CHAPTER I

FRENSHAM'S

I

Matthew Peel-Swynnerton sat in the long dining-room of the Pension

Frensham, Rue Lord Byron, Paris; and he looked out of place there. It

was an apartment about thirty feet in length, and of the width of two

windows, which sufficiently lighted one half of a very long table with

round ends. The gloom of the other extremity was illumined by a large

mirror in a tarnished gilt frame, which filled a good portion of the

wall opposite the windows. Near the mirror was a high folding-screen of

four leaves, and behind this screen could be heard the sound of a door

continually shutting and opening. In the long wall to the left of the

windows were two doors, one dark and important, a door of state,

through which a procession of hungry and a procession of sated solemn

self-conscious persons passed twice daily, and the other, a smaller

door, glazed, its glass painted with wreaths of roses, not an original

door of the house, but a late breach in the wall, that seemed to lead

to the dangerous and to the naughty. The wall-paper and the window

drapery were rich and forbidding, dark in hue, mysterious of pattern.

Over the state-door was a pair of antlers. And at intervals, so high up

as to defy inspection, engravings and oil-paintings made oblong patches

on the walls. They were hung from immense nails with porcelain heads,

and they appeared to depict the more majestic aspect of man and nature.

One engraving, over the mantelpiece and nearer earth than the rest,

unmistakably showed Louis Philippe and his family in attitudes of

virtue. Beneath this royal group, a vast gilt clock, flanked by

pendants of the same period, gave the right time--a quarter past seven.

And down the room, filling it, ran the great white table, bordered with

bowed heads and the backs of chairs. There were over thirty people at

the table, and the peculiarly restrained noisiness of their knives and

forks on the plates proved that they were a discreet and a correct

people. Their clothes--blouses, bodices, and jackets--did not flatter

the lust of the eye. Only two or three were in evening dress. They

spoke little, and generally in a timorous tone, as though silence had

been enjoined. Somebody would half-whisper a remark, and then his

neighbour, absently fingering her bread and lifting gaze from her plate

into vacancy, would conscientiously weigh the remark and half-whisper

in reply: "I dare say." But a few spoke loudly and volubly, and were

regarded by the rest, who envied them, as underbred.

Food was quite properly the chief preoccupation. The diners ate as

those eat who are paying a fixed price per day for as much as they can

consume while observing the rules of the game. Without moving their

heads they glanced out of the corners of their eyes, watching the

manoeuvres of the three starched maids who served. They had no

conception of food save as portions laid out in rows on large silver

dishes, and when a maid bent over them deferentially, balancing the

dish, they summed up the offering in an instant, and in an instant

decided how much they could decently take, and to what extent they

could practise the theoretic liberty of choice. And if the food for any

reason did not tempt them, or if it egregiously failed to coincide with

their aspirations, they considered themselves aggrieved. For, according

to the game, they might not command; they had the right to seize all

that was presented under their noses, like genteel tigers; and they had

the right to refuse: that was all. The dinner was thus a series of

emotional crises for the diners, who knew only that full dishes and

clean plates came endlessly from the banging door behind the screen,

and that ravaged dishes and dirty plates vanished endlessly through the

same door. They were all eating similar food simultaneously; they began

together and they finished together. The flies that haunted the

paper-bunches which hung from the chandeliers to the level of the

flower-vases, were more free. The sole event that chequered the exact

regularity of the repast was the occasional arrival of a wine-bottle

for one of the guests. The receiver of the wine-bottle signed a small

paper in exchange for it and wrote largely a number on the label of the

bottle; then, staring at the number and fearing that after all it might

be misread by a stupid maid or an unscrupulous compeer, he would

re-write the number on another part of the label, even more largely.

Matthew Peel-Swynnerton obviously did not belong to this world. He was

a young man of twenty-five or so, not handsome, but elegant. Though he

was not in evening dress, though he was, as a fact, in a very light

grey suit, entirely improper to a dinner, he was elegant. The suit was

admirably cut, and nearly new; but he wore it as though he had never

worn anything else. Also his demeanour, reserved yet free from

self-consciousness, his method of handling a knife and fork, the

niceties of his manner in transferring food from the silver dishes to

his plate, the tone in which he ordered half a bottle of wine--all

these details infallibly indicated to the company that Matthew

Peel-Swynnerton was their superior. Some folks hoped that he was the

son of a lord, or even a lord. He happened to be fixed at the end of

the table, with his back to the window, and there was a vacant chair on

either side of him; this situation favoured the hope of his high rank.

In truth, he was the son, the grandson, and several times the nephew,

of earthenware manufacturers. He noticed that the large 'compote' (as

it was called in his trade) which marked the centre of the table, was

the production of his firm. This surprised him, for Peel, Swynnerton

and Co., known and revered throughout the Five Towns as 'Peels,' did

not cater for cheap markets. A late guest startled the room, a fat,

flabby, middle-aged man whose nose would have roused the provisional

hostility of those who have convinced themselves that Jews are not as

other men. His nose did not definitely brand him as a usurer and a

murderer of Christ, but it was suspicious. His clothes hung loose, and

might have been anybody's clothes. He advanced with brisk assurance to

the table, bowed, somewhat too effusively, to several people, and sat

down next to Peel-Swynnerton. One of the maids at once brought him a

plate of soup, and he said: "Thank you, Marie," smiling at her. He was

evidently a habitue of the house. His spectacled eyes beamed the

superiority which comes of knowing girls by their names. He was

seriously handicapped in the race for sustenance, being two and a half

courses behind, but he drew level with speed and then, having

accomplished this, he sighed, and pointedly engaged Peel-Swynnerton

with his sociable glance.

"Ah!" he breathed out. "Nuisance when you come in late, sir!"

Peel-Swynnerton gave a reluctant affirmative.

"Doesn't only upset you! It upsets the house! Servants don't like it!"

"No," murmured Peel-Swynnerton, "I suppose not."

"However, it's not often _I_'m late," said the man. "Can't help it

sometimes. Business! Worst of these French business people is that

they've no notion of time. Appointments...! God bless my soul!"

"Do you come here often?" asked Peel-Swynnerton. He detested the

fellow, quite inexcusably, perhaps because his serviette was tucked

under his chin; but he saw that the fellow was one of your determined

talkers, who always win in the end. Moreover, as being clearly not an

ordinary tourist in Paris, the fellow mildly excited his curiosity.

"I live here," said the other. "Very convenient for a bachelor, you

know. Have done for years. My office is just close by. You may know my

name--Lewis Mardon."

Peel-Swynnerton hesitated. The hesitation convicted him of not 'knowing

his Paris' well.

"House-agent," said Lewis Mardon, quickly.

"Oh yes," said Peel-Swynnerton, vaguely recalling a vision of the name

among the advertisements on newspaper kiosks.

"I expect," Mr. Mardon went on, "my name is as well-known as anybody's

in Paris."

"I suppose so," assented Peel-Swynnerton.

The conversation fell for a few moments.

"Staying here long?" Mr. Mardon demanded, having added up

Peel-Swynnerton as a man of style and of means, and being puzzled by

his presence at that table.

"I don't know," said Peel-Swynnerton.

This was a lie, justified in the utterer's opinion as a repulse to Mr.

Mardon's vulgar inquisitiveness, such inquisitiveness as might have

been expected from a fellow who tucked his serviette under his chin.

Peel-Swynnerton knew exactly how long he would stay. He would stay

until the day after the morrow; he had only about fifty francs in his

pocket. He had been making a fool of himself in another quarter of

Paris, and he had descended to the Pension Frensham as a place where he

could be absolutely sure of spending not more than twelve francs a day.

Its reputation was high, and it was convenient for the Galliera Museum,

where he was making some drawings which he had come to Paris expressly

to make, and without which he could not reputably return to England. He

was capable of foolishness, but he was also capable of wisdom, and

scarcely any pressure of need would have induced him to write home for

money to replace the money spent on making himself into a fool.

Mr. Mardon was conscious of a check. But, being of an accommodating

disposition, he at once tried another direction.

"Good food here, eh?" he suggested.

"Very," said Peel-Swynnerton, with sincerity. "I was quite--"

At that moment, a tall straight woman of uncertain age pushed open the

principal door and stood for an instant in the doorway. Peel-Swynnerton

had just time to notice that she was handsome and pale, and that her

hair was black, and then she was gone again, followed by a clipped

poodle that accompanied her. She had signed with a brief gesture to one

of the servants, who at once set about lighting the gas-jets over the

table.

"Who is that?" asked Peel-Swynnerton, without reflecting that it was

now he who was making advances to the fellow whose napkin covered all

his shirt-front.

"That's the missis, that is," said Mr. Mardon, in a lower and

semi-confidential voice.

"Oh! Mrs. Frensham?"

"Yes. But her real name is Scales," said Mr. Mardon, proudly.

"Widow, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"And she runs the whole show?"

"She runs the entire contraption," said Mr. Mardon, solemnly; "and

don't you make any mistake!" He was getting familiar.

Peel-Swynnerton beat him off once more, glancing with careful,

uninterested nonchalance at the gas-burners which exploded one after

another with a little plop under the application of the maid's taper.

The white table gleamed more whitely than ever under the flaring gas.

People at the end of the room away from the window instinctively

smiled, as though the sun had begun to shine. The aspect of the dinner

was changed, ameliorated; and with the reiterated statement that the

evenings were drawing in though it was only July, conversation became

almost general. In two minutes Mr. Mardon was genially talking across

the whole length of the table. The meal finished in a state that

resembled conviviality.

Matthew Peel-Swynnerton might not go out into the crepuscular delights

of Paris. Unless he remained within the shelter of the Pension, he

could not hope to complete successfully his re-conversion from folly to

wisdom. So he bravely passed through the small rose-embroidered door

into a small glass-covered courtyard, furnished with palms, wicker

armchairs, and two small tables; and he lighted a pipe and pulled out

of his pocket a copy of The Referee. That retreat was called the

Lounge; it was the only part of the Pension where smoking was not

either a positive crime or a transgression against good form. He felt

lonely. He said to himself grimly in one breath that pleasure was all

rot, and in the next he sullenly demanded of the universe how it was

that pleasure could not go on for ever, and why he was not Mr. Barney

Barnato. Two old men entered the retreat and burnt cigarettes with many

precautions. Then Mr. Lewis Mardon appeared and sat down boldly next to

Matthew, like a privileged friend. After all, Mr. Mardon was better

than nobody whatever, and Matthew decided to suffer him, especially as

he began without preliminary skirmishing to talk about life in Paris.

An irresistible subject! Mr. Mardon said in a worldly tone that the

existence of a bachelor in Paris might easily be made agreeable. But

that, of course, for himself--well, he preferred, as a general rule,

the Pension Frensham sort of thing; and it was excellent for his

business. Still he could not ... he knew ... He compared the advantages

of what he called 'knocking about' in Paris, with the equivalent in

London. His information about London was out of date, and

Peel-Swynnerton was able to set him right on important details. But his

information about Paris was infinitely precious and interesting to the

younger man, who saw that he had hitherto lived under strange

misconceptions.

"Have a whiskey?" asked Mr. Mardon, suddenly. "Very good here!" he

added.

"Thanks!" drawled Peel-Swynnerton.

The temptation to listen to Mr. Mardon as long as Mr. Mardon would talk

was not to be overcome. And presently, when the old men had departed,

they were frankly telling each other stories in the dimness of the

retreat. Then, when the supply of stories came to an end, Mr. Mardon

smacked his lips over the last drop of whiskey and ejaculated: "Yes!"

as if giving a general confirmation to all that had been said.

"Do have one with me," said Matthew, politely. It was the least he

could do.

The second supply of whiskies was brought into the Lounge by Mr.

Mardon's Marie. He smiled on her familiarly, and remarked that he

supposed she would soon be going to bed after a hard day's work. She

gave a moue and a flounce in reply, and swished out.

"Carries herself well, doesn't she?" observed Mr. Mardon, as though

Marie had been an exhibit at an agricultural show. "Ten years ago she

was very fresh and pretty, but of course it takes it out of 'em, a

place like this!"

"But still," said Peel-Swynnerton, "they must like it or they wouldn't

stay--that is, unless things are very different here from what they are

in England."

The conversation seemed to have stimulated him to examine the woman

question in all its bearings, with philosophic curiosity.

"Oh! They LIKE it," Mr. Mardon assured him, as one who knew. "Besides,

Mrs. Scales treats 'em very well. I know THAT. She's told me. She's

very particular"--he looked around to see if walls had ears--"and, by

Jove, you've got to be; but she treats 'em well. You'd scarcely believe

the wages they get, and pickings. Now at the Hotel Moscow--know the

Hotel Moscow?"

Happily Peel-Swynnerton did. He had been advised to avoid it because it

catered exclusively for English visitors, but in the Pension Frensham

he had accepted something even more exclusively British than the Hotel

Moscow. Mr. Mardon was quite relieved at his affirmative.

"The Hotel Moscow is a limited company now," said he; "English."

"Really?"

"Yes. I floated it. It was my idea. A great success! That's how I know

all about the Hotel Moscow." He looked at the walls again. "I wanted to

do the same here," he murmured, and Peel-Swynnerton had to show that he

appreciated this confidence. "But she never would agree. I've tried her

all ways. No go! It's a thousand pities."

"Paying thing, eh?"

"This place? I should say it was! And I ought to be able to judge, I

reckon. Mrs. Scales is one of the shrewdest women you'd meet in a day's

march. She's made a lot of money here, a lot of money. And there's no

reason why a place like this shouldn't be five times as big as it is.

Ten times. The scope's unlimited, my dear sir. All that's wanted is

capital. Naturally she has capital of her own, and she could get more.

But then, as she says, she doesn't want the place any bigger. She says

it's now just as big as she can handle. That isn't so. She's a woman

who could handle anything--a born manager--but even if it was so, all

she would have to do would be to retire--only leave us the place and

the name. It's the name that counts. And she's made the name of

Frensham worth something, I can tell you!"

"Did she get the place from her husband?" asked Peel-Swynnerton. Her

own name of Scales intrigued him.

Mr. Mardon shook his head. "Bought it on her own, after the husband's

time, for a song--a song! I know, because I knew the original

Frenshams."

"You must have been in Paris a long time," said Peel-Swynnerton.

Mr. Mardon could never resist an opportunity to talk about himself. His

was a wonderful history. And Peel-Swynnerton, while scorning the man

for his fatuity, was impressed. And when that was finished--

"Yes!" said Mr. Mardon after a pause, reaffirming everything in

general by a single monosyllable.

Shortly afterwards he rose, saying that his habits were regular.

"Good-night," he said with a mechanical smile.

"G-good-night," said Peel-Swynnerton, trying to force the tone of

fellowship and not succeeding. Their intimacy, which had sprung up like

a mushroom, suddenly fell into dust. Peel-Swynnerton's unspoken comment

to Mr. Mardon's back was: "Ass!" Still, the sum of Peel-Swynnerton's

knowledge had indubitably been increased during the evening. And the

hour was yet early. Half-past ten! The Folies-Marigny, with its

beautiful architecture and its crowds of white toilettes, and its

frothing of champagne and of beer, and its musicians in tight red

coats, was just beginning to be alive--and at a distance of scarcely a

stone's-throw! Peel-Swynnerton pictured the terraced, glittering hall,

which had been the prime origin of his exceeding foolishness. And he

pictured all the other resorts, great and small, garlanded with white

lanterns, in the Champs Elysees; and the sombre aisles of the Champs

Elysees where mysterious pale figures walked troublingly under the

shade of trees, while snatches of wild song or absurd brassy music

floated up from the resorts and restaurants. He wanted to go out and

spend those fifty francs that remained in his pocket. After all, why

not telegraph to England for more money? "Oh, damn it!" he said

savagely, and stretched his arms and got up. The Lounge was very small,

gloomy and dreary.

One brilliant incandescent light burned in the hall, crudely

illuminating the wicker fauteuils, a corded trunk with a blue-and-red

label on it, a Fitzroy barometer, a map of Paris, a coloured poster of

the Compagnie Transatlantique, and the mahogany retreat of the

hall-portress. In that retreat was not only the hall-portress--an aged

woman with a white cap above her wrinkled pink face--but the mistress

of the establishment. They were murmuring together softly; they seemed

to be well disposed to one another. The portress was respectful, but

the mistress was respectful also. The hall, with its one light

tranquilly burning, was bathed in an honest calm, the calm of a day's

work accomplished, of gradual relaxation from tension, of growing

expectation of repose. In its simplicity it affected Peel-Swynnerton as

a medicine tonic for nerves might have affected him. In that hall,

though exterior nocturnal life was but just stirring into activity, it

seemed that the middle of the night had come, and that these two women

alone watched in a mansion full of sleepers. And all the recitals which

Peel-Swynnerton and Mr. Mardon had exchanged sank to the level of

pitiably foolish gossip. Peel-Swynnerton felt that his duty to the

house was to retire to bed. He felt, too, that he could not leave the

house without saying that he was going out, and that he lacked the

courage deliberately to tell these two women that he was going out--at

that time of night! He dropped into one of the chairs and made a second

attempt to peruse The Referee. Useless! Either his mind was outside in

the Champs Elysees, or his gaze would wander surreptitiously to the

figure of Mrs. Scales. He could not well distinguish her face because

it was in the shadow of the mahogany.

Then the portress came forth from her box, and, slightly bent, sped

actively across the hall, smiling pleasantly at the guest as she passed

him, and disappeared up the stairs. The mistress was alone in the

retreat. Peel-Swynnerton jumped up brusquely, dropping the paper with a

rustle, and approached her.

"Excuse me," he said deferentially. "Have any letters come for me

to-night?"

He knew that the arrival of letters for him was impossible, since

nobody knew his address.

"What name?" The question was coldly polite, and the questioner looked

him full in the face. Undoubtedly she was a handsome woman. Her hair

was greying at the temples, and the skin was withered and crossed with

lines. But she was handsome. She was one of those women of whom to

their last on earth the stranger will say: "When she was young she must

have been worth looking at!"--with a little transient regret that

beautiful young women cannot remain for ever young. Her voice was firm

and even, sweet in tone, and yet morally harsh from incessant

traffic--with all varieties of human nature. Her eyes were the

impartial eyes of one who is always judging. And evidently she was a

proud, even a haughty creature, with her careful, controlled

politeness. Evidently she considered herself superior to no matter what

guest. Her eyes announced that she had lived and learnt, that she knew

more about life than any one whom she was likely to meet, and that

having pre-eminently succeeded in life, she had tremendous confidence

in herself. The proof of her success was the unique Frensham's. A

consciousness of the uniqueness of Frensham's was also in those eyes.

Theoretically Matthew Peel-Swynnerton's mental attitude towards

lodging-house keepers was condescending, but here it was not

condescending. It had the real respectfulness of a man who for the

moment at any rate is impressed beyond his calculations. His glance

fell as he said--

"Peel-Swynnerton." Then he looked up again.

He said the words awkwardly, and rather fearfully, as if aware that he

was playing with fire. If this Mrs. Scales was the long-vanished aunt

of his friend, Cyril Povey, she must know those two names, locally so

famous. Did she start? Did she show a sign of being perturbed? At first

he thought he detected a symptom of emotion, but in an instant he was

sure that he had detected nothing of the sort, and that it was silly to

suppose that he was treading on the edge of a romance. Then she turned

towards the letter-rack at her side, and he saw her face in profile. It

bore a sudden and astonishing likeness to the profile of Cyril Povey; a

resemblance unmistakable and finally decisive. The nose, and the curve

of the upper lip were absolutely Cyril's. Matthew Peel-Swynnerton felt

very queer. He felt like a criminal in peril of being caught in the

act, and he could not understand why he should feel so. The landlady

looked in the 'P' pigeon-hole, and in the 'S' pigeon-hole.

"No," she said quietly, "I see nothing for you."

Taken with a swift rash audacity, he said: "Have you had any one named

Povey here recently?"

"Povey?"

"Yes. Cyril Povey, of Bursley--in the Five Towns."

He was very impressionable, very sensitive, was Matthew

Peel-Swynnerton. His voice trembled as he spoke. But hers also trembled

in reply.

"Not that I remember! No! Were you expecting him to be here?"

"Well, it wasn't at all sure," he muttered. "Thank you. Good-night."

"Good-night," she said, apparently with the simple perfunctoriness of

the landlady who says good-night to dozens of strangers every evening.

He hurried away upstairs, and met the portress coming down. "Well,

well!" he thought. "Of all the queer things--!" And he kept nodding his

head. At last he had encountered something REALLY strange in the

spectacle of existence. It had fallen to him to discover the legendary

woman who had fled from Bursley before he was born, and of whom nobody

knew anything. What news for Cyril! What a staggering episode! He had

scarcely any sleep that night. He wondered whether he would be able to

meet Mrs. Scales without self-consciousness on the morrow. However, he

was spared the curious ordeal of meeting her. She did not appear at all

on the following day; nor did he see her before he left. He could not

find a pretext for asking why she was invisible.

II

The hansom of Matthew Peel-Swynnerton drew up in front of No. 26,

Victoria Grove, Chelsea; his kit-bag was on the roof of the cab. The

cabman had a red flower in his buttonhole. Matthew leaped out of the

vehicle, holding his straw hat on his head with one hand. On reaching

the pavement he checked himself suddenly and became carelessly calm.

Another straw-hatted and grey-clad figure was standing at the side-gate

of No. 26 in the act of lighting a cigarette.

"Hello, Matt!" exclaimed the second figure, languidly, and in a veiled

voice due to the fact that he was still holding the match to the

cigarette and puffing. "What's the meaning of all this fluster? You're

just the man I want to see."

He threw away the match with a wave of the arm, and took Matthew's hand

for a moment, blowing a double shaft of smoke through his nose.

"I want to see you, too," said Matthew. "And I've only got a minute.

I'm on my way to Euston. I must catch the twelve-five."

He looked at his friend, and could positively see no feature of it that

was not a feature of Mrs. Scales's face. Also, the elderly woman held

her body in exactly the same way as the young man. It was entirely

disconcerting.

"Have a cigarette," answered Cyril Povey, imperturbably. He was two

years younger than Matthew, from whom he had acquired most of his vast

and intricate knowledge of life and art, with certain leading notions

of deportment; whose pupil indeed he was in all the things that matter

to young men. But he had already surpassed his professor. He could

pretend to be old much more successfully than Matthew could.

The cabman approvingly watched the ignition of the second cigarette,

and then the cabman pulled out a cigar, and showed his large, white

teeth, as he bit the end off it. The appearance and manner of his fare,

the quality of the kit-bag, and the opening gestures of the interview

between the two young dukes, had put the cabman in an optimistic mood.

He had no apprehensions of miserly and ungentlemanly conduct by his

fare upon the arrival at Euston. He knew the language of the tilt of a

straw hat. And it was a magnificent day in London. The group of the two

elegances dominated by the perfection of the cabman made a striking

tableau of triumphant masculinity, content with itself, and needing

nothing.

Matthew lightly took Cyril's arm and drew him further down the street,

past the gate leading to the studio (hidden behind a house) which Cyril

rented.

"Look here, my boy," he began, "I've found your aunt."

"Well, that's very nice of you," said Cyril, solemnly. "That's a

friendly act. May I ask what aunt?"

"Mrs. Scales," said Matthew. "You know--"

"Not the--" Cyril's face changed.

"Yes, precisely!" said Matthew, feeling that he was not being cheated

of the legitimate joy caused by making a sensation. Assuredly he had

made a sensation in Victoria Grove.

When he had related the whole story, Cyril said: "Then she doesn't know

you know?"

"I don't think so. No, I'm sure she doesn't. She may guess."

"But how can you be certain you haven't made a mistake? It may be

that--"

"Look here, my boy," Matthew interrupted him. "I've not made any

mistake."

"But you've no proof."

"Proof be damned!" said Matthew, nettled. "I tell you it's HER!"

"Oh! All right! All right! What puzzles me most is what the devil you

were doing in a place like that. According to your description of it,

it must be a--"

"I went there because I was broke," said Matthew.

"Razzle?"

Matthew nodded.

"Pretty stiff, that!" commented Cyril, when Matthew had narrated the

prologue to Frensham's.

"Well, she absolutely swore she never took less than two hundred

francs. And she looked it, too! And she was worth it! I had the time of

my life with that woman. I can tell you one thing--no more English for

me! They simply aren't in it."

"How old was she?"

Matthew reflected judicially. "I should say she was thirty." The gaze

of admiration and envy was upon him. He had the legitimate joy of

making a second sensation. "I'll let you know more about that when I

come back," he added. "I can open your eyes, my child."

Cyril smiled sheepishly. "Why can't you stay now?" he asked. "I'm going

to take the cast of that Verrall girl's arm this afternoon, and I know

I can't do it alone. And Robson's no good. You're just the man I want."

"Can't!" said Matthew.

"Well, come into the studio a minute, anyhow."

"Haven't time; I shall miss my train."

"I don't care if you miss forty trains. You must come in. You've got to

see that fountain," Cyril insisted crossly.

Matthew yielded. When they emerged into the street again, after six

minutes of Cyril's savage interest in his own work, Matthew remembered

Mrs. Scales.

"Of course you'll write to your mother?" he said.

"Yes," said Cyril, "I'll write; but if you happen to see her, you might

tell her."

"I will," said Matthew. "Shall you go over to Paris?"

"What! To see Auntie?" He smiled. "I don't know. Depends. If the mater

will fork out all my exes ... it's an idea," he said lightly, and then

without any change of tone, "Naturally, if you're going to idle about

here all morning you aren't likely to catch the twelve-five."

Matthew got into the cab, while the driver, the stump of a cigar

between his exposed teeth, leaned forward and lifted the reins away

from the tilted straw hat.

"By-the-by, lend me some silver," Matthew demanded. "It's a good thing

I've got my return ticket. I've run it as fine as ever I did in my

life."

Cyril produced eight shillings in silver. Secure in the possession of

these riches, Matthew called to the driver--

"Euston--like hell!"

"Yes, sir," said the driver, calmly.

"Not coming my way I suppose?" Matthew shouted as an afterthought, just

when the cab began to move.

"No. Barber's," Cyril shouted in answer, and waved his hand.

The horse rattled into Fulham Road.

III

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!

IV

On the night when Matthew Peel-Swynnerton spoke to Mrs. Scales, Matthew

was not the only person in the Pension Frensham who failed to sleep.

When the old portress came downstairs from her errand, she observed

that her mistress was leaving the mahogany retreat.

"She is sleeping tranquilly, the poor one!" said the portress,

discharging her commission, which had been to learn the latest news of

the mistress's indisposed dog, Fossette. In saying this her ancient,

vibrant voice was rich with sympathy for the suffering animal. And she

smiled. She was rather like a figure out of an almshouse, with her

pink, apparently brittle skin, her tight black dress, and frilled white

cap. She stooped habitually, and always walked quickly, with her head a

few inches in advance of her feet. Her grey hair was scanty. She was

old; nobody perhaps knew exactly how old. Sophia had taken her with the

Pension, over a quarter of a century before, because she was old and

could not easily have found another place. Although the clientele was

almost exclusively English, she spoke only French, explaining herself

to Britons by means of benevolent smiles.

"I think I shall go to bed, Jacqueline," said the mistress, in reply.

A strange reply, thought Jacqueline. The unalterable custom of

Jacqueline was to retire at midnight and to rise at five-thirty. Her

mistress also usually retired about midnight, and during the final hour

mistress and portress saw a good deal of each other. And considering

that Jacqueline had just been sent up into the mistress's own bedroom

to glance at Fossette, and that the bulletin was satisfactory, and that

madame and Jacqueline had several customary daily matters to discuss,

it seemed odd that madame should thus be going instantly to bed.

However, Jacqueline said nothing but:

"Very well, madame. And the number 32?"

"Arrange yourself as you can," said the mistress, curtly.

"It is well, madame. Good evening, madame, and a good night."

Jacqueline, alone in the hall, re-entered her box and set upon one of

those endless, mysterious tasks which occupied her when she was not

rushing to and fro or whistling up the tubes.

Sophia, scarcely troubling even to glance into Fossette's round basket,

undressed, put out the light, and got into bed. She felt extremely and

inexplicably gloomy. She did not wish to reflect; she strongly wished

not to reflect; but her mind insisted on reflection--a monotonous,

futile, and distressing reflection. Povey! Povey! Could this be

Constance's Povey, the unique Samuel Povey? That is to say, not he, but

his son, Constance's son. Had Constance a grown-up son? Constance must

be over fifty now, perhaps a grandmother! Had she really married Samuel

Povey? Possibly she was dead. Certainly her mother must be dead, and

Aunt Harriet and Mr. Critchlow. If alive, her mother must be at least

eighty years of age.

The cumulative effect of merely remaining inactive when one ought to be

active, was terrible. Undoubtedly she should have communicated with her

family. It was silly not to have done so. After all, even if she had,

as a child, stolen a trifle of money from her wealthy aunt, what would

that have mattered? She had been proud. She was criminally proud. That

was her vice. She admitted it frankly. But she could not alter her

pride. Everybody had some weak spot. Her reputation for sagacity, for

commonsense, was, she knew, enormous; she always felt, when people were

talking to her, that they regarded her as a very unusually wise woman.

And yet she had been guilty of the capital folly of cutting herself off

from her family. She was ageing, and she was alone in the world. She

was enriching herself; she had the most perfectly managed and the most

respectable Pension in the world (she sincerely believed), and she was

alone in the world. Acquaintances she had--French people who never

offered nor accepted hospitality other than tea or wine, and one or two

members of the English commercial colony--but her one friend was

Fossette, aged three years! She was the most solitary person on earth.

She had heard no word of Gerald, no word of anybody. Nobody whatever

could truly be interested in her fate. This was what she had achieved

after a quarter of a century of ceaseless labour and anxiety, during

which she had not once been away from the Rue Lord Byron for more than

thirty hours at a stretch. It was appalling--the passage of years; and

the passage of years would grow more appalling. Ten years hence, where

would she be? She pictured herself dying. Horrible!

Of course there was nothing to prevent her from going back to Bursley

and repairing the grand error of her girlhood. No, nothing except the

fact that her whole soul recoiled from the mere idea of any such

enterprise! She was a fixture in the Rue Lord Byron. She was a part of

the street. She knew all that happened or could happen there. She was

attached to it by the heavy chains of habit. In the chill way of long

use she loved it. There! The incandescent gas-burner of the street-lamp

outside had been turned down, as it was turned down every night! If it

is possible to love such a phenomenon, she loved that phenomenon. That

phenomenon was a portion of her life, dear to her.

An agreeable young man, that Peel-Swynnerton! Then evidently, since her

days in Bursley, the Peels and the Swynnertons, partners in business,

must have intermarried, or there must have been some affair of a will.

Did he suspect who she was? He had had a very self-conscious, guilty

look. No! He could not have suspected who she was. The idea was

ridiculous. Probably he did not even know that her name was Scales. And

even if he knew her name, he had probably never heard of Gerald Scales,

or the story of her flight. Why, he could not have been born until

after she had left Bursley! Besides, the Peels were always quite aloof

from the ordinary social life of the town. No! He could not have

suspected her identity. It was infantile to conceive such a thing.

And yet, she inconsequently proceeded in the tangle of her afflicted

mind, supposing he had suspected it! Supposing by some queer chance, he

had heard her forgotten story, and casually put two and two together!

Supposing even that he were merely to mention in the Five Towns that

the Pension Frensham was kept by a Mrs. Scales. 'Scales? Scales?'

people might repeat. 'Now, what does that remind me of?' And the ball

might roll and roll till Constance or somebody picked it up! And then...

Moreover--a detail of which she had at first unaccountably failed to

mark the significance--this Peel-Swynnerton was a friend of the Mr.

Povey as to whom he had inquired. In that case it could not be the same

Povey. Impossible that the Peels should be on terms of friendship with

Samuel Povey or his connections! But supposing after all they were!

Supposing something utterly unanticipated and revolutionary had

happened in the Five Towns!

She was disturbed. She was insecure. She foresaw inquiries being made

concerning her. She foresaw an immense family fuss, endless tomfoolery,

the upsetting of her existence, the destruction of her calm. And she

sank away from that prospect. She could not face it. She did not want

to face it. "No," she cried passionately in her soul, "I've lived

alone, and I'll stay as I am. I can't change at my time of life." And

her attitude towards a possible invasion of her solitude became one of

resentment. "I won't have it! I won't have it! I will be left alone.

Constance! What can Constance be to me, or I to her, now?" The vision

of any change in her existence was in the highest degree painful to

her. And not only painful! It frightened her. It made her shrink. But

she could not dismiss it.... She could not argue herself out of it. The

apparition of Matthew Peel-Swynnerton had somehow altered the very

stuff of her fibres.

And surging on the outskirts of the central storm of her brain were ten

thousand apprehensions about the management of the Pension. All was

black, hopeless. The Pension might have been the most complete business

failure that gross carelessness and incapacity had ever provoked. Was

it not the fact that she had to supervise everything herself, that she

could depend on no one? Were she to be absent even for a single day the

entire structure would inevitably fall. Instead of working less she

worked harder. And who could guarantee that her investments were safe?

When dawn announced itself, slowly discovering each object in the

chamber, she was ill. Fever seemed to rage in her head. And in and

round her mouth she had strange sensations. Fossette stirred in the

basket near the large desk on which multifarious files and papers were

ranged with minute particularity.

"Fossette!" she tried to call out; but no sound issued from her lips.

She could not move her tongue. She tried to protrude it, and could not.

For hours she had been conscious of a headache. Her heart sank. She was

sick with fear. Her memory flashed to her father and his seizure. She

was his daughter! Paralysis! "Ca serait le comble!" she thought in

French, horrified. Her fear became abject! "Can I move at all?" she

thought, and madly jerked her head. Yes, she could move her head

slightly on the pillow, and she could stretch her right arm, both arms.

Absurd cowardice! Of course it was not a seizure! She reassured

herself. Still, she could not put her tongue out. Suddenly she began to

hiccough, and she had no control over the hiccough. She put her hand to

the bell, whose ringing would summon the man who slept in a pantry off

the hall, and suddenly the hiccough ceased. Her hand dropped. She was

better. Besides, what use in ringing for a man if she could not speak

to him through the door? She must wait for Jacqueline. At six o'clock

every morning, summer and winter, Jacqueline entered her mistress's

bedroom to release the dog for a moment's airing under her own

supervision. The clock on the mantelpiece showed five minutes past

three. She had three hours to wait. Fossette pattered across the room,

and sprang on to the bed and nestled down. Sophia ignored her, but

Fossette, being herself unwell and torpid, did not seem to care.

Jacqueline was late. In the quarter of an hour between six o'clock and

a quarter past, Sophia suffered the supreme pangs of despair and verged

upon insanity. It appeared to her that her cranium would blow off under

pressure from within. Then the door opened silently, a few inches.

Usually Jacqueline came into the room, but sometimes she stood behind

the door and called in her soft, trembling voice, "Fossette! Fossette!"

And on this morning she did not come into the room. The dog did not

immediately respond. Sophia was in an agony. She marshalled all her

volition, all her self-control and strength, to shout:

"Jacqueline!"

It came out of her, a horribly difficult and misshapen birth, but it

came. She was exhausted.

"Yes, madame." Jacqueline entered.

As soon as she had a glimpse of Sophia she threw up her hands. Sophia

stared at her, wordless.

"I will fetch the doctor--myself," whispered Jacqueline, and fled.

"Jacqueline!" The woman stopped. Then Sophia determined to force

herself to make a speech, and she braced her muscles to an

unprecedented effort. "Say not a word to the others." She could not

bear that the whole household should know of her illness. Jacqueline

nodded and vanished, the dog following. Jacqueline understood. She

lived in the place with her mistress as with a fellow-conspirator.

Sophia began to feel better. She could get into a sitting posture,

though the movement made her dizzy. By working to the foot of the bed

she could see herself in the glass of the wardrobe. And she saw that

the lower part of her face was twisted out of shape.

The doctor, who knew her, and who earned a lot of money in her house,

told her frankly what had happened. Paralysie glosso-labio-laryngee was

the phrase he used. She understood. A very slight attack; due to

overwork and worry. He ordered absolute rest and quiet.

"Impossible!" she said, genuinely convinced that she alone was

indispensable.

"Repose the most absolute!" he repeated.

She marvelled that a few words with a man who chanced to be named

Peel-Swynnerton could have resulted in such a disaster, and drew a

curious satisfaction from this fearful proof that she was so

highly-strung. But even then she did not realize how profoundly she had

been disturbed.

V

"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.

CHAPTER II

THE MEETING

I

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.'

II

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.

III