________________________________________________
_ 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 be always 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 inquietude and shame.
Amy was assisting at this performance, gravely on the watch to see
that Spot did not escape into the coal-cellar. She opened the door
to Mr. Critchlow's knock. Mr. Critchlow entered without any
formalities, as usual. He did not seem to have changed. He 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 stood fairly
straight. He was carrying a newspaper in his vellum hand.
"Well, missis!" he said.
"That will do, thank you, Amy," said Constance, quietly. Amy went
slowly.
"So ye're washing him for her!" said Mr. Critchlow.
"Yes," Constance admitted. Spot glanced sharply at the aged man.
"An' ye 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 in the 'Staffordshire
day by day' column. Here! I'll read it ye." 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 read: "'We understand that Mrs. Sophia
Scales, proprietress of the famous Pension Frensham in the Rue
Lord Byron, Paris'--it's that famous that nobody in th' 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 Pension Frensham to a limited
company, and we are betraying no secret in stating that the price
paid ran well into five figures.' So ye see!" Mr. Critchlow
commented.
"How do those Signal people find out things?" Constance murmured.
"Eh, bless ye, 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.
"I wish it hadn't appeared just to-day," said Constance.
"Why?"
"Oh! I don't know, I wish it hadn't."
"Well, I'll be touring on, missis," 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 a corner of the sofa. She then abruptly sent Amy out to buy a
penny time-table.
"I thought you were going by tram to Knype," Amy observed.
"I have decided to go by train," said Constance, with cold
dignity, as if she had decided the fate 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
Knype 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 anti-climax 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
strewed over the bed.
"There's a train at a quarter to three, gets to Knype 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. Happen 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 ye 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
Knype?" And then tiresome conversations would follow. Whereas, in
the train, she would choose a compartment, and 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 into 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 gentle 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 boor guffaw, and a hysterical fool
cry, and a wise man meditate sadly upon the earth's fashion of
renewing itself.
At half-past 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, save by a minister during the sittings of the Wesleyan
Methodist Conference at Bursley, it had never been occupied since
the era when Maria Insull 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 re-papered in a delicate blue, with
one of the new 'art' patterns. It was a 'Baines' 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 washstand under the white-and-gold ewer and other
utensils. It was folly to expose such mats to the splashings of a
washstand, but it was sublime folly. Sophia might remove them if
she cared. Constance was house-proud; 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 Baines and the
Maddack families since the year 1840, tempered by the latest
novelties in antimacassars 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 quite understand about tea?" Constance asked.
"Oh yes, 'm," said Amy, as if to say: "How much oftener are you
going to ask me that question?" "Are you off now, 'm?"
"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 the 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?"
"Spot, m'm?" 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 time-table. The woman's face was
guilty.
"Amy, I wonder AT you!" exclaimed 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 aunt Sophia 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
folds of her mantle.
"That's a funny way to go to Bursley Station, that is," said Amy,
observing that Constance was descending King Street instead of
crossing it into Wedgwood 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 round-about 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.' _
Read next: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER II THE MEETING: PART II
Read previous: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER I - FRENSHAM'S: PART V
Table of content of Old Wives' Tale
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
