________________________________________________
_ The express from London was late, so that Constance had three-
quarters of an hour of the stony calmness of Knype platform when
it is waiting for a great train. At last the porters began to cry,
"Macclesfield, Stockport, and Manchester train;" the immense
engine glided round the curve, dwarfing the carriages behind it,
and Constance had a supreme tremor. The calmness of the platform
was transformed into a melee. Little Constance found herself left
on the fringe of a physically agitated crowd which was apparently
trying to scale a precipice surmounted by windows and doors from
whose apertures looked forth defenders of the train. Knype
platform seemed as if it would never be reduced to order again.
And Constance did not estimate highly the chances of picking out
an unknown Sophia from that welter. She was very seriously
perturbed. All the muscles of her face were drawn as her gaze
wandered anxiously from end to end of the train.
Presently she saw a singular dog. Other people also saw it. It was
of the colour of chocolate; it had a head and shoulders richly
covered with hair that hung down in thousands of tufts like the
tufts of a modern mop such as is bought in shops. This hair
stopped suddenly rather less than halfway along the length of the
dog's body, the remainder of which was naked and as smooth as
marble. The effect was to give to the inhabitants of the Five
Towns the impression that the dog had forgotten an essential part
of its attire and was outraging decency. The ball of hair which
had been allowed to grow on the dog's tail, and the circles of
hair which ornamented its ankles, only served to intensify the
impression of indecency. A pink ribbon round its neck completed
the outrage. The animal had absolutely the air of a decked
trollop. A chain ran taut from the creature's neck into the middle
of a small crowd of persons gesticulating over trunks, and
Constance traced it to a tall and distinguished woman in a coat
and skirt with a rather striking hat. A beautiful and aristocratic
woman, Constance thought, at a distance! Then the strange idea
came to her: "That's Sophia!" She was sure. ... She was not sure. ...
She was sure. The woman emerged from the crowd. Her eye fell
on Constance. They both hesitated, and, as it were, wavered
uncertainly towards each other.
"I should have known you anywhere," said Sophia, with apparently
careless tranquillity, as she stooped to kiss Constance, raising
her veil.
Constance saw that this marvellous tranquillity must be imitated,
and she imitated it very well. It was a 'Baines' tranquillity. But
she noticed a twitching of her sister's lips. The twitching
comforted Constance, proving to her that she was not alone in
foolishness. There was also something queer about the permanent
lines of Sophia's mouth. That must be due to the 'attack' about
which Sophia had written.
"Did Cyril meet you?" asked Constance. It was all that she could
think of to say.
"Oh yes!" said Sophia, eagerly. "And I went to his studio, and he
saw me off at Euston. He is a VERY nice boy. I love him."
She said 'I love him' with the intonation of Sophia aged fifteen.
Her tone and imperious gesture sent Constance flying back to the
'sixties. "She hasn't altered one bit," Constance thought with
joy. "Nothing could change Sophia." And at the back of that notion
was a more general notion: "Nothing could change a Baines." It was
true that Constance's Sophia had not changed. Powerful
individualities remain undisfigured by no matter what
vicissitudes. After this revelation of the original Sophia,
arising as it did out of praise of Cyril, Constance felt easier,
felt reassured.
"This is Fossette," said Sophia, pulling at the chain.
Constance knew not what to reply. Surely Sophia could not be aware
what she did in bringing such a dog to a place where people were
so particular as they are in the Five Towns.
"Fossette!" She repeated the name in an endearing accent, half
stooping towards the dog. After all, it was not the dog's fault.
Sophia had certainly mentioned a dog in her letters, but she had
not prepared Constance for the spectacle of Fossette.
All that happened in a moment. A porter appeared with two trunks
belonging to Sophia. Constance observed that they were
superlatively 'good' trunks; also that Sophia's clothes, though
'on the showy side,' were superlatively 'good.' The getting of
Sophia's ticket to Bursley occupied them next, and soon the first
shock of meeting had worn off.
In a second-class compartment of the Loop Line train, with Sophia
and Fossette opposite to her, Constance had leisure to 'take in'
Sophia. She came to the conclusion that, despite her slenderness
and straightness and the general effect of the long oval of her
face under the hat, Sophia looked her age. She saw that Sophia
must have been through a great deal; her experiences were
damagingly printed in the details of feature. Seen at a distance,
she might have passed for a woman of thirty, even for a girl, but
seen across a narrow railway carriage she was a woman whom
suffering had aged. Yet obviously her spirit was unbroken. Hear
her tell a doubtful porter that of course she should take Fossette
with her into the carriage! See her shut the carriage door with
the expressed intention of keeping other people out! She was
accustomed to command. At the same time her face had an almost set
smile, as though she had said to herself: "I will die smiling."
Constance felt sorry for her. While recognizing in Sophia a
superior in charm, in experience, in knowledge of the world and in
force of personality, she yet with a kind of undisturbed,
fundamental superiority felt sorry for Sophia.
"What do you think?" said Sophia, absently fingering Fossette. "A
man came up to me at Euston, while Cyril was getting my ticket,
and said, 'Eh, Miss Baines, I haven't seen ye for over thirty
years, but I know you're Miss Baines, or WERE--and you're looking
bonny.' Then he went off. I think it must have been Holl, the
grocer."
"Had he got a long white beard?"
"Yes."
"Then it was Mr. Holl. He's been Mayor twice. He's an alderman,
you know."
"Really!" said Sophia. "But wasn't it queer?"
"Eh! Bless us!" exclaimed Constance. "Don't talk about queer! It's
terrible how time flies."
The conversation stopped, and it refused to start again. Two women
who are full of affectionate curiosity about each other, and who
have not seen each other for thirty years, and who are anxious to
confide in each other, ought to discover no difficulty in talking;
but somehow these two could not talk. Constance perceived that
Sophia was impeded by the same awkwardness as herself.
"Well I never!" cried Sophia, suddenly. She had glanced out of the
window and had seen two camels and an elephant in a field close to
the line, amid manufactories and warehouses and advertisements of
soap.
"Oh!" said Constance. "That's Barnum's, you know."
They have what they call a central depot here, because it's the
middle of England." Constance spoke proudly. (After all, there can
be only one middle.) It was on her tongue to say, in her 'tart'
manner, that Fossette ought to be with the camels, but she
refrained. Sophia hit on the excellent idea of noting all the
buildings that were new to her and all the landmarks that she
remembered. It was surprising how little the district had altered.
"Same smoke!" said Sophia.
"Same smoke!" Constance agreed.
"It's even worse," said Sophia.
"Do you think so?" Constance was slightly piqued. "But they're
doing something now for smoke abatement."
"I must have forgotten how dirty it was!" said Sophia. "I suppose
that's it. I'd no idea ...!"
"Really!" said Constance. Then, in candid admission, "The fact is,
it is dirty. You can't imagine what work it makes, especially with
window-curtains."
As the train puffed under Trafalgar Road, Constance pointed to a
new station that was being built there, to be called 'Trafalgar
Road' station.
"Won't it be strange?" said she, accustomed to the eternal
sequence of Loop Lane stations--Turnhill, Bursley, Bleakridge,
Hanbridge, Cauldon, Knype, Trent Vale, and Longshaw. A 'Trafalgar
Road' inserting itself between Bleakridge and Hanbridge seemed to
her excessively curious.
"Yes, I suppose it will," Sophia agreed.
"But of course it's not the same to you," said Constance, dashed.
She indicated the glories of Bursley Park, as the train slackened
for Bursley, with modesty. Sophia gazed, and vaguely recognized
the slopes where she had taken her first walk with Gerald Scales.
Nobody accosted them at Bursley Station, and they drove to the
Square in a cab. Amy was at the window; she held up Spot, who was
in a plenary state of cleanliness, rivalling the purity of Amy's
apron.
"Good afternoon, m'm," said Amy, officiously, to Sophia, as Sophia
came up the steps.
"Good afternoon, Amy," Sophia replied. She flattered Amy in thus
showing that she was acquainted with her name; but if ever a
servant was put into her place by mere tone, Amy was put into her
place on that occasion. Constance trembled at Sophia's frigid and
arrogant politeness. Certainly Sophia was not used to being
addressed first by servants. But Amy was not quite the ordinary
servant. She was much older than the ordinary servant, and she had
acquired a partial moral dominion over Constance, though Constance
would have warmly denied it. Hence Constance's apprehension.
However, nothing happened. Amy apparently did not feel the snub.
"Take Spot and put him in Mr. Cyril's bedroom," Constance murmured
to her, as if implying: "Have I not already told you to do that?"
The fact was, she was afraid for Spot's life.
"Now, Fossette!" She welcomed the incoming poodle kindly; the
poodle began at once to sniff.
The fat, red cabman was handling the trunks on the pavement, and
Amy was upstairs. For a moment the sisters were alone together in
the parlour.
"So here I am!" exclaimed the tall, majestic woman of fifty. And
her lips twitched again as she looked round the room--so small to
her.
"Yes, here you are!" Constance agreed. She bit her lip, and, as a
measure of prudence to avoid breaking down, she bustled out to the
cabman. A passing instant of emotion, like a fleck of foam on a
wide and calm sea!
The cabman blundered up and downstairs with trunks, and saluted
Sophia's haughty generosity, and then there was quietness. Amy was
already brewing the tea in the cave. The prepared tea-table in
front of the fire made a glittering array.
"Now, what about Fossette?" Constance voiced anxieties that had
been growing on her.
"Fossette will be quite right with me," said Sophia, firmly.
They ascended to the guest's room, which drew Sophia's admiration
for its prettiness. She hurried to the window and looked out into
the Square.
"Would you like a fire?" Constance asked, in a rather perfunctory
manner. For a bedroom fire, in seasons of normal health, was still
regarded as absurd in the Square.
"Oh, no!" said Sophia; but with a slight failure to rebut the
suggestion as utterly ridiculous.
"Sure?" Constance questioned.
"Quite, thank you," said Sophia.
"Well, I'll leave you. I expect Amy will have tea ready directly."
She went down into the kitchen. "Amy," she said, "as soon as we've
finished tea, light a fire in Mrs. Scales's bedroom."
"In the top bedroom, m'm?"
"Yes."
Constance climbed again to her own bedroom, and shut the door. She
needed a moment to herself, in the midst of this terrific affair.
She sighed with relief as she removed her mantle. She thought: "At
any rate we've met, and I've got her here. She's very nice. No,
she isn't a bit altered." She hesitated to admit that to her
Sophia was the least in the world formidable. And so she said once
more: "She's very nice. She isn't a bit altered." And then: "Fancy
her being here! She really is here." With her perfect simplicity
it did not occur to Constance to speculate as to what Sophia
thought of her.
Sophia was downstairs first, and Constance found her looking at
the blank wall beyond the door leading to the kitchen steps.
"So this is where you had it bricked up?" said Sophia.
"Yes," said Constance. "That's the place."
"It makes me feel like people feel when they have tickling in a
limb that's been cut off!" said Sophia.
"Oh, Sophia!"
The tea received a great deal of praise from Sophia, but neither
of them ate much. Constance found that Sophia was like herself:
she had to be particular about her food. She tasted dainties for
the sake of tasting, but it was a bird's pecking. Not the twelfth
part of the tea was consumed. They dared not indulge caprices.
Only their eyes could feed.
After tea they went up to the drawing-room, and in the corridor
had the startling pleasure of seeing two dogs who scurried about
after each other in amity. Spot had found Fossette, with the aid
of Amy's incurable carelessness, and had at once examined her with
great particularity. She seemed to be of an amiable disposition,
and not averse from the lighter distractions. For a long time the
sisters sat chatting together in the lit drawing-room to the
agreeable sound of happy dogs playing in the dark corridor. Those
dogs saved the situation, because they needed constant attention.
When the dogs dozed, the sisters began to look through photograph
albums, of which Constance had several, bound in plush or morocco.
Nothing will sharpen the memory, evoke the past, raise the dead,
rejuvenate the ageing, and cause both sighs and smiles, like a
collection of photographs gathered together during long years of
life. Constance had an astonishing menagerie of unknown cousins
and their connections, and of townspeople; she had Cyril at all
ages; she had weird daguerreotypes of her parents and their
parents. The strangest of all was a portrait of Samuel Povey as an
infant in arms. Sophia checked an impulse to laugh at it. But when
Constance said: "Isn't it funny?" she did allow herself to laugh.
A photograph of Samuel in the year before his death was really
imposing. Sophia stared at it, impressed. It was the portrait of
an honest man.
"How long have you been a widow?" Constance asked in a low voice,
glancing at upright Sophia over her spectacles, a leaf of the
album raised against her finger.
Sophia unmistakably flushed. "I don't know that I am a widow,"
said she, with an air. "My husband left me in 1870, and I've never
seen nor heard of him since."
"Oh, my dear!" cried Constance, alarmed and deafened as by a clap
of awful thunder. "I thought ye were a widow. Mr. Peel-Swynnerton
said he was told positively ye were a widow. That's why I never. ..."
She stopped. Her face was troubled.
"Of course I always passed for a widow, over there," said Sophia.
"Of course," said Constance quickly. "I see. ..."
"And I may be a widow," said Sophia.
Constance made no remark. This was a blow. Bursley was such a
particular place. Doubtless, Gerald Scales had behaved like a
scoundrel. That was sure!
When, immediately afterwards, Amy opened the drawing-room door
(having first knocked--the practice of encouraging a servant to
plunge without warning of any kind into a drawing-room had never
been favoured in that house) she saw the sisters sitting rather
near to each other at the walnut oval table, Mrs. Scales very
upright, and staring into the fire, and Mrs. Povey 'bunched up'
and staring at the photograph album; both seeming to Amy aged and
apprehensive; Mrs. Povey's hair was quite grey, though Mrs.
Scales' hair was nearly as black as Amy's own. Mrs. Scales started
at the sound of the knock, and turned her head.
"Here's Mr. and Mrs. Critchlow, m'm," announced Amy.
The sisters glanced at one another, with lifted foreheads. Then
Mrs. Povey spoke to Amy as though visits at half-past eight at
night were a customary phenomenon of the household. Nevertheless,
she trembled to think what outrageous thing Mr. Critchlow might
say to Sophia after thirty years' absence. The occasion was great,
and it might also be terrible.
"Ask them to come up," she said calmly.
But Amy had the best of that encounter. "I have done," she
replied, and instantly produced them out of the darkness of the
corridor. It was providential: the sisters had made no remark that
the Critchlows might not hear.
Then Maria Critchlow, simpering, had to greet Sophia. Mrs.
Critchlow was very agitated, from sheer nervousness. She
curvetted; she almost pranced; and she made noises with her mouth
as though she saw some one eating a sour apple. She wanted to show
Sophia how greatly she had changed from the young, timid
apprentice. Certainly since her marriage she had changed. As
manager of other people's business she had not felt the necessity
of being effusive to customers, but as proprietress, anxiety to
succeed had dragged her out of her capable and mechanical
indifference. It was a pity. Her consistent dullness had had a
sort of dignity; but genial, she was merely ridiculous. Animation
cruelly displayed her appalling commonness and physical
shabbiness. Sophia's demeanour was not chilly; but it indicated
that Sophia had no wish to be eyed over as a freak of nature.
Mr. Critchlow advanced very slowly into the room. "Ye still carry
your head on a stiff neck," said he, deliberately examining
Sophia. Then with great care he put out his long thin arm and took
her hand. "Well, I'm rare and glad to see ye!"
Every one was thunderstruck at this expression of joy. Mr.
Critchlow had never been known to be glad to see anybody.
"Yes," twittered Maria, "Mr. Critchlow would come in to-night.
Nothing would do but he must come in to-night."
"You didn't tell me this afternoon," said Constance, "that you
were going to give us the pleasure of your company like this."
He looked momentarily at Constance. "No," he grated, "I don't know
as I did."
His gaze flattered Sophia. Evidently he treated this experienced
and sad woman of fifty as a young girl. And in presence of his
extreme age she felt like a young girl, remembering the while how
as a young girl she had hated him. Repulsing the assistance of his
wife, he arranged an armchair in front of the fire and
meticulously put himself into it. Assuredly he was much older in a
drawing-room than behind the counter of his shop. Constance had
noticed that in the afternoon. A live coal fell out of the fire.
He bent forward, wet his fingers, picked up the coal and threw it
back into the fire.
"Well," said Sophia. "I wouldn't have done that."
"I never saw Mr. Critchlow's equal for picking up hot cinders,"
Maria giggled.
Mr. Critchlow deigned no remark. "When did ye leave this Paris?"
he demanded of Sophia, leaning back, and putting his hands on the
arms of the chair.
"Yesterday morning," said Sophia,
"And what'n ye been doing with yeself since yesterday morning?"
"I spent last night in London," Sophia replied.
"Oh, in London, did ye?"
"Yes. Cyril and I had an evening together."
"Eh? Cyril! What's yer opinion o' Cyril, Sophia?"
"I'm very proud to have Cyril for a nephew," said Sophia.
"Oh! Are ye?" The old man was obviously ironic.
"Yes I am," Sophia insisted sharply. "I'm not going to hear a word
said against Cyril."
She proceeded to an enthusiastic laudation of Cyril which rather
overwhelmed his mother. Constance was pleased; she was delighted.
And yet somewhere in her mind was an uncomfortable feeling that
Cyril, having taken a fancy to his brilliant aunt, had tried to
charm her as he seldom or never tried to charm his mother. Cyril
and Sophia had dazzled and conquered each other; they were of the
same type; whereas she, Constance, being but a plain person, could
not glitter.
She rang the bell and gave instructions to Amy about food--fruit
cakes, coffee and hot milk, on a tray; and Sophia also spoke to
Amy murmuring a request as to Fossette.
"Yes, Mrs. Scales," said Amy, with eager deference.
Mrs. Critchlow smiled vaguely from a low chair near the curtained
window. Then Constance lit another burner of the chandelier. In
doing so, she gave a little sigh; it was a sigh of relief. Mr.
Critchlow had behaved himself. Now that he and Sophia had met, the
worst was over. Had Constance known beforehand that he would pay a
call, she would have been agonized by apprehensions, but now that
he had actually come she was glad he had come.
When he had silently sipped some hot milk, he drew a thick bunch
of papers, white and blue, from his bulging breast-pocket.
"Now, Maria Critchlow," he called, edging round his chair
slightly. "Ye'd best go back home."
Maria Critchlow was biting at a bit of walnut cake, while in her
right hand, all seamed with black lines, she held a cup of coffee.
"But, Mr. Critchlow----!" Constance protested.
"I've got business with Sophia, and I must get it done. I've got
for to render an account of my stewardship to Sophia, under her
father's will, and her mother's will, and her aunt's will, and
it's nobody's business but mine and Sophia's, I reckon. Now then,"
he glanced at his wife, "off with ye!"
Maria rose, half-kittenish and half-ashamed.
"Surely you don't want to go into all that to-night," said Sophia.
She spoke softly, for she had already fully perceived that Mr.
Critchlow must be managed with the tact which the capricious
obstinacies of advanced age demanded. "Surely you can wait a day
or two. I'm in no hurry."
"HAVEN'T I WAITED LONG ENOUGH?" he retorted fiercely.
There was a pause. Maria Critchlow moved.
"As for you being in no hurry, Sophia," the old man went on,
"nobody can say as you've been in a hurry."
Sophia had suffered a check. She glanced hesitatingly at
Constance.
"Mrs. Critchlow and I will go down into the parlour," said
Constance, quickly. "There is a bit of fire there."
"Oh no. I won't hear of such a thing!"
"Yes, we will, won't we, Mrs. Critchlow?" Constance insisted,
cheerfully but firmly. She was determined that in her house Sophia
should have all the freedom and conveniences that she could have
had in her own. If a private room was needed for discussions
between Sophia and her trustee, Constance's pride was piqued to
supply that room. Further, Constance was glad to get Maria out of
Sophia's sight. She was accustomed to Maria; with her it did not
matter; but she did not care that the teeth of Sophia should be
set on edge by the ridiculous demeanour of Maria. So those two
left the drawing-room, and the old man began to open the papers
which he had been preparing for weeks.
There was very little fire in the parlour, and Constance, in
addition to being bored by Mrs. Critchlow's inane and inquisitive
remarks, felt chilly, which was bad for her sciatica. She wondered
whether Sophia would have to confess to Mr. Critchlow that she was
not certainly a widow. She thought that steps ought to be taken to
ascertain, through Birkinshaws, if anything was known of Gerald
Scales. But even that course was set with perils. Supposing that
he still lived, an unspeakable villain (Constance could only think
of him as an unspeakable villain), and supposing that he molested
Sophia,--what scenes! What shame in the town! Such frightful
thoughts ran endlessly through Constance's mind as she bent over
the fire endeavouring to keep alive a silly conversation with
Maria Critchlow.
Amy passed through the parlour to go to bed. There was no other
way of reaching the upper part of the house.
"Are you going to bed, Amy?"
"Yes'm."
"Where is Fossette?"
"In the kitchen, m'm," said Amy, defending herself. "Mrs. Scales
told me the dog might sleep in the kitchen with Spot, as they was
such good friends. I've opened the bottom drawer, and Fossit is
lying in that."
"Mrs. Scales has brought a dog with her!" exclaimed Maria.
"Yes'm!" said Amy, drily, before Constance could answer. She
implied everything in that affirmative.
"You are a family for dogs," said Maria. "What sort of dog is it?"
"Well," said Constance. "I don't know exactly what they call it.
It's a French dog, one of those French dogs." Amy was lingering at
the stairfoot. "Good night, Amy, thank you."
Amy ascended, shutting the door.
"Oh! I see!" Maria muttered. "Well, I never!"
It was ten o'clock before sounds above indicated that the first
interview between trustee and beneficiary was finished.
"I'll be going on to open our side-door," said Maria. "Say good
night to Mrs. Scales for me." She was not sure whether Charles
Critchlow had really meant her to go home, or whether her mere
absence from the drawing-room had contented him. So she departed.
He came down the stairs with the most tiresome slowness, went
through the parlour in silence, ignoring Constance, and also
Sophia, who was at his heels, and vanished.
As Constance shut and bolted the front-door, the sisters looked at
each other, Sophia faintly smiling. It seemed to them that they
understood each other better when they did not speak. With a
glance, they exchanged their ideas on the subject of Charles
Critchlow and Maria, and learnt that their ideas were similar.
Constance said nothing as to the private interview. Nor did
Sophia. At present, on this the first day, they could only achieve
intimacy by intermittent flashes.
"What about bed?" asked Sophia.
"You must be tired," said Constance.
Sophia got to the stairs, which received a little light from the
corridor gas, before Constance, having tested the window-
fastening, turned out the gas in the parlour. They climbed the
lower flight of stairs together.
"I must just see that your room is all right," Constance said.
"Must you?" Sophia smiled.
They climbed the second flight, slowly. Constance was out of
breath.
"Oh, a fire! How nice!" cried Sophia. "But why did you go to all
that trouble? I told you not to."
"It's no trouble at all," said Constance, raising the gas in the
bedroom. Her tone implied that bedroom fires were a quite ordinary
incident of daily life in a place like Bursley.
"Well, my dear, I hope you'll find everything comfortable," said
Constance.
"I'm sure I shall. Good night, dear."
"Good night, then."
They looked at each other again, with timid affectionateness. They
did not kiss. The thought in both their minds was: "We couldn't
keep on kissing every day." But there was a vast amount of quiet,
restrained affection, of mutual confidence and respect, even of
tenderness, in their tones.
About half an hour later a dreadful hullaballoo smote the ear of
Constance. She was just getting into bed. She listened intently,
in great alarm. It was undoubtedly those dogs fighting, and
fighting to the death. She pictured the kitchen as a battlefield,
and Spot slain. Opening the door, she stepped out into the
corridor,
"Constance," said a low voice above her. She jumped. "Is that
you?"
"Yes."
"Well, don't bother to go down to the dogs; they'll stop in a
moment. Fossette won't bite. I'm so sorry she's upsetting the
house."
Constance stared upwards, and discerned a pale shadow. The dogs
did soon cease their altercation. This short colloquy in the dark
affected Constance strangely. _
Read next: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER II THE MEETING: PART III
Read previous: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER II THE MEETING: PART I
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