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_ So that Mrs. Baines was duly apprised of the signboard before her
arrival. The letter written by her to Constance after receiving
Samuel's letter, which was merely the amiable epistle of a son-in-
law anxious to be a little more than correct, contained no
reference to the signboard. This silence, however, did not in the
least allay Constance's apprehensions as to what might occur when
her mother and Samuel met beneath the signboard itself. It was
therefore with a fearful as well as an eager, loving heart that
Constance opened her side-door and ran down the steps when the
waggonette stopped in King Street on the Thursday morning of the
great visit of the sisters. But a surprise awaited her. Aunt
Harriet had not come. Mrs. Baines explained, as she soundly kissed
her daughter, that at the last moment Aunt Harriet had not felt
well enough to undertake the journey. She sent her fondest love,
and cake. Her pains had recurred. It was these mysterious pains
which had prevented the sisters from coming to Bursley earlier.
The word "cancer"--the continual terror of stout women--had been
on their lips, without having been actually uttered; then there
was a surcease, and each was glad that she had refrained from the
dread syllables. In view of the recurrence, it was not unnatural
that Mrs. Baines's vigorous cheerfulness should be somewhat
forced.
"What is it, do you think?" Constance inquired.
Mrs. Baines pushed her lips out and raised her eyebrows--a gesture
which meant that the pains might mean God knew what.
"I hope she'll be all right alone," observed Constance. "Of
course," said Mrs. Baines, quickly. "But you don't suppose I was
going to disappoint you, do you?" she added, looking round as if
to defy the fates in general.
This speech, and its tone, gave intense pleasure to Constance;
and, laden with parcels, they mounted the stairs together, very
content with each other, very happy in the discovery that they
were still mother and daughter, very intimate in an inarticulate
way.
Constance had imagined long, detailed, absorbing, and highly novel
conversations between herself and her mother upon this their first
meeting after her marriage. But alone in the bedroom, and with a
clear half-hour to dinner, they neither of them seemed to have a
great deal to impart.
Mrs. Baines slowly removed her light mantle and laid it with
precautions on the white damask counterpane. Then, fingering her
weeds, she glanced about the chamber. Nothing was changed. Though
Constance had, previous to her marriage, envisaged certain
alterations, she had determined to postpone them, feeling that one
revolutionist in a house was enough.
"Well, my chick, you all right?" said Mrs. Baines, with hearty and
direct energy, gazing straight into her daughter's eyes.
Constance perceived that the question was universal in its
comprehensiveness, the one unique expression that the mother would
give to her maternal concern and curiosity, and that it condensed
into six words as much interest as would have overflowed into a
whole day of the chatter of some mothers. She met the candid
glance, flushing.
"Oh YES!" she answered with ecstatic fervour. "Perfectly!"
And Mrs. Baines nodded, as if dismissing THAT. "You're stouter,"
said she, curtly. "If you aren't careful you'll be as big as any
of us."
"Oh, mother!"
The interview fell to a lower plane of emotion. It even fell as
far as Maggie. What chiefly preoccupied Constance was a subtle
change in her mother. She found her mother fussy in trifles. Her
manner of laying down her mantle, of smoothing out her gloves, and
her anxiety that her bonnet should not come to harm, were rather
trying, were perhaps, in the very slightest degree, pitiable. It
was nothing; it was barely perceptible, and yet it was enough to
alter Constance's mental attitude to her mother. "Poor dear!"
thought Constance. "I'm afraid she's not what she was." Incredible
that her mother could have age in less than six weeks! Constance
did not allow for the chemistry that had been going on in herself.
The encounter between Mrs. Baines and her son-in-law was of the
most satisfactory nature. He was waiting in the parlour for her to
descend. He made himself exceedingly agreeable, kissing her, and
flattering her by his evidently sincere desire to please. He
explained that he had kept an eye open for the waggonette, but had
been called away. His "Dear me!" on learning about Aunt Harriet
lacked nothing in conviction, though both women knew that his
affection for Aunt Harriet would never get the better of his
reason. To Constance, her husband's behaviour was marvellously
perfect. She had not suspected him to be such a man of the world.
And her eyes said to her mother, quite unconsciously: "You see,
after all, you didn't rate Sam as high as you ought to have done.
Now you see your mistake."
As they sat waiting for dinner, Constance and Mrs. Baines on the
sofa, and Samuel on the edge of the nearest rocking-chair, a small
scuffling noise was heard outside the door which gave on the
kitchen steps, the door yielded to pressure, and Fan rushed
importantly in, deranging mats. Fan's nose had been hinting to her
that she was behind the times, not up-to-date in the affairs of
the household, and she had hurried from the kitchen to make
inquiries. It occurred to her en route that she had been washed
that morning. The spectacle of Mrs. Baines stopped her. She stood,
with her legs slightly out-stretched, her nose lifted, her ears
raking forward, her bright eyes blinking, and her tail undecided.
"I was sure I'd never smelt anything like that before," she was
saying to herself, as she stared at Mrs. Baines.
And Mrs. Baines, staring at Fan, had a similar though not the same
sentiment. The silence was terrible. Constance took on the mien of
a culprit, and Sam had obviously lost his easy bearing of a man of
the world. Mrs. Baines was merely thunderstruck.
A dog!
Suddenly Fan's tail began to wag more quickly; and then, having
looked in vain for encouragement to her master and mistress, she
gave one mighty spring and alighted in Mrs. Baines's lap. It was
an aim she could not have missed. Constance emitted an "Oh, FAN!"
of shocked terror, and Samuel betrayed his nervous tension by an
involuntary movement. But Fan had settled down into that titanic
lap as into heaven. It was a greater flattery than Mr. Povey's.
"So your name's Fan!" murmured Mrs. Baines, stroking the animal.
"You are a dear!"
"Yes, isn't she?" said Constance, with inconceivable rapidity.
The danger was past. Thus, without any explanation, Fan became an
accepted fact.
The next moment Maggie served the Yorkshire pudding.
"Well, Maggie," said Mrs. Baines. "So you are going to get married
this time? When is it?"
"Sunday, ma'am."
"And you leave here on Saturday?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, I must have a talk with you before I go."
During the dinner, not a word as to the signboard! Several times
the conversation curved towards that signboard in the most
alarming fashion, but invariably it curved away again, like a
train from another train when two trains are simultaneously
leaving a station. Constance had frights, so serious as to destroy
her anxiety about the cookery. In the end she comprehended that
her mother had adopted a silently disapproving attitude. Fan was
socially very useful throughout the repast.
After dinner Constance was on pins lest Samuel should light a
cigar. She had not requested him not to do so, for though she was
entirely sure of his affection, she had already learned that a
husband is possessed by a demon of contrariety which often forces
him to violate his higher feelings. However, Samuel did not light
a cigar. He went off to superintend the shutting-up of the shop,
while Mrs. Baines chatted with Maggie and gave her L5 for a
wedding present. Then Mr. Critchlow called to offer his
salutations.
A little before tea Mrs. Baines announced that she would go out
for a short walk by herself.
"Where has she gone to?" smiled Samuel, superiorly, as with
Constance at the window he watched her turn down King Street
towards the church.
"I expect she has gone to look at father's grave," said Constance.
"Oh!" muttered Samuel, apologetically.
Constance was mistaken. Before reaching the church, Mrs. Baines
deviated to the right, got into Brougham Street and thence, by
Acre Lane, into Oldcastle Street, whose steep she climbed. Now,
Oldcastle Street ends at the top of St. Luke's Square, and from
the corner Mrs. Baines had an excellent view of the signboard. It
being Thursday afternoon, scarce a soul was about. She returned to
her daughter's by the same extraordinary route, and said not a
word on entering. But she was markedly cheerful.
The waggonette came after tea, and Mrs. Baines made her final
preparations to depart. The visit had proved a wonderful success;
it would have been utterly perfect if Samuel had not marred it at
the very door of the waggonette. Somehow, he contrived to be
talking of Christmas. Only a person of Samuel's native clumsiness
would have mentioned Christmas in July.
"You know you'll spend Christmas with us!" said he into the
waggonette.
"Indeed I shan't!" replied Mrs. Baines. "Aunt Harriet and I will
expect you at Axe. We've already settled that."
Mr. Povey bridled. "Oh no!" he protested, hurt by this
summariness.
Having had no relatives, except his cousin the confectioner, for
many years, he had dreamt of at last establishing a family
Christmas under his own roof, and the dream was dear to him.
Mrs. Baines said nothing. "We couldn't possibly leave the shop,"
said Mr. Povey.
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Baines retorted, putting her lips together.
"Christmas Day is on a Monday."
The waggonette in starting jerked her head towards the door and
set all her curls shaking. No white in those curls yet, scarcely a
touch of grey!
"I shall take good care we don't go there anyway," Mr. Povey
mumbled, in his heat, half to himself and half to Constance.
He had stained the brightness of the day. _
Read next: BOOK II CONSTANCE: CHAPTER II - CHRISTMAS AND THE FUTURE: PART I
Read previous: BOOK II CONSTANCE: CHAPTER I - REVOLUTION: PART III
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