entire -attention of his mistresses, he had come to inquire into the -situation. When he found the justification of his gloomiest -apprehensions, he nosed obstinately up to Constance, and would not -be put off. In vain Constance told him at length that he was -interfering with the treatment. In vain Sophia ordered him sharply -to go away. He would not listen to reason, being furious with -jealousy. He got his foot into the basket. - -"Will you!" exclaimed Sophia angrily, and gave him a clout on his -old head. He barked snappishly, and retired to the kitchen again, -disillusioned, tired of the world, and nursing his terrific -grievance. "I do declare," said Sophia, "that dog gets worse and -worse." - -Constance said nothing. - -When everything was done that could be done for the aged virgin in -the basket, the sisters rose from their knees, stiffly; and they -began to whisper to each other about the prospects of obtaining a -fresh servant. They also debated whether they could tolerate the -criminal eccentricities of the present occupant of the cave for -yet another three weeks. Evidently they were in the midst of a -crisis. To judge from Constance's face every imaginable woe had -been piled on them by destiny without the slightest regard for -their powers of resistance. Her eyes had the permanent look of -worry, and there was in them also something of the self-defensive. -Sophia had a bellicose air, as though the creature in the cave had -squarely challenged her, and she was decided to take up the -challenge. Sophia's tone seemed to imply an accusation of -Constance. The general tension was acute. - -Then suddenly their whispers expired, and the door opened and the -servant came in to lay the supper. Her nose was high, her gaze -cruel, radiant, and conquering. She was a pretty and an impudent -girl of about twenty-three. She knew she was torturing her old and -infirm mistresses. She did not care. She did it purposely. Her -motto was: War on employers, get all you can out of them, for they -will get all they can out of you. On principle--the sole principle -she possessed--she would not stay in a place more than six months. -She liked change. And employers did not like change. She was -shameless with men. She ignored all orders as to what she was to -eat and what she was not to eat. She lived up to the full -resources of her employers. She could be to the last degree -slatternly. Or she could be as neat as a pin, with an apron that -symbolized purity and propriety, as to-night. She could be idle -during a whole day, accumulating dirty dishes from morn till eve. -On the other hand she could, when she chose, work with astonishing -celerity and even thoroughness. In short, she was born to -infuriate a mistress like Sophia and to wear out a mistress like -Constance. Her strongest advantage in the struggle was that she -enjoyed altercation; she revelled in a brawl; she found peace -tedious. She was perfectly calculated to convince the sisters that -times had worsened, and that the world would never again be the -beautiful, agreeable place it once had been. - -Her gestures as she laid the table were very graceful, in the pert -style. She dropped forks into their appointed positions with -disdain; she made slightly too much noise; when she turned she -manoeuvred her swelling hips as though for the benefit of a -soldier in a handsome uniform. - -Nothing but the servant had been changed in that house. The -harmonium on which Mr. Povey used occasionally to play was still -behind the door; and on the harmonium was the tea-caddy of which -Mrs. Baines used to carry the key on her bunch. In the corner to -the right of the fireplace still hung the cupboard where Mrs. -Baines stored her pharmacopoeia. The rest of the furniture was -arranged as it had been arranged when the death of Mrs. Baines -endowed Mr. and Mrs. Povey with all the treasures of the house at -Axe. And it was as good as ever; better than ever. Dr. Stirling -often expressed the desire for a corner cupboard like Mrs. -Baines's corner cupboard. One item had been added: the 'Peel' -compote which Matthew Peel-Swynnerton had noticed in the dining- -room of the Pension Frensham. This majestic piece, which had been -reserved by Sophia in the sale of the pension, stood alone on a -canterbury in the drawingroom. She had stored it, with a few other -trifles, in Paris, and when she sent for it and the packing-case -arrived, both she and Constance became aware that they were united -for the rest of their lives. Of worldly goods, except money, -securities, and clothes, that compote was practically all that -Sophia owned. Happily it was a first-class item, doing no shame to -the antique magnificence of the drawing-room. - -In yielding to Constance's terrible inertia, Sophia had meant -nevertheless to work her own will on the interior of the house. -She had meant to bully Constance into modernizing the dwelling. -She did bully Constance, but the house defied her. Nothing could -be done to that house. If only it had had a hall or lobby a -complete transformation would have been possible. But there was no -access to the upper floor except through the parlour. The parlour -could not therefore be turned into a kitchen and the basement -suppressed, and the ladies of the house could not live entirely on -the upper floor. The disposition of the rooms had to remain -exactly as it had always been. There was the same draught under -the door, the same darkness on the kitchen stairs, the same -difficulties with tradesmen in the distant backyard, the same -twist in the bedroom stairs, the same eternal ascending and -descending of pails. An efficient cooking-stove, instead of the -large and capacious range, alone represented the twentieth century -in the fixtures of the house. - -Buried at the root of the relations between the sisters was -Sophia's grudge against Constance for refusing to leave the -Square. Sophia was loyal. She would not consciously give with one -hand while taking away with the other, and in accepting -Constance's decision she honestly meant to close her eyes to its -stupidity. But she could not entirely succeed. She could not avoid -thinking that the angelic Constance had been strangely and -monstrously selfish in refusing to quit the Square. She marvelled -that a woman of Constance's sweet and calm disposition should be -capable of so vast and ruthless an egotism. Constance must have -known that Sophia would not leave her, and that the habitation of -the Square was a continual irk to Sophia. Constance had never been -able to advance a single argument for remaining in the Square. And -yet she would not budge. It was so inconsistent with the rest of -Constance's behaviour. See Sophia sitting primly there by the -table, a woman approaching sixty, with immense experience written -on the fine hardness of her worn and distinguished face! Though -her hair is not yet all grey, nor her figure bowed, you would -imagine that she would, in her passage through the world, have -learnt better than to expect a character to be consistent. But no! -She was ever disappointed and hurt by Constance's inconsistency! -And see Constance, stout and bowed, looking more than her age with -hair nearly white and slightly trembling hands! See that face -whose mark is meekness and the spirit of conciliation, the desire -for peace--you would not think that that placid soul could, while -submitting to it, inly rage against the imposed weight of Sophia's -individuality. "Because I wouldn't turn out of my house to please -her," Constance would say to herself, "she fancies she is entitled -to do just as she likes." Not often did she secretly rebel thus, -but it occurred sometimes. They never quarrelled. They would have -regarded separation as a disaster. Considering the difference of -their lives, they agreed marvellously in their judgment of things. -But that buried question of domicile prevented a complete unity -between, them. And its subtle effect was to influence both of them -to make the worst, instead of the best, of the trifling mishaps -that disturbed their tranquillity. When annoyed, Sophia would -meditate upon the mere fact that they lived in the Square for no -reason whatever, until it grew incredibly shocking to her. After -all it was scarcely conceivable that they should be living in the -very middle of a dirty, ugly, industrial town simply because -Constance mulishly declined to move. Another thing that curiously -exasperated both of them upon occasion was that, owing to a -recurrence of her old complaint of dizziness after meals, Sophia -had been strictly forbidden to drink tea, which she loved. Sophia -chafed under the deprivation, and Constance's pleasure was -impaired because she had to drink it alone. - -While the brazen and pretty servant, mysteriously smiling to -herself, dropped food and utensils on to the table, Constance and -Sophia attempted to converse with negligent ease upon indifferent -topics, as though nothing had occurred that day to mar the beauty -of ideal relations between employers and employed. The pretence -was ludicrous. The young wench saw through it instantly, and her -mysterious smile developed almost into a laugh. - -"Please shut the door after you, Maud," said Sophia, as the girl -picked up her empty tray. - -"Yes, ma'am," replied Maud, politely. - -She went out and left the door open. - -It was a defiance, offered from sheer, youthful, wanton mischief. - -The sisters looked at each other, their faces gravely troubled, -aghast, as though they had glimpsed the end of civilized society, -as though they felt that they had lived too long into an age of -decadence and open shame. Constance's face showed despair--she -might have been about to be pitched into the gutter without a -friend and without a shilling--but Sophia's had the reckless -courage that disaster breeds. - -Sophia jumped up, and stepped to the door. "Maud," she called out. - -No answer. - -"Maud, do you hear me?" - -The suspense was fearful. - -Still no answer. - -Sophia glanced at Constance. "Either she shuts this door, or she -leaves this house at once, even if I have to fetch a policeman!" - -And Sophia disappeared down the kitchen steps. Constance trembled -with painful excitement. The horror of existence closed in upon -her. She could imagine nothing more appalling than the pass to -which they had been brought by the modern change in the lower -classes. - -In the kitchen, Sophia, conscious that the moment held the future -of at least the next three weeks, collected her forces. - -"Maud," she said, "did you not hear me call you?" - -Maud looked up from a book--doubtless a wicked book. - -"No, ma'am." - -"You liar!" thought Sophia. And she said: "I asked you to shut the -parlour door, and I shall be obliged if you will do so." - -Now Maud would have given a week's wages for the moral force to -disobey Sophia. There was nothing to compel her to obey. She could -have trampled on the fragile and weak Sophia. But something in -Sophia's gaze compelled her to obey. She flounced; she bridled; -she mumbled; she unnecessarily disturbed the venerable Spot; but -she obeyed. Sophia had risked all, and she had won something. - -"And you should light the gas in the kitchen," said Sophia -magnificently, as Maud followed her up the steps. "Your young eyes -may be very good now, but you are not going the way to preserve -them. My sister and I have often told you that we do not grudge -you gas." - -With stateliness she rejoined Constance, and sat down to the cold -supper. And as Maud clicked the door to, the sisters breathed -relief. They envisaged new tribulations, but for a brief instant -there was surcease. - -Yet they could not eat. Neither of them, when it came to the -point, could swallow. The day had been too exciting, too -distressing. They were at the end of their resources. And they did -not hide from each other that they were at the end of their -resources. The illness of Fossette, without anything else, had -been more than enough to ruin their tranquillity. But the illness -of Fossette was as nothing to the ingenious naughtiness of the -servant. Maud had a sense of temporary defeat, and was planning -fresh operations; but really it was Maud who had conquered. Poor -old things, they were in such a 'state' that they could not eat! - -"I'm not going to let her think she can spoil my appetite!" said -Sophia, dauntless. Truly that woman's spirit was unquenchable. - -She cut a couple of slices off the cold fowl; she cut a tomato -into slices; she disturbed the butter; she crumbled bread on the -cloth, and rubbed bits of fowl over the plates, and dirtied knives -and forks. Then she put the slices of fowl and bread and tomato -into a piece of tissue paper, and silently went upstairs with the -parcel and came down again a moment afterwards empty-handed. - -After an interval she rang the bell, and lighted the gas. - -"We've finished, Maud. You can clear away." - -Constance thirsted for a cup of tea. She felt that a cup of tea -was the one thing that would certainly keep her alive. She longed -for it passionately. But she would not demand it from Maud. Nor -would she mention it to Sophia, lest Sophia, flushed by the -victory of the door, should incur new risks. She simply did -without. On empty stomachs they tried pathetically to help each -other in games of Patience. And when the blithe Maud passed -through the parlour on the way to bed, she saw two dignified and -apparently calm ladies, apparently absorbed in a delightful game -of cards, apparently without a worry in the world. They said "Good -night, Maud," cheerfully, politely, and coldly. It was a heroic -scene. Immediately afterwards Sophia carried Fossette up to her -own bedroom. - -II - -The next afternoon the sisters, in the drawing-room, saw Dr. -Stirling's motor-car speeding down the Square. The doctor's -partner, young Harrop, had died a few years before at the age of -over seventy, and the practice was much larger than it had ever -been, even in the time of old Harrop. Instead of two or three -horses, Stirling kept a car, which was a constant spectacle in the -streets of the district. - -"I do hope he'll call in," said Mrs. Povey, and sighed. - -Sophia smiled to herself with a little scorn. She knew that -Constance's desire for Dr. Stirling was due simply to the need -which she felt of telling some one about the great calamity that -had happened to them that morning. Constance was utterly absorbed -by it, in the most provincial way. Sophia had said to herself at -the beginning of her sojourn in Bursley, and long afterwards, that -she should never get accustomed to the exasperating provinciality -of the town, exemplified by the childish preoccupation of the -inhabitants with their own two-penny affairs. No characteristic of -life in Bursley annoyed her more than this. None had oftener -caused her to yearn in a brief madness for the desert-like freedom -of great cities. But she had got accustomed to it. Indeed, she had -almost ceased to notice it. Only occasionally, when her nerves -were more upset than usual, did it strike her. - -She went into Constance's bedroom to see whether the doctor's car -halted in King Street. It did. - -"He's here," she called out to Constance. - -"I wish you'd go down, Sophia," said Constance. "I can't trust -that minx----" - -So Sophia went downstairs to superintend the opening of the door -by the minx. - -The doctor was radiant, according to custom. - -"I thought I'd just see how that dizziness was going on," said he -as he came up the steps. - -"I'm glad you've come," said Sophia, confidentially. Since the -first days of their acquaintanceship they had always been -confidential. "You'll do my sister good to-day." - -Just as Maud was closing the door a telegraph-boy arrived, with a -telegram addressed to Mrs. Scales. Sophia read it and then -crumpled it in her hand. - -"What's wrong with Mrs. Povey to-day?" the doctor asked, when the -servant had withdrawn. - -"She only wants a bit of your society," said Sophia. "Will you go -up? You know the way to the drawing-room. I'll follow." - -As soon as he had gone she sat down on the sofa, staring out of -the window. Then with a grunt: "Well, that's no use, anyway!" she -went upstairs after the doctor. Already Constance had begun upon -her recital. - -"Yes," Constance was saying. "And when I went down this morning to -keep an eye on the breakfast, I thought Spot was very quiet--" She -paused. "He was dead in the drawer. She pretended she didn't know, -but I'm sure she did. Nothing will convince me that she didn't -poison that dog with the mice-poison we had last year. She was -vexed because Sophia took her up sharply about Fossette last -night, and she revenged herself on the other dog. It would just be -like her. Don't tell me! I know. I should have packed her off at -once, but Sophia thought better not. We couldn't prove anything, -as Sophia says. Now, what do you think of it, doctor?" - -Constance's eyes suddenly filled with tears. - -"Ye'd had Spot a long time, hadn't ye?" he said sympathetically. - -She nodded. "When I was married," said she, "the first thing my -husband did was to buy a fox-terrier, and ever since we've always -had a fox-terrier in the house." This was not true, but Constance -was firmly convinced of its truth. - -"It's very trying," said the doctor. "I know when my Airedale -died, I said to my wife I'd never have another dog--unless she -could find me one that would live for ever. Ye remember my -Airedale?" - -"Oh, quite well!" - -"Well, my wife said I should be bound to have another one sooner -or later, and the sooner the better. She went straight off to -Oldcastle and bought me a spaniel pup, and there was such a to-do -training it that we hadn't too much time to think about Piper." - -Constance regarded this procedure as somewhat callous, and she -said so, tartly. Then she recommenced the tale of Spot's death -from the beginning, and took it as far as his burial, that -afternoon, by Mr. Critchlow's manager, in the yard. It had been -necessary to remove and replace paving-stones. - -"Of course," said Dr. Stirling, "ten years is a long time. He was -an old dog. Well, you've still got the celebrated Fossette." He -turned to Sophia. - -"Oh yes," said Constance, perfunctorily. "Fossette's ill. The fact -is that if Fossette hadn't been ill, Spot would probably have been -alive and well now." - -Her tone exhibited a grievance. She could not forget that Sophia -had harshly dismissed Spot to the kitchen, thus practically -sending him to his death. It seemed very hard to her that -Fossette, whose life had once been despaired of, should continue -to exist, while Spot, always healthy and unspoilt, should die -untended, and by treachery. For the rest, she had never liked -Fossette. On Spot's behalf she had always been jealous of -Fossette. - -"Probably alive and well now!" she repeated, with a peculiar -accent. - -Observing that Sophia maintained a strange silence, Dr. Stirling -suspected a slight tension in the relations of the sisters, and he -changed the subject. One of his great qualities was that he -refrained from changing a subject introduced by a patient unless -there was a professional reason for changing it. - -"I've just met Richard Povey in the town," said he. "He told me to -tell ye that he'll be round in about an hour or so to take you for -a spin. He was in a new car, which he did his best to sell to me, -but he didn't succeed." - -"It's very kind of Dick," said Constance. "But this afternoon -really we're not--" - -"I'll thank ye to take it as a prescription, then," replied the -doctor. "I told Dick I'd see that ye went. Splendid June weather. -No dust after all that rain. It'll do ye all the good in the -world. I must exercise my authority. The truth is, I've gradually -been losing all control over ye. Ye do just as ye like." - -"Oh, doctor, how you do run on!" murmured Constance, not quite -well pleased to-day by his tone. - -After the scene between Sophia and herself at Buxton, Constance -had always, to a certain extent, in the doctor's own phrase, 'got -her knife into him.' Sophia had, then, in a manner betrayed him. -Constance and the doctor discussed that matter with frankness, the -doctor humorously accusing her of being 'hard' on him. -Nevertheless the little cloud between them was real, and the -result was often a faint captiousness on Constance's part in -judging the doctor's behaviour. - -"He's got a surprise for ye, has Dick!" the doctor added. - -Dick Povey, after his father's death and his own partial recovery, -had set up in Hanbridge as a bicycle agent. He was permanently -lamed, and he hopped about with a thick stick. He had succeeded -with bicycles and had taken to automobiles, and he was succeeding -with automobiles. People were at first startled that he should -advertise himself in the Five Towns. There was an obscure general -feeling that because his mother had been a drunkard and his father -a murderer, Dick Povey had no right to exist. However, when it had -recovered from the shock of seeing Dick Povey's announcement of -bargains in the Signal, the district most sensibly decided that -there was no reason why Dick Povey should not sell bicycles as -well as a man with normal parents. He was now supposed to be -acquiring wealth rapidly. It was said that he was a marvellous -chauffeur, at once daring and prudent. He had one day, several -years previously, overtaken the sisters in the rural neighbourhood -of Sneyd, where they had been making an afternoon excursion. -Constance had presented him to Sophia, and he had insisted on -driving the ladies home. They had been much impressed by his -cautious care of them, and their natural prejudice against -anything so new as a motorcar had been conquered instantly. -Afterwards he had taken them out for occasional runs. He had a -great admiration for Constance, founded on gratitude to Samuel -Povey; and as for Sophia, he always said to her that she would be -an ornament to any car. - -"You haven't heard his latest, I suppose?" said the doctor, -smiling. - -"What is it?" Sophia asked perfunctorily. - -"He wants to take to ballooning. It seems he's been up once." - -Constance made a deprecating noise with her lips. - -"However, that's not his surprise," the doctor added, smiling -again at the floor. He was sitting on the music-stool, and saying -to himself, behind his mask of effulgent good-nature: "It gets -more and more uphill work, cheering up these two women. I'll try -them on Federation." - -Federation was the name given to the scheme for blending the Five -Towns into one town, which would be the twelfth largest town in -the kingdom. It aroused fury in Bursley, which saw in the -suggestion nothing but the extinction of its ancient glory to the -aggrandizement of Hanbridge. Hanbridge had already, with the -assistance of electric cars that whizzed to and fro every five -minutes, robbed Bursley of two-thirds of its retail trade--as -witness the steady decadence of the Square!--and Bursley had no -mind to swallow the insult and become a mere ward of Hanbridge. -Bursley would die fighting. Both Constance and Sophia were bitter -opponents of Federation. They would have been capable of putting -Federationists to the torture. Sophia in particular, though so -long absent from her native town, had adopted its cause with -characteristic vigour. And when Dr. Stirling wished to practise -his curative treatment of taking the sisters 'out of themselves,' -he had only to start the hare of Federation and the hunt would be -up in a moment. But this afternoon he did not succeed with Sophia, -and only partially with Constance. When he stated that there was -to be a public meeting that very night, and that Constance as a -ratepayer ought to go to it and vote, if her convictions were -genuine, she received his chaff with a mere murmur to the effect -that she did not think she should go. Had the man forgotten that -Spot was dead? At length he became grave, and examined them both -as to their ailments, and nodded his head, and looked into vacancy -while meditating upon each case. And then, when he had inquired -where they meant to go for their summer holidays, he departed. - -"Aren't you going to see him out?" Constance whispered to Sophia, -who had shaken hands with him at the drawingroom door. It was -Sophia who did the running about, owing to the state of -Constance's sciatic nerve. Constance had, indeed, become -extraordinarily inert, leaving everything to Sophia. - -Sophia shook her head. She hesitated; then approached Constance, -holding out her hand and disclosing the crumpled telegram. - -"Look at that!" said she. - -Her face frightened Constance, who was always expectant of new -anxieties and troubles. Constance straightened out the paper with -difficulty, and read-- - -"Mr. Gerald Scales is dangerously ill here. Boldero, 49, -Deansgate, Manchester." - -All through the inexpressibly tedious and quite unnecessary call -of Dr. Stirling--(Why had he chosen to call just then? Neither of -them was ill)--Sophia had held that telegram concealed in her hand -and its information concealed in her heart. She had kept her head -up, offering a calm front to the world. She had given no hint of -the terrible explosion--for an explosion it was. Constance was -astounded at her sister's self-control, which entirely passed her -comprehension. Constance felt that worries would never cease, but -would rather go on multiplying until death ended all. First, there -had been the frightful worry of the servant; then the extremely -distressing death and burial of Spot--and now it was Gerald Scales -turning up again! With what violence was the direction of their -thoughts now shifted! The wickedness of maids was a trifle; the -death of pets was a trifle. But the reappearance of Gerald Scales! -That involved the possibility of consequences which could not even -be named, so afflictive was the mere prospect to them. Constance -was speechless, and she saw that Sophia was also speechless. - -Of course the event had been bound to happen. People do not vanish -never to be heard of again. The time surely arrives when the -secret is revealed. So Sophia said to herself--now! - -She had always refused to consider the effect of Gerald's -reappearance. She had put the idea of it away from her, determined -to convince herself that she had done with him finally and for -ever. She had forgotten him. It was years since he had ceased to -disturb her thoughts--many years. "He MUST be dead," she had -persuaded herself. "It is inconceivable that he should have lived -on and never come across me. If he had been alive and learnt that -I had made money, he would assuredly have come to me. No, he must -be dead!" - -And he was not dead! The brief telegram overwhelmingly shocked -her. Her life had been calm, regular, monotonous. And now it was -thrown into an indescribable turmoil by five words of a telegram, -suddenly, with no warning whatever. Sophia had the right to say to -herself: "I have had my share of trouble, and more than my share!" -The end of her life promised to be as awful as the beginning. The -mere existence of Gerald Scales was a menace to her. But it was -the simple impact of the blow that affected her supremely, beyond -ulterior things. One might have pictured fate as a cowardly brute -who had struck this ageing woman full in the face, a felling blow, -which however had not felled her. She staggered, but she stuck on -her legs. It seemed a shame--one of those crude, spectacular -shames which make the blood boil--that the gallant, defenceless -creature should be so maltreated by the bully, destiny. - -"Oh, Sophia!" Constance moaned. "What trouble is this?" - -Sophia's lip curled with a disgusted air. Under that she hid her -suffering. - -She had not seen him for thirty-six years. He must be over seventy -years of age, and he had turned up again like a bad penny, -doubtless a disgrace! What had he been doing in those thirty-six -years? He was an old, enfeebled man now! He must be a pretty -sight! And he lay at Manchester, not two hours away! - -Whatever feelings were in Sophia's heart, tenderness was not among -them. As she collected her wits from the stroke, she was -principally aware of the sentiment of fear. She recoiled from the -future. - -"What shall you do?" Constance asked. Constance was weeping. - -Sophia tapped her foot, glancing out of the window. - -"Shall you go to see him?" Constance continued. - -"Of course," said Sophia. "I must!" - -She hated the thought of going to see him. She flinched from it. -She felt herself under no moral obligation to go. Why should she -go? Gerald was nothing to her, and had no claim on her of any -kind. This she honestly believed. And yet she knew that she must -go to him. She knew it to be impossible that she should not go. - -"Now?" demanded Constance. - -Sophia nodded. - -"What about the trains? ... Oh, you poor dear!" The mere idea of -the journey to Manchester put Constance out of her wits, seeming a -business of unparalleled complexity and difficulty. - -"Would you like me to come with you?" - -"Oh no! I must go by myself." - -Constance was relieved by this. They could not have left the -servant in the house alone, and the idea of shutting up the house -without notice or preparation presented itself to Constance as too -fantastic. - -By a common instinct they both descended to the parlour. - -"Now, what about a time-table? What about a time-table?" Constance -mumbled on the stairs. She wiped her eyes resolutely. "I wonder -whatever in this world has brought him at last to that Mr. -Boldero's in Deansgate?" she asked the walls. - -As they came into the parlour, a great motor-car drove up before -the door, and when the pulsations of its engine had died away, -Dick Povey hobbled from the driver's seat to the pavement. In an -instant he was hammering at the door in his lively style. There -was no avoiding him. The door had to be opened. Sophia opened it. -Dick Povey was over forty, but he looked considerably younger. -Despite his lameness, and the fact that his lameness tended to -induce corpulence, he had a dashing air, and his face, with its -short, light moustache, was boyish. He seemed to be always upon -some joyous adventure. - -"Well, aunties," he greeted the sisters, having perceived -Constance behind Sophia; he often so addressed them. "Has Dr. -Stirling warned you that I was coming? Why haven't you got your -things on?" - -Sophia observed a young woman in the car. - -"Yes," said he, following her gaze, "you may as well look. Come -down, miss. Come down, Lily. You've got to go through with it." -The young woman, delicately confused and blushing, obeyed. "This -is Miss Lily Holl," he went on. "I don't know whether you would -remember her. I don't think you do. It's not often she comes to -the Square. But, of course, she knows you by sight. Granddaughter -of your old neighbour, Alderman Holl! We are engaged to be -married, if you please." - -Constance and Sophia could not decently pour out their griefs on -the top of such news. The betrothed pair had to come in and be -congratulated upon their entry into the large realms of mutual -love. But the sisters, even in their painful quandary, could not -help noticing what a nice, quiet, ladylike girl Lily Holl was. Her -one fault appeared to be that she was too quiet. Dick Povey was -not the man to pass time in formalities, and he was soon urging -departure. - -"I'm sorry we can't come," said Sophia. "I've got to go to -Manchester now. We are in great trouble." - -"Yes, in great trouble," Constance weakly echoed. - -Dick's face clouded sympathetically. And both the affianced began -to see that to which the egotism of their happiness had blinded -them. They felt that long, long years had elapsed since these -ageing ladies had experienced the delights which they were -feeling. - -"Trouble? I'm sorry to hear that!" said Dick. - -"Can you tell me the trains to Manchester?" asked Sophia. - -"No," said Dick, quickly, "But I can drive you there quicker than -any train, if it's urgent. Where do you want to go to?" - -"Deansgate," Sophia faltered. - -"Look here," said Dick, "it's half-past three. Put yourself in my -hands; I'll guarantee at Deansgate you shall be before half-past -five. I'll look after you." - -"But----" - -"There isn't any 'but.' I'm quite free for the afternoon and -evening." - -At first the suggestion seemed absurd, especially to Constance. -But really it was too tempting to be declined. While Sophia made -ready for the journey, Dick and Lily Holl and Constance conversed -in low, solemn tones. The pair were waiting to be enlightened as -to the nature of the trouble; Constance, however, did not -enlighten them. How could Constance say to them: "Sophia has a -husband that she hasn't seen for thirty-six years, and he's -dangerously ill, and they've telegraphed for her to go?" Constance -could not. It did not even occur to Constance to order a cup of -tea. - -III - -Dick Povey kept his word. At a quarter-past five he drew up in -front of No. 49, Deansgate, Manchester. "There you are!" he said, -not without pride. "Now, we'll come back in about a couple of -hours or so, just to take your orders, whatever they are." He was -very comforting, with his suggestion that in him Sophia had a sure -support in the background. - -Without many words Sophia went straight into the shop. It looked -like a jeweller's shop, and a shop for bargains generally. Only -the conventional sign over a side-entrance showed that at heart it -was a pawnbroker's. Mr. Till Boldero did a nice business in the -Five Towns, and in other centres near Manchester, by selling -silver-ware second-hand, or nominally second hand, to persons who -wished to make presents to other persons or to themselves. He -would send anything by post on approval. Occasionally he came to -the Five Towns, and he had once, several years before, met -Constance. They had talked. He was the son of a cousin of the late -great and wealthy Boldero, sleeping partner in Birkinshaws, and -Gerald's uncle. It was from Constance that he had learnt of -Sophia's return to Bursley. Constance had often remarked to Sophia -what a superior man Mr. Till Boldero was. - -The shop was narrow and lofty. It seemed like a menagerie for -trapped silver-ware. In glass cases right up to the dark ceiling -silver vessels and instruments of all kinds lay confined. The top -of the counter was a glass prison containing dozens of gold -watches, together with snuff-boxes, enamels, and other -antiquities. The front of the counter was also glazed, showing -vases and large pieces of porcelain. A few pictures in heavy gold -frames were perched about. There was a case of umbrellas with -elaborate handles and rich tassels. There were a couple of -statuettes. The counter, on the customers' side, ended in a glass -screen on which were the words 'Private Office.' On the seller's -side the prospect was closed by a vast safe. A tall young man was -fumbling in this safe. Two women sat on customers' chairs, leaning -against the crystal counter. The young man came towards them from -the safe, bearing a tray. - -"How much is that goblet?" asked one of the women, raising her -parasol dangerously among such fragility and pointing to one -object among many in a case high up from the ground. - -"That, madam?" - -"Yes." - -"Thirty-five pounds." - -The young man disposed his tray on the counter. It was packed with -more gold watches, adding to the extraordinary glitter and shimmer -of the shop. He chose a small watch from the regiment. - -"Now, this is something I can recommend," he said. "It's made by -Cuthbert Butler of Blackburn. I can guarantee you that for five -years." He spoke as though he were the accredited representative -of the Bank of England, with calm and absolute assurance. - -The effect upon Sophia was mysteriously soothing. She felt that -she was among honest men. The young man raised his head towards -her with a questioning, deferential gesture. - -"Can I see Mr. Boldero?" she asked. "Mrs. Scales." - -The young man's face changed instantly to a sympathetic -comprehension. - -"Yes, madam. I'll fetch him at once," said he, and he disappeared -behind the safe. The two customers discussed the watch. Then the -door opened in the glass screen, and a portly, middle-aged man -showed himself. He was dressed in blue broad-cloth, with a turned- -down collar and a small black tie. His waistcoat displayed a plain -but heavy gold watch-chain, and his cuff-links were of plain gold. -His eye-glasses were gold-rimmed. He had grey hair, beard and -moustache, but on the backs of his hands grew a light brown hair. -His appearance was strangely mild, dignified, and confidence- -inspiring. He was, in fact, one of the most respected tradesmen in -Manchester. - -He peered forward, looking over his eye-glasses, which he then -took off, holding them up in the air by their short handle. Sophia -had approached him. - -"Mrs. Scales?" he said, in a very quiet, very benevolent voice. -Sophia nodded. "Please come this way." He took her hand, squeezing -it commiseratingly, and drew her into the sanctum. "I didn't -expect you so soon," he said. "I looked up th' trains, and I -didn't see how you could get here before six." - -Sophia explained. - -He led her further, through the private office, into a sort of -parlour, and asked her to sit down. And he too sat down. Sophia -waited, as it were, like a suitor. - -"I'm afraid I've got bad news for you, Mrs. Scales," he said, -still in that mild, benevolent voice. - -"He's dead?" Sophia asked. - -Mr. Till Boldero nodded. "He's dead. I may as well tell you that -he had passed away before I telegraphed. It all happened very, -very suddenly." He paused. "Very, very suddenly!" - -"Yes," said Sophia, weakly. She was conscious of a profound -sadness which was not grief, though it resembled grief. And she -had also a feeling that she was responsible to Mr. Till Boldero -for anything untoward that might have occurred to him by reason of -Gerald. - -"Yes," said Mr. Till Boldero, deliberately and softly. "He came in -last night just as we were closing. We had very heavy rain here. I -don't know how it was with you. He was wet, in a dreadful state, -simply dreadful. Of course, I didn't recognize him. I'd never seen -him before, so far as my recollection goes. He asked me if I was -the son of Mr. Till Boldero that had this shop in 1866. I said I -was. 'Well,' he says, 'you're the only connection I've got. My -name's Gerald Scales. My mother was your father's cousin. Can you -do anything for me?' he says. I could see he was ill. I had him in -here. When I found he couldn't eat nor drink I thought I'd happen -better send for th' doctor. The doctor got him to bed. He passed -away at one o'clock this afternoon. I was very sorry my wife -wasn't here to look after things a bit better. But she's at -Southport, not well at all." - -"What was it?" Sophia asked briefly. - -Mr. Boldero indicated the enigmatic. "Exhaustion, I suppose," he -replied. - -"He's here?" demanded Sophia, lifting her eyes to possible -bedrooms. - -"Yes," said Mr. Boldero. "I suppose you would wish to see him?" - -"Yes," said Sophia. - -"You haven't seen him for a long time, your sister told me?" Mr. -Boldero murmured, sympathetically. - -"Not since 'seventy," said Sophia. - -"Eh, dear! Eh, dear!" ejaculated Mr. Boldero. "I fear it's been a -sad business for ye, Mrs. Scales. Not since 'seventy!" He sighed. -"You must take it as well as you can. I'm not one as talks much, -but I sympathize, with you. I do that! I wish my wife had been -here to receive you." - -Tears came into Sophia's eyes. - -"Nay, nay!" he said. "You must bear up now!" - -"It's you that make me cry," said Sophia, gratefully. "You were -very good to take him in. It must have been exceedingly trying for -you." - -"Oh," he protested, "you mustn't talk like that. I couldn't leave -a Boldero on the pavement, and an old man at that! . . . Oh, to -think that if he'd only managed to please his uncle he might ha' -been one of the richest men in Lancashire. But then there'd ha' -been no Boldero Institute at Strangeways!" he added. - -They both sat silent a moment. - -"Will you come now? Or will you wait a bit?" asked Mr. Boldero, -gently. "Just as you wish. I'm sorry as my wife's away, that I -am!" - -"I'll come now," said Sophia, firmly. But she was stricken. - -He conducted her up a short, dark flight of stairs, which gave on -a passage, and at the end of the passage was a door ajar. He -pushed the door open. "I'll leave you for a moment," he said, -always in the same very restrained tone. "You'll find me -downstairs, there, if you want me." And he moved away with hushed, -deliberate tread. - -Sophia went into the room, of which the white blind was drawn. She -appreciated Mr. Boldero's consideration in leaving her. She was -trembling. But when she saw, in the pale gloom, the face of an -aged man peeping out from under a white sheet on a naked mattress, -she started back, trembling no more--rather transfixed into an -absolute rigidity. That was no conventional, expected shock that -she had received. It was a genuine unforeseen shock, the most -violent that she had ever had. In her mind she had not pictured -Gerald as a very old man. She knew that he was old; she had said -to herself that he must be very old, well over seventy. But she -had not pictured him. This face on the bed was painfully, pitiably -old. A withered face, with the shiny skin all drawn into wrinkles! -The stretched skin under the jaw was like the skin of a plucked -fowl. The cheek-bones stood up, and below them were deep hollows, -almost like egg-cups. A short, scraggy white beard covered the -lower part of the face. The hair was scanty, irregular, and quite -white; a little white hair grew in the ears. The shut mouth -obviously hid toothless gums, for the lips were sucked in. The -eyelids were as if pasted down over the eyes, fitting them like -kid. All the skin was extremely pallid; it seemed brittle. The -body, whose outlines were clear under the sheet, was very small, -thin, shrunk, pitiable as the face. And on the face was a general -expression of final fatigue, of tragic and acute exhaustion; such -as made Sophia pleased that the fatigue and exhaustion had been -assuaged in rest, while all the time she kept thinking to herself -horribly: "Oh! how tired he must have been!" - -Sophia then experienced a pure and primitive emotion, uncoloured -by any moral or religious quality. She was not sorry that Gerald -had wasted his life, nor that he was a shame to his years and to -her. The manner of his life was of no importance. What affected -her was that he had once been young, and that he had grown old, -and was now dead. That was all. Youth and vigour had come to that. -Youth and vigour always came to that. Everything came to that. He -had ill-treated her; he had abandoned her; he had been a devious -rascal; but how trivial were such accusations against him! The -whole of her huge and bitter grievance against him fell to pieces -and crumbled. She saw him young, and proud, and strong, as for -instance when he had kissed her lying on the bed in that London -hotel--she forgot the name--in 1866; and now he was old, and worn, -and horrible, and dead. It was the riddle of life that was -puzzling and killing her. By the corner of her eye, reflected in -the mirror of a wardrobe near the bed, she glimpsed a tall, -forlorn woman, who had once been young and now was old; who had -once exulted in abundant strength, and trodden proudly on the neck -of circumstance, and now was old. He and she had once loved and -burned and quarrelled in the glittering and scornful pride of -youth. But time had worn them out. "Yet a little while," she -thought, "and I shall be lying on a bed like that! And what shall -I have lived for? What is the meaning of it?" The riddle of life -itself was killing her, and she seemed to drown in a sea of -inexpressible sorrow. - -Her memory wandered hopelessly among those past years. She saw -Chirac with his wistful smile. She saw him whipped over the roof -of the Gare du Nord at the tail of a balloon. She saw old Niepce. -She felt his lecherous arm round her. She was as old now as Niepce -had been then. Could she excite lust now? Ah! the irony of such a -question! To be young and seductive, to be able to kindle a man's -eye--that seemed to her the sole thing desirable. Once she had -been so! ... Niepce must certainly have been dead for years. -Niepce, the obstinate and hopeful voluptuary, was nothing but a -few bones in a coffin now! - -She was acquainted with affliction in that hour. All that she had -previously suffered sank into insignificance by the side of that -suffering. - -She turned to the veiled window and idly pulled the blind and -looked out. Huge red and yellow cars were swimming in thunder -along Deansgate; lorries jolted and rattled; the people of -Manchester hurried along the pavements, apparently unconscious -that all their doings were vain. Yesterday he too had been in -Deansgate, hungry for life, hating the idea of death! What a -figure he must have made! Her heart dissolved in pity for him. She -dropped the blind. - -"My life has been too terrible!" she thought. "I wish I was dead. -I have been through too much. It is monstrous, and I cannot stand -it. I do not want to die, but I wish I was dead." - -There was a discreet knock on the door. - -"Come in," she said, in a calm, resigned, cheerful voice. The -sound had recalled her with the swiftness of a miracle to the -unconquerable dignity of human pride. - -Mr. Till Boldero entered. - -"I should like you to come downstairs and drink a cup of tea," he -said. He was a marvel of tact and good nature. "My wife is -unfortunately not here, and the house is rather at sixes and -sevens; but I have sent out for some tea." - -She followed him downstairs into the parlour. He poured out a cup -of tea. - -"I was forgetting," she said. "I am forbidden tea. I mustn't drink -it." - -She looked at the cup, tremendously tempted. She longed for tea. -An occasional transgression could not harm her. But no! She would -not drink it. - -"Then what can I get you?" - -"If I could have just milk and water," she said meekly. - -Mr. Boldero emptied the cup into the slop basin, and began to fill -it again. - -"Did he tell you anything?" she asked, after a considerable -silence. - -"Nothing," said Mr. Boldero in his low, soothing tones. "Nothing -except that he had come from Liverpool. Judging from his shoes I -should say he must have walked a good bit of the way." - -"At his age!" murmured Sophia, touched. - -"Yes," sighed Mr. Boldero. "He must have been in great straits. -You know, he could scarcely talk at all. By the way, here are his -clothes. I have had them put aside." - -Sophia saw a small pile of clothes on a chair. She examined the -suit, which was still damp, and its woeful shabbiness pained her. -The linen collar was nearly black, its stud of bone. As for the -boots, she had noticed such boots on the feet of tramps. She wept -now. These were the clothes of him who had once been a dandy -living at the rate of fifty pounds a week. - -"No luggage or anything, of course?" she muttered. - -"No," said Mr. Boldero. "In the pockets there was nothing whatever -but this." - -He went to the mantelpiece and picked up a cheap, cracked letter -case, which Sophia opened. In it were a visiting card--'Senorita -Clemenzia Borja'--and a bill-head of the Hotel of the Holy Spirit, -Concepcion del Uruguay, on the back of which a lot of figures had -been scrawled. - -"One would suppose," said Mr. Boldero, "that he had come from -South America." - -"Nothing else?" - -"Nothing." - -Gerald's soul had not been compelled to abandon much in the haste -of its flight. - -A servant announced that Mrs. Scales's friends were waiting for -her outside in the motor-car. Sophia glanced at Mr. Till Boldero -with an exacerbated anxiety on her face. - -"Surely they don't expect me to go back with them tonight!" she -said. "And look at all there is to be done!" - -Mr. Till Boldero's kindness was then redoubled. "You can do -nothing for HIM now," he said. "Tell me your wishes about the -funeral. I will arrange everything. Go back to your sister to- -night. She will be nervous about you. And return tomorrow or the -day after. ... No! It's no trouble, I assure you!" - -She yielded. - -Thus towards eight o'clock, when Sophia had eaten a little under -Mr. Boldero's superintendence, and the pawnshop was shut up, the -motor-car started again for Bursley, Lily Holl being beside her -lover and Sophia alone in the body of the car. Sophia had told -them nothing of the nature of her mission. She was incapable of -talking to them. They saw that she was in a condition of serious -mental disturbance. Under cover of the noise of the car, Lily said -to Dick that she was sure Mrs. Scales was ill, and Dick, putting -his lips together, replied that he meant to be in King Street at -nine-thirty at the latest. From time to time Lily surreptitiously -glanced at Sophia--a glance of apprehensive inspection, or smiled -at her silently; and Sophia vaguely responded to the smile. - -In half an hour they had escaped from the ring of Manchester and -were on the county roads of Cheshire, polished, flat, sinuous. It -was the season of the year when there is no night--only daylight -and twilight; when the last silver of dusk remains obstinately -visible for hours. And in the open country, under the melancholy -arch of evening, the sadness of the earth seemed to possess Sophia -anew. Only then did she realize the intensity of the ordeal -through which she was passing. - -To the south of Congleton one of the tyres softened, immediately -after Dick had lighted his lamps. He stopped the car and got down -again. They were two miles Astbury, the nearest village. He had -just, with the resignation of experience, reached for the tool- -bag, when Lily exclaimed: "Is she asleep, or what?" Sophia was not -asleep, but she was apparently not conscious. - -It was a difficult and a trying situation for two lovers. Their -voices changed momentarily to the tone of alarm and consternation, -and then grew firm again. Sophia showed life but not reason. Lily -could feel the poor old lady's heart. - -"Well, there's nothing for it!" said Dick, briefly, when all their -efforts failed to rouse her. - -"What--shall you do?" - -"Go straight home as quick as I can on three tyres. We must get -her over to this side, and you must hold her. Like that we shall -keep the weight off the other side." - -He pitched back the tool-bag into its box. Lily admired his -decision. - -It was in this order, no longer under the spell of the changing -beauty of nocturnal landscapes, that they finished the journey. -Constance had opened the door before the car came to a stop in the -gloom of King Street. The young people considered that she bore -the shock well, though the carrying into the house of Sophia's -inert, twitching body, with its hat forlornly awry, was a sight to -harrow a soul sturdier than Constance. - -When that was done, Dick said curtly: "I'm off. You stay here, of -course." - -"Where are you going?" asked Lily. - -"Doctor!" snapped Dick, hobbling rapidly down the steps. - -IV - -The extraordinary violence of the turn in affairs was what chiefly -struck Constance, though it did not overwhelm her. Less than -twelve hours before--nay, scarcely six hours before--she and -Sophia had been living their placid and monotonous existence, -undisturbed by anything worse than the indisposition or death of -dogs, or the perversity of a servant. And now, the menacing Gerald -Scales having reappeared, Sophia's form lay mysterious and -affrightening on the sofa; and she and Lily Holl, a girl whom she -had not met till that day, were staring at Sophia side by side, -intimately sharing the same alarm. Constance rose to the crisis. -She no longer had Sophia's energy and decisive peremptoriness to -depend on, and the Baines in her was awakened. All her daily -troubles sank away to their proper scale of unimportance. Neither -the young woman nor the old one knew what to do. They could loosen -clothes, vainly offer restoratives to the smitten mouth: that was -all. Sophia was not unconscious, as could be judged from her eyes; -but she could not speak, nor make signs; her body was frequently -convulsed. So the two women waited, and the servant waited in the -background. The sight of Sophia had effected an astonishing -transformation in Maud. Maud was a changed girl. Constance could -not recognize, in her eager deferential anxiety to be of use, the -pert naughtiness of the minx. She was altered as a wanton of the -middle ages would have been altered by some miraculous visitation. -It might have been the turning-point in Maud's career! - -Doctor Stirling arrived in less than ten minutes. Dick Povey had -had the wit to look for him at the Federation meeting in the Town -Hall. And the advent of the doctor and Dick, noisily, at breakneck -speed in the car, provided a second sensation. The doctor inquired -quickly what had occurred. Nobody could tell him anything. -Constance had already confided to Lily Holl the reason of the -visit to Manchester; but that was the extent of her knowledge. Not -a single person in Bursley, except Sophia, knew what had happened -in Manchester. But Constance conjectured that Gerald Scales was -dead--or Sophia would never have returned so soon. Then the doctor -suggested that on the contrary Gerald Scales might be out of -danger. And all then pictured to themselves this troubling Gerald -Scales, this dark and sinister husband that had caused such a -violent upheaval. - -Meanwhile the doctor was at work. He sent Dick Povey to knock up -Critchlow's, if the shop should be closed, and obtain a drug. -Then, after a time, he lifted Sophia, just as she was, like a -bundle on his shoulder, and carried her single-handed upstairs to -the second floor. He had recently been giving a course of -instruction to enthusiasts of the St. John's Ambulance Association -in Bursley. The feat had an air of the superhuman. Above all else -it remained printed on Constance's mind: the burly doctor treading -delicately and carefully on the crooked, creaking stairs, his -precautions against damaging Sophia by brusque contacts, his -stumble at the two steps in the middle of the corridor; Sophia's -horribly limp head and loosened hair; and then the tender placing -of her on the bed, and the doctor's long breath and flourish of -his large handkerchief, all that under the crude lights and -shadows of gas jets! The doctor was nonplussed. Constance gave him -a second-hand account of Sophia's original attack in Paris, -roughly as she had heard it from Sophia. He at once said that it -could not have been what the French doctor had said it was. -Constance shrugged her shoulders. She was not surprised. For her -there was necessarily something of the charlatan about a French -doctor. She said she only knew what Sophia had told her. After a -time Dr. Stirling determined to try electricity, and Dick Povey -drove him up to the surgery to fetch his apparatus. The women were -left alone again. Constance was very deeply impressed by Lily -Holl's sensible, sympathetic attitude. "Whatever I should have -done without Miss Lily I don't know!" she used to exclaim -afterwards. Even Maud was beyond praise. It seemed to be the -middle of the night when Dr. Stirling came back, but it was barely -eleven o'clock, and people were only just returning from Hanbridge -Theatre and Hanbridge Music Hall. The use of the electrical -apparatus was a dead spectacle. Sophia's inertness under it was -agonizing. They waited, as it were, breathless for the result. And -there was no result. Both injections and electricity had entirely -failed to influence the paralysis of Sophia's mouth and throat. -Everything had failed. "Nothing to do but wait a bit!" said the -doctor quietly. They waited in the chamber. Sophia seemed to be in -a kind of coma. The distortion of her handsome face was more -marked as time passed. The doctor spoke now and then in a low -voice. He said that the attack had ultimately been determined by -cold produced by rapid motion in the automobile. Dick Povey -whispered that he must run over to Hanbridge and let Lily's -parents know that there was no cause for alarm on her account, and -that he would return at once. He was very devoted. On the landing -out-side the bedroom, the doctor murmured to him: "U.P." And Dick -nodded. They were great friends. - -At intervals the doctor, who never knew when he was beaten, -essayed new methods of dealing with Sophia's case. New symptoms -followed. It was half-past twelve when, after gazing with -prolonged intensity at the patient, and after having tested her -mouth and heart, he rose slowly and looked at Constance. - -"It's over?" said Constance. - -And he very slightly moved his head. "Come downstairs, please," he -enjoined her, in a pause that ensued. Constance was amazingly -courageous. The doctor was very solemn and very kind; Constance -had never before seen him to such heroic advantage. He led her -with infinite gentleness out of the room. There was nothing to -stay for; Sophia had gone. Constance wanted to stay by Sophia's -body; but it was the rule that the stricken should be led away, -the doctor observed this classic rule, and Constance felt that he -was right and that she must obey. Lily Holl followed. The servant, -learning the truth by the intuition accorded to primitive natures, -burst into loud sobs, yelling that Sophia had been the most -excellent mistress that servant ever had. The doctor angrily told -her not to stand blubbering there, but to go into her kitchen and -shut the door if she couldn't control herself. All his accumulated -nervous agitation was discharged on Maud like a thunderclap. -Constance continued to behave wonderfully. She was the admiration -of the doctor and Lily Holl. Then Dick Povey came back. It was -settled that Lily should pass the night with Constance. At last -the doctor and Dick departed together, the doctor undertaking the -mortuary arrangements. Maud was hunted to bed. - -Early in the morning Constance rose up from her own bed. It was -five o'clock, and there had been daylight for two hours already. -She moved noiselessly and peeped over the foot of the bed at the -sofa. Lily was quietly asleep there, breathing with the softness -of a child. Lily would have deemed that she was a very mature -woman, who had seen life and much of it. Yet to Constance her face -and attitude had the exquisite quality of a child's. She was not -precisely a pretty girl, but her features, the candid expression -of her disposition, produced an impression that was akin to that -of beauty. Her abandonment was complete. She had gone through the -night unscathed, and was now renewing herself in calm, oblivious -sleep. Her ingenuous girlishness was apparent then. It seemed as -if all her wise and sweet behaviour of the evening could have been -nothing but so many imitative gestures. It seemed impossible that -a being so young and fresh could have really experienced the mood -of which her gestures had been the expression. Her strong virginal -simplicity made Constance vaguely sad for her. - -Creeping out of the room, Constance climbed to the second floor in -her dressing-gown, and entered the other chamber. She was obliged -to look again upon Sophia's body. Incredible swiftness of -calamity! Who could have foreseen it? Constance was less desolated -than numbed. She was as yet only touching the fringe of her -bereavement. She had not begun to think of herself. She was -drenched, as she gazed at Sophia's body, not by pity for herself, -but by compassion for the immense disaster of her sister's life. -She perceived fully now for the first time the greatness of that -disaster. Sophia's charm and Sophia's beauty--what profit had they -been to their owner? She saw pictures of Sophia's career, -distorted and grotesque images formed in her untravelled mind from -Sophia's own rare and compressed recitals. What a career! A brief -passion, and then nearly thirty years in a boarding-house! And -Sophia had never had a child; had never known either the joy or -the pain of maternity. She had never even had a true home till, in -all her sterile splendour, she came to Bursley. And she had ended ---thus! This was the piteous, ignominious end of Sophia's wondrous -gifts of body and soul. Hers had not been a life at all. And the -reason? It is strange how fate persists in justifying the harsh -generalizations of Puritan morals, of the morals in which -Constance had been brought up by her stern parents! Sophia had -sinned. It was therefore inevitable that she should suffer. An -adventure such as she had in wicked and capricious pride -undertaken with Gerald Scales, could not conclude otherwise than -it had concluded. It could have brought nothing but evil. There -was no getting away from these verities, thought Constance. And -she was to be excused for thinking that all modern progress and -cleverness was as naught, and that the world would be forced to -return upon its steps and start again in the path which it had -left. - -Up to within a few days of her death people had been wont to -remark that Mrs. Scales looked as young as ever, and that she was -as bright and as energetic as ever. And truly, regarding Sophia -from a little distance--that handsome oval, that erect carriage of -a slim body, that challenging eye!--no one would have said that -she was in her sixtieth year. But look at her now, with her -twisted face, her sightless orbs, her worn skin--she did not seem -sixty, but seventy! She was like something used, exhausted, and -thrown aside! Yes, Constance's heart melted in an anguished pity -for that stormy creature. And mingled with the pity was a stern -recognition of the handiwork of divine justice. To Constance's -lips came the same phrase as had come to the lips of Samuel Povey -on a different occasion: God is not mocked! The ideas of her -parents and her grandparents had survived intact in Constance. It -is true that Constance's father would have shuddered in Heaven -could he have seen Constance solitarily playing cards of a night. -But in spite of cards, and of a son who never went to chapel, -Constance, under the various influences of destiny, had remained -essentially what her father had been. Not in her was the force of -evolution manifest. There are thousands such. - -Lily, awake, and reclothed with that unreal mien of a grown and -comprehending woman, stepped quietly into the room, searching for -the poor old thing, Constance. The layer-out had come. - -By the first post was delivered a letter addressed to Sophia by -Mr. Till Boldero. From its contents the death of Gerald Scales was -clear. There seemed then to be nothing else for Constance to do. -What had to be done was done for her. And stronger wills than hers -put her to bed. Cyril was telegraphed for. Mr. Critchlow called, -Mrs. Critchlow following--a fussy infliction, but useful in -certain matters. Mr. Critchlow was not allowed to see Constance. -She could hear his high grating voice in the corridor. She had to -lie calm, and the sudden tranquillity seemed strange after the -feverish violence of the night. Only twenty-four hours since, and -she had been worrying about the death of a dog! With a body crying -for sleep, she dozed off, thoughts of the mystery of life merging -into the incoherence of dreams. - -The news was abroad in the Square before nine o'clock. There were -persons who had witnessed the arrival of the motorcar, and the -transfer of Sophia to the house. Untruthful rumours had spread as -to the manner of Gerald Scales's death. Some said that he had -dramatically committed suicide. But the town, though titillated, -was not moved as it would have been moved by a similar event -twenty years, or even ten years earlier. Times had changed in -Bursley. Bursley was more sophisticated than in the old days. - -Constance was afraid lest Cyril, despite the seriousness of the -occasion, might exhibit his customary tardiness in coming. She had -long since learnt not to rely upon him. But he came the same -evening. His behaviour was in every way perfect. He showed quiet -but genuine grief for the death of his aunt, and he was a model of -consideration for his mother. Further, he at once assumed charge -of all the arrangements, in regard both to Sophia and to her -husband. Constance was surprised at the ease which he displayed in -the conduct of practical affairs, and the assurance with which he -gave orders. She had never seen him direct anything before. He -said, indeed, that he had never directed anything before, but that -there appeared to him to be no difficulties. Whereas Constance had -figured a tiresome series of varied complications. As to the -burial of Sophia, Cyril was vigorously in favour of an absolutely -private funeral; that is to say, a funeral at which none but -himself should be present. He seemed to have a passionate -objection to any sort of parade. Constance agreed with him. But -she said that it would be impossible not to invite Mr. Critchlow, -Sophia's trustee, and that if Mr. Critchlow were invited certain -others must be invited. Cyril asked: "Why impossible?" Constance -said: "Because it mould be impossible. Because Mr. Critchlow would -be hurt." Cyril asked: "What does it matter if he is hurt?" and -suggested that Mr. Critchlow would get over his damage. Constance -grew more serious. The discussion threatened to be warm. Suddenly -Cyril yielded. "All right, Mrs. Plover, all right! It shall be -exactly as you choose," he said, in a gentle, humouring tone. He -had not called her 'Mrs. Plover' for years. She thought the hour -badly chosen for verbal pleasantry, but he was so kind that she -made no complaint. Thus there were six people at Sophia's funeral, -including Mr. Critchlow. No refreshments were offered. The -mourners separated at the church. When both funerals were -accomplished Cyril sat down and played the harmonium softly, and -said that it had kept well in tune. He was extraordinarily -soothing. - -He had now reached the age of thirty-three. His habits were as -industrious as ever, his preoccupation with his art as keen. But -he had achieved no fame, no success. He earned nothing, living in -comfort on an allowance from his mother. He seldom spoke of his -plans and never of his hopes. He had in fact settled down into a -dilletante, having learnt gently to scorn the triumphs which he -lacked the force to win. He imagined that industry and a regular -existence were sufficient justification in themselves for any -man's life. Constance had dropped the habit of expecting him to -astound the world. He was rather grave and precise in manner, -courteous and tepid, with a touch of condescension towards his -environment; as though he were continually permitting the -perspicacious to discern that he had nothing to learn--if the -truth were known! His humour had assumed a modified form. He often -smiled to himself. He was unexceptionable. - -On the day after Sophia's funeral he set to work to design a -simple stone for his aunt's tomb. He said he could not tolerate -the ordinary gravestone, which always looked, to him, as if the -wind might blow it over, thus negativing the idea of solidity. His -mother did not in the least understand him. She thought the -lettering of his tombstone affected and finicking. But she let it -pass without comment, being secretly very flattered that he should -have deigned to design a stone at all. - -Sophia had left all her money to Cyril, and had made him the sole -executor of her will. This arrangement had been agreed with -Constance. The sisters thought it was the best plan. Cyril ignored -Mr. Critchlow entirely, and went to a young lawyer at Hanbridge, a -friend of his and of Matthew Peel-Swynnerton's. Mr. Critchlow, -aged and unaccustomed to interference, had to render accounts of -his trusteeship to this young man, and was incensed. The estate -was proved at over thirty-five thousand pounds. In the main, -Sophia had been careful, and had even been parsimonious. She had -often told Constance that they ought to spend money much more -freely, and she had had a few brief fits of extravagance. But the -habit of stern thrift, begun in 1870 and practised without any -intermission till she came to England in 1897, had been too strong -for her theories. The squandering of money pained her. And she -could not, in her age, devise expensive tastes. - -Cyril showed no emotion whatever on learning himself the inheritor -of thirty-five thousand pounds. He did not seem to care. He spoke -of the sum as a millionaire might have spoken of it. In justice to -him it is to be said that he cared nothing for wealth, except in -so far as wealth could gratify his eye and ear trained to artistic -voluptuousness. But, for his mother's sake, and for the sake of -Bursley, he might have affected a little satisfaction. His mother -was somewhat hurt. His behaviour caused her to revert in -meditation again and again to the futility of Sophia's career, and -the waste of her attributes. She had grown old and hard in joyless -years in order to amass this money which Cyril would spend coldly -and ungratefully, never thinking of the immense effort and endless -sacrifice which had gone to its collection. He would spend it as -carelessly as though he had picked it up in the street. As the -days went by and Constance realized her own grief, she also -realized more and more the completeness of the tragedy of Sophia's -life. Headstrong Sophia had deceived her mother, and for the -deception had paid with thirty years of melancholy and the entire -frustration of her proper destiny. - -After haunting Bursley for a fortnight in elegant black, Cyril -said, without any warning, one night: "I must go the day after to- -morrow, mater." And he told her of a journey to Hungary which he -had long since definitely planned with Matthew Peel-Swynnerton, -and which could not be postponed, as it comprised 'business.' He -had hitherto breathed no word of this. He was as secretive as -ever. As to her holiday, he suggested that she should arrange to -go away with the Holls and Dick Povey. He approved of Lily Holl -and of Dick Povey. Of Dick Povey he said: "He's one of the most -remarkable chaps in the Five Towns." And he had the air of having -made Dick's reputation. Constance, knowing there was no appeal, -accepted the sentence of loneliness. Her health was singularly -good. - -When he was gone she said to herself: "Scarcely a fortnight and -Sophia was here at this table!" She would remember every now and -then, with a faint shock, that poor, proud, masterful Sophia was -dead. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -END OF CONSTANCE - -I - - -When, on a June afternoon about twelve months later, Lily Holl -walked into Mrs. Povey's drawing-room overlooking the Square, she -found a calm, somewhat optimistic old lady--older than her years-- -which were little more than sixty--whose chief enemies were -sciatica and rheumatism. The sciatica was a dear enemy of long -standing, always affectionately referred to by the forgiving -Constance as 'my sciatica'; the rheumatism was a new-comer, -unprivileged, spoken of by its victim apprehensively and yet -disdainfully as 'this rheumatism.' Constance was now very stout. -She sat in a low easy-chair between the oval table and the window, -arrayed in black silk. As the girl Lily came in, Constance lifted -her head with a bland smile, and Lily kissed her, contentedly. -Lily knew that she was a welcome visitor. These two had become as -intimate as the difference between their ages would permit; of the -two, Constance was the more frank. Lily as well as Constance was -in mourning. A few months previously her aged grandfather, 'Holl, -the grocer,' had died. The second of his two sons, Lily's father, -had then left the business established by the brothers at -Hanbridge in order to manage, for a time, the parent business in -St. Luke's Square. Alderman Holl's death had delayed Lily's -marriage. Lily took tea with Constance, or at any rate paid a -call, four or five times a week. She listened to Constance. - -Everybody considered that Constance had 'come splendidly through' -the dreadful affair of Sophia's death. Indeed, it was observed -that she was more philosophic, more cheerful, more sweet, than she -had been for many years. The truth was that, though her -bereavement had been the cause of a most genuine and durable -sorrow, it had been a relief to her. When Constance was over -fifty, the energetic and masterful Sophia had burst in upon her -lethargic tranquillity and very seriously disturbed the flow of -old habits. Certainly Constance had fought Sophia on the main -point, and won; but on a hundred minor points she had either lost -or had not fought. Sophia had been 'too much' for Constance, and -it had been only by a wearying expenditure of nervous force that -Constance had succeeded in holding a small part of her own against -the unconscious domination of Sophia. The death of Mrs. Scales had -put an end to all the strain, and Constance had been once again -mistress in Constance's house. Constance would never have admitted -these facts, even to herself; and no one would ever have dared to -suggest them to her. For with all her temperamental mildness she -had her formidable side. - -She was slipping a photograph into a plush-covered photograph -album. - -"More photographs?" Lily questioned. She had almost exactly the -same benignant smile that Constance had. She seemed to be the -personification of gentleness--one of those feather-beds that some -capricious men occasionally have the luck to marry. She was -capable, with a touch of honest, simple stupidity. All her -character was displayed in the tone in which she said: "More -photographs?" It showed an eager responsive sympathy with -Constance's cult for photographs, also a slight personal fondness -for photographs, also a dim perception that a cult for photographs -might be carried to the ridiculous, and a kind desire to hide all -trace of this perception. The voice was thin, and matched the pale -complexion of her delicate face. - -Constance's eyes had a quizzical gleam behind her spectacles as -she silently held up the photograph for Lily's inspection. - -Lily, sitting down, lowered the corners of her soft lips when she -beheld the photograph, and nodded her head several times, scarce -perceptibly. - -"Her ladyship has just given it to me," whispered Constance. - -"Indeed!" said Lily, with an extraordinary accent. - -'Her ladyship' was the last and best of Constance's servants, a -really excellent creature of thirty, who had known misfortune, and -who must assuredly have been sent to Constance by the old watchful -Providence. They 'got on together' nearly perfectly. Her name was -Mary. After ten years of turmoil, Constance in the matter of -servants was now at rest. - -"Yes," said Constance. "She's named it to me several times--about -having her photograph taken, and last week I let her go. I told -you, didn't I? I always consider her in every way, all her little -fancies and everything. And the copies came to-day. I wouldn't -hurt her feelings for anything. You may be sure she'll take a look -into the album next time she cleans the room." - -Constance and Lily exchanged a glance agreeing that Constance had -affably stretched a point in deciding to put the photograph of a -servant between the same covers with photographs of her family and -friends. It was doubtful whether such a thing had ever been done -before. - -One photograph usually leads to another, and one photograph album -to another photograph album. - -"Pass me that album on the second shelf of the Canterbury; my -dear," said Constance. - -Lily rose vivaciously, as though to see the album on the second -shelf of the Canterbury had been the ambition of her life. - -They sat side by side at the table, Lily turning over the pages. -Constance, for all her vast bulk, continually made little nervous -movements. Occasionally she would sniff and occasionally a -mysterious noise would occur in her chest; she always pretended -that this noise was a cough, and would support the pretence by -emitting a real cough immediately after it. - -"Why!" exclaimed Lily. "Have I seen that before?" "I don't know, -my dear," said Constance. "HAVE you?" - -It was a photograph of Sophia taken a few years previously by 'a -very nice gentleman,' whose acquaintance the sisters had made -during a holiday at Harrogate. It portrayed Sophia on a knoll, -fronting the weather. - -"It's Mrs. Scales to the life--I can see that," said Lily. - -"Yes," said Constance. "Whenever there was a wind she always stood -like that, and took long deep breaths of it." - -This recollection of one of Sophia's habits recalled the whole -woman to Constance's memory, and drew a picture of her character -for the girl who had scarcely known her. - -"It's not like ordinary photographs. There's something special -about it," said Lily, enthusiastically. "I don't think I ever saw -a photograph like that." - -"I've got another copy of it in my bedroom," said Constance. "I'll -give you this one." - -"Oh, Mrs. Povey! I couldn't think--!" - -"Yes, yes!" said Constance, removing the photograph from the page. - -"Oh, THANK you!" said Lily. - -"And that reminds me," said Constance, getting up with great -difficulty from her chair. - -"Can I find anything for you?" Lily asked. - -"No, no!" said Constance, leaving the room. - -She returned in a moment with her jewel-box, a receptacle of ebony -with ivory ornamentations. - -"I've always meant to give you this," said Constance, taking from -the box a fine cameo brooch. "I don't seem to fancy wearing it -myself. And I should like to see you wearing it. It was mother's. -I believe they're coming into fashion again. I don't see why you -shouldn't wear it while you're in mourning. They aren't half so -strict now about mourning as they used to be." - -"Truly!" murmured Lily, ecstatically. They kissed. Constance -seemed to breathe out benevolence, as with trembling hands she -pinned the brooch at Lily's neck. She lavished the warm treasure -of her heart on Lily, whom she regarded as an almost perfect girl, -and who had become the idol of her latter years. - -"What a magnificent old watch!" said Lily, as they delved together -in the lower recesses of the box. "AND the chain to it!" - -"That was father's," said Constance. "He always used to swear by -it. When it didn't agree with the Town Hall, he used to say: 'Then -th' Town Hall's wrong.' And it's curious, the Town Hall WAS wrong. -You know the Town Hall clock has never been a good timekeeper. -I've been thinking of giving that watch and chain to Dick." - -"HAVE you?" said Lily. - -"Yes. It's just as good as it was when father wore it. My husband -never would wear it. He preferred his own. He had little fancies -like that. And Cyril takes after his father." She spoke in her -'dry' tone. "I've almost decided to give it to Dick--that is, if -he behaves himself. Is he still on with this ballooning?" - -Lily Smiled guiltily: "Oh yes!" - -"Well," said Constance, "I never heard the like! If he's been up -and come down safely, that ought to be enough for him. I wonder -you let him do it, my dear." - -"But how can I stop him? I've no control over him." - -"But do you mean to say that he'd still do it if you told him -seriously you didn't want him to?" - -"Yes," said Lily; and added: "So I shan't tell him." - -Constance nodded her head, musing over the secret nature of men. -She remembered too well the cruel obstinacy of Samuel, who had -nevertheless loved her. And Dick Povey was a thousand times more -bizarre than Samuel. She saw him vividly, a little boy, whizzing -down King Street on a boneshaker, and his cap flying off. -Afterwards it had been motor-cars! Now it was balloons! She -sighed. She was struck by the profound instinctive wisdom just -enunciated by the girl. - -"Well," she said, "I shall see. I've not made up my mind yet. -What's the young man doing this afternoon, by the way?" - -"He's gone to Birmingham to try to sell two motor-lorries. He -won't be back home till late. He's coming over here to-morrow." - -It was an excellent illustration of Dick Povey's methods that at -this very moment Lily heard in the Square the sound of a motor- -car, which happened to be Dick's car. She sprang up to look. - -"Why!" she cried, flushing. "Here he is now!" - -"Bless us, bless us!" muttered Constance, closing the box. - -When Dick, having left his car in King Street, limped -tempestuously into the drawing-room, galvanizing it by his -abundant vitality into a new life, he cried joyously: "Sold my -lorries! Sold my lorries!" And he explained that by a charming -accident he had disposed of them to a chance buyer in Hanbridge, -just before starting for Birmingham. So he had telephoned to -Birmingham that the matter was 'off,' and then, being 'at a loose -end,' he had come over to Bursley in search of his betrothed. At -Holl's shop they had told him that she was with Mrs. Povey. -Constance glanced at him, impressed by his jolly air of success. -He seemed exactly like his breezy and self-confident -advertisements in the Signal. He was absolutely pleased with -himself. He triumphed over his limp--that ever-present reminder of -a tragedy. Who would dream, to look at his blond, laughing, -scintillating face, astonishingly young for his years, that he had -once passed through such a night as that on which his father had -killed his mother while he lay immovable and cursing, with a -broken knee, in bed? Constance had heard all about that scene from -her husband, and she paused in wonder at the contrasting hazards -of existence. - -Dick Povey brought his hands together with a resounding smack, and -then rubbed them rapidly. - -"AND a good price, too!" he exclaimed blithely. "Mrs. Povey, I -don't mind telling you that I've netted seventy pounds odd this -afternoon." - -Lily's eyes expressed her proud joy. - -"I hope pride won't have a fall," said Constance, with a calm -smile out of which peeped a hint of a rebuke. "That's what I hope. -I must just go and see about tea." - -"I can't stay for tea--really," said Dick. - -"Of course you can," said Constance, positively. "Suppose you'd -been at Birmingham? It's weeks since you stayed to tea." - -"Oh, well, thanks!" Dick yielded, rather snubbed. - -"Can't I save you a journey, Mrs. Povey?" Lily asked, eagerly -thoughtful. - -"No, thank you, my dear. There are one or two little things that -need my attention." And Constance departed with her jewel-box. - -Dick, having assured himself that the door was closed, assaulted -Lily with a kiss. - -"Been here long?" he inquired. - -"About an hour and a half." - -"Glad to see me?" - -"Oh, Dick!" she protested. - -"Old lady's in one of her humours, eh?" - -"No, no! Only she was just talking about balloons--you know. She's -very much up in arms." - -"You ought to keep her off balloons. Balloons may be the ruin of -her wedding-present to us, my child." - -"Dick! How can you talk like that? ... It's all very well saying I -ought to keep her off balloons. You try to keep her off balloons -when once she begins, and see!" - -"What started her?" - -"She said she was thinking of giving you old Mr. Baines's gold -watch and chain--if you behaved yourself." - -"Thank you for nothing!" said Dick. "I don't want it." - -"Have you seen it?" - -"Have I seen it? I should say I had seen it. She's mentioned it -once or twice before." - -"Oh! I didn't know." - -"I don't see myself carting that thing about. I much prefer my -own. What do you think of it?" - -"Of course it is rather clumsy," said Lily. "But if she offered it -to you, you couldn't refuse it, and you'd simply have to wear it." - -"Well, then," said Dick, "I must try to behave myself just badly -enough to keep off the watch, but not badly enough to upset her -notions about wedding-presents." - -"Poor old thing!" Lily murmured, compassionately. - -Then Lily put her hand silently to her neck. - -"What's that?" - -"She's just given it to me." - -Dick approached very near to examine the cameo brooch. "Hm!" he -murmured. It was an adverse verdict. And Lily coincided with it by -a lift of the eyebrows. - -"And I suppose you'll have to wear that!" said Dick. - -"She values it as much as anything she's got, poor old thing!" -said Lily. "It belonged to her mother. And she says cameos are -coming into fashion again. It really is rather good, you know." - -"I wonder where she learnt that!" said Dick, drily. "I see you've -been suffering from the photographs again." - -"Well," said Lily, "I much prefer the photographs to helping her -to play Patience. The way she cheats herself--it's too silly! I--" - -She stopped. The door which had after all not been latched, was -pushed open, and the antique Fossette introduced herself painfully -into the room. Fossette had an affection for Dick Povey. - -"Well, Methusaleh!" he greeted the animal loudly. She could -scarcely wag her tail, nor shake the hair out of her dim eyes in -order to look up at him. He stooped to pat her. - -"That dog does smell," said Lily, bluntly. - -"What do you expect? What she wants is the least dose of prussic -acid. She's a burden to herself." - -"It's funny that if you venture to hint to Mrs. Povey that the dog -is offensive she gets quite peppery," said Lily. - -"Well, that's very simple," said Dick. "Don't hint, that's all! -Hold your nose and your tongue too." - -"Dick, I do wish you wouldn't be so absurd." - -Constance returned into the room, cutting short the conversation. - -"Mrs. Povey," said Dick, in a voice full of gratitude, "Lily has -just been showing me her brooch--" - -He noticed that she paid no heed to him, but passed hurriedly to -the window. - -"What's amiss in the Square?" Constance exclaimed. "When I was in -the parlour just now I saw a man running along Wedgwood Street, -and I said to myself, what's amiss?" - -Dick and Lily joined her at the window. - -Several people were hurrying down the Square, and then a man came -running with a doctor from the market-place. All these persons -disappeared from view under the window of Mrs. Povey's drawing- -room, which was over part of Mrs. Critchlow's shop. As the windows -of the shop projected beyond the walls of the house it was -impossible, from the drawing-room window, to see the pavement in -front of the shop. - -"It must be something on the pavement--or in the shop!" murmured -Constance. - -"Oh, ma'am!" said a startled voice behind the three. It was Mary, -original of the photograph, who had run unperceived into the -drawing-room. "They say as Mrs. Critchlow has tried to commit -suicide!" - -Constance started back. Lily went towards her, with an instinctive -gesture of supporting consolation. - -"Maria Critchlow tried to commit suicide!" Constance muttered. - -"Yes, ma'am! But they say she's not done it." - -"By Jove! I'd better go and see if I can help, hadn't I?" cried -Dick Povey, hobbling off, excited and speedy. "Strange, isn't it?" -he exclaimed afterwards, "how I manage to come in for things? -Sheer chance that I was here to-day! But it's always like that! -Somehow something extraordinary is always happening where I am." -And this too ministered to his satisfaction, and to his zest for -life. - -II - -When, in the evening, after all sorts of comings and goings, he -finally returned to the old lady and the young one, in order to -report the upshot, his demeanour was suitably toned to Constance's -mood. The old lady had been very deeply disturbed by the tragedy, -which, as she said, had passed under her very feet while she was -calmly talking to Lily. - -The whole truth came out in a short space of time. Mrs. Critchlow -was suffering from melancholia. It appeared that for long she had -been depressed by the failing trade of the shop, which was none of -her fault. The state of the Square had steadily deteriorated. Even -the 'Vaults' were not what they once were. Four or five shops had -been shut up, as it were definitely, the landlords having given up -hope of discovering serious tenants. And, of those kept open, the -majority were struggling desperately to make ends meet. Only -Holl's and a new upstart draper, who had widely advertised his -dress-making department, were really flourishing. The -confectionery half of Mr. Brindley's business was disappearing. -People would not go to Hanbridge for their bread or for their -groceries, but they would go for their cakes. These electric trams -had simply carried to Hanbridge the cream, and much of the milk, -of Bursley's retail trade. There were unprincipled tradesmen in -Hanbridge ready to pay the car-fares of any customer who spent a -crown in their establishments. Hanbridge was the geographical -centre of the Five Towns, and it was alive to its situation. -Useless for Bursley to compete! If Mrs. Critchlow had been a -philosopher, if she had known that geography had always made -history, she would have given up her enterprise a dozen years ago. -But Mrs. Critchlow was merely Maria Insull. She had seen Baines's -in its magnificent prime, when Baines's almost conferred a favour -on customers in serving them. At the time when she took over the -business under the wing of her husband, it was still a good -business. But from that instant the tide had seemed to turn. She -had fought, and she kept on fighting, stupidly. She was not aware -that she was fighting against evolution, not aware that evolution -had chosen her for one of its victims! She could understand that -all the other shops in the Square should fail, but not that -Baines's should fail! She was as industrious as ever, as good a -buyer, as good a seller, as keen for novelties, as economical, as -methodical! And yet the returns dropped and dropped. - -She naturally had no sympathy from Charles, who now took small -interest even in his own business, or what was left of it, and who -was coldly disgusted at the ultimate cost of his marriage. Charles -gave her no money that he could avoid giving her. The crisis had -been slowly approaching for years. The assistants in the shop had -said nothing, or had only whispered among themselves, but now that -the crisis had flowered suddenly in an attempted self-murder, they -all spoke at once, and the evidences were pieced together into a -formidable proof of the strain which Mrs. Critchlow had suffered. -It appeared that for many months she had been depressed and -irritable, that sometimes she would sit down in the midst of work -and declare, with every sign of exhaustion, that she could do no -more. Then with equal briskness she would arise and force herself -to labour. She did not sleep for whole nights. One assistant -related how she had complained of having had no sleep whatever for -four nights consecutively. She had noises in the ears and a -chronic headache. Never very plump, she had grown thinner and -thinner. And she was for ever taking pills: this information came -from Charles's manager. She had had several outrageous quarrels -with the redoubtable Charles, to the stupefaction of all who heard -or saw them. ... Mrs. Critchlow standing up to her husband! -Another strange thing was that she thought the bills of several of -the big Manchester firms were unpaid, when as a fact they had been -paid. Even when shown the receipts she would not be convinced, -though she pretended to be convinced. She would recommence the -next day. All this was sufficiently disconcerting for female -assistants in the drapery. But what could they do? - -Then Maria Critchlow had gone a step further. She had summoned the -eldest assistant to her corner and had informed her, with all the -solemnity of a confession made to assuage a conscience which has -been tortured too long, that she had on many occasions been guilty -of sexual irregularity with her late employer, Samuel Povey. There -was no truth whatever in this accusation (which everybody, -however, took care not to mention to Constance); it merely -indicated, perhaps, the secret aspirations of Maria Insull, the -virgin. The assistant was properly scandalized, more by the -crudity of Mrs. Critchlow's language than by the alleged sin -buried in the past. Goodness knows what the assistant would have -done! But two hours later Maria Critchlow tried to commit suicide -by stabbing herself with a pair of scissors. There was blood in -the shop. - -With as little delay as possible she had been driven away to the -asylum. Charles Critchlow, enveloped safely in the armour of his -senile egotism, had shown no emotion, and very little activity. -The shop was closed. And as a general draper's it never opened -again. That was the end of Baines's. Two assistants found -themselves without a livelihood. The small tumble with the great. - -Constance's emotion was more than pardonable; it was justified. -She could not eat and Lily could not persuade her to eat. In an -unhappy moment Dick Povey mentioned--he never could remember how, -afterwards--the word Federation! And then Constance, from a -passive figure of grief became a menace. She overwhelmed Dick -Povey with her anathema of Federation, for Dick was a citizen of -Hanbridge, where this detestable movement for Federation had had -its birth. All the misfortunes of St. Luke's Square were due to -that great, busy, grasping, unscrupulous neighbour. Had not -Hanbridge done enough, without wanting to merge all the Five Towns -into one town, of which of course itself would be the centre? For -Constance, Hanbridge was a borough of unprincipled adventurers, -bent on ruining the ancient 'Mother of the Five Towns' for its own -glory and aggrandizement. Let Constance hear no more of -Federation! Her poor sister Sophia had been dead against -Federation, and she had been quite right! All really respectable -people were against it! The attempted suicide of Mrs. Critchlow -sealed the fate of Federation and damned it for ever, in -Constance's mind. Her hatred of the idea of it was intensified -into violent animosity; insomuch that in the result she died a -martyr to the cause of Bursley's municipal independence. - -III - -It was on a muddy day in October that the first great battle for -and against Federation was fought in Bursley. Constance was -suffering severely from sciatica. She was also suffering from -disgust with the modern world. - -Unimaginable things had happened in the Square. For Constance, the -reputation of the Square was eternally ruined. Charles Critchlow, -by that strange good fortune which always put him in the right -when fairly he ought to have been in the wrong, had let the Baines -shop and his own shop and house to the Midland Clothiers Company, -which was establishing branches throughout Staffordshire, -Warwickshire, Leicestershire, and adjacent counties. He had sold -his own chemist's stock and gone to live in a little house at the -bottom of Kingstreet. It is doubtful whether he would have -consented to retire had not Alderman Holl died earlier in the -year, thus ending a long rivalry between the old men for the -patriarchate of the Square. Charles Critchlow was as free from -sentiment as any man, but no man is quite free from it, and the -ancient was in a position to indulge sentiment had he chosen. His -business was not a source of loss, and he could still trust his -skinny hands and peering eyes to make up a prescription. However, -the offer of the Midland Clothiers Company tempted him, and as the -undisputed 'father' of the Square he left the Square in triumph. - -The Midland Clothiers Company had no sense of the proprieties of -trade. Their sole idea was to sell goods. Having possessed -themselves of one of the finest sites in a town which, after all -was said and done, comprised nearly forty thousand inhabitants, -they set about to make the best of that site. They threw the two -shops into one, and they caused to be constructed a sign compared -to which the spacious old 'Baines' sign was a postcard. They -covered the entire frontage with posters of a theatrical -description--coloured posters! They occupied the front page of the -Signal, and from that pulpit they announced that winter was -approaching, and that they meant to sell ten thousand overcoats at -their new shop in Bursley at the price of twelve and sixpence -each. The tailoring of the world was loudly and coarsely defied to -equal the value of those overcoats. On the day of opening they -arranged an orchestra or artillery of phonographs upon the leads -over the window of that part of the shop which had been Mr. -Critchlow's. They also carpeted the Square with handbills, and -flew flags from their upper storeys. The immense shop proved to be -full of overcoats; overcoats were shown in all the three great -windows; in one window an overcoat was disposed as a receptacle -for water, to prove that the Midland twelve-and-sixpenny overcoats -were impermeable by rain. Overcoats flapped in the two doorways. -These devices woke and drew the town, and the town found itself -received by bustling male assistants very energetic and rapid, -instead of by demure anaemic virgins. At moments towards evening -the shop was populous with custom; the number of overcoats sold -was prodigious. On another day the Midland sold trousers in a like -manner, but without the phonographs. Unmistakably the Midland had -shaken the Square and demonstrated that commerce was still -possible to fearless enterprise. - -Nevertheless the Square was not pleased. The Square was conscious -of shame, of dignity departed. Constance was divided between pain -and scornful wrath. For her, what the Midland had done was to -desecrate a shrine. She hated those flags, and those flaring, -staring posters on the honest old brick walls, and the enormous -gilded sign, and the windows all filled with a monotonous -repetition of the same article, and the bustling assistants. As -for the phonographs, she regarded them as a grave insult; they had -been within twenty feet of her drawing-room window! Twelve-and- -sixpenny overcoats! It was monstrous, and equally monstrous was -the gullibility of the people. How could an overcoat at twelve and -sixpence be 'good.' She remembered the overcoats made and sold in -the shop in the time of her father and her husband, overcoats of -which the inconvenience was that they would not wear out! The -Midland, for Constance, was not a trading concern, but something -between a cheap-jack and a circus. She could scarcely bear to walk -down the Square, to such a degree did the ignoble frontage of the -Midland offend her eye and outrage her ancestral pride. She even -said that she would give up her house. - -But when, on the twenty-ninth of September, she received six -months' notice, signed in Critchlow's shaky hand, to quit the -house--it was wanted for the Midland's manager, the Midland having -taken the premises on condition that they might eject Constance if -they chose--the blow was an exceedingly severe one. She had sworn -to go--but to be turned out, to be turned out of the house of her -birth and out of her father's home, that was different! Her pride, -injured as it was, had a great deal to support. It became -necessary for her to recollect that she was a Baines. She affected -magnificently not to care. But she could not refrain from telling -all her acquaintances that she was being turned out of her house, -and asking them what they thought of THAT; and when she met -Charles Critchlow in the street she seared him with the heat of -her resentment. The enterprise of finding a new house and moving -into it loomed before her gigantic, terrible, the idea of it was -alone sufficient to make her ill. - -Meanwhile, in the matter of Federation, preparations for the -pitched battle had been going forward, especially in the columns -of the Signal, where the scribes of each one of the Five Towns had -proved that all the other towns were in the clutch of unscrupulous -gangs of self-seekers. After months of argument and recrimination, -all the towns except Bursley were either favourable or indifferent -to the prospect of becoming a part of the twelfth largest town in -the United Kingdom. But in Bursley the opposition was strong, and -the twelfth largest town in the United Kingdom could not spring -into existence without the consent of Bursley. The United Kingdom -itself was languidly interested in the possibility of suddenly -being endowed with a new town of a quarter of a million -inhabitants. The Five Towns were frequently mentioned in the -London dailies, and London journalists would write such sentences -as: "The Five Towns, which are of course, as everybody knows, -Hanbridge, Bursley, Knype, Longshaw, and Turnhill ... ." This was -renown at last, for the most maligned district in the country! And -then a Cabinet Minister had visited the Five Towns, and assisted -at an official inquiry, and stated in his hammering style that he -meant personally to do everything possible to accomplish the -Federation of the Five Towns: an incautious remark, which -infuriated, while it flattered, the opponents of Federation in -Bursley. Constance, with many other sensitive persons, asked -angrily what right a Cabinet Minister had to take sides in a -purely local affair. But the partiality of the official world grew -flagrant. The Mayor of Bursley openly proclaimed himself a -Federationist, though there was a majority on the Council against -him. Even ministers of religion permitted themselves to think and -to express opinions. Well might the indignant Old Guard imagine -that the end of public decency had come! The Federationists were -very ingenious individuals. They contrived to enrol in their ranks -a vast number of leading men. Then they hired the Covered Market, -and put a platform in it, and put all these leading men on the -platform, and made them all speak eloquently on the advantages of -moving with the times. The meeting was crowded and enthusiastic, -and readers of the Signal next day could not but see that the -battle was won in advance, and that anti-Federation was dead. In -the following week, however, the anti-Federationists held in the -Covered Market an exactly similar meeting (except that the display -of leading men was less brilliant), and demanded of a floor of -serried heads whether the old Mother of the Five Towns was -prepared to put herself into the hands of a crew of highly-paid -bureaucrats at Hanbridge, and was answered by a wild defiant "No," -that could be heard on Duck Bank. Readers of the Signal next day -were fain to see that the battle had not been won in advance. -Bursley was lukewarm on the topics of education, slums, water, -gas, electricity. But it meant to fight for that mysterious thing, -its identity. Was the name of Bursley to be lost to the world? To -ask the question was to give the answer. - -Then dawned the day of battle, the day of the Poll, when the -burgesses were to indicate plainly by means of a cross on a voting -paper whether or not they wanted Federation. And on this day -Constance was almost incapacitated by sciatica. It was a heroic -day. The walls of the town were covered with literature, and the -streets dotted with motor-cars and other vehicles at the service -of the voters. The greater number of these vehicles bore large -cards with the words, "Federation this time." And hundreds of men -walked briskly about with circular cards tied to their lapels, as -though Bursley had been a race-course, and these cards too had the -words, "Federation this time." (The reference was to a light poll -which had been taken several years before, when no interest had -been aroused and the immature project yet defeated by a six to one -majority.) All partisans of Federation sported a red ribbon; all -Anti-Federationists sported a blue ribbon. The schools were closed -and the Federationists displayed their characteristic lack of -scruple in appropriating the children. The Federationists, with -devilish skill, had hired the Bursley Town Silver Prize Band, an -organization of terrific respectability, and had set it to march -playing through the town followed by wagonettes crammed with -children, who sang: - -Vote, vote, vote for Federation, Don't be stupid, old and slow, We -are sure that it will be Good for the communitie, So vote, vote, -vote, and make it go. - -How this performance could affect the decision of grave burgesses -at the polls was not apparent; but the Anti-Federationists feared -that it might, and before noon was come they had engaged two bands -and had composed in committee, the following lyric in reply to the -first one: - -Down, down, down, with Federation, As we are we'd rather stay; -When the vote on Saturday's read Federation will be dead, Good old -Bursley's sure to win the day. - -They had also composed another song, entitled "Dear old Bursley," -which, however, they made the fatal error of setting to the music -of "Auld Lang Syne." The effect was that of a dirge, and it -perhaps influenced many voters in favour of the more cheerful -party. The Anti-Federationists, indeed, never regained the mean -advantage filched by unscrupulous Federationists with the help of -the Silver Prize Band and a few hundred infants. The odds were -against the Anti-Federationists. The mayor had actually issued a -letter to the inhabitants accusing the Anti-Federationists of -unfair methods! This was really too much! The impudence of it -knocked the breath out of its victims, and breath is very -necessary in a polling contest. The Federationists, as one of -their prominent opponents admitted, 'had it all their own way,' -dominating both the streets and the walls. And when, early in the -afternoon, Mr. Dick Povey sailed over the town in a balloon that -was plainly decorated with the crimson of Federation, it was felt -that the cause of Bursley's separate identity was for ever lost. -Still, Bursley, with the willing aid of the public-houses, -maintained its gaiety. - -IV - -Towards dusk a stout old lady, with grey hair, and a dowdy bonnet, -and an expensive mantle, passed limping, very slowly, along -Wedgwood Street and up the Cock Yard towards the Town Hall. Her -wrinkled face had an anxious look, but it was also very -determined. The busy, joyous Federationists and Anti- -Federationists who knew her not saw merely a stout old lady -fussing forth, and those who knew her saw merely Mrs. Povey and -greeted her perfunctorily, a woman of her age and gait being -rather out of place in that feverish altercation of opposed -principles. But it was more than a stout old lady, it was more -than Mrs. Povey. that waddled with such painful deliberation -through the streets--it was a miracle. - -In the morning Constance had been partially incapacitated by her -sciatica; so much so, at any rate, that she had perceived the -advisability of remaining on the bedroom floor instead of -descending to the parlour. Therefore Mary had lighted the drawing- -room fire, and Constance had ensconced herself by it, with -Fossette in a basket. Lily Holl had called early, and had been -very sympathetic, but rather vague. The truth was that she was -concealing the imminent balloon ascent which Dick Povey, with his -instinct for the picturesque, had somehow arranged, in conjunction -with a well-known Manchester aeronaut, for the very day of the -poll. That was one of various matters that had to be 'kept from' -the old lady. Lily herself was much perturbed about the balloon -ascent. She had to run off and see Dick before he started, at the -Football Ground at Bleakridge, and then she had to live through -the hours till she should receive a telegram to the effect that -Dick had come down safely or that Dick had broken his leg in -coming down, or that Dick was dead. It was a trying time for Lily. -She had left Constance after a brief visit, with a preoccupied -unusual air, saying that as the day was a special day, she should -come in again 'if she could.' And she did not forget to assure -Constance that Federation would beyond any question whatever be -handsomely beaten at the poll; for this was another matter as to -which it was deemed advisable to keep the old lady 'in the dark,' -lest the foolish old lady should worry and commit indiscretions. - -After that Constance had been forgotten by the world of Bursley, -which could pay small heed to sciatical old ladies confined to -sofas and firesides. She was in acute pain, as Mary could see when -at intervals she hovered round her. Assuredly it was one of -Constance's bad days, one of those days on which she felt that the -tide of life had left her stranded in utter neglect. The sound of -the Bursley Town Silver Prize Band aroused her from her mournful -trance of suffering. Then the high treble of children's voices -startled her. She defied her sciatica, and, grimacing, went to the -window. And at the first glimpse she could see that the Federation -Poll was going to be a much more exciting affair than she had -imagined. The great cards swinging from the wagonettes showed her -that Federation was at all events still sufficiently alive to make -a formidable impression on the eye and the ear. The Square was -transformed by this clamour in favour of Federation; people -cheered, and sang also, as the procession wound down the Square. -And she could distinctly catch the tramping, martial syllables, -"Vote, vote, vote." She was indignant. The pother, once begun, -continued. Vehicles flashed frequently across the Square, most of -them in the crimson livery. Little knots and processions of -excited wayfarers were a recurring feature of the unaccustomed -traffic, and the large majority of them flaunted the colours of -Federation. Mary, after some errands of shopping, came upstairs -and reported that 'it was simply "Federation" everywhere,' and -that Mr. Brindley, a strong Federationist, was 'above a bit above -himself'; further, that the interest in the poll was tremendous -and universal. She said there were 'crowds and crowds' round the -Town Hall. Even Mary, generally a little placid and dull, had -caught something of the contagious vivacity. - -Constance remained at the window till dinner, and after dinner she -went to it again. It was fortunate that she did not think of -looking up into the sky when Dick's balloon sailed westwards; she -would have guessed instantly that Dick was in that balloon, and -her grievances would have been multiplied. The vast grievance of -the Federation scheme weighed on her to the extremity of her power -to bear. She was not a politician; she had no general ideas; she -did not see the cosmic movement in large curves. She was incapable -of perceiving the absurdity involved in perpetuating municipal -divisions which the growth of the district had rendered -artificial, vexatious, and harmful. She saw nothing but Bursley, -and in Bursley nothing but the Square. She knew nothing except -that the people of Bursley, who once shopped in Bursley, now -shopped in Hanbridge, and that the Square was a desert infested by -cheap-jacks. And there were actually people who wished to bow the -neck to Hanbridge, who were ready to sacrifice the very name of -Bursley to the greedy humour of that pushing Chicago! She could -not understand such people. Did they know that poor Maria -Critchlow was in a lunatic asylum because Hanbridge was so -grasping? Ah, poor Maria was al-ready forgotten! Did they know -that, as a further indirect consequence, she, the daughter of -Bursley's chief tradesman, was to be thrown out of the house in -which she was born? She wished, bitterly, as she stood there at -the window, watching the triumph of Federation, that she had -bought the house and shop at the Mericarp sale years ago. She -would have shown them, as owner, what was what! She forgot that -the property which she already owned in Bursley was a continual -annoyance to her, and that she was always resolving to sell it at -no matter what loss. - -She said to herself that she had a vote, and that if she had been -'at all fit to stir out' she would certainly have voted. She said -to herself that it had been her duty to vote. And then by an -illusion of her wrought nerves, tightened minute by minute -throughout the day, she began to fancy that her sciatica was -easier. She said: "If only I could go out!" She might have a cab, -of any of the parading vehicles would be glad to take her to the -Town Hall, and, perhaps, as a favour, to bring her back again. But -no! She dared not go out. She was afraid, really afraid that even -the mild Mary might stop her. Otherwise, she could have sent Mary -for a cab. And supposing that Lily returned, and caught her going -out or coming in! She ought not to go out. Yet her sciatica was -strangely better. It was folly to think of going out. Yet ...! And -Lily did not come. She was rather hurt that Lily had not paid her -a second visit. Lily was neglecting her. ... She would go out. It -was not four minutes' walk for her to the Town Hall, and she was -better. And there had been no shower for a long time, and the wind -was drying the mud in the roadways. Yes, she would go. - -Like a thief she passed into her bedroom and put on her things; -and like a thief she crept downstairs, and so, without a word to -Mary, into the street. It was a desperate adventure. As soon as -she was in the street she felt all her weakness, all the fatigue -which the effort had already cost her. The pain returned. The -streets were still wet and foul, the wind cold, and the sky -menacing. She ought to go back. She ought to admit that she had -been a fool to dream of the enterprise. The Town Hall seemed to be -miles off, at the top of a mountain. She went forward, however, -steeled to do her share in the killing of Federation. Every step -caused her a gnashing of her old teeth. She chose the Cock Yard -route, because if she had gone up the Square she would have had to -pass Holl's shop, and Lily might have spied her. - -This was the miracle that breezy politicians witnessed without -being aware that it was a miracle. To have impressed them, -Constance ought to have fainted before recording her vote, and -made herself the centre of a crowd of gapers. But she managed, -somehow, to reach home again on her own tortured feet, and an -astounded and protesting Mary opened the door to her. Rain was -descending. She was frightened, then, by the hardihood of her -adventure, and by its atrocious results on her body. An appalling -exhaustion rendered her helpless. But the deed was done. - -V - -The next morning, after a night which she could not have -described, Constance found herself lying flat in bed, with all her -limbs stretched out straight. She was conscious that her face was -covered with perspiration. The bell-rope hung within a foot of her -head, but she had decided that, rather than move in order to pull -it, she would prefer to wait for assistance until Mary came of her -own accord. Her experiences of the night had given her a dread of -the slightest movement; anything was better than movement. She -felt vaguely ill, with a kind of subdued pain, and she was very -thirsty and somewhat cold. She knew that her left arm and leg were -extraordinarily tender to the touch. When Mary at length entered, -clean and fresh and pale in all her mildness, she found the -mistress the colour of a duck's egg, with puffed features, and a -strangely anxious expression. - -"Mary," said Constance, "I feel so queer. Perhaps you'd better run -up and tell Miss Holl, and ask her to telephone for Dr. Stirling." - -This was the beginning of Constance's last illness. Mary most -impressively informed Miss Holl that her mistress had been out on -the previous afternoon in spite of her sciatica, and Lily -telephoned the fact to the Doctor. Lily then came down to take -charge of Constance. But she dared not upbraid the invalid. - -"Is the result out?" Constance murmured. - -"Oh yes," said Lily, lightly. "There's a majority of over twelve -hundred against Federation. Great excitement last night! I told -you yesterday morning that Federation was bound to be beaten." - -Lily spoke as though the result throughout had been a certainty; -her tone to Constance indicated: "Surely you don't imagine that I -should have told you untruths yesterday morning merely to cheer -you up!" The truth was, however, that towards the end of the day -nearly every one had believed Federation to be carried. The result -had caused great surprise. Only the profoundest philosophers had -not been surprised to see that the mere blind, deaf, inert forces -of reaction, with faulty organization, and quite deprived of the -aid of logic, had proved far stronger than all the alert -enthusiasm arrayed against them. It was a notable lesson to -reformers. - -"Oh!" murmured Constance, startled. She was relieved; but she -would have liked the majority to be smaller. Moreover, her -interest in the question had lessened. It was her limbs that pre- -occupied her now. - -"You look tired," she said feebly to Lily. - -"Do I?" said Lily, shortly, hiding the fact that she had spent -half the night in tending Dick Povey, who, in a sensational -descent near Macclesfield, had been dragged through the tops of a -row of elm trees to the detriment of an elbow-joint; the -professional aeronaut had broken a leg. - -Then Dr. Stirling came. - -"I'm afraid my sciatica's worse, Doctor," said Constance, -apologetically. - -"Did you expect it to be better?" said he, gazing at her sternly. -She knew then that some one had saved her the trouble of -confessing her escapade. - -However, her sciatica was not worse. Her sciatica had not behaved -basely. What she was suffering from was the preliminary advances -of an attack of acute rheumatism. She had indeed selected the -right month and weather for her escapade! Fatigued by pain, by -nervous agitation, and by the immense moral and physical effort -needed to carry her to the Town Hall and back, she had caught a -chill, and had got her feet damp. In such a subject as herself it -was enough. The doctor used only the phrase 'acute rheumatism.' -Constance did not know that acute rheumatism was precisely the -same thing as that dread disease, rheumatic fever, and she was not -informed. She did not surmise for a considerable period that her -case was desperately serious. The doctor explained the summoning -of two nurses, and the frequency of his own visits, by saying that -his chief anxiety was to minimise the fearful pain as much as -possible, and that this end could only be secured by incessant -watchfulness. The pain was certainly formidable. But then -Constance was well habituated to formidable pain. Sciatica, at its -most active, cannot be surpassed even by rheumatic fever. -Constance had been in nearly continuous pain for years. Her -friends, however sympathetic, could not appreciate the intensity -of her torture. They were just as used to it as she was. And the -monotony and particularity of her complaints (slight though the -complaints were in comparison with their cause) necessarily -blunted the edge of compassion. "Mrs. Povey and her sciatica -again! Poor thing, she really is a little tedious!" They were apt -not to realise that sciatica is even more tedious than complaints -about sciatica. - -She asked one day that Dick should come to see her. He came with -his arm in a sling, and told her charily that he had hurt his -elbow through dropping his stick and slipping downstairs. - -"Lily never told me," said Constance, suspiciously. - -"Oh, it's simply nothing!" said Dick. Not even the sick room could -chasten him of his joy in the magnificent balloon adventure. - -"I do hope you won't go running any risks!" said Constance. - -"Never you fear!" said he. "I shall die in my bed." - -And he was absolutely convinced that he would, and not as the -result of any accident, either! The nurse would not allow him to -remain in the room. - -Lily suggested that Constance might like her to write to Cyril. It -was only in order to make sure of Cyril's correct address. He had -gone on a tour through Italy with some friends of whom Constance -knew nothing. The address appeared to be very uncertain; there -were several addresses, poste restante in various towns. Cyril had -sent postcards to his mother. Dick and Lily went to the post- -office and telegraphed to foreign parts. Though Constance was too -ill to know how ill she was, though she had no conception of the -domestic confusion caused by her illness, her brain was often -remarkably clear, and she could reflect in long, sane meditations -above the uneasy sea of her pain. In the earlier hours of the -night, after the nurses had been changed, and Mary had gone to bed -exhausted with stair-climbing, and Lily Holl was recounting the -day to Dick up at the grocer's, and the day-nurse was already -asleep, and the night-nurse had arranged the night, then, in the -faintly-lit silence of the chamber, Constance would argue with -herself for an hour at a time. She frequently thought of Sophia. -In spite of the fact that Sophia was dead she still pitied Sophia -as a woman whose life had been wasted. This idea of Sophia's -wasted and sterile life, and of the far-reaching importance of -adhering to principles, recurred to her again and again. "Why did -she run away with him? If only she had not run away!" she would -repeat. And yet there had been something so fine about Sophia! -Which made Sophia's case all the more pitiable! Constance never -pitied herself. She did not consider that Fate had treated her -very badly. She was not very discontented with herself. The -invincible commonsense of a sound nature prevented her, in her -best moments, from feebly dissolving in self-pity. She had lived -in honesty and kindliness for a fair number of years, and she had -tasted triumphant hours. She was justly respected, she had a -position, she had dignity, she was well-off. She possessed, after -all, a certain amount of quiet self-conceit. There existed nobody -to whom she would 'knuckle down,' or could be asked to 'knuckle -down.' True, she was old! So were thousands of other people in -Bursley. She was in pain. So there were thousands of other people. -With whom would she be willing to exchange lots? She had many -dissatisfactions. But she rose superior to them. When she surveyed -her life, and life in general, she would think, with a sort of -tart but not sour cheerfulness: "Well, that is what life is!" -Despite her habit of complaining about domestic trifles, she was, -in the essence of her character, 'a great body for making the best -of things.' Thus she did not unduly bewail her excursion to the -Town Hall to vote, which the sequel had proved to be ludicrously -supererogatory. "How was I to know?" she said. - -The one matter in which she had gravely to reproach herself was -her indulgent spoiling of Cyril after the death of Samuel Povey. -But the end of her reproaches always was: "I expect I should do -the same again! And probably it wouldn't have made any difference -if I hadn't spoiled him!" And she had paid tenfold for the -weakness. She loved Cyril, but she had no illusions about him; she -saw both sides of him. She remembered all the sadness and all the -humiliations which he had caused her. Still, her affection was -unimpaired. A son might be worse than Cyril was; he had admirable -qualities. She did not resent his being away from England while -she lay ill. "If it was serious," she said, "he would not lose a -moment." And Lily and Dick were a treasure to her. In those two -she really had been lucky. She took great pleasure in -contemplating the splendour of the gift with which she would mark -her appreciation of them at their approaching wedding. The secret -attitude of both of them towards her was one of good-natured -condescension, expressed in the tone in which they would say to -each other, 'the old lady.' Perhaps they would have been startled -to know that Constance lovingly looked down on both of them. She -had unbounded admiration for their hearts; but she thought that -Dick was a little too brusque, a little too clownish, to be quite -a gentleman. And though Lily was perfectly ladylike, in -Constance's opinion she lacked backbone, or grit, or independence -of spirit. Further, Constance considered that the disparity of age -between them was excessive. It is to be doubted whether, when all -was said, Constance had such a very great deal to learn from the -self-confident wisdom of these young things. - -After a period of self-communion, she would sometimes fall into a -shallow delirium. In all her delirium she was invariably wandering -to and fro, lost, in the long underground passage leading from the -scullery past the coal-cellar and the cinder-cellar to the -backyard. And she was afraid of the vast-obscure of those regions, -as she had been in her infancy. - -It was not acute rheumatism, but a supervening pericarditis that -in a few days killed her. She died in the night, alone with the -night-nurse. By a curious chance the Wesleyan minister, hearing -that she was seriously ill, had called on the previous day. She -had not asked for him; and this pastoral visit, from a man who had -always said that the heavy duties of the circuit rendered pastoral -visits almost impossible, made her think. In the evening she had -requested that Fossette should be brought upstairs. - -Thus she was turned out of her house, but not by the Midland -Clothiers Company. Old people said to one another: "Have you heard -that Mrs. Povey is dead? Eh, dear me! There'll be no one left -soon." These old people were bad prophets. Her friends genuinely -regretted her, and forgot the tediousness of her sciatica. They -tried, in their sympathetic grief, to picture to themselves all -that she had been through in her life. Possibly they imagined that -they succeeded in this imaginative attempt. But they did not -succeed. No one but Constance could realize all that Constance had -been through, and all that life had meant to her. - -Cyril was not at the funeral. He arrived three days later. (As he -had no interest in the love affairs of Dick and Lily, the couple -were robbed of their wedding-present. The will, fifteen years old, -was in Cyril's favour.) But the immortal Charles Critchlow came to -the funeral, full of calm, sardonic glee, and without being asked. -Though fabulously senile, he had preserved and even improved his -faculty for enjoying a catastrophe. He now went to funerals with -gusto, contentedly absorbed in the task of burying his friends one -by one. It was he who said, in his high, trembling, rasping, -deliberate voice: "It's a pity her didn't live long enough to hear -as Federation is going on after all! That would ha' worritted -her." (For the unscrupulous advocates of Federation had discovered -a method of setting at naught the decisive result of the -referendum, and that day's Signal was fuller than ever of -Federation.) - -When the short funeral procession started, Mary and the infirm -Fossette (sole relic of the connection between the Baines family -and Paris) were left alone in the house. The tearful servant -prepared the dog's dinner and laid it before her in the customary -soup-plate in the customary corner. Fossette sniffed at it, and -then walked away and lay down with a dog's sigh in front of the -kitchen fire. She had been deranged in her habits that day; she -was conscious of neglect, due to events which passed her -comprehension. And she did not like it. She was hurt, and her -appetite was hurt. However, after a few minutes, she began to -reconsider the matter. She glanced at the soup-plate, and, on the -chance that it might after all contain something worth inspection, -she awkwardly balanced herself on her old legs and went to it -again. - -THE END - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE OLD WIVES' TALE *** - -This file should be named thldw10.txt or thldw10.zip -Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, thldw11.txt -VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, thldw10a.txt - -Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US -unless a copyright notice is included. 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