“He’s got a surprise for ye, has Dick!” the doctor added.
Dick Povey, after his father’s death and his own partial recovery, had set up in Hanbridge as a bicycle agent. He was permanently lamed, and he hopped about with a thick stick. He had succeeded with bicycles and had taken to automobiles, and he was succeeding with automobiles. People were at first startled that he should advertise himself in the Five Towns. There was an obscure general feeling that because his mother had been a drunkard and his father a murderer, Dick Povey had no right to exist. However, when it had recovered from the shock of seeing Dick Povey’s announcement of bargains in the Signal, the district most sensibly decided that there was no reason why Dick Povey should not sell bicycles as well as a man with normal parents. He was now supposed to be acquiring wealth rapidly. It was said that he was a marvellous chauffeur, at once daring and prudent. He had one day, several years previously, overtaken the sisters in the rural neighbourhood of Sneyd, where they had been making an afternoon excursion. Constance had presented him to Sophia, and he had insisted on driving the ladies home. They had been much impressed by his cautious care of them, and their natural prejudice against anything so new as a motor-car had been conquered instantly. Afterwards he had taken them out for occasional runs. He had a great admiration for Constance, founded on gratitude to Samuel Povey; and as for Sophia, he always said to her that she would be an ornament to any car.
“You haven’t heard his latest, I suppose?” said the doctor, smiling.
“What is it?” Sophia asked, perfunctorily.
“He wants to take to ballooning. It seems he’s been up once.”
Constance made a deprecating noise with her lips.
“However, that’s not his surprise,” the doctor added, smiling again at the floor. He was sitting on the music-stool, and saying to himself, behind his mask of effulgent good-nature: “It gets more and more uphill work, cheering up these two women. I’ll try them on Federation.”
Federation was the name given to the scheme for blending the Five Towns into one town, which would be the twelfth largest town in the kingdom. It aroused fury in Bursley, which saw in the suggestion nothing but the extinction of its ancient glory to the aggrandizement of Hanbridge. Hanbridge had already, with the assistance of electric cars that whizzed to and fro every five minutes, robbed Bursley of two-thirds of its retail trade—as witness the steady decadence of the Square!—and Bursley had no mind to swallow the insult and become a mere ward of Hanbridge. Bursley would die fighting. Both Constance and Sophia were bitter opponents of Federation. They would have been capable of putting Federationists to the torture. Sophia in particular, though so long absent from her native town, had adopted its cause with characteristic vigour. And when Dr Stirling wished to practise his curative treat ment of taking the sisters “out of themselves,” he had only to start the hare of Federation and the hunt would be up in a moment. But this afternoon he did not succeed with Sophia, and only partially with Constance. When he stated that there was to be a public meeting that very night, and that Constance as a ratepayer ought to go to it and vote, if her convictions were genuine, she received his chaff with a mere murmur to the effect that she did not think she should go. Had the man forgotten that Spot was dead? At length he became grave, and examined them both as to their ailments, and nodded his head, and looked into vacancy while meditating upon each case. And then, when he had inquired where they meant to go for their summer holidays, he departed.
“Aren’t you going to see him out?” Constance whispered to Sophia, who had shaken hands with him at the drawing-room door. It was Sophia who did the running about, owing to the state of Constance’s sciatic nerve. Constance had, indeed, become extraordinarily inert, leaving everything to Sophia.
Sophia shook her head. She hesitated; then approached Constance, holding out her hand and disclosing the crumpled telegram.
“Look at that!” said she.
Her face frightened Constance, who was always expectant of new anxieties and troubles. Constance straightened out the paper with difficulty, and read—
Mr Gerald Scales is dangerously ill here. Boldero, 49, Deansgate, Manchester.
All through the inexpressibly tedious and quite unnecessary call of Dr Stirling—(Why had he chosen to call just then? Neither of them was ill)—Sophia had held that telegram concealed in her hand and its information concealed in her heart. She had kept her head up, offering a calm front to the world. She had given no hint of the terrible explosion—for an explosion it was. Constance was astounded at her sister’s self-control, which entirely passed her comprehension. Constance felt that worries would never cease, but would rather go on multiplying until death ended all. First, there had been the frightful worry of the servant; then the extremely distressing death and burial of Spot—and now it was Gerald Scales turning up again! With what violence was the direction of their thoughts now shifted! The wickedness of maids was a trifle; the death of pets was a trifle. But the reappearance of Gerald Scales! . . . That involved the possibility of consequences which could not even be named, so afflictive was the mere prospect to them. Constance was speechless, and she saw that Sophia was also speechless.
Of course the event had been bound to happen. People do not vanish never to be heard of again. The time surely arrives when the secret is revealed. So Sophia said to herself—now!
She had always refused to consider the effect of Gerald’s reappearance. She had put the idea of it away from her, determined to convince herself that she had done with him finally and for ever. She had forgotten him. It was years since he had ceased to disturb her thoughts—many years. “He must be dead,” she had persuaded herself. “It is inconceivable that he should have lived on and never come across me. If he had been alive and learnt that I had made money, he would assuredly have come to me. No, he must be dead!”
And he was not dead! The brief telegram overwhelmingly shocked her. Her life had been calm, regular, monotonous. And now it was thrown into an indescribable turmoil by five words of a telegram, suddenly, with no warning whatever. Sophia had the right to say to herself: “I have had my share of trouble, and more than my share!” The end of her life promised to be as awful as the beginning. The mere existence of Gerald Scales was a menace to her. But it was the simple impact of the blow that affected her supremely, beyond ulterior things. One might have pictured fate as a cowardly brute who had struck this ageing woman full in the face, a felling blow, which however had not felled her. She staggered, but she stuck on her legs. It seemed a shame—one of those crude, spectacular shames which make the blood boil—that the gallant, defenceless creature should be so maltreated by the bully, destiny.
“Oh, Sophia!” Constance moaned. “What trouble is this?”
Sophia’s lip curled with a disgusted air. Under that she hid her suffering.
She had not seen him for thirty-six years. He must be over seventy years of age, and he had turned up again like a bad penny, doubtless a disgrace! What had he been doing in those thirty-six years? He was an old, enfeebled man now! He must be a pretty sight! And he lay at Manchester, not two hours away!
Whatever feelings were in Sophia’s heart, tenderness was not among them. As she collected her wits from the stroke, she was principally aware of the sentiment of fear. She recoiled from the future.
“What shall you do?” Constance asked. Constance was weeping.
Sophia tapped her foot, glancing out of the window.
“Shall you go to see him?” Constance continued.
“Of course,” said Sophia. “I must!”
She hated the thought of going to see him. She flinched from it. She felt herself under no moral obligation to go. Why should she go? Gerald was nothing to her, and had no claim on her of any kind. This she honestly believed. And yet she knew that she must go to him. She knew it to be impossible that she should not go.
“Now?” demanded Constance.
Sophia nodded.
“what about the trains?. . .
Oh, you poor dear!” The mere idea of the journey to Manchester put Constance out of her wits, seeming a business of unparalleled complexity and difficulty.
“Would you like me to come with you?”
“Oh no! I must go by myself.”
Constance was relieved by this. They could not have left the servant in the house alone, and the idea of shutting up the house without notice or preparation presented itself to Constance as too fantastic.
By a common instinct they both descended to the parlour.
“Now, what about a time-table? What about a time-table?” Constance mumbled on the stairs. She wiped her eyes resolutely. “I wonder whatever in this world has brought him at last to that Mr Boldero’s in Deansgate?” she asked the walls.
As they came into the parlour, a great motor-car drove up before the door, and when the pulsations of its engines had died away, Dick Povey hobbled from the driver’s seat to the pavement. In an instant he was hammering at the door in his lively style. There was no avoiding him. The door had to be opened. Sophia opened it. Dick Povey was over forty, but he looked considerably younger. Despite his lameness, and the fact that his lameness tended to induce corpulence, he had a dashing air, and his face, with its short, light moustache, was boyish. He seemed to be always upon some joyous adventure.
“Well, aunties,” he greeted the sisters, having perceived Constance behind Sophia; he often so addressed them. “Has Dr Stirling warned you that I was coming? Why haven’t you got your things on?”
Sophia observed a young woman in the car.
“Yes,” said he, following her gaze, “you may as well look. Come down, miss. Come down, Lily. You’ve got to go through with it.” The young woman, delicately confused and blushing, obeyed. “This is Miss Lily Holl,” he went on. “I don’t know whether you would remember her. I don’t think you do. It’s not often she comes to the Square. But, of course, she knows you by sight. Granddaughter of your old neighbour, Alderman Holl! We are engaged to be married, if you please.”
Constance and Sophia could not decently pour out their griefs on the top of such news. The betrothed pair had to come in and be congratulated upon their entry into the large realms of mutual love. But the sisters, even in their painful quandary, could not help noticing what a nice, quiet, ladylike girl Lily Holl was. Her one fault appeared to be that she was too quiet. Dick Povey was not the man to pass time in formalities, and he was soon urging departure.
“I’m sorry we can’t come,” said Sophia. “I’ve got to go to Manchester now. We are in great trouble.”
“Yes, in great trouble,” Constance weakly echoed.
Dick’s face clouded sympathetically. And both the affianced began to see that to which the egotism of their happiness had blinded them. They felt that long, long years had elapsed since these ageing ladies had experienced the delights which they were feeling.
“Trouble? I’m sorry to hear that!” said Dick.
“Can you tell me the trains to Manchester?” asked Sophia.
“No,” said Dick, quickly. “But I can drive you there quicker than any train, if it’s urgent. Where do you want to go to?”
“Deansgate,” Sophia faltered.
“Look here,” said Dick, “it’s half-past three. Put yourself in my hands; I’ll guarantee at Deansgate you shall be before half-past five. I’ll look after you.”
“But—”
“There isn’t any ‘but.’ I’m quite free for the afternoon and evening.”
At first the suggestion seemed absurd, especially to Constance. But really it was too tempting to be declined. While Sophia made ready for the journey, Dick and Lily Holl and Constance conversed in low, solemn tones. The pair were waiting to be enlightened as to the nature of the trouble; Constance, however, did not enlighten them. How could Constance say to them: “Sophia has a husband that she hasn’t seen for thirty-six years, and he’s dangerously ill, and they’ve telegraphed for her to go?” Constance could not. It did not even occur to Constance to order a cup of tea.
III
Dick Povey kept his word. At a quarter past five he drew up in front of No. 49 Deansgate, Manchester. “There you are!” he said, not without pride. “Now, we’ll come back in about a couple of hours or so, just to take your orders, whatever they are.” He was very comforting, with his suggestion that in him Sophia had a sure support in the background.
Without many words Sophia went straight into the shop. It looked like a jeweller’s shop, and a shop for bargains generally. Only the conventional sign over a side-entrance showed that at heart it was a pawn-broker’s. Mr Till Boldero did a nice business in the Five Towns, and in other centres near Manchester, by selling silver-ware second-hand, or nominally second-hand, to persons who wished to make presents to other persons or to themselves. He would send anything by post on approval. Occasionally he came to the Five Towns, and he had once, several years before, met Constance. They had talked. He was the son of a cousin of the late great and wealthy Boldero, sleeping partner in Birkinshaws, and Gerald’s uncle. It was from Constance that he had learnt of Sophia’s return to Bursley. Constance had often remarked to Sophia what a superior man Mr Till Boldero was.
The shop was narrow and lofty. It seemed like a menagerie for trapped silver-ware. In glass cases right up to the dark ceiling silver vessels and instruments of all kinds lay confined. The top of the counter was a glass prison containing dozens of gold watches, together with snuff-boxes, enamels, and other antiquities. The front of the counter was also glazed, showing vases and large pieces of porcelain. A few pictures in heavy gold frames were perched about. There was a case of umbrellas with elaborate handles and rich tassels. There were a couple of statuettes. The counter, on the customer’s side, ended in a glass screen on which were the words “Private Office.” On the seller’s side the prospect was closed by a vast safe. A tall young man was fumbling in this safe. Two women sat on customers’ chairs, leaning against the crystal counter. The young man came towards them from the safe, bearing a tray.
“How much is that goblet?” asked one of the women, raising her parasol dangerously among such fragility and pointing to one object among many in a case high up from the ground.
“That, madam?”
“Yes.”
“Thirty-five pounds.”
The young man disposed his tray on the counter. It was packed with more gold watches, adding to the extraordinary glitter and shimmer of the shop. He chose a small watch from the regiment.
“Now, this is something I can recommend,” he said. “It’s made by Cuthbert Butler of Blackburn. I can guarantee you that for five years.” He spoke as though he were the accredited representative of the Bank of England, with calm and absolute assurance.
The effect upon Sophia was mysteriously soothing. She felt that she was among honest men. The young man raised his head towards her with a questioning, deferential gesture.
“Can I see Mr Boldero?” she asked. “Mrs Scales.”
The young man’s face changed instantly to a sympathetic comprehension.
“Yes, madam. I’ll fetch him at once,” said he, and he disappeared behind the safe. The two customers discussed the watch. Then the door opened in the glass screen, and a portly, middle-aged man showed himself. He was dressed in blue broadcloth, with a turned-down collar and a small black tie. His waistcoat displayed a plain but heavy gold watch-chain, and his cuff-links were of plain gold. His eye-glasses were gold-rimmed. He had grey hair, beard, and moustache, but on the backs of his hands grew a light brown hair. His appearance was strangely mild, dignified, and confidence-inspiring. He was, in fact, one of the most respected tradesmen in Manchester.
He peered forward, looking over his eye-glasses, which he then took off, holding them up in the air by their short handle. Sophia had approached him.
“Mrs Scales?” he said, in a very quiet, very benevolent voice. Sophia nodded. “Please come this way.” He took her hand, squeezing it commiseratingly, and drew her into the sanctum. “I didn’t ex
pect you so soon,” he said. “I looked up the trains, and I didn’t see how you could get here before six.”
Sophia explained.
He led her farther, through the private office, into a sort of parlour, and asked her to sit down. And he too sat down. Sophia waited, as it were, like a suitor.
“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you, Mrs Scales,” he said, still in that mild, benevolent voice.
“He’s dead?” Sophia asked.
Mr Till Boldero nodded. “He’s dead. I may as well tell you that he had passed away before I telegraphed. It all happened very, very suddenly.” He paused. “Very, very suddenly!”
“Yes,” said Sophia, weakly. She was conscious of a profound sadness which was not grief, though it resembled grief. And she had also a feeling that she was responsible to Mr Till Boldero for anything untoward that might have occurred to him by reason of Gerald.
“Yes,” said Mr Till Boldero, deliberately and softly. “He came in last night just as we were closing. We had very heavy rain here. I don’t know how it was with you. He was wet, in a dreadful state, simply dreadful. Of course, I didn’t recognize him. I’d never seen him before, so far as my recollection goes. He asked me if I was the son of Mr Till Boldero that had this shop in 1866. I said I was. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘you’re the only connexion I’ve got. My name’s Gerald Scales. My mother was your father’s cousin. Can you do anything for me?’ he says. I could see he was ill. I had him in here. When I found he couldn’t eat nor drink I thought I’d happen better send for th’ doctor. The doctor got him to bed. He passed away at one o’clock this afternoon. I was very sorry my wife wasn’t here to look after things a bit better. But she’s at Southport, not well at all.”
“What was it?” Sophia asked briefly.
Mr Boldero indicated the enigmatic. “Exhaustion, I suppose,” he replied.
“He’s here?” demanded Sophia, lifting her eyes to possible bed-rooms.
“Yes,” said Mr Boldero. “I suppose you would wish to see him?”
The Old Wives' Tale Page 65