The Old Wives' Tale. Bennett Arnold

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IV

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      “You’ve been out, Sophia?” said Mrs. Baines in the parlour, questioningly. Sophia had taken off her hat and mantle hurriedly in the cutting-out room, for she was in danger of being late for tea; but her hair and face showed traces of the March breeze. Mrs. Baines, whose stoutness seemed to increase, sat in the rocking-chair with a number of The Sunday at Home in her hand. Tea was set.

      “Yes, mother. I called to see Miss Chetwynd.”

      “I wish you’d tell me when you are going out.”

      “I looked all over for you before I started.”

      “No, you didn’t, for I haven’t stirred from this room since four o’clock. … You should not say things like that,” Mrs. Baines added in a gentler tone.

      Mrs. Baines had suffered much that day. She knew that she was in an irritable, nervous state, and therefore she said to herself, in her quality of wise woman, “I must watch myself. I mustn’t let myself go.” And she thought how reasonable she was. She did not guess that all her gestures betrayed her; nor did it occur to her that few things are more galling than the spectacle of a person, actuated by lofty motives, obviously trying to be kind and patient under what he considers to be extreme provocation.

      Maggie blundered up the kitchen stairs with the teapot and hot toast; and so Sophia had an excuse for silence. Sophia too had suffered much, suffered excruciatingly; she carried at that moment a whole tragedy in her young soul, unaccustomed to such burdens. Her attitude towards her mother was half fearful and half defiant; it might be summed up in the phrase which she had repeated again and again under her breath on the way home, “Well, mother can’t kill me!”

      Mrs. Baines put down the blue-covered magazine and twisted her rocking-chair towards the table.

      “You can pour out the tea,” said Mrs. Baines.

      “Where’s Constance?”

      “She’s not very well. She’s lying down.”

      “Anything the matter with her?”

      “No.”

      This was inaccurate. Nearly everything was the matter with Constance, who had never been less Constance than during that afternoon. But Mrs. Baines had no intention of discussing Constance’s love-affairs with Sophia. The less said to Sophia about love, the better! Sophia was excitable enough already!

      They sat opposite to each other, on either side of the fire—the monumental matron whose black bodice heavily overhung the table, whose large rounded face was creased and wrinkled by what seemed countless years of joy and disillusion; and the young, slim girl, so fresh, so virginal, so ignorant, with all the pathos of an unsuspecting victim about to be sacrificed to the minotaur of Time! They both ate hot toast, with careless haste, in silence, preoccupied, worried, and outwardly nonchalant.

      “And what has Miss Chetwynd got to say?” Mrs. Baines inquired.

      “She wasn’t in.”

      Here was a blow for Mrs. Baines, whose suspicions about Sophia, driven off by her certainties regarding Constance, suddenly sprang forward in her mind, and prowled to and fro like a band of tigers.

      Still, Mrs. Baines was determined to be calm and careful. “Oh! What time did you call?”

      “I don’t know. About half-past four.” Sophia finished her tea quickly, and rose. “Shall I tell Mr. Povey he can come?”

      (Mr. Povey had his tea after the ladies of the house.)

      “Yes, if you will stay in the shop till I come. Light me the gas before you go.”

      Sophia took a wax taper from a vase on the mantelpiece, stuck it in the fire and lit the gas, which exploded in its crystal cloister with a mild report.

      “What’s all that clay on your boots, child?” asked Mrs. Baines.

      “Clay?” repeated Sophia, staring foolishly at her boots.

      “Yes,” said Mrs. Baines. “It looks like marl. Where on earth have you been?”

      She interrogated her daughter with an upward gaze, frigid and unconsciously hostile, through her gold-rimmed glasses.

      “I must have picked it up on the roads,” said Sophia, and hastened to the door.

      “Sophia!”

      “Yes, mother.”

      “Shut the door.”

      Sophia unwillingly shut the door which she had half opened.

      “Come here.”

      Sophia obeyed, with falling lip.

      “You are deceiving me, Sophia,” said Mrs. Baines, with fierce solemnity. “Where have you been this afternoon?”

      Sophia’s foot was restless on the carpet behind the table. “I haven’t been anywhere,” she murmured glumly.

      “Have you seen young Scales?”

      “Yes,” said Sophia with grimness, glancing audaciously for an instant at her mother. (“She can’t kill me: She can’t kill me,” her heart muttered. And she had youth and beauty in her favour, while her mother was only a fat middle-aged woman. “She can’t kill me,” said her heart, with the trembling, cruel insolence of the mirror-flattered child.)

      “How came you to meet him?”

      No answer.

      “Sophia, you heard what I said!”

      Still no answer. Sophia looked down at the table. (“She can’t kill me.”)

      “If you are going to be sullen, I shall have to suppose the worst,” said Mrs. Baines.

      Sophia kept her silence.

      “Of course,” Mrs. Baines resumed, “if you choose to be wicked, neither your mother nor any one else can stop you. There are certain things I CAN do, and these I SHALL do … Let me warn you that young Scales is a thoroughly bad lot. I know all about him. He has been living a wild life abroad, and if it hadn’t been that his uncle is a partner in Birkinshaws, they would never have taken him on again.” A pause. “I hope that one day you will be a happy wife, but you are much too young yet to be meeting young men, and nothing would ever induce me to let you have anything to do with this Scales. I won’t have it. In future you are not to go out alone. You understand me?”

      Sophia kept silence.

      “I hope you will be in a better frame of mind to-morrow. I can only hope so. But if you aren’t, I shall take very severe measures. You think you can defy me. But you never were more mistaken in your life. I don’t want to see any more of you now. Go and tell Mr. Povey; and call Maggie for the СКАЧАТЬ