________________________________________________
_ "My darling Sophia--"
The inevitable miracle had occurred. Her suspicions concerning
that Mr. Peel-Swynnerton 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
qualm. She received letters from England nearly every day asking
about rooms and prices (and on many of them she had to pay
threepence excess 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 post-mark,
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
Sophia 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 Axe!
"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. Peel-Swynnerton 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 Povey
affair. I mean of course Mr. Daniel Povey, Confectioner. It was
that that killed poor Samuel. Poor mother died in 1875. It doesn't
seem so long. Aunt 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 Hanbridge, and they are talking of electric trams, but I
dare say it is only talk. I have a fairly good servant. She has
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 have been very lonely. But I try to cheer
up and count my blessings. I am 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 will 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
mother's and also of Aunt Harriet's, and it has been accumulating.
By the way, they are getting up a subscription for Miss Chetwynd,
poor old thing. Her sister is dead, and she is in poverty. I have
put myself down for L20. 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 Fossette, "she expects me to go to
her, instead of her coming to me! And yet who's 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.
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! Tact? No; it
was something finer than tact! Tact was conscious, skilful. 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 a 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 notepaper) 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 L20 for her
to the Miss Chetwynd fund. She spoke of her Pension and of Paris,
and of 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 Frensham, 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 Frensham, 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
every one 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
peculate, 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 Pension Frensham 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 sciatica was
suddenly much worse, and she was obliged to lie down every day
after dinner to rest her legs. Travelling 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 one's self 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. Mardon 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 merest 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 every one except Mardon. And
every one somehow persisted in not saying it to Mardon. The doctor
having advised that she should spend more time in the open air,
she would take afternoon drives in the Bois with Fossette. It was
October. But Mr. Mardon 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 Fossette.
"So unwell!" she exclaimed as if resenting the statement. "Who
told you I was so unwell?"
"Jacqueline. She told me you often said that 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. Mardon'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
Pension--"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. Mardon.
"You needn't give it up altogether," he said. "You could retain
your hold on it. We'd make you manageress, with a salary and a
share in the profits. You'd be mistress just as much as you are
now."
"Oh!" said she 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 Frensham's as
a private understanding was brought to a close. Sophia knew it.
Mr. Mardon knew it. Mr. Mardon's heart leapt. He saw in his
imagination the formation of the preliminary syndicate, with
himself at its head, and then the re-sale 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 a holiday 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.
"Oblige me by thinking it over," he said. "I'll mention it to you
again in a few days."
"It will be no use," she said.
He took his leave, waddling down the street in his vague clothes,
conscious of his fame as Lewis Mardon, the great house-agent of
the Champs Elysees, 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. Mardon 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. _
Read next: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER II THE MEETING: PART I
Read previous: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER I - FRENSHAM'S: PART IV
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