The Old Wives' Tale by Arnold Bennett (thriller books to read .TXT) 📖

>“You didn’t tell me this afternoon,” said Constance, “that you were going to give us the pleasure of your company like this.”

He looked momentarily at Constance. “No,” he grated, “I don’t know as I did.”

His gaze flattered Sophia. Evidently he treated this experienced and sad woman of fifty as a young girl. And in presence of his extreme age she felt like a young girl, remembering the while how as a young girl she had hated him. Repulsing the assistance of his wife, he arranged an armchair in front of the fire and meticulously put himself into it. Assuredly he was much older in a drawingroom than behind the counter of his shop. Constance had noticed that in the afternoon. A live coal fell out of the fire. He bent forward, wet his fingers, picked up the coal and threw it back into the fire.

“Well,” said Sophia. “I wouldn’t have done that.”

“I never saw Mr. Critchlow’s equal for picking up hot cinders,” Maria giggled.

Mr. Critchlow deigned no remark. “When did ye leave this Paris?” he demanded of Sophia, leaning back, and putting his hands on the arms of the chair.

“Yesterday morning,” said Sophia,

“And what’n ye been doing with yeself since yesterday morning?”

“I spent last night in London,” Sophia replied.

“Oh, in London, did ye?”

“Yes. Cyril and I had an evening together.”

“Eh? Cyril! What’s yer opinion o’ Cyril, Sophia?”

“I’m very proud to have Cyril for a nephew,” said Sophia.

“Oh! Are ye?” The old man was obviously ironic.

“Yes I am,” Sophia insisted sharply. “I’m not going to hear a word said against Cyril.”

She proceeded to an enthusiastic laudation of Cyril which rather overwhelmed his mother. Constance was pleased; she was delighted. And yet somewhere in her mind was an uncomfortable feeling that Cyril, having taken a fancy to his brilliant aunt, had tried to charm her as he seldom or never tried to charm his mother. Cyril and Sophia had dazzled and conquered each other; they were of the same type; whereas she, Constance, being but a plain person, could not glitter.

She rang the bell and gave instructions to Amy about food—fruit cakes, coffee and hot milk, on a tray; and Sophia also spoke to Amy murmuring a request as to Fossette.

“Yes, Mrs. Scales,” said Amy, with eager deference.

Mrs. Critchlow smiled vaguely from a low chair near the curtained window. Then Constance lit another burner of the chandelier. In doing so, she gave a little sigh; it was a sigh of relief. Mr. Critchlow had behaved himself. Now that he and Sophia had met, the worst was over. Had Constance known beforehand that he would pay a call, she would have been agonized by apprehensions, but now that he had actually come she was glad he had come.

When he had silently sipped some hot milk, he drew a thick bunch of papers, white and blue, from his bulging breast-pocket.

“Now, Maria Critchlow,” he called, edging round his chair slightly. “Ye’d best go back home.”

Maria Critchlow was biting at a bit of walnut cake, while in her right hand, all seamed with black lines, she held a cup of coffee.

“But, Mr. Critchlow–-!” Constance protested.

“I’ve got business with Sophia, and I must get it done. I’ve got for to render an account of my stewardship to Sophia, under her father’s will, and her mother’s will, and her aunt’s will, and it’s nobody’s business but mine and Sophia’s, I reckon. Now then,” he glanced at his wife, “off with ye!”

Maria rose, half-kittenish and half-ashamed.

“Surely you don’t want to go into all that tonight,” said Sophia. She spoke softly, for she had already fully perceived that Mr. Critchlow must be managed with the tact which the capricious obstinacies of advanced age demanded. “Surely you can wait a day or two. I’m in no hurry.”

“HAVEN’T I WAITED LONG ENOUGH?” he retorted fiercely.

There was a pause. Maria Critchlow moved.

“As for you being in no hurry, Sophia,” the old man went on, “nobody can say as you’ve been in a hurry.”

Sophia had suffered a check. She glanced hesitatingly at Constance.

“Mrs. Critchlow and I will go down into the parlour,” said Constance, quickly. “There is a bit of fire there.”

“Oh no. I won’t hear of such a thing!”

“Yes, we will, won’t we, Mrs. Critchlow?” Constance insisted, cheerfully but firmly. She was determined that in her house Sophia should have all the freedom and conveniences that she could have had in her own. If a private room was needed for discussions between Sophia and her trustee, Constance’s pride was piqued to supply that room. Further, Constance was glad to get Maria out of Sophia’s sight. She was accustomed to Maria; with her it did not matter; but she did not care that the teeth of Sophia should be set on edge by the ridiculous demeanour of Maria. So those two left the drawingroom, and the old man began to open the papers which he had been preparing for weeks.

There was very little fire in the parlour, and Constance, in addition to being bored by Mrs. Critchlow’s inane and inquisitive remarks, felt chilly, which was bad for her sciatica. She wondered whether Sophia would have to confess to Mr. Critchlow that she was not certainly a widow. She thought that steps ought to be taken to ascertain, through Birkinshaws, if anything was known of Gerald Scales. But even that course was set with perils. Supposing that he still lived, an unspeakable villain (Constance could only think of him as an unspeakable villain), and supposing that he molested Sophia,—what scenes! What shame in the town! Such frightful thoughts ran endlessly through Constance’s mind as she bent over the fire endeavouring to keep alive a silly conversation with Maria Critchlow.

Amy passed through the parlour to go to bed. There was no other way of reaching the upper part of the house.

“Are you going to bed, Amy?”

“Yes’m.”

“Where is Fossette?”

“In the kitchen, m’m,” said Amy, defending herself. “Mrs. Scales told me the dog might sleep in the kitchen with Spot, as they was such good friends. I’ve opened the bottom drawer, and Fossit is lying in that.”

“Mrs. Scales has brought a dog with her!” exclaimed Maria.

“Yes’m!” said Amy, drily, before Constance could answer. She implied everything in that affirmative.

“You are a family for dogs,” said Maria. “What sort of dog is it?”

“Well,” said Constance. “I don’t know exactly what they call it. It’s a French dog, one of those French dogs.” Amy was lingering at the stairfoot. “Good night, Amy, thank you.”

Amy ascended, shutting the door.

“Oh! I see!” Maria muttered. “Well, I never!”

It was ten o’clock before sounds above indicated that the first interview between trustee and beneficiary was finished.

“I’ll be going on to open our side-door,” said Maria. “Say good night to Mrs. Scales for me.” She was not sure whether Charles Critchlow had really meant her to go home, or whether her mere absence from the drawingroom had contented him. So she departed. He came down the stairs with the most tiresome slowness, went through the parlour in silence, ignoring Constance, and also Sophia, who was at his heels, and vanished.

As Constance shut and bolted the frontdoor, the sisters looked at each other, Sophia faintly smiling. It seemed to them that they understood each other better when they did not speak. With a glance, they exchanged their ideas on the subject of Charles Critchlow and Maria, and learnt that their ideas were similar. Constance said nothing as to the private interview. Nor did Sophia. At present, on this the first day, they could only achieve intimacy by intermittent flashes.

“What about bed?” asked Sophia.

“You must be tired,” said Constance.

Sophia got to the stairs, which received a little light from the corridor gas, before Constance, having tested the window-fastening, turned out the gas in the parlour. They climbed the lower flight of stairs together.

“I must just see that your room is all right,” Constance said.

“Must you?” Sophia smiled.

They climbed the second flight, slowly. Constance was out of breath.

“Oh, a fire! How nice!” cried Sophia. “But why did you go to all that trouble? I told you not to.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Constance, raising the gas in the bedroom. Her tone implied that bedroom fires were a quite ordinary incident of daily life in a place like Bursley.

“Well, my dear, I hope you’ll find everything comfortable,” said Constance.

“I’m sure I shall. Good night, dear.”

“Good night, then.”

They looked at each other again, with timid affectionateness. They did not kiss. The thought in both their minds was: “We couldn’t keep on kissing every day.” But there was a vast amount of quiet, restrained affection, of mutual confidence and respect, even of tenderness, in their tones.

About half an hour later a dreadful hullaballoo smote the ear of Constance. She was just getting into bed. She listened intently, in great alarm. It was undoubtedly those dogs fighting, and fighting to the death. She pictured the kitchen as a battlefield, and Spot slain. Opening the door, she stepped out into the corridor,

“Constance,” said a low voice above her. She jumped. “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t bother to go down to the dogs; they’ll stop in a moment. Fossette won’t bite. I’m so sorry she’s upsetting the house.”

Constance stared upwards, and discerned a pale shadow. The dogs did soon cease their altercation. This short colloquy in the dark affected Constance strangely.

III

The next morning, after a night varied by periods of wakefulness not unpleasant, Sophia arose and, taking due precautions against cold, went to the window. It was Saturday; she had left Paris on the Thursday. She looked forth upon the Square, holding aside the blind. She had expected, of course, to find that the Square had shrunk in size; but nevertheless she was startled to see how small it was. It seemed to her scarcely bigger than a courtyard. She could remember a winter morning when from the window she had watched the Square under virgin snow in the lamplight, and the Square had been vast, and the first wayfarer, crossing it diagonally and leaving behind him the irregular impress of his feet, had appeared to travel for hours over an interminable white waste before vanishing past Holl’s shop in the direction of the Town Hall. She chiefly recalled the Square under snow; cold mornings, and the coldness of the oilcloth at the window, and the draught of cold air through the ill-fitting sash (it was put right now)! These visions of herself seemed beautiful to her; her childish existence seemed beautiful; the storms and tempests of her girlhood seemed beautiful; even the great sterile expanse of tedium when, after giving up a scholastic career, she had served for two years in the shop—even this had a strange charm in her memory.

And she thought that not for millions of pounds would she live her life over again.

In its contents the Square had not surprisingly changed during the immense, the terrifying interval that separated her from her virginity. On the east side, several shops had been thrown into one, and forced into a semblance of eternal unity by means of a coat of stucco. And there was a fountain at the north end which was new to her. No other constructional change! But the moral change, the sad declension from the ancient proud spirit of the Square—this was painfully depressing. Several establishments lacked tenants, had obviously lacked tenants for a long time; ‘To let’ notices hung in their stained and dirty upper windows, and clung insecurely to their closed shutters. And on the signboards of these establishments were names that Sophia did not know. The character of most of the shops seemed to have worsened; they had