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When Constance came to bed, half an hour later, Sophia was already
in bed. The room was fairly spacious. It had been the girls'
retreat and fortress since their earliest years. Its features
seemed to them as natural and unalterable as the features of a
cave to a cave-dweller. It had been repapered twice in their
lives, and each papering stood out in their memories like an
epoch; a third epoch was due to the replacing of a drugget by a
resplendent old carpet degraded from the drawing-room. There was
only one bed, the bedstead being of painted iron; they never
interfered with each other in that bed, sleeping with a detachment
as perfect as if they had slept on opposite sides of St. Luke's
Square; yet if Constance had one night lain down on the half near
the window instead of on the half near the door, the secret nature
of the universe would have seemed to be altered. The small fire-
grate was filled with a mass of shavings of silver paper; now the
rare illnesses which they had suffered were recalled chiefly as
periods when that silver paper was crammed into a large slipper-
case which hung by the mantelpiece, and a fire of coals
unnaturally reigned in its place--the silver paper was part of the
order of the world. The sash of the window would not work quite
properly, owing to a slight subsidence in the wall, and even when
the window was fastened there was always a narrow slit to the left
hand between the window and its frame; through this slit came
draughts, and thus very keen frosts were remembered by the nights
when Mrs. Baines caused the sash to be forced and kept at its full
height by means of wedges--the slit of exposure was part of the
order of the world.
They possessed only one bed, one washstand, and one dressing-
table; but in some other respects they were rather fortunate
girls, for they had two mahogany wardrobes; this mutual
independence as regards wardrobes was due partly to Mrs. Baines's
strong commonsense, and partly to their father's tendency to spoil
them a little. They had, moreover, a chest of drawers with a
curved front, of which structure Constance occupied two short
drawers and one long one, and Sophia two long drawers. On it stood
two fancy work-boxes, in which each sister kept jewellery, a
savings-bank book, and other treasures, and these boxes were
absolutely sacred to their respective owners. They were different,
but one was not more magnificent than the other. Indeed, a rigid
equality was the rule in the chamber, the single exception being
that behind the door were three hooks, of which Constance
commanded two.
"Well," Sophia began, when Constance appeared. "How's darling Mr.
Povey?" She was lying on her back, and smiling at her two hands,
which she held up in front of her.
"Asleep," said Constance. "At least mother thinks so. She says
sleep is the best thing for him."
"'It will probably come on again,'" said Sophia.
"What's that you say?" Constance asked, undressing.
"'It will probably come on again.'"
These words were a quotation from the utterances of darling Mr.
Povey on the stairs, and Sophia delivered them with an exact
imitation of Mr. Povey's vocal mannerism.
"Sophia," said Constance, firmly, approaching the bed, "I wish you
wouldn't be so silly!" She had benevolently ignored the satirical
note in Sophia's first remark, but a strong instinct in her rose
up and objected to further derision. "Surely you've done enough
for one day!" she added.
For answer Sophia exploded into violent laughter, which she made
no attempt to control. She laughed too long and too freely while
Constance stared at her.
"_I_ don't know what's come over you!" said Constance.
"It's only because I can't look at it without simply going off
into fits!" Sophia gasped out. And she held up a tiny object in
her left hand.
Constance started, flushing. "You don't mean to say you've kept
it!" she protested earnestly. "How horrid you are, Sophia! Give it
me at once and let me throw it away. I never heard of such doings.
Now give it me!"
"No," Sophia objected, still laughing. "I wouldn't part with it
for worlds. It's too lovely."
She had laughed away all her secret resentment against Constance
for having ignored her during the whole evening and for being on
such intimate terms with their parents. And she was ready to be
candidly jolly with Constance.
"Give it me," said Constance, doggedly.
Sophia hid her hand under the clothes. "You can have his old
stump, when it comes out, if you like. But not this. What a pity
it's the wrong one!"
"Sophia, I'm ashamed of you! Give it me."
Then it was that Sophia first perceived Constance's extreme
seriousness. She was surprised and a little intimidated by it. For
the expression of Constance's face, usually so benign and calm,
was harsh, almost fierce. However, Sophia had a great deal of what
is called "spirit," and not even ferocity on the face of mild
Constance could intimidate her for more than a few seconds. Her
gaiety expired and her teeth were hidden.
"I've said nothing to mother---" Constance proceeded.
"I should hope you haven't," Sophia put in tersely.
"But I certainly shall if you don't throw that away," Constance
finished.
"You can say what you like," Sophia retorted, adding
contemptuously a term of opprobrium which has long since passed
out of use: "Cant!"
"Will you give it me or won't you?"
"No!"
It was a battle suddenly engaged in the bedroom. The atmosphere
had altered completely with the swiftness of magic. The beauty of
Sophia, the angelic tenderness of Constance, and the youthful,
naive, innocent charm of both of them, were transformed into
something sinister and cruel. Sophia lay back on the pillow amid
her dark-brown hair, and gazed with relentless defiance into the
angry eyes of Constance, who stood threatening by the bed. They
could hear the gas singing over the dressing-table, and their
hearts beating the blood wildly in their veins. They ceased to be
young without growing old; the eternal had leapt up in them from
its sleep.
Constance walked away from the bed to the dressing-table and began
to loose her hair and brush it, holding back her head, shaking it,
and bending forward, in the changeless gesture of that rite. She
was so disturbed that she had unconsciously reversed the customary
order of the toilette. After a moment Sophia slipped out of bed
and, stepping with her bare feet to the chest of drawers, opened
her work-box and deposited the fragment of Mr. Povey therein; she
dropped the lid with an uncompromising bang, as if to say, "We
shall see if I am to be trod upon, miss!" Their eyes met again in
the looking-glass. Then Sophia got back into bed.
Five minutes later, when her hair was quite finished, Constance
knelt down and said her prayers. Having said her prayers, she went
straight to Sophia's work-box, opened it, seized the fragment of
Mr. Povey, ran to the window, and frantically pushed the fragment
through the slit into the Square.
"There!" she exclaimed nervously.
She had accomplished this inconceivable transgression of the code
of honour, beyond all undoing, before Sophia could recover from
the stupefaction of seeing her sacred work-box impudently
violated. In a single moment one of Sophia's chief ideals had been
smashed utterly, and that by the sweetest, gentlest creature she
had ever known. It was a revealing experience for Sophia--and also
for Constance. And it frightened them equally. Sophia, staring at
the text, "Thou God seest me," framed in straw over the chest of
drawers, did not stir. She was defeated, and so profoundly moved
in her defeat that she did not even reflect upon the obvious
inefficacy of illuminated texts as a deterrent from evil-doing.
Not that she eared a fig for the fragment of Mr. Povey! It was the
moral aspect of the affair, and the astounding, inexplicable
development in Constance's character, that staggered her into
silent acceptance of the inevitable.
Constance, trembling, took pains to finish undressing with
dignified deliberation. Sophia's behaviour under the blow seemed
too good to be true; but it gave her courage. At length she turned
out the gas and lay down by Sophia. And there was a little
shuffling, and then stillness for a while.
"And if you want to know," said Constance in a tone that mingled
amicableness with righteousness, "mother's decided with Aunt
Harriet that we are BOTH to leave school next term."
Read next: BOOK I MRS. BAINES: CHAPTER III - A BATTLE: PART I
Read previous: BOOK I MRS. BAINES: CHAPTER II - THE TOOTH: PART II
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