The Old Wives' Tale
Book I
MRS. BAINES
Chapter VII
A DEFEAT
I
It was during the month of June that Aunt
Harriet came over from Axe to spend a few days with her little sister, Mrs.
Baines. The railway between Axe and the Five Towns had not yet been opened; but
even if it had been opened Aunt Harriet would probably not have used it. She had
always travelled from Axe to Bursley in the same vehicle, a small waggonette
which she hired from Bratt's livery stables at Axe, driven by a coachman who
thoroughly understood the importance, and the peculiarities, of Aunt
Harriet.
Mrs. Baines had increased in stoutness, so that now Aunt Harriet
had very little advantage over her, physically. But the moral ascendency of the
elder still persisted. The two vast widows shared Mrs. Baines's bedroom,
spending much of their time there in long, hushed conversations—interviews from
which Mrs. Baines emerged with the air of one who has received enlightenment and
Aunt Harriet with the air of one who has rendered it. The pair went about
together, in the shop, the showroom, the parlour, the kitchen, and also into the
town, addressing each other as 'Sister,' 'Sister.' Everywhere it was 'sister,'
'sister,' 'my sister,' 'your dear mother,' 'your Aunt Harriet.' They referred to
each other as oracular sources of wisdom and good taste. Respectability stalked
abroad when they were afoot. The whole Square wriggled uneasily as though God's
eye were peculiarly upon it. The meals in the parlour became solemn collations,
at which shone the best silver and the finest diaper, but from which gaiety and
naturalness seemed to be banished. (I say 'seemed' because it cannot be doubted
that Aunt Harriet was natural, and there were moments when she possibly
considered herself to be practising gaiety—a gaiety more desolating than her
severity.) The younger generation was extinguished, pressed flat and lifeless
under the ponderosity of the widows.
Mr. Povey was not the man to be easily flattened by ponderosity of
any kind, and his suppression was a striking proof of the prowess of the widows;
who, indeed, went over Mr. Povey like traction-engines, with the sublime
unconsciousness of traction-engines, leaving an inanimate object in the road
behind them, and scarce aware even of the jolt. Mr. Povey hated Aunt Harriet,
but, lying crushed there in the road, how could he rebel? He felt all the time
that Aunt Harriet was adding him up, and reporting the result at frequent
intervals to Mrs. Baines in the bedroom. He felt that she knew everything about
him—even to those tears which had been in his eyes. He felt that he could hope
to do nothing right for Aunt Harriet, that absolute perfection in the
performance of duty would make no more impression on her than a caress on the
fly-wheel of a traction-engine. Constance, the dear Constance, was also looked
at askance. There was nothing in Aunt Harriet's demeanour to her that you could
take hold of, but there was emphatically something that you could not take hold
of—a hint, an inkling, that insinuated to Constance, "Have a care, lest
peradventure you become the second cousin of the scarlet woman."
Sophia was petted. Sophia was liable to be playfully tapped by
Aunt Harriet's thimble when Aunt Harriet was hemming dusters (for the elderly
lady could lift a duster to her own dignity). Sophia was called on two separate
occasions, 'My little butterfly.' And Sophia was entrusted with the trimming of
Aunt Harriet's new summer bonnet. Aunt Harriet deemed that Sophia was looking
pale. As the days passed, Sophia's pallor was emphasized by Aunt Harriet until
it developed into an article of faith, to which you were compelled to subscribe
on pain of excommunication. Then dawned the day when Aunt Harriet said, staring
at Sophia as an affectionate aunt may: "That child would do with a change." And
then there dawned another day when Aunt Harriet, staring at Sophia
compassionately, as a devoted aunt may, said: "It's a pity that child can't have
a change." And Mrs. Baines also stared—and said: "It is."
And on another day Aunt Harriet said: "I've been wondering whether
my little Sophia would care to come and keep her old aunt company a while."
There were few things for which Sophia would have cared less. The
girl swore to herself angrily that she would not go, that no allurement would
induce her to go. But she was in a net; she was in the meshes of family
correctness. Do what she would, she could not invent a reason for not going.
Certainly she could not tell her aunt that she merely did not want to go. She
was capable of enormities, but not of that. And then began Aunt Harriet's
intricate preparations for going. Aunt Harriet never did anything simply. And
she could not be hurried. Seventy-two hours before leaving she had to commence
upon her trunk; but first the trunk had to be wiped by Maggie with a damp cloth
under the eye and direction of Aunt Harriet. And the liveryman at Axe had to be
written to, and the servants at Axe written to, and the weather prospects
weighed and considered. And somehow, by the time these matters were
accomplished, it was tacitly understood that Sophia should accompany her kind
aunt into the bracing moorland air of Axe. No smoke at Axe! No stuffiness at
Axe! The spacious existence of a wealthy widow in a residential town with a low
death-rate and famous scenery! "Have you packed your box, Sophia?" No, she had
not. "Well, I will come and help you."
Impossible to bear up against the momentum of a massive body like
Aunt
Harriet's! It was irresistible.
The day of departure came, throwing the entire household into a
commotion. Dinner was put a quarter of an hour earlier than usual so that Aunt
Harriet might achieve Axe at her accustomed hour of tea. After dinner Maggie was
the recipient of three amazing muslin aprons, given with a regal gesture. And
the trunk and the box were brought down, and there was a slight odour of black
kid gloves in the parlour. The waggonette was due and the waggonette appeared
("I can always rely upon Bladen!" said Aunt Harriet), and the door was opened,
and Bladen, stiff on his legs, descended from the box and touched his hat to
Aunt Harriet as she filled up the doorway.
"Have you baited, Bladen?" asked she.
"Yes'm," said he, assuringly.
Bladen and Mr. Povey carried out the trunk and the box, and
Constance charged herself with parcels which she bestowed in the corners of the
vehicle according to her aunt's prescription; it was like stowing the cargo of a
vessel.
"Now, Sophia, my chuck!" Mrs. Baines called up the stairs. And
Sophia came slowly downstairs. Mrs. Baines offered her mouth. Sophia glanced at
her.
"You needn't think I don't see why you're sending me away!"
exclaimed Sophia in a hard, furious voice, with glistening eyes. "I'm not so
blind as all that!" She kissed her mother—nothing but a contemptuous peck. Then,
as she turned away she added: "But you let Constance do just as she likes!"
This was her sole bitter comment on the episode, but into it she
put all the profound bitterness accumulated during many mutinous nights.
Mrs. Baines concealed a sigh. The explosion certainly disturbed
her.
She had hoped that the smooth surface of things would not be
ruffled.
Sophia bounced out. And the assembly, including several urchins,
watched with held breath while Aunt Harriet, after having bid majestic
good-byes, got on to the step and introduced herself through the doorway of the
waggonette into the interior of the vehicle; it was an operation like threading
a needle with cotton too thick. Once within, her hoops distended in sudden
release, filling the waggonette. Sophia followed, agilely.
As, with due formalities, the equipage drove off, Mrs. Baines gave
another sigh, one of relief. The sisters had won. She could now await the
imminent next advent of Mr. Gerald Scales with tranquillity.
II
Those singular words of Sophia's, 'But you let Constance do just
as she likes,' had disturbed Mrs. Baines more than was at first apparent. They
worried her like a late fly in autumn. For she had said nothing to any one about
Constance's case, Mrs. Maddack of course excepted. She had instinctively felt
that she could not show the slightest leniency towards the romantic impulses of
her elder daughter without seeming unjust to the younger, and she had acted
accordingly. On the memorable morn of Mr. Povey's acute jealousy, she had,
temporarily at any rate, slaked the fire, banked it down, and hidden it; and
since then no word had passed as to the state of Constance's heart. In the great
peril to be feared from Mr. Scales, Constance's heart had been put aside as a
thing that could wait; so one puts aside the mending of linen when earthquake
shocks are about. Mrs. Baines was sure that Constance had not chattered to
Sophia concerning Mr. Povey. Constance, who understood her mother, had too much
commonsense and too nice a sense of propriety to do that—and yet here was Sophia
exclaiming, 'But you let Constance do just as she likes.' Were the relations
between Constance and Mr. Povey, then, common property? Did the young lady
assistants discuss them?
As a fact, the young lady assistants did discuss them; not in the
shop—for either one of the principal parties, or Mrs. Baines herself, was always
in the shop, but elsewhere. They discussed little else, when they were free; how
she had looked at him to-day, and how he had blushed, and so forth interminably.
Yet Mrs. Baines really thought that she alone knew. Such is the power of the
ineradicable delusion that one's own affairs, and especially one's own children,
are mysteriously different from those of others.
After Sophia's departure Mrs. Baines surveyed her daughter and her
manager at supper-time with a curious and a diffident eye. They worked, talked,
and ate just as though Mrs. Baines had never caught them weeping together in the
cutting-out room. They had the most matter-of-fact air. They might never have
heard whispered the name of love. And there could be no deceit beneath that
decorum; for Constance would not deceive. Still, Mrs. Baines's conscience was
unruly. Order reigned, but nevertheless she knew that she ought to do something,
find out something, decide something; she ought, if she did her duty, to take
Constance aside and say: "Now, Constance, my mind is freer now. Tell me frankly
what has been going on between you and Mr. Povey. I have never understood the
meaning of that scene in the cutting-out room. Tell me." She ought to have
talked in this strain. But she could not. That energetic woman had not
sufficient energy left. She wanted rest, rest—even though it were a coward's
rest, an ostrich's tranquillity—after the turmoil of apprehensions caused by
Sophia. Her soul cried out for peace. She was not, however, to have peace.
On the very first Sunday after Sophia's departure, Mr. Povey did
not go to chapel in the morning, and he offered no reason for his unusual
conduct. He ate his breakfast with appetite, but there was something peculiar in
his glance that made Mrs. Baines a little uneasy; this something she could not
seize upon and define. When she and Constance returned from chapel Mr. Povey was
playing "Rock of Ages" on the harmonium—again unusual! The serious part of the
dinner comprised roast beef and Yorkshire pudding—the pudding being served as a
sweet course before the meat. Mrs. Baines ate freely of these things, for she
loved them, and she was always hungry after a sermon. She also did well with the
Cheshire cheese. Her intention was to sleep in the drawing-room after the
repast. On Sunday afternoons she invariably tried to sleep in the drawing-room,
and she did not often fail. As a rule the girls accompanied her thither from the
table, and either 'settled down' likewise or crept out of the room when they
perceived the gradual sinking of the majestic form into the deep hollows of the
easy-chair. Mrs. Baines was anticipating with pleasure her somnolent Sunday
afternoon.
Constance said grace after meat, and the formula on this
particular occasion ran thus—
"Thank God for our good dinner, Amen.—Mother, I must just run
upstairs to my room." ('MY room'-Sophia being far away.)
And off she ran, strangely girlish.
"Well, child, you needn't be in such a hurry," said Mrs. Baines,
ringing the bell and rising.
She hoped that Constance would remember the conditions precedent
to sleep.
"I should like to have a word with you, if it's all the same to
you,
Mrs. Baines," said Mr. Povey suddenly, with obvious nervousness.
And
his tone struck a rude unexpected blow at Mrs. Baines's peace of
mind.
It was a portentous tone.
"What about?" asked she, with an inflection subtly to remind Mr.
Povey what day it was.
"About Constance," said the astonishing man.
"Constance!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines with a histrionic air of
bewilderment.
Maggie entered the room, solely in response to the bell, yet a
thought jumped up in Mrs. Baines's brain, "How prying servants are, to be sure!"
For quite five seconds she had a grievance against Maggie. She was compelled to
sit down again and wait while Maggie cleared the table. Mr. Povey put both his
hands in his pockets, got up, went to the window, whistled, and generally
behaved in a manner which foretold the worst.
At last Maggie vanished, shutting the door.
"What is it, Mr. Povey?"
"Oh!" said Mr. Povey, facing her with absurd nervous brusqueness,
as though pretending: "Ah, yes! We have something to say—I was forgetting!" Then
he began: "It's about Constance and me."
Yes, they had evidently plotted this interview. Constance had
evidently taken herself off on purpose to leave Mr. Povey unhampered. They were
in league. The inevitable had come. No sleep! No repose! Nothing but worry once
more!
"I'm not at all satisfied with the present situation," said Mr.
Povey, in a tone that corresponded to his words.
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Povey," said Mrs. Baines stiffly.
This was a simple lie.
"Well, really, Mrs. Baines!" Mr. Povey protested, "I suppose you
won't deny that you know there is something between me and Constance? I suppose
you won't deny that?"
"What is there between you and Constance? I can assure you I—"
"That depends on you," Mr. Povey interrupted her. When he was
nervous his manners deteriorated into a behaviour that resembled rudeness. "That
depends on you!" he repeated grimly.
"But—"
"Are we to be engaged or are we not?" pursued Mr. Povey, as though
Mrs. Baines had been guilty of some grave lapse and he was determined not to
spare her. "That's what I think ought to be settled, one way or the other. I
wish to be perfectly open and aboveboard—in the future, as I have been in the
past."
"But you have said nothing to me at all!" Mrs. Baines
remonstrated, lifting her eyebrows. The way in which the man had sprung this
matter upon her was truly too audacious.
Mr. Povey approached her as she sat at the table, shaking her
ringlets and looking at her hands.
"You know there's something between us!" he insisted.
"How should I know there is something between you? Constance has
never said a word to me. And have you?"
"Well," said he. "We've hidden nothing."
"What is there between you and Constance? If I may ask!"
"That depends on you," said he again.
"Have you asked her to be your wife?"
"No. I haven't exactly asked her to be my wife." He hesitated.
"You see—"
Mrs. Baines collected her forces. "Have you kissed her?" This in a
cold voice.
Mr. Povey now blushed. "I haven't exactly kissed her," he
stammered, apparently shocked by the inquisition. "No, I should not say that I
had kissed her."
It might have been that before committing himself he felt a desire
for
Mrs. Baines's definition of a kiss.
"You are very extraordinary," she said loftily. It was no less
than the truth.
"All I want to know is—have you got anything against me?" he
demanded roughly. "Because if so—"
"Anything against you, Mr. Povey? Why should I have anything
against you?"
"Then why can't we be engaged?"
She considered that he was bullying her. "That's another
question," said she.
"Why can't we be engaged? Ain't I good enough?"
The fact was that he was not regarded as good enough. Mrs. Maddack
had certainly deemed that he was not good enough. He was a solid mass of
excellent qualities; but he lacked brilliance, importance, dignity. He could not
impose himself. Such had been the verdict.
And now, while Mrs. Baines was secretly reproaching Mr. Povey for
his inability to impose himself, he was most patently imposing himself on
her—and the phenomenon escaped her! She felt that he was bullying her, but
somehow she could not perceive his power. Yet the man who could bully Mrs.
Baines was surely no common soul!
"You know my very high opinion of you," she said.
Mr. Povey pursued in a mollified tone. "Assuming that Constance is
willing to be engaged, do I understand you consent?"
"But Constance is too young."
"Constance is twenty. She is more than twenty."
"In any case you won't expect me to give you an answer now."
"Why not? You know my position."
She did. From a practical point of view the match would be ideal:
no fault could be found with it on that side. But Mrs. Baines could not
extinguish the idea that it would be a 'come-down' for her daughter. Who, after
all, was Mr. Povey? Mr. Povey was nobody.
"I must think things over," she said firmly, putting her lips
together.
"I can't reply like this. It is a serious matter."
"When can I have your answer? To-morrow?"
"No—really—"
"In a week, then?"
"I cannot bind myself to a date," said Mrs. Baines, haughtily. She
felt that she was gaining ground.
"Because I can't stay on here indefinitely as things are," Mr.
Povey burst out, and there was a touch of hysteria in his tone.
"Now, Mr. Povey, please do be reasonable."
"That's all very well," he went on. "That's all very well. But
what I say is that employers have no right to have male assistants in their
houses unless they are prepared to let their daughters marry! That's what I say!
No RIGHT!"
Mrs. Baines did not know what to answer.
The aspirant wound up: "I must leave if that's the case."
"If what's the case?" she asked herself. "What has come over him?"
And aloud: "You know you would place me in a very awkward position by leaving,
and I hope you don't want to mix up two quite different things. I hope you
aren't trying to threaten me."
"Threaten you!" he cried. "Do you suppose I should leave here for
fun? If I leave it will be because I can't stand it. That's all. I can't stand
it. I want Constance, and if I can't have her, then I can't stand it. What do
you think I'm made of?"
"I'm sure—" she began.
"That's all very well!" he almost shouted.
"But please let me speak,' she said quietly.
"All I say is I can't stand it. That's all…. Employers have no
right…. We have our feelings like other men."
He was deeply moved. He might have appeared somewhat grotesque to
the strictly impartial observer of human nature. Nevertheless he was deeply and
genuinely moved, and possibly human nature could have shown nothing more human
than Mr. Povey at the moment when, unable any longer to restrain the paroxysm
which had so surprisingly overtaken him, he fled from the parlour, passionately,
to the retreat of his bedroom.
"That's the worst of those quiet calm ones," said Mrs. Baines to
herself. "You never know if they won't give way. And when they do, it's
awful—awful…. What did I do, what did I say, to bring it on? Nothing!
Nothing!"
And where was her afternoon sleep? What was going to happen to her
daughter? What could she say to Constance? How next could she meet Mr. Povey?
Ah! It needed a brave, indomitable woman not to cry out brokenly: "I've suffered
too much. Do anything you like; only let me die in peace!" And so saying, to let
everything indifferently slide!
III
Neither Mr. Povey nor Constance introduced the delicate subject to
her again, and she was determined not to be the first to speak of it. She
considered that Mr. Povey had taken advantage of his position, and that he had
also been infantile and impolite. And somehow she privately blamed Constance for
his behaviour. So the matter hung, as it were, suspended in the ether between
the opposing forces of pride and passion.
Shortly afterwards events occurred compared to which the
vicissitudes of Mr. Povey's heart were of no more account than a shower of rain
in April. And fate gave no warning of them; it rather indicated a complete
absence of events. When the customary advice circular arrived from Birkinshaws,
the name of 'our Mr. Gerald Scales' was replaced on it by another and an
unfamiliar name. Mrs. Baines, seeing the circular by accident, experienced a
sense of relief, mingled with the professional disappointment of a diplomatist
who has elaborately provided for contingencies which have failed to happen. She
had sent Sophia away for nothing; and no doubt her maternal affection had
exaggerated a molehill into a mountain. Really, when she reflected on the past,
she could not recall a single fact that would justify her theory of an
attachment secretly budding between Sophia and the young man Scales! Not a
single little fact! All she could bring forward was that Sophia had twice
encountered Scales in the street.
She felt a curious interest in the fate of Scales, for whom in her
own mind she had long prophesied evil, and when Birkinshaws' representative came
she took care to be in the shop; her intention was to converse with him, and
ascertain as much as was ascertainable, after Mr. Povey had transacted business.
For this purpose, at a suitable moment, she traversed the shop to Mr. Povey's
side, and in so doing she had a fleeting view of King Street, and in King Street
of a familiar vehicle. She stopped, and seemed to catch the distant sound of
knocking. Abandoning the traveller, she hurried towards the parlour, in the
passage she assuredly did hear knocking, angry and impatient knocking, the
knocking of someone who thinks he has knocked too long.
"Of course Maggie is at the top of the house!" she muttered
sarcastically.
She unchained, unbolted, and unlocked the side-door.
"At last!" It was Aunt Harriet's voice, exacerbated. "What! You,
sister? You're soon up. What a blessing!"
The two majestic and imposing creatures met on the mat, craning
forward so that their lips might meet above their terrific bosoms.
"What's the matter?" Mrs. Baines asked, fearfully.
"Well, I do declare!" said Mrs. Maddack. "And I've driven
specially over to ask you!"
"Where's Sophia?" demanded Mrs. Baines.
"You don't mean to say she's not come, sister?" Mrs. Maddack sank
down on to the sofa.
"Come?" Mrs. Baines repeated. "Of course she's not come! What do
you mean, sister?"
"The very moment she got Constance's letter yesterday, saying you
were ill in bed and she'd better come over to help in the shop, she started. I
got Bratt's dog-cart for her."
Mrs. Baines in her turn also sank down on to the sofa.
"I've not been ill," she said. "And Constance hasn't written for a
week! Only yesterday I was telling her—"
"Sister—it can't be! Sophia had letters from Constance every
morning. At least she said they were from Constance. I told her to be sure and
write me how you were last night, and she promised faithfully she would. And it
was because I got nothing by this morning's post that I decided to come over
myself, to see if it was anything serious."
"Serious it is!" murmured Mrs. Baines.
"What—"
"Sophia's run off. That's the plain English of it!" said Mrs.
Baines with frigid calm.
"Nay! That I'll never believe. I've looked after Sophia night and
day as if she was my own, and—"
"If she hasn't run off, where is she?"
Mrs. Maddack opened the door with a tragic gesture.
"Bladen," she called in a loud voice to the driver of the
waggonette, who was standing on the pavement.
"Yes'm."
"It was Pember drove Miss Sophia yesterday, wasn't it?"
"Yes'm."
She hesitated. A clumsy question might enlighten a member of the
class which ought never to be enlightened about one's private affairs.
"He didn't come all the way here?"
"No'm. He happened to say last night when he got back as Miss
Sophia had told him to set her down at Knype Station."
"I thought so!" said Mrs. Maddack, courageously.
"Yes'm."
"Sister!" she moaned, after carefully shutting the door.
They clung to each other.
The horror of what had occurred did not instantly take full
possession of them, because the power of credence, of imaginatively realizing a
supreme event, whether of great grief or of great happiness, is ridiculously
finite. But every minute the horror grew more clear, more intense, more
tragically dominant over them. There were many things that they could not say to
each other,—from pride, from shame, from the inadequacy of words. Neither could
utter the name of Gerald Scales. And Aunt Harriet could not stoop to defend
herself from a possible charge of neglect; nor could Mrs. Baines stoop to assure
her sister that she was incapable of preferring such a charge. And the sheer,
immense criminal folly of Sophia could not even be referred to: it was
unspeakable. So the interview proceeded, lamely, clumsily, inconsequently,
leading to naught.
Sophia was gone. She was gone with Gerald Scales.
That beautiful child, that incalculable, untamable, impossible
creature, had committed the final folly; without pretext or excuse, and with
what elaborate deceit! Yes, without excuse! She had not been treated harshly;
she had had a degree of liberty which would have astounded and shocked her
grandmothers; she had been petted, humoured, spoilt. And her answer was to
disgrace the family by an act as irrevocable as it was utterly vicious. If among
her desires was the desire to humiliate those majesties, her mother and Aunt
Harriet, she would have been content could she have seen them on the sofa there,
humbled, shamed, mortally wounded! Ah, the monstrous Chinese cruelty of
youth!
What was to be done? Tell dear Constance? No, this was not, at the
moment, an affair for the younger generation. It was too new and raw for the
younger generation. Moreover, capable, proud, and experienced as they were, they
felt the need of a man's voice, and a man's hard, callous ideas. It was a case
for Mr. Critchlow. Maggie was sent to fetch him, with a particular request that
he should come to the side-door. He came expectant, with the pleasurable
anticipation of disaster, and he was not disappointed. He passed with the
sisters the happiest hour that had fallen to him for years. Quickly he arranged
the alternatives for them. Would they tell the police, or would they take the
risks of waiting? They shied away, but with fierce brutality he brought them
again and again to the immediate point of decision…. Well, they could not tell
the police! They simply could not. Then they must face another danger…. He had
no mercy for them. And while he was torturing them there arrived a telegram,
despatched from Charing Cross, "I am all right, Sophia." That proved, at any
rate, that the child was not heartless, not merely careless.
Only yesterday, it seemed to Mrs. Baines, she had borne Sophia;
only yesterday she was a baby, a schoolgirl to be smacked. The years rolled up
in a few hours. And now she was sending telegrams from a place called Charing
Cross! How unlike was the hand of the telegram to Sophia's hand! How
mysteriously curt and inhuman was that official hand, as Mrs. Baines stared at
it through red, wet eyes!
Mr. Critchlow said some one should go to Manchester, to ascertain
about Scales. He went himself, that afternoon, and returned with the news that
an aunt of Scales had recently died, leaving him twelve thousand pounds, and
that he had, after quarrelling with his uncle Boldero, abandoned Birkinshaws at
an hour's notice and vanished with his inheritance.
"It's as plain as a pikestaff," said Mr. Critchlow. "I could ha'
warned ye o' all this years ago, even since she killed her father!"
Mr. Critchlow left nothing unsaid.
During the night Mrs. Baines lived through all Sophia's life,
lived through it more intensely than ever Sophia had done.
The next day people began to know. A whisper almost inaudible went
across the Square, and into the town: and in the stillness every one heard it.
"Sophia Baines run off with a commercial!"
In another fortnight a note came, also dated from London.
"Dear Mother, I am married to Gerald Scales. Please don't worry
about me. We are going abroad. Your affectionate Sophia. Love to Constance." No
tear-stains on that pale blue sheet! No sign of agitation!
And Mrs. Baines said: "My life is over." It was, though she was
scarcely fifty. She felt old, old and beaten. She had fought and been
vanquished. The everlasting purpose had been too much for her. Virtue had gone
out of her—the virtue to hold up her head and look the Square in the face. She,
the wife of John Baines! She, a Syme of Axe!
Old houses, in the course of their history, see sad sights, and
never forget them! And ever since, in the solemn physiognomy of the triple house
of John Baines at the corner of St. Luke's Square and King Street, have remained
the traces of the sight it saw on the morning of the afternoon when Mr. and Mrs.
Povey returned from their honeymoon—the sight of Mrs. Baines getting into the
waggonette for Axe; Mrs. Baines, encumbered with trunks and parcels, leaving the
scene of her struggles and her defeat, whither she had once come as slim as a
wand, to return stout and heavy, and heavy-hearted, to her childhood; content to
live with her grandiose sister until such time as she should be ready for
burial! The grimy and impassive old house perhaps heard her heart saying: "Only
yesterday they were little girls, ever so tiny, and now—" The driving-off of a
waggonette can be a dreadful thing.