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_ It was during the month of June that Aunt Harriet came over from
Axe to spend a few days with her little sister, Mrs. Baines. The
railway between Axe and the Five Towns had not yet been opened;
but even if it had been opened Aunt Harriet would probably not
have used it. She had always travelled from Axe to Bursley in the
same vehicle, a small waggonette which she hired from Bratt's
livery stables at Axe, driven by a coachman who thoroughly
understood the importance, and the peculiarities, of Aunt Harriet.
Mrs. Baines had increased in stoutness, so that now Aunt Harriet
had very little advantage over her, physically. But the moral
ascendency of the elder still persisted. The two vast widows
shared Mrs. Baines's bedroom, spending much of their time there in
long, hushed conversations--interviews from which Mrs. Baines
emerged with the air of one who has received enlightenment and
Aunt Harriet with the air of one who has rendered it. The pair
went about together, in the shop, the showroom, the parlour, the
kitchen, and also into the town, addressing each other as
'Sister,' 'Sister.' Everywhere it was 'sister,' 'sister,' 'my
sister,' 'your dear mother,' 'your Aunt Harriet.' They referred to
each other as oracular sources of wisdom and good taste.
Respectability stalked abroad when they were afoot. The whole
Square wriggled uneasily as though God's eye were peculiarly upon
it. The meals in the parlour became solemn collations, at which
shone the best silver and the finest diaper, but from which gaiety
and naturalness seemed to be banished. (I say 'seemed' because it
cannot be doubted that Aunt Harriet was natural, and there were
moments when she possibly considered herself to be practising
gaiety--a gaiety more desolating than her severity.) The younger
generation was extinguished, pressed flat and lifeless under the
ponderosity of the widows.
Mr. Povey was not the man to be easily flattened by ponderosity of
any kind, and his suppression was a striking proof of the prowess
of the widows; who, indeed, went over Mr. Povey like traction-
engines, with the sublime unconsciousness of traction-engines,
leaving an inanimate object in the road behind them, and scarce
aware even of the jolt. Mr. Povey hated Aunt Harriet, but, lying
crushed there in the road, how could he rebel? He felt all the
time that Aunt Harriet was adding him up, and reporting the result
at frequent intervals to Mrs. Baines in the bedroom. He felt that
she knew everything about him--even to those tears which had been
in his eyes. He felt that he could hope to do nothing right for
Aunt Harriet, that absolute perfection in the performance of duty
would make no more impression on her than a caress on the fly-
wheel of a traction-engine. Constance, the dear Constance, was
also looked at askance. There was nothing in Aunt Harriet's
demeanour to her that you could take hold of, but there was
emphatically something that you could not take hold of--a hint, an
inkling, that insinuated to Constance, "Have a care, lest
peradventure you become the second cousin of the scarlet woman."
Sophia was petted. Sophia was liable to be playfully tapped by
Aunt Harriet's thimble when Aunt Harriet was hemming dusters (for
the elderly lady could lift a duster to her own dignity). Sophia
was called on two separate occasions, 'My little butterfly.' And
Sophia was entrusted with the trimming of Aunt Harriet's new
summer bonnet. Aunt Harriet deemed that Sophia was looking pale.
As the days passed, Sophia's pallor was emphasized by Aunt Harriet
until it developed into an article of faith, to which you were
compelled to subscribe on pain of excommunication. Then dawned the
day when Aunt Harriet said, staring at Sophia as an affectionate
aunt may: "That child would do with a change." And then there
dawned another day when Aunt Harriet, staring at Sophia
compassionately, as a devoted aunt may, said: "It's a pity that
child can't have a change." And Mrs. Baines also stared--and said:
"It is."
And on another day Aunt Harriet said: "I've been wondering whether
my little Sophia would care to come and keep her old aunt company
a while."
There were few things for which Sophia would have cared less. The
girl swore to herself angrily that she would not go, that no
allurement would induce her to go. But she was in a net; she was
in the meshes of family correctness. Do what she would, she could
not invent a reason for not going. Certainly she could not tell
her aunt that she merely did not want to go. She was capable of
enormities, but not of that. And then began Aunt Harriet's
intricate preparations for going. Aunt Harriet never did anything
simply. And she could not be hurried. Seventy-two hours before
leaving she had to commence upon her trunk; but first the trunk
had to be wiped by Maggie with a damp cloth under the eye and
direction of Aunt Harriet. And the liveryman at Axe had to be
written to, and the servants at Axe written to, and the weather
prospects weighed and considered. And somehow, by the time these
matters were accomplished, it was tacitly understood that Sophia
should accompany her kind aunt into the bracing moorland air of
Axe. No smoke at Axe! No stuffiness at Axe! The spacious existence
of a wealthy widow in a residential town with a low death-rate and
famous scenery! "Have you packed your box, Sophia?" No, she had
not. "Well, I will come and help you."
Impossible to bear up against the momentum of a massive body like
Aunt Harriet's! It was irresistible.
The day of departure came, throwing the entire household into a
commotion. Dinner was put a quarter of an hour earlier than usual
so that Aunt Harriet might achieve Axe at her accustomed hour of
tea. After dinner Maggie was the recipient of three amazing muslin
aprons, given with a regal gesture. And the trunk and the box were
brought down, and there was a slight odour of black kid gloves in
the parlour. The waggonette was due and the waggonette appeared
("I can always rely upon Bladen!" said Aunt Harriet), and the door
was opened, and Bladen, stiff on his legs, descended from the box
and touched his hat to Aunt Harriet as she filled up the doorway.
"Have you baited, Bladen?" asked she.
"Yes'm," said he, assuringly.
Bladen and Mr. Povey carried out the trunk and the box, and
Constance charged herself with parcels which she bestowed in the
corners of the vehicle according to her aunt's prescription; it
was like stowing the cargo of a vessel.
"Now, Sophia, my chuck!" Mrs. Baines called up the stairs. And
Sophia came slowly downstairs. Mrs. Baines offered her mouth.
Sophia glanced at her.
"You needn't think I don't see why you're sending me away!"
exclaimed Sophia in a hard, furious voice, with glistening eyes.
"I'm not so blind as all that!" She kissed her mother--nothing but
a contemptuous peck. Then, as she turned away she added: "But you
let Constance do just as she likes!"
This was her sole bitter comment on the episode, but into it she
put all the profound bitterness accumulated during many mutinous
nights.
Mrs. Baines concealed a sigh. The explosion certainly disturbed
her. She had hoped that the smooth surface of things would not be
ruffled.
Sophia bounced out. And the assembly, including several urchins,
watched with held breath while Aunt Harriet, after having bid
majestic good-byes, got on to the step and introduced herself
through the doorway of the waggonette into the interior of the
vehicle; it was an operation like threading a needle with cotton
too thick. Once within, her hoops distended in sudden release,
filling the waggonette. Sophia followed, agilely.
As, with due formalities, the equipage drove off, Mrs. Baines gave
another sigh, one of relief. The sisters had won. She could now
await the imminent next advent of Mr. Gerald Scales with
tranquillity. _
Read next: BOOK I MRS. BAINES: CHAPTER VII - A DEFEAT: PART II
Read previous: BOOK I MRS. BAINES: CHAPTER VI - ESCAPADE: PART IV
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