The Old Wives' Tale by Arnold Bennett (carter reed txt) 📕

Constance’s eyes had a quizzical gleam behind her spectacles as she silently held up the photograph for Lily’s inspection.

Lily, sitting down, lowered the corners of her soft lips when she beheld the photograph, and nodded her head several times, scarce perceptibly.

“Her ladyship has just given it to me,” whispered Constance.

“Indeed!” said Lily, with an extraordinary accent.

‘Her ladyship’ was the last and best of Constance’s servants, a really excellent creature of thirty, who had known misfortune, and who must assuredly have been sent to Constance by the old watchful Providence. They ‘got on together’ nearly perfectly. Her name was Mary. After ten years of turmoil, Constance in the matter of servants was now at rest.

“Yes,” said Constance. “She’s named it to me several times—about having her photograph taken, and last week I let her go. I told you, didn’t I? I always consider her in every way, all her little fancies and everything. And the copies came to-day. I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything. You may be sure she’ll take a look into the album next time she cleans the room.”

Constance and Lily exchanged a glance agreeing that Constance had affably stretched a point in deciding to put the photograph of a servant between the same covers with photographs of her family and friends. It was doubtful whether such a thing had ever been done before.

One photograph usually leads to another, and one photograph album to another photograph album.

“Pass me that album on the second shelf of the Canterbury; my dear,” said Constance.

Lily rose vivaciously, as though to see the album on the second shelf of the Canterbury had been the ambition of her life.

They sat side by side at the table, Lily turning over the pages. Constance, for all her vast bulk, continually made little nervous movements. Occasionally she would sniff and occasionally a mysterious noise would occur in her chest; she always pretended that this noise was a cough, and would support the pretence by emitting a real cough immediately after it.

“Why!” exclaimed Lily. “Have I seen that before?” “I don’t know, my dear,” said Constance. “HAVE you?”

It was a photograph of Sophia taken a few years previously by ‘a very nice gentleman,’ whose acquaintance the sisters had made during a holiday at Harrogate. It portrayed Sophia on a knoll, fronting the weather.

“It’s Mrs. Scales to the life—I can see that,” said Lily.

“Yes,” said Constance. “Whenever there was a wind she always stood like that, and took long deep breaths of it.”

This recollection of one of Sophia’s habits recalled the whole woman to Constance’s memory, and drew a picture of her character for the girl who had scarcely known her.

“It’s not like ordinary photographs. There’s something special about it,” said Lily, enthusiastically. “I don’t think I ever saw a photograph like that.”

“I’ve got another copy of it in my bedroom,” said Constance. “I’ll give you this one.”

“Oh, Mrs. Povey! I couldn’t think—!”

“Yes, yes!” said Constance, removing the photograph from the page.

“Oh, THANK you!” said Lily.

“And that reminds me,” said Constance, getting up with great difficulty from her chair.

“Can I find anything for you?” Lily asked.

“No, no!” said Constance, leaving the room.

She returned in a moment with her jewel-box, a receptacle of ebony with ivory ornamentations.

“I’ve always meant to give you this,” said Constance, taking from the box a fine cameo brooch. “I don’t seem to fancy wearing it myself. And I should like to see you wearing it. It was mother’s. I believe they’re coming into fashion again. I don’t see why you shouldn’t wear it while you’re in mourning. They aren’t half so strict now about mourning as they used to be.”

“Truly!” murmured Lily, ecstatically. They kissed. Constance seemed to breathe out benevolence, as with trembling hands she pinned the brooch at Lily’s neck. She lavished the warm treasure of her heart on Lily, whom she regarded as an almost perfect girl, and who had become the idol of her latter years.

“What a magnificent old watch!” said Lily, as they delved together in the lower recesses of the box. “AND the chain to it!”

“That was father’s,” said Constance. “He always used to swear by it. When it didn’t agree with the Town Hall, he used to say: ‘Then th’ Town Hall’s wrong.’ And it’s curious, the Town Hall WAS wrong. You know the Town Hall clock has never been a good timekeeper. I’ve been thinking of giving that watch and chain to Dick.”

“HAVE you?” said Lily.

“Yes. It’s just as good as it was when father wore it. My husband never would wear it. He preferred his own. He had little fancies like that. And Cyril takes after his father.” She spoke in her ‘dry’ tone. “I’ve almost decided to give it to Dick—that is, if he behaves himself. Is he still on with this ballooning?”

Lily Smiled guiltily: “Oh yes!”

“Well,” said Constance, “I never heard the like! If he’s been up and come down safely, that ought to be enough for him. I wonder you let him do it, my dear.”

“But how can I stop him? I’ve no control over him.”

“But do you mean to say that he’d still do it if you told him seriously you didn’t want him to?”

“Yes,” said Lily; and added: “So I shan’t tell him.”

Constance nodded her head, musing over the secret nature of men. She remembered too well the cruel obstinacy of Samuel, who had nevertheless loved her. And Dick Povey was a thousand times more bizarre than Samuel. She saw him vividly, a little boy, whizzing down King Street on a boneshaker, and his cap flying off. Afterwards it had been motorcars! Now it was balloons! She sighed. She was struck by the profound instinctive wisdom just enunciated by the girl.

“Well,” she said, “I shall see. I’ve not made up my mind yet. What’s the young man doing this afternoon, by the way?”

“He’s gone to Birmingham to try to sell two motor-lorries. He won’t be back home till late. He’s coming over here tomorrow.”

It was an excellent illustration of Dick Povey’s methods that at this very moment Lily heard in the Square the sound of a motorcar, which happened to be Dick’s car. She sprang up to look.

“Why!” she cried, flushing. “Here he is now!”

“Bless us, bless us!” muttered Constance, closing the box.

When Dick, having left his car in King Street, limped tempestuously into the drawingroom, galvanizing it by his abundant vitality into a new life, he cried joyously: “Sold my lorries! Sold my lorries!” And he explained that by a charming accident he had disposed of them to a chance buyer in Hanbridge, just before starting for Birmingham. So he had telephoned to Birmingham that the matter was ‘off,’ and then, being ‘at a loose end,’ he had come over to Bursley in search of his betrothed. At Holl’s shop they had told him that she was with Mrs. Povey. Constance glanced at him, impressed by his jolly air of success. He seemed exactly like his breezy and self-confident advertisements in the Signal. He was absolutely pleased with himself. He triumphed over his limp—that ever-present reminder of a tragedy. Who would dream, to look at his blond, laughing, scintillating face, astonishingly young for his years, that he had once passed through such a night as that on which his father had killed his mother while he lay immovable and cursing, with a broken knee, in bed? Constance had heard all about that scene from her husband, and she paused in wonder at the contrasting hazards of existence.

Dick Povey brought his hands together with a resounding smack, and then rubbed them rapidly.

“AND a good price, too!” he exclaimed blithely. “Mrs. Povey, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve netted seventy pounds odd this afternoon.”

Lily’s eyes expressed her proud joy.

“I hope pride won’t have a fall,” said Constance, with a calm smile out of which peeped a hint of a rebuke. “That’s what I hope. I must just go and see about tea.”

“I can’t stay for tea—really,” said Dick.

“Of course you can,” said Constance, positively. “Suppose you’d been at Birmingham? It’s weeks since you stayed to tea.”

“Oh, well, thanks!” Dick yielded, rather snubbed.

“Can’t I save you a journey, Mrs. Povey?” Lily asked, eagerly thoughtful.

“No, thank you, my dear. There are one or two little things that need my attention.” And Constance departed with her jewel-box.

Dick, having assured himself that the door was closed, assaulted Lily with a kiss.

“Been here long?” he inquired.

“About an hour and a half.”

“Glad to see me?”

“Oh, Dick!” she protested.

“Old lady’s in one of her humours, eh?”

“No, no! Only she was just talking about balloons—you know. She’s very much up in arms.”

“You ought to keep her off balloons. Balloons may be the ruin of her wedding-present to us, my child.”

“Dick! How can you talk like that? … It’s all very well saying I ought to keep her off balloons. You try to keep her off balloons when once she begins, and see!”

“What started her?”

“She said she was thinking of giving you old Mr. Baines’s gold watch and chain—if you behaved yourself.”

“Thank you for nothing!” said Dick. “I don’t want it.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Have I seen it? I should say I had seen it. She’s mentioned it once or twice before.”

“Oh! I didn’t know.”

“I don’t see myself carting that thing about. I much prefer my own. What do you think of it?”

“Of course it is rather clumsy,” said Lily. “But if she offered it to you, you couldn’t refuse it, and you’d simply have to wear it.”

“Well, then,” said Dick, “I must try to behave myself just badly enough to keep off the watch, but not badly enough to upset her notions about wedding-presents.”

“Poor old thing!” Lily murmured, compassionately.

Then Lily put her hand silently to her neck.

“What’s that?”

“She’s just given it to me.”

Dick approached very near to examine the cameo brooch. “Hm!” he murmured. It was an adverse verdict. And Lily coincided with it by a lift of the eyebrows.

“And I suppose you’ll have to wear that!” said Dick.

“She values it as much as anything she’s got, poor old thing!” said Lily. “It belonged to her mother. And she says cameos are coming into fashion again. It really is rather good, you know.”

“I wonder where she learnt that!” said Dick, drily. “I see you’ve been suffering from the photographs again.”

“Well,” said Lily, “I much prefer the photographs to helping her to play Patience. The way she cheats herself—it’s too silly! I—”

She stopped. The door which had after all not been latched, was pushed open, and the antique Fossette introduced herself painfully into the room. Fossette had an affection for Dick Povey.

“Well, Methusaleh!” he greeted the animal loudly. She could scarcely wag her tail, nor shake the hair out of her dim eyes in order to look up at him. He stooped to pat her.

“That dog does smell,” said Lily, bluntly.

“What do you expect? What she wants is the least dose of prussic acid. She’s a burden to herself.”

“It’s funny that if you venture to hint to Mrs. Povey that the dog is offensive she gets quite peppery,” said Lily.

“Well, that’s very simple,” said Dick. “Don’t hint, that’s all! Hold your nose and