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

“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 drawingroom, 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 drawingroom 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 drawingroom door (having first knocked—the practice of encouraging a servant to plunge without warning of any kind into a drawingroom 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 tonight. Nothing would do but he must come in tonight.”