The Old Wives' Tale

by Arnold Bennett

  “Of course, you know,” he said, still more confidently, “if you should happen to change your mind, I’m always ready to form a little syndicate to take this”—he waved discreetly at the Pension—“off your hands.”

  She shook her head violently, which was strange, considering that for weeks she had been wishing to hear such words from Mr Mardon.

  “You needn’t give it up altogether,” he said. “You could retain your hold on it. We’d make you manageress, with a salary and a share in the profits. You’d be mistress just as much as you are now.”

  “Oh!” said she carelessly. “If I gave it up, I should give it up entirely. No half measures for me.”

  With the utterance of that sentence, the history of Frensham’s as a private undertaking was brought to a close. Sophia knew it. Mr Mardon knew it. Mr Mardon’s heart leapt. He saw in his imagination the formation of the preliminary syndicate, with himself at its head, and then the re-sale by the syndicate to a limited company at a profit. He saw a nice little profit for his own private personal self of a thousand or so—gained in a moment. The plant, his hope, which he had deemed dead, blossomed with miraculous suddenness.

  “Well,” he said. “Give it up entirely, then! Take a holiday for life. You’ve deserved it, Mrs Scales.”

  She shook her head once again.

  “Think it over,” he said.

  “I gave you my answer years ago,” she said obstinately, while fearing lest he should take her at her word.

  “Oblige me by thinking it over,” he said. “I’ll mention it to you again in a few days.”

  “It will be no use,” she said.

  He took his leave, waddling down the street in his vague clothes, conscious of his fame as Lewis Mardon, the great house-agent of the Champs Elysées, known throughout Europe and America.

  In a few days he did mention it again.

  “There’s only one thing that makes me dream of it even for a moment,” said Sophia. “And that is my sister’s health.”

  “Your sister!” he exclaimed. He did not know she had a sister. Never had she spoken of her family.

  “Yes. Her letters are beginning to worry me.”

  “Does she live in Paris?”

  “No. In Staffordshire. She has never left home.”

  And to preserve her pride intact she led Mr Mardon to think that Constance was in a most serious way, whereas in truth Constance had nothing worse than her sciatica, and even that was somewhat better.

  Thus she yielded.

  CHAPTER II

  THE MEETING

  I

  Soon after dinner one day in the following spring, Mr Critchlow knocked at Constance’s door. She was seated in the rocking-chair in front of the fire in the parlour. She wore a large “rough” apron, and with the outlying parts of the apron she was rubbing the moisture out of the coat of a young wire-haired fox-terrier, for whom no more original name had been found than “Spot.” It is true that he had a spot. Constance had more than once called the world to witness that she would never have a young dog again, because, as she said, she could not be always running about after them, and they ate the stuffing out of the furniture. But her last dog had lived too long; a dog can do worse things than eat furniture; and, in her natural reaction against age in dogs, and also in the hope of postponing as long as possible the inevitable sorrow and upset which death causes when it takes off a domestic pet, she had not known how to refuse the very desirable fox-terrier aged ten months that an acquaintance had offered to her. Spot’s beautiful pink skin could be seen under his disturbed hair; he was exquisitely soft to the touch, and to himself he was loathsome. His eyes continually peeped forth between corners of the agitated towel, and they were full of inquietude and shame.

  Amy was assisting at this performance, gravely on the watch to see that Spot did not escape into the coal-cellar. She opened the door to Mr Critchlow’s knock. Mr Critchlow entered without any formalities, as usual. He did not seem to have changed. He had the same quantity of white hair, he wore the same long white apron, and his voice (which showed, however, an occasional tendency to shrillness) had the same grating quality. He stood fairly straight. He was carrying a newspaper in his vellum hand.

  “Well, missis!” he said.

  “That will do, thank you, Amy,” said Constance, quietly. Amy went slowly.

  “So ye’re washing him for her!” said Mr Critchlow.

  “Yes,” Constance admitted. Spot glanced sharply at the aged man.

  “An’ ye seen this bit in the paper about Sophia?” he asked, holding the Signal for her inspection.

  “About Sophia?” cried Constance. “What’s amiss?”

  “Nothing’s amiss. But they’ve got it. It’s in the ‘Staffordshire day by day’ column. Here! I’ll read it ye.” He drew a long wooden spectacle-case from his waistcoat pocket, and placed a second pair of spectacles on his nose. Then he sat down on the sofa, his knees sticking out pointedly, and read: “ ‘We understand that Mrs Sophia Scales, proprietress of the famous Pension Frensham in the Rue Lord Byron, Paris’—it’s that famous that nobody in th’ Five Towns has ever heard of it—‘is about to pay a visit to her native town, Bursley, after an absence of over thirty years. Mrs Scales belonged to the well-known and highly respected family of Baines. She has recently disposed of the Pension Frensham to a limited company, and we are betraying no secret in stating that the price paid ran well into five figures.’ So ye see!” Mr Critchlow commented.

  “How do those Signal people find out things?” Constance murmured.

  “Eh, bless ye, I don’t know,” said Mr Critchlow.

  This was an untruth. Mr Critchlow had himself given the information to the new editor of the Signal, who had soon been made aware of Critchlow’s passion for the Press, and who knew how to make use of it.

  “I wish it hadn’t appeared just today,” said Constance.

  “Why?”

  “Oh! I don’t know, I wish it hadn’t.”

  “Well, I’ll be touring on, missis,” said Mr Critchlow, meaning that he would go.

  He left the paper, and descended the steps with senile deliberation. It was characteristic that he had shown no curiosity whatever as to the details of Sophia’s arrival.

  Constance removed her apron, wrapped Spot up in it, and put him in a corner of the sofa. She then abruptly sent Amy out to buy a penny time-table.

  “I thought you were going by tram to Knype,” Amy observed.

  “I have decided to go by train,” said Constance, with cold dignity, as if she had decided the fate of nations. She hated such observations from Amy, who unfortunately lacked, in an increasing degree, the supreme gift of unquestioning obedience.

  When Amy came breathlessly back, she found Constance in her bedroom, withdrawing crumpled balls of paper from the sleeves of her second-best mantle. Constance scarcely ever wore this mantle. In theory it was destined for chapel on wet Sundays; in practice it had remained long in the wardrobe, Sundays having been obstinately fine for weeks and weeks together. It was a mantle that Constance had never really liked. But she was not going to Knype to meet Sophia in her everyday mantle; and she had no intention of donning her best mantle for such an excursion. To make her first appearance before Sophia in the best mantle she had—this would have been a sad mistake of tactics! Not only would it have led to an anti-climax on Sunday, but it would have given to Constance the air of being in awe of Sophia. Now Constance was in truth a little afraid of Sophia; in thirty years Sophia might have grown into anything, whereas Constance had remained just Constance. Paris was a great place; and it was immensely far off. And the mere sound of that limited company business was intimidating. Imagine Sophia having by her own efforts created something which a real limited company wanted to buy and had bought! Yes, Constance was afraid, but she did not mean to show her fear in her mantle. After all, she was the elder. And she had her dignity too—and a lot of it—tucked away in her secret heart, hidden within the mildness of that soft exterior.
So she had decided on the second-best mantle, which, being seldom used, had its sleeves stuffed with paper to the end that they might keep their shape and their “fall.” The little balls of paper were strewed over the bed.

  “There’s a train at a quarter to three, gets to Knype at ten minutes past,” said Amy, officiously. “But supposing it was only three minutes late and the London train was prompt, then you might miss her. Happen you’d better take the two fifteen to be on the safe side.”

  “Let me look,” said Constance, firmly. “Please put all this paper in the wardrobe.”

  She would have preferred not to follow Amy’s suggestion, but it was so incontestably wise that she was obliged to accept it.

  “Unless you go by tram,” said Amy. “That won’t mean starting quite so soon.”

  But Constance would not go by tram. If she took the tram she would be bound to meet people who had read the Signal, and who would say, with their stupid vacuity: “Going to meet your sister at Knype?” And then tiresome conversations would follow. Whereas, in the train, she would choose a compartment, and would be far less likely to encounter chatterers.

  There was now not a minute to lose. And the excitement which had been growing in that house for days past, under a pretence of calm, leapt out swiftly into the light of the sun, and was unashamed. Amy had to help her mistress make herself as comely as she could be made without her best dress, mantle, and bonnet. Amy was frankly consulted as to effects. The barrier of class was lowered for a space. Many years had elapsed since Constance had been conscious of a keen desire to look smart. She was reminded of the days when, in full fig for chapel, she would dash downstairs on a Sunday morning, and, assuming a pose for inspection at the threshold of the parlour, would demand of Samuel: “Shall I do?” Yes, she used to dash downstairs, like a child, and yet in those days she had thought herself so sedate and mature! She sighed, half with lancinating regret, and half in gentle disdain of that mercurial creature aged less than thirty. At fifty-one she regarded herself as old. And she was old. And Amy had the tricks and manners of an old spinster. Thus the excitement in the house was an “old” excitement, and, like Constance’s desire to look smart, it had its ridiculous side, which was also its tragic side, the side that would have made a boor guffaw, and a hysterical fool cry, and a wise man meditate sadly upon the earth’s fashion of renewing itself.

  At half past one Constance was dressed, with the exception of her gloves. She looked at the clock a second time to make sure that she might safely glance round the house without fear of missing the train. She went up into the bedroom on the second floor, her and Sophia’s old bedroom, which she had prepared with enormous care for Sophia. The airing of that room had been an enterprise of days, for, save by a minister during the sittings of the Wesleyan Methodist Conference at Bursley, it had never been occupied since the era when Maria Insull used occasionally to sleep in the house. Cyril clung to his old room on his visits. Constance had an ample supply of solid and stately furniture, and the chamber destined for Sophia was lightened in every corner by the reflections of polished mahogany. It was also fairly impregnated with the odour of furniture paste—an odour of which no housewife need be ashamed. Further, it had been re-papered in a delicate blue, with one of the new “art” patterns. It was a “Baines” room. And Constance did not care where Sophia came from, nor what Sophia had been accustomed to, nor into what limited company Sophia had been transformed—that room was adequate! It could not have been improved upon. You had only to look at the crocheted mats—even those on the washstand under the white-and-gold ewer and other utensils. It was folly to expose such mats to the splashings of a washstand, but it was sublime folly. Sophia might remove them if she cared. Constance was house-proud; house-pride had slumbered within her; now it blazed forth.

  A fire brightened the drawing-room, which was a truly magnificent apartment, a museum of valuables collected by the Baines and the Maddack families since the year 1840, tempered by the last novelties in antimacassars and cloths. In all Bursley there could have been few drawing-rooms to compare with Constance’s. Constance knew it. She was not afraid of her drawing-room being seen by anybody.

  She passed for an instant into her own bedroom, where Amy was patiently picking balls of paper from the bed.

  “Now you quite understand about tea?” Constance asked.

  “Oh yes, ’m,” said Amy, as if to say: “How much oftener are you going to ask me that question?” “Are you off now, ’m?”

  “Yes,” said Constance. “Come and fasten the front door after me.”

  They descended together to the parlour. A white cloth for tea lay folded on the table. It was of the finest damask that skill could choose and money buy. It was fifteen years old, and had never been spread. Constance would not have produced it for the first meal, had she not possessed two others of equal eminence. On the harmonium were arranged several jams and cakes, a Bursley pork-pie, and some pickled salmon; with the necessary silver. All was there. Amy could not go wrong. And crocuses were in the vases on the mantelpiece. Her “garden,” in the phrase which used to cause Samuel to think how extraordinarily feminine she was! It was a long time since she had had a “garden” on the mantelpiece. Her interest in her chronic sciatica and in her palpitations had grown at the expense of her interest in gardens. Often, when she had finished the complicated processes by which her furniture and other goods were kept in order, she had strength only to “rest.” She was rather a fragile, small, fat woman, soon out of breath, easily marred. This business of preparing for the advent of Sophia had appeared to her genuinely colossal. However, she had come through it very well. She was in pretty good health; only a little tired, and more than a little anxious and nervous, as she gave the last glance.

  “Take away that apron, do!” she said to Amy, pointing to the rough apron in the corner of the sofa. “By the way, where is Spot?”

  “Spot, m’m?” Amy ejaculated.

  Both their hearts jumped. Amy instinctively looked out of the window. He was there, sure enough, in the gutter, studying the indescribabilities of King Street. He had obviously escaped when Amy came in from buying the time-table. The woman’s face was guilty.

  “Amy, I wonder at you!” exclaimed Constance, tragically. She opened the door.

  “Well, I never did see the like of that dog!” murmured Amy.

  “Spot!” his mistress commanded. “Come here at once. Do you hear me?”

  Spot turned sharply and gazed motionless at Constance. Then with a toss of the head he dashed off to the corner of the Square, and gazed motionless again. Amy went forth to catch him. After an age she brought him in, squealing. He was in a state exceedingly offensive to the eye and to the nose. He had effectively got rid of the smell of the soap, which he loathed. Constance could have wept. It did really appear to her that nothing had gone right that day. And Spot had the most innocent, trustful air. Impossible to make him realize that his aunt Sophia was coming. He would have sold his entire family into servitude in order to buy ten yards of King Street gutter.

  “You must wash him in the scullery, that’s all there is for it,” said Constance, controlling herself. “Put that apron on, and don’t forget one of your new aprons when you open the door. Better shut him up in Mr Cyril’s bedroom when you’ve dried him.”

  And she went, charged with worries, clasping her bag and her umbrella and smoothing her gloves, and spying downwards at the folds of her mantle.

  “That’s a funny way to go to Bursley Station, that is,” said Amy, observing that Constance was descending King Street instead of crossing it into Wedgwood Street. And she caught Spot “a fair clout on the head,” to indicate to him that she had him alone in the house now.

  Constance was taking a round-about route to the station, so that, if stopped by acquaintances, she should not be too obviously going to the station. Her feelings concerning the arrival of Sophia, and concerning the town’s attitude towards it, were very complex.

  She was forced
to hurry. And she had risen that morning with plans perfectly contrived for the avoidance of hurry. She disliked hurry because it always “put her about.”

  II

  The express from London was late, so that Constance had three-quarters of an hour of the stony calmness of Knype platform when it is waiting for a great train. At last the porters began to cry, “Macclesfield, Stockport, and Manchester train”; the immense engine glided round the curve, dwarfing the carriages behind it, and Constance had a supreme tremor. The calmness of the platform was transformed into a mêlée. Little Constance found herself left on the fringe of a physically agitated crowd which was apparently trying to scale a precipice surmounted by windows and doors from whose apertures looked forth defenders of the train. Knype platform seemed as if it would never be reduced to order again. And Constance did not estimate highly the chances of picking out an unknown Sophia from that welter. She was very seriously perturbed. All the muscles of her face were drawn as her gaze wandered anxiously from end to end of the train.

  Presently she saw a singular dog. Other people also saw it. It was of the colour of chocolate; it had a head and shoulders richly covered with hair that hung down in thousands of tufts like the tufts of a modern mop such as is bought in shops. This hair stopped suddenly rather less than half-way along the length of the dog’s body, the remainder of which was naked and as smooth as marble. The effect was to give to the inhabitants of the Five Towns the impression that the dog had forgotten an essential part of its attire and was outraging decency. The ball of hair which had been allowed to grow on the dog’s tail, and the circles of hair which ornamented its ankles, only served to intensify the impression of indecency. A pink ribbon round its neck completed the outrage. The animal had absolutely the air of a decked trollop. A chain ran taut from the creature’s neck into the middle of a small crowd of persons gesticulating over trunks, and Constance traced it to a tall and distinguished woman in a coat and skirt with a rather striking hat. A beautiful and aristocratic woman, Constance thought, at a distance! Then the strange idea came to her: “That’s Sophia!” she was sure. . . She was not sure. . . She was sure. The woman emerged from the crowd. Her eye fell on Constance. They both hesitated, and, as it were, wavered uncertainly towards each other.