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_ Three days later Matthew Peel-Swynnerton was walking along Bursley
Market Place when, just opposite the Town Hall, he met a short,
fat, middle-aged lady dressed in black, with a black embroidered
mantle, and a small bonnet tied with black ribbon and ornamented
with jet fruit and crape leaves. As she stepped slowly and
carefully forward she had the dignified, important look of a
provincial woman who has always been accustomed to deference in
her native town, and whose income is ample enough to extort
obsequiousness from the vulgar of all ranks. But immediately she
caught sight of Matthew, her face changed. She became simple and
naive. She blushed slightly, smiling with a timid pleasure. For
her, Matthew belonged to a superior race. He bore the almost
sacred name of Peel. His family had been distinguished in the
district for generations. 'Peel!' You could without impropriety
utter it in the same breath with 'Wedgwood.' And 'Swynnerton'
stood not much lower. Neither her self-respect, which was great,
nor her commonsense, which far exceeded the average, could enable
her to extend as far as the Peels the theory that one man is as
good as another. The Peels never shopped in St. Luke's Square.
Even in its golden days the Square could not have expected such a
condescension. The Peels shopped in London or in Stafford; at a
pinch, in Oldcastle. That was the distinction for the ageing stout
lady in black. Why, she had not in six years recovered from her
surprise that her son and Matthew Peel-Swynnerton treated each
other rudely as equals! She and Matthew did not often meet, but
they liked each other. Her involuntary meekness flattered him. And
his rather elaborate homage flattered her. He admired her
fundamental goodness, and her occasional raps at Cyril seemed to
put him into ecstasies of joy.
"Well, Mrs. Povey," he greeted her, standing over her with his hat
raised. (It was a fashion he had picked up in Paris.) "Here I am,
you see."
"You're quite a stranger, Mr. Matthew. I needn't ask you how you
are. Have you been seeing anything of my boy lately?"
"Not since Wednesday," said Matthew. "Of course he's written to
you?"
"There's no 'of course' about it," she laughed faintly. "I had a
short letter from him on Wednesday morning. He said you were in
Paris."
"But since that--hasn't he written?"
"If I hear from him on Sunday I shall be lucky, bless ye!" said
Constance, grimly. "It's not letter-writing that will kill Cyril."
"But do you mean to say he hasn't--" Matthew stopped.
"Whatever's amiss?" asked Constance. Matthew was at a loss to know
what to do or say. "Oh, nothing."
"Now, Mr. Matthew, do please--" Constance's tone had suddenly
quite changed. It had become firm, commanding, and gravely
suspicious. The conversation had ceased to be small-talk for her.
Matthew saw how nervous and how fragile she was. He had never
noticed before that she was so sensitive to trifles, though it was
notorious that nobody could safely discuss Cyril with her in terms
of chaff. He was really astounded at that youth's carelessness,
shameful carelessness. That Cyril's attitude to his mother was
marked by a certain benevolent negligence--this Matthew knew; but
not to have written to her with the important news concerning Mrs.
Scales was utterly inexcusable; and Matthew determined that he
would tell Cyril so. He felt very sorry for Mrs. Povey. She seemed
pathetic to him, standing there in ignorance of a tremendous fact
which she ought to have been aware of. He was very content that he
had said nothing about Mrs. Scales to anybody except his own
mother, who had prudently enjoined silence upon him, saying that
his one duty, having told Cyril, was to keep his mouth shut until
the Poveys talked. Had it not been for his mother's advice he
would assuredly have spread the amazing tale, and Mrs. Povey might
have first heard of it from a stranger's gossip, which would have
been too cruel upon her.
"Oh!" Matthew tried to smile gaily, archly. "You're bound to hear
from Cyril to-morrow."
He wanted to persuade her that he was concealing merely some
delightful surprise from her. But he did not succeed. With all his
experience of the world and of women he was not clever enough to
deceive that simple woman.
"I'm waiting, Mr. Matthew," she said, in a tone that flattened the
smile out of Matthew's sympathetic face. She was ruthless. The
fact was, she had in an instant convinced herself that Cyril had
met some girl and was engaged to be married. She could think of
nothing else. "What has Cyril been doing?" she added, after a
pause.
"It's nothing to do with Cyril," said he.
"Then what is it?"
"It was about--Mrs. Scales," he murmured, nearly trembling. As she
offered no response, merely looking around her in a peculiar
fashion, he said: "Shall we walk along a bit?" And he turned in
the direction in which she had been going. She obeyed the
suggestion.
"What did ye say?" she asked. The name of Scales for a moment had
no significance for her. But when she comprehended it she was
afraid, and so she said vacantly, as though wishing to postpone a
shock: "What did ye say?"
"I said it was about Mrs. Scales. You know I m-met her in Paris."
And he was saying to himself: "I ought not to be telling this poor
old thing here in the street. But what can I do?" "Nay, nay!" she
muttered.
She stopped and looked at him with a worried expression. Then he
observed that the hand that carried her reticule was making
strange purposeless curves in the air, and her rosy face went the
colour of cream, as though it had been painted with one stroke of
an unseen brush. Matthew was very much put about.
"Hadn't you better--" he began.
"Eh," she said; "I must sit me--" Her bag dropped.
He supported her to the door of Allman's shop, the ironmonger's.
Unfortunately, there were two steps up into the shop, and she
could not climb them. She collapsed like a sack of flour on the
first step. Young Edward Allman ran to the door. He was wearing a
black apron and fidgeting with it in his excitement.
"Don't lift her up--don't try to lift her up, Mr. Peel-
Swynnerton!" he cried, as Matthew instinctively began to do the
wrong thing.
Matthew stopped, looking a fool and feeling one, and he and young
Allman contemplated each other helpless for a second across the
body of Constance Povey. A part of the Market Place now perceived
that the unusual was occurring. It was Mr. Shawcross, the chemist
next door to Allman's who dealt adequately with the situation. He
had seen all, while selling a Kodak to a young lady, and he ran
out with salts. Constance recovered very rapidly. She had not
quite swooned. She gave a long sigh, and whispered weakly that she
was all right. The three men helped her into the lofty dark shop,
which smelt of nails and of stove-polish, and she was balanced on
a ricketty chair.
"My word!" exclaimed young Allman, in his loud voice, when she
could smile and the pink was returning reluctantly to her cheeks.
"You mustn't frighten us like that, Mrs. Povey!"
Matthew said nothing. He had at last created a genuine sensation.
Once again he felt like a criminal, and could not understand why.
Constance announced that she would walk slowly home, down the
Cock-yard and along Wedgwood Street. But when, glancing round in
her returned strength, she saw the hedge of faces at the doorway,
she agreed with Mr. Shawcross that she would do better to have a
cab. Young Allman went to the door and whistled to the unique cab
that stands for ever at the grand entrance to the Town Hall.
"Mr. Matthew will come with me," said Constance.
"Certainly, with pleasure," said Matthew.
And she passed through the little crowd of gapers on Mr.
Shawcross's arm.
"Just take care of yourself, missis," said Mr. Shawcross to her,
through the window of the cab. "It's fainting weather, and we're
none of us any younger, seemingly."
She nodded.
"I'm awfully sorry I upset you, Mrs. Povey," said Matthew, when
the cab moved.
She shook her head, refusing his apology as unnecessary. Tears
filled her eyes. In less than a minute the cab had stopped in
front of Constance's light-grained door. She demanded her reticule
from Matthew, who had carried it since it fell. She would pay the
cabman. Never before had Matthew permitted a woman to pay for a
cab in which he had ridden; but there was no arguing with
Constance. Constance was dangerous.
Amy Bates, still inhabiting the cave, had seen the cab-wheels
through the grating of her window and had panted up the kitchen
stairs to open the door ere Constance had climbed the steps. Amy,
decidedly over forty, was a woman of authority. She wanted to know
what was the matter, and Constance had to tell her that she had
'felt unwell.' Amy took the hat and mantle and departed to prepare
a cup of tea. When they were alone Constance said to Matthew:
"Now. Mr. Matthew, will you please tell me?"
"It's only this," he began.
And as he told it, in quite a few words, it indeed had the air of
being 'only that.' And yet his voice shook, in sympathy with the
ageing woman's controlled but visible emotion. It seemed to him
that gladness should have filled the absurd little parlour, but
the spirit that presided had no name; it was certainly not joy. He
himself felt very sad, desolated. He would have given much money
to have been spared the experience. He knew simply that in the
memory of the stout, comical, nice woman in the rocking-chair he
had stirred old, old things, wakened slumbers that might have been
eternal. He did not know that he was sitting on the very spot
where the sofa had been on which Samuel Povey lay when a beautiful
and shameless young creature of fifteen extracted his tooth. He
did not know that Constance was sitting in the very chair in which
the memorable Mrs. Baines had sat in vain conflict with that same
unconquerable girl. He did not know ten thousand matters that were
rushing violently about in the vast heart of Constance.
She cross-questioned him in detail. But she did not put the
questions which he in his innocence expected; such as, if her
sister looked old, if her hair was grey, if she was stout or thin.
And until Amy, mystified and resentful, had served the tea, on a
little silver tray, she remained comparatively calm. It was in the
middle of a gulp of tea that she broke down, and Matthew had to
take the cup from her.
"I can't thank you, Mr. Matthew," she wept. "I couldn't thank you
enough."
"But I've done nothing," he protested.
She shook her head. "I never hoped for this. Never hoped for it!"
she went on. "It makes me so happy--in a way. ... You mustn't take
any notice of me. I'm silly. You must kindly write down that
address for me. And I must write to Cyril at once. And I must see
Mr. Critchlow."
"It's really very funny that Cyril hasn't written to you," said
Matthew.
"Cyril has not been a good son," she said with sudden, solemn
coldness. "To think that he should have kept that ...!" She wept
again.
At length Matthew saw the possibility of leaving. He felt her
warm, soft, crinkled hand round his fingers.
"You've behaved very nicely over this," she said. "And very
cleverly. In EVERY thing--both over there and here. Nobody could
have shown a nicer feeling than you've shown. It's a great comfort
to me that my son has got you for a friend."
When he thought of his escapades, and of all the knowledge,
unutterable in Bursley, fantastically impossible in Bursley, which
he had imparted to her son, he marvelled that the maternal
instinct should be so deceived. Still, he felt that her praise of
him was deserved.
Outside, he gave vent to a 'Phew' of relief. He smiled, in his
worldliest manner. But the smile was a sham. A pretence to
himself! A childish attempt to disguise from himself how
profoundly he had been moved by a natural scene! _
Read next: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER I - FRENSHAM'S: PART IV
Read previous: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER I - FRENSHAM'S: PART II
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