The two girls came up the unlighted stone staircase which led from
Maggie's cave to the door of the parlour. Sophia, foremost, was
carrying a large tray, and Constance a small one. Constance, who
had nothing on her tray but a teapot, a bowl of steaming and
balmy-scented mussels and cockles, and a plate of hot buttered
toast, went directly into the parlour on the left. Sophia had in
her arms the entire material and apparatus of a high tea for two,
including eggs, jam, and toast (covered with the slop-basin turned
upside down), but not including mussels and cockles. She turned to
the right, passed along the corridor by the cutting-out room, up
two steps into the sheeted and shuttered gloom of the closed shop,
up the showroom stairs, through the showroom, and so into the
bedroom corridor. Experience had proved it easier to make this
long detour than to round the difficult corner of the parlour
stairs with a large loaded tray. Sophia knocked with the edge of
the tray at the door of the principal bedroom. The muffled
oratorical sound from within suddenly ceased, and the door was
opened by a very tall, very thin, black-bearded man, who looked
down at Sophia as if to demand what she meant by such an
interruption.
"I've brought the tea, Mr. Critchlow," said Sophia.
And Mr. Critchlow carefully accepted the tray.
"Is that my little Sophia?" asked a faint voice from the depths of
the bedroom.
"Yes, father," said Sophia.
But she did not attempt to enter the room. Mr. Critchlow put the
tray on a white-clad chest of drawers near the door, and then he
shut the door, with no ceremony. Mr. Critchlow was John Baines's
oldest and closest friend, though decidedly younger than the
draper. He frequently "popped in" to have a word with the invalid;
but Thursday afternoon was his special afternoon, consecrated by
him to the service of the sick. From two o'clock precisely till
eight o'clock precisely he took charge of John Baines, reigning
autocratically over the bedroom. It was known that he would not
tolerate invasions, nor even ambassadorial visits. No! He gave up
his weekly holiday to this business of friendship, and he must be
allowed to conduct the business in his own way. Mrs. Baines
herself avoided disturbing Mr. Critchlow's ministrations on her
husband. She was glad to do so; for Mr. Baines was never to be
left alone under any circumstances, and the convenience of being
able to rely upon the presence of a staid member of the
Pharmaceutical Society for six hours of a given day every week
outweighed the slight affront to her prerogatives as wife and
house-mistress. Mr. Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man, but
when he was in the bedroom she could leave the house with an easy
mind. Moreover, John Baines enjoyed these Thursday afternoons. For
him, there was 'none like Charles Critchlow.' The two old friends
experienced a sort of grim, desiccated happiness, cooped up
together in the bedroom, secure from women and fools generally.
How they spent the time did not seem to be certainly known, but
the impression was that politics occupied them. Undoubtedly Mr.
Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man. He was a man of habits.
He must always have the same things for his tea. Black-currant
jam, for instance. (He called it "preserve.") The idea of offering
Mr. Critchlow a tea which did not comprise black-currant jam was
inconceivable by the intelligence of St. Luke's Square. Thus for
years past, in the fruit-preserving season, when all the house and
all the shop smelt richly of fruit boiling in sugar, Mrs. Baines
had filled an extra number of jars with black-currant jam,
'because Mr. Critchlow wouldn't TOUCH any other sort.'
So Sophia, faced with the shut door of the bedroom, went down to
the parlour by the shorter route. She knew that on going up again,
after tea, she would find the devastated tray on the doormat.
Constance was helping Mr. Povey to mussels and cockles. And Mr.
Povey still wore one of the antimacassars. It must have stuck to
his shoulders when he sprang up from the sofa, woollen
antimacassars being notoriously parasitic things. Sophia sat down,
somewhat self-consciously. The serious Constance was also
perturbed. Mr. Povey did not usually take tea in the house on
Thursday afternoons; his practice was to go out into the great,
mysterious world. Never before had he shared a meal with the girls
alone. The situation was indubitably unexpected, unforeseen; it
was, too, piquant, and what added to its piquancy was the fact
that Constance and Sophia were, somehow, responsible for Mr.
Povey. They felt that they were responsible for him. They had
offered the practical sympathy of two intelligent and well-trained
young women, born nurses by reason of their sex, and Mr. Povey had
accepted; he was now on their hands. Sophia's monstrous, sly
operation in Mr. Povey's mouth did not cause either of them much
alarm, Constance having apparently recovered from the first shock
of it. They had discussed it in the kitchen while preparing the
teas; Constance's extraordinarily severe and dictatorial tone in
condemning it had led to a certain heat. But the success of the
impudent wrench justified it despite any irrefutable argument to
the contrary. Mr. Povey was better already, and he evidently
remained in ignorance of his loss.
"Have some?" Constance asked of Sophia, with a large spoon
hovering over the bowl of shells.
"Yes, PLEASE," said Sophia, positively.
Constance well knew that she would have some, and had only asked
from sheer nervousness.
"Pass your plate, then."
Now when everybody was served with mussels, cockles, tea, and
toast, and Mr. Povey had been persuaded to cut the crust off his
toast, and Constance had, quite unnecessarily, warned Sophia
against the deadly green stuff in the mussels, and Constance had
further pointed out that the evenings were getting longer, and Mr.
Povey had agreed that they were, there remained nothing to say. An
irksome silence fell on them all, and no one could lift it off.
Tiny clashes of shell and crockery sounded with the terrible
clearness of noises heard in the night. Each person avoided the
eyes of the others. And both Constance and Sophia kept
straightening their bodies at intervals, and expanding their
chests, and then looking at their plates; occasionally a prim
cough was discharged. It was a sad example of the difference
between young women's dreams of social brilliance and the reality
of life. These girls got more and more girlish, until, from being
women at the administering of laudanum, they sank back to about
eight years of age--perfect children--at the tea-table.
The tension was snapped by Mr. Povey. "My God!" he muttered, moved
by a startling discovery to this impious and disgraceful oath (he,
the pattern and exemplar--and in the presence of innocent girlhood
too!). "I've swallowed it!"
"Swallowed what, Mr. Povey?" Constance inquired.
The tip of Mr. Povey's tongue made a careful voyage of inspection
all round the right side of his mouth.
"Oh yes!" he said, as if solemnly accepting the inevitable. "I've
swallowed it!"
Sophia's face was now scarlet; she seemed to be looking for some
place to hide it. Constance could not think of anything to say.
"That tooth has been loose for two years," said Mr. Povey, "and
now I've swallowed it with a mussel."
"Oh, Mr. Povey!" Constance cried in confusion, and added, "There's
one good thing, it can't hurt you any more now."
"Oh!" said Mr. Povey. "It wasn't THAT tooth that was hurting me.
It's an old stump at the back that's upset me so this last day or
two. I wish it had been."
Sophia had her teacup close to her red face. At these words of Mr.
Povey her cheeks seemed to fill out like plump apples. She dashed
the cup into its saucer, spilling tea recklessly, and then ran
from the room with stifled snorts.
"Sophia!" Constance protested.
"I must just---" Sophia incoherently spluttered in the doorway. "I
shall be all right. Don't---"
Constance, who had risen, sat down again.
Read next: BOOK I MRS. BAINES#CHAPTER II - THE TOOTH#PART II
Read previous: BOOK I MRS. BAINES#CHAPTER I - THE SQUARE#PART III
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