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"Now, really, Mr. Povey, this is not like you," said Mrs. Baines,
who, on her way into the shop, had discovered the Indispensable in
the cutting-out room.
It is true that the cutting-out room was almost Mr. Povey's
sanctum, whither he retired from time to time to cut out suits of
clothes and odd garments for the tailoring department. It is true
that the tailoring department flourished with orders, employing
several tailors who crossed legs in their own homes, and that
appointments were continually being made with customers for
trying-on in that room. But these considerations did not affect
Mrs. Baines's attitude of disapproval.
"I'm just cutting out that suit for the minister," said Mr. Povey.
The Reverend Mr. Murley, superintendent of the Wesleyan Methodist
circuit, called on Mr. Baines every week. On a recent visit Mr.
Baines had remarked that the parson's coat was ageing into green,
and had commanded that a new suit should be built and presented to
Mr. Murley. Mr. Murley, who had a genuine mediaeval passion for
souls, and who spent his money and health freely in gratifying the
passion, had accepted the offer strictly on behalf of Christ, and
had carefully explained to Mr. Povey Christ's use for multifarious
pockets.
"I see you are," said Mrs. Baines tartly. "But that's no reason
why you should be without a coat--and in this cold room too. You
with toothache!"
The fact was that Mr. Povey always doffed his coat when cutting
out. Instead of a coat he wore a tape-measure.
"My tooth doesn't hurt me," said he, sheepishly, dropping the
great scissors and picking up a cake of chalk.
"Fiddlesticks!" said Mrs. Baines.
This exclamation shocked Mr. Povey. It was not unknown on the lips
of Mrs. Baines, but she usually reserved it for members of her own
sex. Mr. Povey could not recall that she had ever applied it to
any statement of his. "What's the matter with the woman?" he
thought. The redness of her face did not help him to answer the
question, for her face was always red after the operations of
Friday in the kitchen.
"You men are all alike," Mrs. Baines continued. "The very thought
of the dentist's cures you. Why don't you go in at once to Mr.
Critchlow and have it out--like a man?"
Mr. Critchlow extracted teeth, and his shop sign said "Bone-setter
and chemist." But Mr. Povey had his views.
"I make no account of Mr. Critchlow as a dentist," said he.
"Then for goodness' sake go up to Oulsnam's."
"When? I can't very well go now, and to-morrow is Saturday."
"Why can't you go now?"
"Well, of course, I COULD go now," he admitted.
"Let me advise you to go, then, and don't come back with that
tooth in your head. I shall be having you laid up next. Show some
pluck, do!"
"Oh! pluck--!" he protested, hurt.
At that moment Constance came down the passage singing.
"Constance, my pet!" Mrs. Baines called.
"Yes, mother." She put her head into the room. "Oh!" Mr. Povey was
assuming his coat.
"Mr. Povey is going to the dentist's."
"Yes, I'm going at once," Mr. Povey confirmed.
"Oh! I'm so GLAD!" Constance exclaimed. Her face expressed a pure
sympathy, uncomplicated by critical sentiments. Mr. Povey rapidly
bathed in that sympathy, and then decided that he must show
himself a man of oak and iron.
"It's always best to get these things done with," said he, with
stern detachment. "I'll just slip my overcoat on."
"Here it is," said Constance, quickly. Mr. Povey's overcoat and
hat were hung on a hook immediately outside the room, in the
passage. She gave him the overcoat, anxious to be of service.
"I didn't call you in here to be Mr. Povey's valet," said Mrs.
Baines to herself with mild grimness; and aloud: "I can't stay in
the shop long, Constance, but you can be there, can't you, till
Mr. Povey comes back? And if anything happens run upstairs and
tell me."
"Yes, mother," Constance eagerly consented. She hesitated and then
turned to obey at once.
"I want to speak to you first, my pet," Mrs. Baines stopped her.
And her tone was peculiar, charged with import, confidential, and
therefore very flattering to Constance.
"I think I'll go out by the side-door," said Mr. Povey. "It'll be
nearer."
This was truth. He would save about ten yards, in two miles, by
going out through the side-door instead of through the shop. Who
could have guessed that he was ashamed to be seen going to the
dentist's, afraid lest, if he went through the shop, Mrs. Baines
might follow him and utter some remark prejudicial to his dignity
before the assistants? (Mrs. Baines could have guessed, and did.)
"You won't want that tape-measure," said Mrs. Baines, dryly, as
Mr. Povey dragged open the side-door. The ends of the forgotten
tape-measure were dangling beneath coat and overcoat.
"Oh!" Mr. Povey scowled at his forgetfulness.
"I'll put it in its place," said Constance, offering to receive
the tape-measure.
"Thank you," said Mr. Povey, gravely. "I don't suppose they'll be
long over my bit of a job," he added, with a difficult, miserable
smile.
Then he went off down King Street, with an exterior of gay
briskness and dignified joy in the fine May morning. But there was
no May morning in his cowardly human heart.
"Hi! Povey!" cried a voice from the Square.
But Mr. Povey disregarded all appeals. He had put his hand to the
plough, and he would not look back.
"Hi! Povey!"
Useless!
Mrs. Baines and Constance were both at the door. A middle-aged man
was crossing the road from Boulton Terrace, the lofty erection of
new shops which the envious rest of the Square had decided to call
"showy." He waved a hand to Mrs. Baines, who kept the door open.
"It's Dr. Harrop," she said to Constance. "I shouldn't be
surprised if that baby's come at last, and he wanted to tell Mr.
Povey."
Constance blushed, full of pride. Mrs. Povey, wife of "our Mr.
Povey's" renowned cousin, the high-class confectioner and baker in
Boulton Terrace, was a frequent subject of discussion in the
Baines family,, but this was absolutely the first time that Mrs.
Baines had acknowledged, in presence of Constance, the marked and
growing change which had characterized Mrs. Povey's condition
during recent months. Such frankness on the part of her mother,
coming after the decision about leaving school, proved indeed that
Constance had ceased to be a mere girl.
"Good morning, doctor."
The doctor, who carried a little bag and wore riding-breeches (he
was the last doctor in Bursley to abandon the saddle for the dog-
cart), saluted and straightened his high, black stock.
"Morning! Morning, missy! Well, it's a boy."
"What? Yonder?" asked Mrs. Baines, indicating the confectioner's.
Dr. Harrop nodded. "I wanted to inform him," said he, jerking his
shoulder in the direction of the swaggering coward.
"What did I tell you, Constance?" said Mrs. Baines, turning to her
daughter.
Constance's confusion was equal to her pleasure. The alert doctor
had halted at the foot of the two steps, and with one hand in the
pocket of his "full-fall" breeches, he gazed up, smiling out of
little eyes, at the ample matron and the slender virgin.
"Yes," he said. "Been up most of th' night. Difficult! Difficult!"
"It's all RIGHT, I hope?"
"Oh yes. Fine child! Fine child! But he put his mother to some
trouble, for all that. Nothing fresh?" This time he lifted his
eyes to indicate Mr. Baines's bedroom.
"No," said Mrs. Baines, with a different expression.
"Keeps cheerful?"
"Yes."
"Good! A very good morning to you."
He strode off towards his house, which was lower down the street.
"I hope she'll turn over a new leaf now," observed Mrs. Baines to
Constance as she closed the door. Constance knew that her mother
was referring to the confectioner's wife; she gathered that the
hope was slight in the extreme.
"What did you want to speak to me about, mother?" she asked, as a
way out of her delicious confusion.
"Shut that door," Mrs. Baines replied, pointing to the door which
led to the passage; and while Constance obeyed, Mrs. Baines
herself shut the staircase-door. She then said, in a low, guarded
voice--
"What's all this about Sophia wanting to be a school-teacher?"
"Wanting to be a school-teacher?" Constance repeated, in tones of
amazement.
"Yes. Hasn't she said anything to you?"
"Not a word!"
"Well, I never! She wants to keep on with Miss Chetwynd and be a
teacher." Mrs. Baines had half a mind to add that Sophia had
mentioned London. But she restrained herself. There are some
things which one cannot bring one's self to say. She added,
"Instead of going into the shop!"
"I never heard of such a thing!" Constance murmured brokenly, in
the excess of her astonishment. She was rolling up Mr. Povey's
tape-measure.
"Neither did I!" said Mrs. Baines.
"And shall you let her, mother?"
"Neither your father nor I would ever dream of it!" Mrs. Baines
replied, with calm and yet terrible decision. "I only mentioned it
to you because I thought Sophia would have told you something."
"No, mother!"
As Constance put Mr. Povey's tape-measure neatly away in its
drawer under the cutting-out counter, she thought how serious life
was--what with babies and Sophias. She was very proud of her
mother's confidence in her; this simple pride filled her ardent
breast with a most agreeable commotion. And she wanted to help
everybody, to show in some way how much she sympathized with and
loved everybody. Even the madness of Sophia did not weaken her
longing to comfort Sophia.
Read next: BOOK I MRS. BAINES: CHAPTER III - A BATTLE: PART III
Read previous: BOOK I MRS. BAINES: CHAPTER III - A BATTLE: PART I
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