 Book 4. What Life Is Chapter 1 Frenchums Part 2 3 Three days later Matthew Peele Swinnerton was walking along Bursley Marketplace, 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 crepe-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 Peele. His family had been distinguished in the district for generations. Peele, you could, without impropriety, utter it in the same breath with wedge-wood, and Swinnerton stood not much lower. Neither her self-respect, which was great, nor her common sense, which far exceeded the average, could enable her to extend as far as Peele's the theory that one man is as good as another. The Peele's never shopped in St. Luke's Square. Even in its golden days the Square could not have expected such a condescension. The Peele's shopped in London, or in Stafford, at a pinch in Old Castle. That was the distinction for the aging stout lady in black. Why, she had not in six years recovered from her surprise that her son and Matthew Peele Swinnerton 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 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, that you're bound to hear from Cyril to-morrow. He wanted to persuade her that he was concealing merely some delight for 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, literally looking around her in a peculiar fashion, he said, Shall you walk along a bit? and he turned in the direction in which she had been going. She obeyed the suggestion. What did you 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 you say? I said it was about Mrs. Scales. You know, I 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 had 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 Iron Mungers. 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. Pilswinnerton. He cried, as Matthew instinctively began to do the wrong thing. Matthew stopped, looking 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 marketplace now perceived that the unusual was occurring. It was Mr. Shawcross, the chemist, next-order 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 rickety 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 cockyard and the Long Wedgewood Street. But when, glancing round in her return 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, Mrs. 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 aging 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, vacant 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 gray, 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 hope for this. Never hope for it. She went on. It makes me so happy. In a way, you mustn't take any notice of me. I am 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 everything, 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 fuel 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. Four. On the night when Matthew Peele Swinnerton spoke to Mrs. Scales, Matthew was not the only person in Pension-Frenchham 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, Fosette. 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 alms-house, 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 de 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 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 Fosette, 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 thirty-two. 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 Fosette'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? Surely 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 common sense, was she new 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 aging, and she was alone in the world. She was enriching herself. She had the most perfectly managed, and the most respectable pensioner 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 Faucette, 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 be truly 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 Baron for more than thirty hours at a stretch. It was appalling, a 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 Baron. She was 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 Swinnerton. Then, evidently, in her days in Bursley, the Peels and the Swinnitons, 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. Then 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. Suppose even that he were merely to mention in the five towns that the Ponceon Frenchman 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 Swinnerton 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 Peel 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 could 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. He made her shrink, but she could not dismiss it. She could not argue herself out of it. The apparition of Matthew Peele Swinerton 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 poncion. All was black, hopeless. The poncion 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. It stirred in the basket near the large desk, on which multifarious files and papers were ranged with minute particularity. Faucette! 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. That I look on! 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 hiccup, and she had no control over the hiccup. She put her hand to the bell, whose ringing would summon the man who slept in a pantry off the hall, and suddenly the hiccup 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. Fosette patted across the room and sprang onto the bed, and nestled down. Sophia ignored her, but Fosette, being herself unwell and torpid, did not seem to care. Jacqueline was late. In the quarter of an hour between six o'clock and 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, Fosette! Fosette! And on this morning she did not come into the room. The dog did not immediately respond. Sophia was in an agony. She marshaled all her volition, all her self-control and strength to shout, Jacqueline! It came out of her. A horribly difficult and mis-shape and 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 de l'autolabiel à l'ingé, was the phrase he used. She understood. A very slight attack, due to overwork and worry. He ordered absolute rest and quiet. Possible, she said, genuinely convinced that she alone was indispensable. Repose the most absolute, he repeated. She marveled that a few words with a man who chanced to be named Peel Swinerton 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. 5. Mike Darling Sophia. The inevitable miracle had occurred. Her suspicions concerning that Mr. Peel Swinerton 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 quorum. She received letters from England, nearly every day asking about rooms and prices, and on many of them she had to pay Thrapin's success 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 postmark, 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 so far 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 Acts. 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. Peele Swinnerton 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 Povie affair. I mean, of course, Mr. Daniel Povie, confectioner. It was that that killed poor Samuel. Poor mother died in 1875. It doesn't seem so long. Mr. 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 hand-bridge, and they are talking of electric trams. But I dare say it's only talk. I have a fairly good servant. She's 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've been very lonely. But I try to cheer up and count my blessings. I'm 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'll 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 mothers and also of Aunt Harriet's, and it has been accumulating. By the way, they are getting up a subscription for Miss Chetwind, poor old thing. Her sister is dead, and she is in poverty. I have put myself down for twenty pounds. 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 Fosette, she expects me to go to her instead of her coming to me, and yet who is 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. 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. Tacked? No. It was something finer than tacked. Tacked was conscious, skillful. 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 the 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 note-paper, 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 twenty pounds for her to the Miss Chetwin fund. She spoke of her pension and of Paris and 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 Frencham, 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 Frencham 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 everyone 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 speculate, 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 poncian friendship 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 sciatic was suddenly much worse, and she was obliged to lie down every day after dinner to rest her legs. Traveling 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 oneself 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. Martin 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 nearest 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 everyone except Martin. And everyone somehow persisted in not saying it to Martin. The doctor, having advised that she should spend more time in the open air, she would take afternoon drives in the boire with Fosett. It was October, but Mr. Martin 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 Fosett. So unwell! she exclaimed, as if resenting the statement, who told you I was so unwell? Jacqueline, she told me you often said 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. Martin'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 pensioner, 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. Martin. You needn't give it up altogether, he said. You could retain your hold on it. We'd make you a managerace with a salary and a share in the profits. You'd be mistress just as much as you are now. Oh! she said 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 Frenchms as a private undertaking was brought to a close. Sophia knew it. Mr. Martin knew it. Mr. Martin's heart leapt. He saw in his imagination the formation of the preliminary syndicate, with himself at its head, and then the resale 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 all a day 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. I blighed me by thinking it over. He said, I'll mention it to you again in a few days. It will be of no use, she said. He took his leave, waddling down the street in his vague clothes, conscious of his fame as Louis Martin, the great house agent of the Champs-Élysées, 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. Martin 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. End of Book 4, Chapter 1, Book 4, Chapter 2 of The Old Wives 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 Wives Tale, by Arnold Bennett. Book 4. What Life Is? Chapter 2 The Meeting 1. 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 always be 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 inquiritude and shame. Amy was assisting at this performance, gravely on the watch to see that Spot did not escape into the coal-seller. She opened the door to Mr. Critchlow's knock. Mr. Critchlow entered without any formalities, as usual. He did not seem to have changed. Amy 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 stored fairly straight. He was carrying a newspaper in his vellum hand. "'Well, Mrs.' he said, that will do, thank you, Amy,' said Constance quietly. Amy went slowly. "'So you're washing him for her?' said Mr. Critchlow. "'Yes,' Constance admitted. Spot glanced sharply at the aged man. "'And you've 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 the Staffordshire Day by Day column. Here, I'll read you. 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 red. We understand that Mrs. Sophia Scales, proprietress of the famous Poncyon Frenchum in the rue Lord Barron Paris, sat famous that nobody in the 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 Poncyon Frenchum to a limited company, and we are betraying no secret in stating that the price ran well into five figures. "'So, you see,' Mr. Critchlow commented. "'How do these signal people find out things?' Constance murmured. "'There, bless you, 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. "'Oh, I wish it hadn't appeared just today,' said Constance. "'Why?' "'Oh, I don't know. I wish it hadn't.' "'Well, how beturing on, Mrs.' 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 the corner of the sofa. She then abruptly sent Amy out to buy a penny timetable. "'Oh, I thought you were going by tram to knipe,' Amy observed. "'I have decided to go by train,' said Constance, with cold dignity, as if she had decided the faith 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 knipe 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 anticlimax 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 strewn over the bed. "'There's a train a quarter to three gets to knipe 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. I think 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 you 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 night, and then tire some conversations would follow, whereas in the train she would choose a compartment that 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 in 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 general 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 bourgue a thaw, and a hysterical full cry, and a wise man meditates sadly on the earth's fashion of renewing itself. At half-bast 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, saved by a minister during the sittings of the Wesleyan Methodist Conference at Bursley, it had never been occupied since the era when Mariah Inseld 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 repapered in a delicate blue, with one of the new art patterns. It was a bane's 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 wash stand under the white and gold ewer and other utensils. It was folly to expose such mats to the splashing of a wash stand, but it was so blind folly. Sophia might remove them if she cared. Constance was housebrowed. 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 bane's and the maddock families since the year 1840, tempered by the latest novelties in anti-McCassars 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're quite understand about tea,' Constance asked. "'Oh, yes, ma'am,' said Amy. As if to say, ah, much oftener you're going to ask me that question. Are you off now, ma'am?' "'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 her 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? Spotman! 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 timetable. The woman's face was guilty. Amy, I wonder at you! explained 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 aunts of fire 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 fold of her mantle. That's a funny way to go to Bursley's station, that is, said Amy, observing that Constance was descending King Street instead of crossing it into Wedgewood 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 roundabout 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. Two. The express from London was late, so that Constance had three-quarters of an hour of the stony calmness of night platform when it is waiting for a grand 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 melle. 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. Night 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 his bought-in-sharps. 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 tranquility, as she stooped to kiss Constance, raising her veil. Constance saw that this marvellous tranquility must be imitated, and she imitated it very well. It was a bane's tranquility. 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 she could think off to say. Oh, yes! said Sophia eagerly, and I went to his studio, and he saw me off at Euston. He's a very nice boy. I'd love him. She said I love him, with the intonation of Sophia aged 15. 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 bane's. 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 Fosett, said Sophia, pulling at the chain. Constance knew not what to reply. Surely Sophia could not be aware of what she did in bringing such a dog to a place where people were so particular as they are in the five towns. Fosett! 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 the dog in her letters, but she had not prepared Constance for the spectacle of Fosett. 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 Fosett 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. Here her tell a doubtful porter that of course she should take Fosett 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 the kind of undisturbed fundamental superiority, felt sorry for Sophia. What do you think? said Sophia, absolutely fingering Fosett. A man came up to me at Euston while Cyril was getting my ticket and said, Hey, 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 it went off. I think it must have been Hall, the grocer. Had he got a long white beard? Yes. Then it was Mr. Hall. He's been mayor twice. He's an Alderman, you know. Really? said Sophia, but wasn't he queer? Hey, 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 manufactures and warehouses and advertisements of soap. Oh! said Constance, that's Barnum's, you know. They have just what they call a central depot here, because it's in 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 Fosset 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. Oh! do you think so? Constance was slightly peeped. 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 had 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-line stations, Turnhill, Bursley, Bleakridge, Handbridge, Calden, Knype, Trent Vale, and Longshaw. At Trafalgar Road, inserting itself between Bleakridge and Handbridge, seemed to her excessively curious. Yes, I suppose it will, the fire 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, rivaling the purity of Amy's apron. Good evening, ma'am, said Amy officially to Sophia, as Sophia came up the steps. Good afternoon, Amy, Sophia replied. She flattered Amy, and thus showing that she was acquainted with her name. But if ever a servant was put in 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 knife. Now, forse it! She welcomed the incoming poodle kindly. The poodle began at once to sniff. The fat red cabman was handing the trunks onto the pavement, and Amy was upstairs. For a moment the sisters were alone together in the parlour. So here I am, exclaimed a 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 blended up and downstairs with trunks, and soluted 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 Forseit? Constance voiced anxieties that had been growing on her. Forseit 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 is utterly ridiculous. Sure. Constance questioned. Quite. Thank you. said Sophia. Well, I leave you. I expect Amy will have tea ready directly. She went down into the kitchen. Amy, she said, as soon as we finished tea, light a fire in Mrs. Scale's bedroom. In the top bedroom, and—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 in the least of 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 a 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 dare 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 for set 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 a verse from the lighter transactions. 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 aging, 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 and impulsed 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 have never seen or heard of him since. Oh, my dear! cried Constance, alarmed and deafened as by a clap of awful thunder. I thought you were a widow. Mr. Peele Swinnerton said he was told positively you 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. Critchlowman, announced Amy. The sisters glanced at one another with lifted foreheads. Then Mrs. Povey spoke to Amy as though visits of 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 Critchlow's might hear. Then Mariah Critchlow's simpering had to greet Sophia. Mrs. Critchlow was very agitated, from sheer nervousness. She coveted, she almost pranced, and she made noises with her mouth as though she saw someone 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. You 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 you. Everyone 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 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 arm-chair in front of the fire and meticulously put himself into it. Assuredly he was much older in the 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 in the fire. Well, said Sophia, I wouldn't have done that. I never saw Mr. Critchlow's equal for picking up hot cinders. Mariah giggled. Mr. Critchlow didn't know remark. When did you 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 have you been doing with yourself since yesterday morning? I spent last night in London, Sophia replied. Oh, in London, did you? Yes, Cyril and I had an evening together. Eh, Cyril, what's your opinion of Cyril, Sophia? I'm very proud to have Cyril for a nephew, said Sophia. Oh, ah, yeah. 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, fruitcakes, coffee, and hot milk, on a tray. And Sophia also spoke to Amy, murmuring a request as to faucet. Yes, Mrs. Skiles, said Amy, with eager deference. Mrs. Critchlow smiled vaguely from a low chair near the curtain 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 agonised by apprehensions. But now that he had actually come, she was glad that 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, Mariah Critchlow, he called, edging round his chair slightly, he had best go back home. Mariah Critchlow was biting a bit of walnut cake, while in her right hand, all seemed with black lines, she held a cup of coffee. 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 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 you! Mariah 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 wake it a day or two. I'm in no hurry. Haven't I waited long enough? he retorted fiercely. There was a pause. Mariah Critchlow moved. As for you being in no hurry, Sophia? the old man went on. Nobody can say as you've been in no 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 shall have all the freedom and conveniences that she could have had in her own. If a private room were needed for discussions between Sophia and her trustee, Constance's pride was peaked to supply that room. Further Constance was glad to get Mariah out of Sophia's sight. She was accustomed to Mariah. 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 Mariah. 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 ascertains through Birkin Shores if anything was known of Gerald Scales. But even that course was set with perils. Suppose 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 Mariah Critchlow. Amy passed through the parlour to go to bed. There was no other way of reaching the upper part of the house. Oh, you're going to bed, Amy? Yes, ma'am. Where is Fosett? In the kitchen, ma'am, said Amy, defending herself. Mrs. Scales told me the dog might sleep in the kitchen with Spot as they were such good friends. I've opened the bottom drawer and Fosett is lying in that. Mrs. Scales has brought a dog with her. Explain, Mariah. Yes, ma'am, said Amy dryly before Constance could answer. She implied everything in that affirmative. You are a family for dogs, said Mariah. 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. Mariah muttered. Well, I never. It was ten o'clock before Sons Above indicated that the first interview between trustee and beneficiary was finished. I'll be going to open our side door, said Mariah. 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, and went through the parlour in silence, ignoring Constance, and also Sophia, who was at his heels, and vanished. As Constance shuts 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 the glance they exchanged their ideas on the subject of Charles Critchlow and Mariah, 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 below a 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 affection at this. They did not kiss. The thought on 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 hullabaloo smoked the air 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 spots lane. 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. Fosett 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. Three. 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 Hall'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 brought 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, wherein, 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 assemblance 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 signboards of these establishments were names that Sophia did not know. The character of most of the shops seemed to have worsened. They had become petty fogging 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, poultry, confined, and dull, reached for her the extreme of provinciality. It was what the French called, with a pregnant intonation, La Provence. 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 Wedgewood 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 so far new, 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 handbridge, 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 sirens, 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 night 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 chattered. For the time being she had no home. To Constance she was paying a visit. Constance did not appear to realise 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. Seller, kitchen, no hall, abominable stairs, and, as to hygiene, simply medieval. 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, so far 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 times, 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 patronising 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 pretense and absurdity as quickly as any one. Constance did honestly appear to Sophia, to be superior to any French woman that she had ever encountered. She saw supreme in Constance that quality which she had recognised in the porters at Newhaven, on landing, the quality of honest and naïve good will, 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 bursely atmosphere, physical and mental. She pictured Paris as it would be on that very morning, bright, clean, glittering, the neatness of the Rue Lord Baron, and the magnificent slanting splendour of the Champs-Élysées. 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 Pancien, 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 Mardin, 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 Pancien for a song, and sold it for great riches. She had developed from a nobody into the desire 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. Mardin, and a man from the Hotel Moscow, and had paid her servants for the last time, and signed the last receded bill. The men had been very gallant, and had requested her to stay in the Pancien as their guest until she was ready to leave Paris. But she had declined that. She could not have borne to remain in the Pancien 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 Pancien Frenchman 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 Wedgewood 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 realised 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 that things told 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 with a 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 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 circle 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 mind 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.