 Book 1, Chapter 6, of The Old Wives Tale, by Arnold Bennett. Chapter 6, Escapade 1. The uneasiness of Mrs. Baines flowed and ebbed during the next three months, influenced by Sophia's moods. The 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 and a non-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 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've decided to come out as usual, and may I ask what book you've 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 Wedgewood 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 a miracle, except that she was not walking on the pavement, she was walking on the intangible sword of paradise, except that the houses had receded and faded, and passers-by were sutilized into unnoticeable ghosts, except that her mother and Constance had become phantasmal beings existing at an immense distance. What had happened? Nothing. The most common place occurrence. The eternal cause had picked up a commercial traveller, it might have been a clerk or curate, but in fact it was a commercial traveller, and endowed him with all the glorious, unique, incredible attributes of a guard, 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 Wedgewood Street saw the guard walking along by her side. No one else saw anything but a simple commercial traveller. Yes, the most common place 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 nanny, 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 sole yearn towards the soul of the god. These phenomena were immeasurably more notable than Sophia's guest. 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 letterbox, 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 show room, so that Sophia might be imprisoned in the show room. 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 second hand 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. Two. From the day of Mr. Scales' visit to the shop to obtain orders and money on behalf of Birkin Shores, 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 amably 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 curb-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 chill-blanes 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, eschewed, 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 in disposition, while finding consolation in the assurance that the Mrs. 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 cloisteral 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 Mrs. 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 her 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 parlor. Mrs. Baines could rely utterly on Constance, not to be led away by the dandiacal charms of Mr. Scales. She knew in what quarters 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 nonetheless a very susceptible young man, soon offended, proud, vain, and obscurely passionate. You might offend Mr. Povey without getting 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 affected upon her. The customer went, but Mr. Scales did not go. Mr. Povey, free to reconnoiter, 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' 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 the condition of insanity for, perhaps a minute, and ex-cogitated the device. Dashing back into the shop, he spoke up, half-way across the shop, in a loud, curt tone, "'Miss Baines, your mother wants you at once!' He was launched on the phrase before he noted 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 wished 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? Jack and apes?' he spat 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 forever 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 said, 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 Chetwind, with whom she had remained very friendly. She considered that she and Miss Chetwind 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 Chetwind. And she did go to see Miss Chetwind. Arriving at the house school, which lay amid trees on the road to Turnhill, just beyond the Turnpike, had precisely a quarter-past four. As Miss Chetwind's pupils left at four o'clock, and as Miss Chetwind invariably took a walk immediately afterwards, Sophia was able to contain her surprise upon being informed that Miss Chetwind was not in. She had not intended that Miss Chetwind should be in. She turned off to the right, at the side road which, starting from the Turnpike, led in the direction of Moorthorn 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 doing so 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 that 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' 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. Then 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 Jetwins, and she wasn't in, and no one can say a word. But if I go on, if I am seen. What a fool I am to go on! Then she went on, impelled by, amongst other things, and he meant 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, as though they 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 rosely, her eyes glittered under the dark hat, and the violent colors of her Victorian frock, green and crimson, could not spoil those cheeks. If she looked earthward, frowning, she was the more adorable so. He had come down the clay 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 mile 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 the pout. "'Further on it's quite dry,' he reassured her. From the bridge they had a sudden view of a raw gas 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 wagons. "'And those are the navies,' she murmured. The unspeakable doings of the navies 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 corduroy's 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 navies were such that Sophia could not even regard them, nor Gerald Scales permitted 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 I did 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 dallions with a neglector 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? I lived there for nearly two years, he said carelessly, then looking at her. Didn't you notice that 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 Birkin Shores, 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. Hundreds 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 Moorthorn Ridge, there was nothing quite like this in the stories of Miss Sewell. Her uncle? She questioned vaguely. Yes, Mr. Baldurow, he's a partner in Berkinshaw's. 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 Berkinshaw's. 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 Baldurow took me in hand when I was three. I see, she repeated. It seemed strange to her that Mr. Scales should be Wesleyan, just like herself. She would have been sure he was a church. Her notions of Wesleyanism, and 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 he 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 pitch-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 forever 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 walls 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 quake under her feet. The 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 chained 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 rothful skirts, and hurried off without a word, almost running. As for him, he was so startled by an 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 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. Now, 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. Four. You've been out, Sophia? said Mrs. Baines, and the parlor, 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 the number of the Sunday at home in her hand. Tea was set. Yes, mother, I called to see Miss Chetwind. 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 blended up the kitchen stairs with 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, and accustomed 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 to matter with her? No. This was inaccurate. Nearly everything was to 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 bodies 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, married, and outwardly nausellant. And what has Miss Chetwind 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. So what time did you call? I don't know, about half-boss four. Sophia finished her tea quickly and rose. Shall I tell Mr. Poby he can come?" Mr. Poby 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 waxed taper from a vase on the mantelpiece, suck it in the fire and lit the gas, which exploded in its crystal cloister with a mild report. What's all like 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 a 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're going to be sullen, I shall have to suppose the worst, said Mrs. Baines. Of course, Mrs. Baines resumed, if you choose to be wicked, neither your mother nor anyone 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's been living a wild life abroad, and if it hadn't been that his uncle is a partner in Birkin Shores, they would never have taken him on again. 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 tomorrow. I can only hope so, but if you aren't I shall take very severe measures. You can defy me, but you are never 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 seem 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 unabtrusively 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-cheats, and the shop being empty, they never supposed that she was dreaming about posts, and plotting how to get hold of the morning letters before Mr. Povey. End of Chapter 6 Book I, Chapter 7 of The Old Wife's Tale by Arnold Bennett This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org Reading by Andy Minter The Old Wife's Tale by Arnold Bennett Book I, Mrs. Baines Chapter 7 A Defeat I. It was during the month of June that Aunt Harriet came over from Acts to spend a few days with her little sister, Mrs. Baines. The railway between Acts 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 Acts to Bursley in the same vehicle, a small wagonette, which she hired from Bratt's livery-stables at Acts, 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 ascendancy 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, in the showroom, in 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 miraculous 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 dipper, but from which gaiety and naturalness seemed to be banished. I say seen, 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 flywheel of a traction-engine. Constance, the dear Constance, was also looked at as scounce. 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 per adventure 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, by 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 emphasised 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 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 companyer for a while. Though a 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 wade 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 pecked your box of fire? 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 box were brought down, and there was a slight odor of black-kid gloves in the parlour. The wagonette was due, and the wagonette 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, and he assuredly. 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, I 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 mutilous 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 onto the step and introduced herself through the doorway of the wagonette 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 wagonette. Sophia followed agilely. As with due formalities, the equipage drove off. Mrs. Baines gave another sigh, one of relief. The sisters had won. She would now await the imminent next advent of Mr. Gerald and 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. Maddock, of course, accepted. 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 mourn 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 chatted to Sophia concerning Mr. Povey. Constance, who understood her mother, had too much common sense and too nice a sense of propriety to do that. 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's assistance discuss them? As a fact the young lady's assistance 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 today, 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 suffayed her daughter and her manager at supper-time with a curious and 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 between that decorum, for Constance would not deceive. Still Mrs. Baines' 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 tranquility, 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. There's 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 roasts, 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 wither from the table, and neither 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, so far 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' peace of mind, it was a portentous tone. But 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' 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 unhandled. 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 that 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. That depends on you, Mr. Povey interrupted her. When he was nervous his man has deteriorated into a behavior 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 this 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's 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' definition of a kiss. You are very extraordinary. She said loftily. There 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. His madder could certainly deem 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's 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's a serious matter. When can I have your answer? Tomorrow? 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're 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 allowed. You know you would place me in a very awkward position by leaving, but 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. 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. She almost shouted. But please let me speak, she said quietly. All I can say is I can't stand it. That's all. Employers, I'm 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 these 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, the let everything indifferently slide. 3. 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 Berkinshaw's, 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's 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 Berkinshaw's 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 parlor. In the passage, she assuredly did hear knocking, angry and impatient knocking, the knocking of someone who thinks she has not 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 sooner, 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. Maddock, and I've driven specially over to ask you. Where's Sophia, demanded Mrs. Baines? You don't mean she's not come, sister? Mrs. Maddock sat down on 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 onto the sofa. I've not been ill, she said, and Constance hasn't written for a week. But 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, but I decided to come over myself to see if it was anything serious. Serious it is, murmured Mrs. Baines. What? Sophia's run-off. What'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. Maddock opened the door with a tragic gesture. Bladen! she called in a loud voice to the driver of the wagonette, who was standing on the pavement. Yes, and? It was Pember drove Miss Sophia yesterday, wasn't it? Yes, and? She hesitated. The 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, and? He happened to say last night when he got back as Miss Sophia had told him to set her down at night's station. I thought so, said Mrs. Maddock courageously. Yes, and? 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 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, untameable, 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, spoiled, and her answer was to disgrace the family by an act as irrevocable as it was utterly vicious. If among her desires was her desire to humiliate those majesties her mother and Aunt Harriet, she would have been content had she 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, dispatched 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 Baldurow, abandoned Burke in shores at an hour's notice, and vanished with his inheritance. It's as plain as a pike's stuff, said Mr. Critchlow. I could have warned you 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 everyone 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 affection at 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 sign of acts. 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 wagonette for acts. Mrs. Baines encumbered with trunks and parcels, leaving the scene of her struggles and her defeat, with her 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 wagonette can be a dreadful thing. End of Chapter 7