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_ SOPHIA wore list slippers in the morning. It was a habit which she
had formed in the Rue Lord Byron--by accident rather than with an
intention to utilize list slippers for the effective supervision
of servants. These list slippers were the immediate cause of
important happenings in St. Luke's Square. Sophia had been with
Constance one calendar month--it was, of course, astonishing how
quickly the time had passed!--and she had become familiar with the
house. Restraint had gradually ceased to mark the relations of the
sisters. Constance, in particular, hid nothing from Sophia, who
was made aware of the minor and major defects of Amy and all the
other creakings of the household machine. Meals were eaten off the
ordinary tablecloths, and on the days for 'turning out' the
parlour, Constance assumed, with a little laugh, that Sophia would
excuse Amy's apron, which she had not had time to change. In
brief, Sophia was no longer a stranger, and nobody felt bound to
pretend that things were not exactly what they were. In spite of
the foulness and the provinciality of Bursley, Sophia enjoyed the
intimacy with Constance. As for Constance, she was enchanted. The
inflections of their voices, when they were talking to each other
very privately, were often tender, and these sudden surprising
tendernesses secretly thrilled both of them.
On the fourth Sunday morning Sophia put on her dressing-gown and
those list slippers very early, and paid a visit to Constance's
bedroom. She was somewhat concerned about Constance, and her
concern was pleasurable to her. She made the most of it. Amy, with
her lifelong carelessness about doors, had criminally failed to
latch the street-door of the parlour on the previous morning, and
Constance had only perceived the omission by the phenomenon of
frigidity in her legs at breakfast. She always sat with her back
to the door, in her mother's fluted rocking-chair; and Sophia on
the spot, but not in the chair, occupied by John Baines in the
forties, and in the seventies and later by Samuel Povey. Constance
had been alarmed by that frigidity. "I shall have a return of my
sciatica!" she had exclaimed, and Sophia was startled by the
apprehension in her tone. Before evening the sciatica had indeed
revisited Constance's sciatic nerve, and Sophia for the first time
gained an idea of what a pulsating sciatica can do in the way of
torturing its victim. Constance, in addition to the sciatica, had
caught a sneezing cold, and the act of sneezing caused her the
most acute pain. Sophia had soon stopped the sneezing. Constance
was got to bed. Sophia wished to summon the doctor, but Constance
assured her that the doctor would have nothing new to advise.
Constance suffered angelically. The weak and exquisite sweetness
of her smile, as she lay in bed under the stress of twinging pain
amid hot-water bottles, was amazing to Sophia. It made her think
upon the reserves of Constance's character, and upon the variety
of the manifestations of the Baines' blood.
So on the Sunday morning she had arisen early, just after Amy.
She discovered Constance to be a little better, as regards the
neuralgia, but exhausted by the torments of a sleepless night.
Sophia, though she had herself not slept well, felt somehow
conscience-stricken for having slept at all.
"You poor dear!" she murmured, brimming with sympathy. "I shall
make you some tea at once, myself."
"Oh, Amy will do it," said Constance.
Sophia repeated with a resolute intonation: "I shall make it
myself." And after being satisfied that there was no instant need
for a renewal of hot-water bottles, she went further downstairs in
those list slippers.
As she was descending the dark kitchen steps she heard Amy's voice
in pettish exclamation: "Oh, get out, YOU!" followed by a yelp
from Fossette. She had a swift movement of anger, which she
controlled. The relations between her and Fossette were not marked
by transports, and her rule over dogs in general was severe; even
when alone she very seldom kissed the animal passionately,
according to the general habit of people owning dogs. But she
loved Fossette. And, moreover, her love for Fossette had been
lately sharpened by the ridicule which Bursley had showered upon
that strange beast. Happily for Sophia's amour propre, there was
no means of getting Fossette shaved in Bursley, and thus Fossette
was daily growing less comic to the Bursley eye. Sophia could
therefore without loss of dignity yield to force of circumstances
what she would not have yielded to popular opinion. She guessed
that Amy had no liking for the dog, but the accent which Amy had
put upon the 'you' seemed to indicate that Amy was making
distinctions between Fossette and Spot, and this disturbed Sophia
much more than Fossette's yelp.
Sophia coughed, and entered the kitchen.
Spot was lapping his morning milk out of a saucer, while Fossette
stood wistfully, an amorphous mass of thick hair, under the table.
"Good morning, Amy," said Sophia, with dreadful politeness.
"Good morning, m'm," said Amy, glumly.
Amy knew that Sophia had heard that yelp, and Sophia knew that she
knew. The pretence of politeness was horrible. Both the women felt
as though the kitchen was sanded with gunpowder and there were
lighted matches about. Sophia had a very proper grievance against
Amy on account of the open door of the previous day. Sophia
thought that, after such a sin, the least Amy could do was to show
contrition and amiability and an anxiety to please: which things
Amy had not shown. Amy had a grievance against Sophia because
Sophia had recently thrust upon her a fresh method of cooking
green vegetables. Amy was a strong opponent of new or foreign
methods. Sophia was not aware of this grievance, for Amy had
hidden it under her customary cringing politeness to Sophia.
They surveyed each other like opposing armies.
"What a pity you have no gas-stove here! I want to make some tea
at once for Mrs. Povey," said Sophia, inspecting the just-born
fire.
"Gas-stove, m'm?" said Amy, hostilely. It was Sophia's list
slippers which had finally decided Amy to drop the mask of
deference.
She made no effort to aid Sophia; she gave no indication as to
where the various necessaries for tea were to be found. Sophia got
the kettle, and washed it out. Sophia got the smallest tea-pot,
and, as the tea-leaves had been left in it, she washed out the
teapot also, with exaggerated noise and meticulousness. Sophia got
the sugar and the other trifles, and Sophia blew up the fire with
the bellows. And Amy did nothing in particular except encourage
Spot to drink.
"Is that all the milk you give to Fossette?" Sophia demanded
coldly, when it had come to Fossette's turn. She was waiting for
the water to boil. The saucer for the bigger dog, who would have
made two of Spot, was not half full.
"It's all there is to spare, m'm," Amy rasped.
Sophia made no reply. Soon afterwards she departed, with the tea
successfully made. If Amy had not been a mature woman of over
forty she would have snorted as Sophia went away. But Amy was
scarcely the ordinary silly girl.
Save for a certain primness as she offered the tray to her sister,
Sophia's demeanour gave no sign whatever that the Amazon in her
was aroused. Constance's eager trembling pleasure in the tea
touched her deeply, and she was exceedingly thankful that
Constance had her, Sophia, as a succour in time of distress.
A few minutes later, Constance, having first asked Sophia what
time it was by the watch in the watch-case on the chest of drawers
(the Swiss clock had long since ceased to work), pulled the red
tassel of the bell-cord over her bed. A bell tinkled far away in
the kitchen.
"Anything I can do?" Sophia inquired.
"Oh no, thanks," said Constance. "I only want my letters, if the
postman has come. He ought to have been here long ago." Sophia had
learned during her stay that Sunday morning was the morning on
which Constance expected a letter from Cyril. It was a definite
arrangement between mother and son that Cyril should write on
Saturdays, and Constance on Sundays. Sophia knew that Constance
set store by this letter, becoming more and more preoccupied about
Cyril as the end of the week approached. Since Sophia's arrival
Cyril's letter had not failed to come, but once it had been naught
save a scribbled line or two, and Sophia gathered that it was
never a certainty, and that Constance was accustomed, though not
reconciled, to disappointments. Sophia had been allowed to read
the letters. They left a faint impression on her mind that her
favourite was perhaps somewhat negligent in his relations with his
mother.
There was no reply to the bell. Constance rang again without
effect.
With a brusque movement Sophia left the bedroom by way of Cyril's
room.
"Amy," she called over the banisters, "do you not hear your
mistress's bell?"
"I'm coming as quick as I can, m'm." The voice was still very
glum.
Sophia murmured something inarticulate, staying till assured that
Amy really was coming, and then she passed back into Cyril's
bedroom. She waited there, hesitant, not exactly on the watch, not
exactly unwilling to assist at an interview between Amy and Amy's
mistress; indeed, she could not have surely analyzed her motive
for remaining in Cyril's bedroom, with the door ajar between that
room and Constance's.
Amy reluctantly mounted the stairs and went into her mistress's
bedroom with her chin in the air. She thought that Sophia had gone
up to the second storey, where she 'belonged.' She stood in
silence by the bed, showing no sympathy with Constance, no
curiosity as to the indisposition. She objected to Constance's
attack of sciatica, as being a too permanent reproof of her
carelessness as to doors.
Constance also waited, for the fraction of a second, as if
expectant.
"Well, Amy," she said at length in her voice weakened by fatigue
and pain. "The letters?"
"There ain't no letters," said Amy, grimly. "You might have known,
if there'd been any, I should have brought 'em up. Postman went
past twenty minutes agone. I'm always being interrupted, and it
isn't as if I hadn't got enough to do--now!"
She turned to leave, and was pulling the door open.
"Amy!" said a voice sharply. It was Sophia's.
The servant jumped, and in spite of herself obeyed the implicit,
imperious command to stop.
"You will please not speak to your mistress in that tone, at any
rate while I'm here," said Sophia, icily. "You know she is ill and
weak. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I never---" Amy began.
"I don't want to argue," Sophia said angrily. "Please leave the
room."
Amy obeyed. She was cowed, in addition to being staggered.
To the persons involved in it, this episode was intensely
dramatic. Sophia had surmised that Constance permitted liberties
of speech to Amy; she had even guessed that Amy sometimes took
licence to be rude. But that the relations between them were such
as to allow the bullying of Constance by an Amy downright
insolent--this had shocked and wounded Sophia, who suddenly had a
vision of Constance as the victim of a reign of terror. "If the
creature will do this while I'm here," said Sophia to herself,
"what does she do when they are alone together in the house?"
"Well," she exclaimed, "I never heard of such goings-on! And you
let her talk to you in that style! My dear Constance!"
Constance was sitting up in bed, the small tea-tray on her knees.
Her eyes were moist. The tears had filled them when she knew that
there was no letter. Ordinarily the failure of Cyril's letter
would not have made her cry, but weakness had impaired her self-
control. And the tears having once got into her eyes, she could
not dismiss them. There they were!
"She's been with me such a long time," Constance murmured. "She
takes liberties. I've corrected her once or twice."
"Liberties!" Sophia repeated the word. "Liberties!"
"Of course I really ought not to allow it," said Constance. "I
ought to have put a stop to it long since."
"Well," said Sophia, rather relieved by this symptom of
Constance's secret mind, "I do hope you won't think I'm
meddlesome, but truly it was too much for me. The words were out
of my mouth before I----" She stopped.
"You were quite right, quite right," said Constance, seeing before
her in the woman of fifty the passionate girl of fifteen.
"I've had a good deal of experience of servants," said Sophia.
"I know you have," Constance put in.
"And I'm convinced that it never pays to stand any sauce. Servants
don't understand kindness and forbearance. And this sort of thing
grows and grows till you can't call your soul your own."
"You are quite right," Constance said again, with even more
positiveness.
Not merely the conviction that Sophia was quite right, but the
desire to assure Sophia that Sophia was not meddlesome, gave force
to her utterance. Amy's allusion to extra work shamed Amy's
mistress as a hostess, and she was bound to make amends.
"Now as to that woman," said Sophia in a lower voice, as she sat
down confidentially on the edge of the bed. And she told Constance
about Amy and the dogs, and about Amy's rudeness in the kitchen.
"I should never have DREAMT of mentioning such things," she
finished. "But under the circumstances I feel it right that you
should know. I feel you ought to know."
And Constance nodded her head in thorough agreement. She did not
trouble to go into articulate apologies to her guest for the
actual misdeeds of her servant. The sisters were now on a plane of
intimacy where such apologies would have been supererogatory.
Their voices fell lower and lower, and the case of Amy was laid
bare and discussed to the minutest detail.
Gradually they realized that what had occurred was a crisis. They
were both very excited, apprehensive, and rather too consciously
defiant. At the same time they were drawn very close to each
other, by Sophia's generous indignation and by Constance's
absolute loyalty.
A long time passed before Constance said, thinking about something
else:
"I expect it's been delayed in the post."
"Cyril's letter? Oh, no doubt! If you knew the posts in France, my
word!"
Then they determined, with little sighs, to face the crisis
cheerfully.
In truth it was a crisis, and a great one. The sensation of the
crisis affected the atmosphere of the entire house. Constance got
up for tea and managed to walk to the drawing-room. And when
Sophia, after an absence in her own room, came down to tea and
found the tea all served, Constance whispered:
"She's given notice! And Sunday too!"
"What did she say?"
"She didn't say much," Constance replied vaguely, hiding from
Sophia that Amy had harped on the too great profusion of
mistresses in that house. "After all, it's just as well. She'll be
all right. She's saved a good bit of money, and she has friends."
"But how foolish of her to give up such a good place!"
"She simply doesn't care," said Constance, who was a little hurt
by Amy's defection. "When she takes a thing into her head she
simply doesn't care. She's got no common sense. I've always known
that."
"So you're going to leave, Amy?" said Sophia that evening, as Amy
was passing through the parlour on her way to bed. Constance was
already arranged for the night.
"I am, m'm," answered Amy, precisely.
Her tone was not rude, but it was firm. She had apparently
reconnoitred her position in calmness.
"I'm sorry I was obliged to correct you this morning," said
Sophia, with cheerful amicableness, pleased in spite of herself
with the woman's tone. "But I think you will see that I had reason
to."
"I've been thinking it over, m'm," said Amy, with dignity, "and I
see as I must leave."
There was a pause.
"Well, you know best. ... Good night, Amy."
"Good night, m'm."
"She's a decent woman," thought Sophia, "but hopeless for this
place now."
The sisters were fronted with the fact that Constance had a month
in which to find a new servant, and that a new servant would have
to be trained in well-doing and might easily prove disastrous.
Both Constance and Amy were profoundly disturbed by the
prospective dissolution of a bond which dated from the seventies.
And both were decided that there was no alternative to the
dissolution. Outsiders knew merely that Mrs. Povey's old servant
was leaving. Outsiders merely saw Mrs. Povey's advertisement in
the Signal for a new servant. They could not read hearts. Some of
the younger generation even said superiorly that old-fashioned
women like Mrs. Povey seemed to have servants on the brain, etc.,
etc. _
Read next: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER III TOWARDS HOTEL LIFE: PART II
Read previous: BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS: CHAPTER II THE MEETING: PART III
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