The Old Wives' Tale. Bennett Arnold

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      It was a powerful and impressive speech, enunciated clearly in such a tone as Mrs. Baines had not employed since dismissing a young lady assistant five years ago for light conduct.

      “But, mother—”

      A commotion of pails resounded at the top of the stone steps. It was Maggie in descent from the bedrooms. Now, the Baines family passed its life in doing its best to keep its affairs to itself, the assumption being that Maggie and all the shop-staff (Mr. Povey possibly excepted) were obsessed by a ravening appetite for that which did not concern them. Therefore the voices of the Baineses always died away, or fell to a hushed, mysterious whisper, whenever the foot of the eavesdropper was heard.

      Mrs. Baines put a floured finger to her double chin. “That will do,” said she, with finality.

      Maggie appeared, and Sophia, with a brusque precipitation of herself, vanished upstairs.

II

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      “Now, really, Mr. Povey, this is not like you,” said Mrs. Baines, who, on her way into the shop, had discovered the Indispensable in the cutting-out room.

      It is true that the cutting-out room was almost Mr. Povey’s sanctum, whither he retired from time to time to cut out suits of clothes and odd garments for the tailoring department. It is true that the tailoring department flourished with orders, employing several tailors who crossed legs in their own homes, and that appointments were continually being made with customers for trying-on in that room. But these considerations did not affect Mrs. Baines’s attitude of disapproval.

      “I’m just cutting out that suit for the minister,” said Mr. Povey.

      The Reverend Mr. Murley, superintendent of the Wesleyan Methodist circuit, called on Mr. Baines every week. On a recent visit Mr. Baines had remarked that the parson’s coat was ageing into green, and had commanded that a new suit should be built and presented to Mr. Murley. Mr. Murley, who had a genuine mediaeval passion for souls, and who spent his money and health freely in gratifying the passion, had accepted the offer strictly on behalf of Christ, and had carefully explained to Mr. Povey Christ’s use for multifarious pockets.

      “I see you are,” said Mrs. Baines tartly. “But that’s no reason why you should be without a coat—and in this cold room too. You with toothache!”

      The fact was that Mr. Povey always doffed his coat when cutting out. Instead of a coat he wore a tape-measure.

      “My tooth doesn’t hurt me,” said he, sheepishly, dropping the great scissors and picking up a cake of chalk.

      “Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Baines.

      This exclamation shocked Mr. Povey. It was not unknown on the lips of Mrs. Baines, but she usually reserved it for members of her own sex. Mr. Povey could not recall that she had ever applied it to any statement of his. “What’s the matter with the woman?” he thought. The redness of her face did not help him to answer the question, for her face was always red after the operations of Friday in the kitchen.

      “You men are all alike,” Mrs. Baines continued. “The very thought of the dentist’s cures you. Why don’t you go in at once to Mr. Critchlow and have it out—like a man?”

      Mr. Critchlow extracted teeth, and his shop sign said “Bone-setter and chemist.” But Mr. Povey had his views.

      “I make no account of Mr. Critchlow as a dentist,” said he.

      “Then for goodness’ sake go up to Oulsnam’s.”

      “When? I can’t very well go now, and to-morrow is Saturday.”

      “Why can’t you go now?”

      “Well, of course, I COULD go now,” he admitted.

      “Let me advise you to go, then, and don’t come back with that tooth in your head. I shall be having you laid up next. Show some pluck, do!”

      “Oh! pluck—!” he protested, hurt.

      At that moment Constance came down the passage singing.

      “Constance, my pet!” Mrs. Baines called.

      “Yes, mother.” She put her head into the room. “Oh!” Mr. Povey was assuming his coat.

      “Mr. Povey is going to the dentist’s.”

      “Yes, I’m going at once,” Mr. Povey confirmed.

      “Oh! I’m so GLAD!” Constance exclaimed. Her face expressed a pure sympathy, uncomplicated by critical sentiments. Mr. Povey rapidly bathed in that sympathy, and then decided that he must show himself a man of oak and iron.

      “It’s always best to get these things done with,” said he, with stern detachment. “I’ll just slip my overcoat on.”

      “Here it is,” said Constance, quickly. Mr. Povey’s overcoat and hat were hung on a hook immediately outside the room, in the passage. She gave him the overcoat, anxious to be of service.

      “I didn’t call you in here to be Mr. Povey’s valet,” said Mrs. Baines to herself with mild grimness; and aloud: “I can’t stay in the shop long, Constance, but you can be there, can’t you, till Mr. Povey comes back? And if anything happens run upstairs and tell me.”

      “Yes, mother,” Constance eagerly consented. She hesitated and then turned to obey at once.

      “I want to speak to you first, my pet,” Mrs. Baines stopped her. And her tone was peculiar, charged with import, confidential, and therefore very flattering to Constance.

      “I think I’ll go out by the side-door,” said Mr. Povey. “It’ll be nearer.”

      This was truth. He would save about ten yards, in two miles, by going out through the side-door instead of through the shop. Who could have guessed that he was ashamed to be seen going to the dentist’s, afraid lest, if he went through the shop, Mrs. Baines might follow him and utter some remark prejudicial to his dignity before the assistants? (Mrs. Baines could have guessed, and did.)

      “You won’t want that tape-measure,” said Mrs. Baines, dryly, as Mr. Povey dragged open the side-door. The ends of the forgotten tape-measure were dangling beneath coat and overcoat.

      “Oh!” Mr. Povey scowled at his forgetfulness.

      “I’ll put it in its place,” said Constance, offering to receive the tape-measure.

      “Thank you,” said Mr. Povey, gravely. “I don’t suppose they’ll be long over my bit of a job,” he added, with a difficult, miserable smile.

      Then he went off down King Street, with an exterior of gay briskness and dignified joy in the fine May morning. But there was no May morning in his cowardly human heart.

      “Hi! Povey!” cried a voice from the Square.

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