________________________________________________
On the Sunday afternoon Mrs. Baines was trying to repose a little
in the drawing-room, where she had caused a fire to be lighted.
Constance was in the adjacent bedroom with her father. Sophia lay
between blankets in the room overhead with a feverish cold. This
cold and her new dress were Mrs. Baines's sole consolation at the
moment. She had prophesied a cold for Sophia, refuser of castor-
oil, and it had come. Sophia had received, for standing in her
nightdress at a draughty window of a May morning, what Mrs. Baines
called 'nature's slap in the face.' As for the dress, she had
worshipped God in it, and prayed for Sophia in it, before dinner;
and its four double rows of gimp on the skirt had been accounted a
great success. With her lace-bordered mantle and her low, stringed
bonnet she had assuredly given a unique lustre to the congregation
at chapel. She was stout; but the fashions, prescribing vague
outlines, broad downward slopes, and vast amplitudes, were
favourable to her shape. It must not be supposed that stout women
of a certain age never seek to seduce the eye and trouble the
meditations of man by other than moral charms. Mrs. Baines knew
that she was comely, natty, imposing, and elegant; and the
knowledge gave her real pleasure. She would look over her shoulder
in the glass as anxious as a girl: make no mistake.
She did not repose; she could not. She sat thinking, in exactly
the same posture as Sophia's two afternoons previously. She would
have been surprised to hear that her attitude, bearing, and
expression powerfully recalled those of her reprehensible
daughter. But it was so. A good angel made her restless, and she
went idly to the window and glanced upon the empty, shuttered
Square. She too, majestic matron, had strange, brief yearnings for
an existence more romantic than this; shootings across her
spirit's firmament of tailed comets; soft, inexplicable
melancholies. The good angel, withdrawing her from such a mood,
directed her gaze to a particular spot at the top of the square.
She passed at once out of the room--not precisely in a hurry, yet
without wasting time. In a recess under the stairs, immediately
outside the door, was a box about a foot square and eighteen
inches deep covered with black American cloth. She bent down and
unlocked this box, which was padded within and contained the
Baines silver tea-service. She drew from the box teapot, sugar-
bowl, milk-jug, sugar-tongs, hot-water jug, and cake-stand (a
flattish dish with an arching semicircular handle)--chased
vessels, silver without and silver-gilt within; glittering
heirlooms that shone in the dark corner like the secret pride of
respectable families. These she put on a tray that always stood on
end in the recess. Then she looked upwards through the banisters
to the second floor.
"Maggie!" she piercingly whispered.
"Yes, mum," came a voice.
"Are you dressed?"
"Yes, mum. I'm just coming."
"Well, put on your muslin." "Apron," Mrs. Baines implied.
Maggie understood.
"Take these for tea," said Mrs. Baines when Maggie descended.
"Better rub them over. You know where the cake is--that new one.
The best cups. And the silver spoons."
They both heard a knock at the side-door, far off, below.
"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines. "Now take these right down into
the kitchen before you open."
"Yes, mum," said Maggie, departing.
Mrs. Baines was wearing a black alpaca apron. She removed it and
put on another one of black satin embroidered with yellow flowers,
which, by merely inserting her arm into the chamber, she had taken
from off the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Then she fixed
herself in the drawing-room.
Maggie returned, rather short of breath, convoying the visitor.
"Ah! Miss Chetwynd," said Mrs. Baines, rising to welcome. "I'm
sure I'm delighted to see you. I saw you coming down the Square,
and I said to myself, 'Now, I do hope Miss Chetwynd isn't going to
forget us.'"
Miss Chetwynd, simpering momentarily, came forward with that self-
conscious, slightly histrionic air, which is one of the penalties
of pedagogy. She lived under the eyes of her pupils. Her life was
one ceaseless effort to avoid doing anything which might influence
her charges for evil or shock the natural sensitiveness of their
parents. She had to wind her earthly way through a forest of the
most delicate susceptibilities--fern-fronds that stretched across
the path, and that she must not even accidentally disturb with her
skirt as she passed. No wonder she walked mincingly! No wonder she
had a habit of keeping her elbows close to her sides, and drawing
her mantle tight in the streets! Her prospectus talked about 'a
sound and religious course of training,' 'study embracing the
usual branches of English, with music by a talented master,
drawing, dancing, and calisthenics.' Also 'needlework plain and
ornamental;' also 'moral influence;' and finally about terms,
'which are very moderate, and every particular, with references to
parents and others, furnished on application.' (Sometimes, too,
without application.) As an illustration of the delicacy of fern-
fronds, that single word 'dancing' had nearly lost her Constance
and Sophia seven years before!
She was a pinched virgin, aged forty, and not 'well off;' in her
family the gift of success had been monopolized by her elder
sister. For these characteristics Mrs. Baines, as a matron in easy
circumstances, pitied Miss Chetwynd. On the other hand, Miss
Chetwynd could choose ground from which to look down upon Mrs.
Baines, who after all was in trade. Miss Chetwynd had no trace of
the local accent; she spoke with a southern refinement which the
Five Towns, while making fun of it, envied. All her O's had a
genteel leaning towards 'ow,' as ritualism leans towards Romanism.
And she was the fount of etiquette, a wonder of correctness; in
the eyes of her pupils' parents not so much 'a perfect LADY' as 'a
PERFECT lady.' So that it was an extremely nice question whether,
upon the whole, Mrs. Baines secretly condescended to Miss Chetwynd
or Miss Chetwynd to Mrs. Baines. Perhaps Mrs. Baines, by virtue of
her wifehood, carried the day.
Miss Chetwynd, carefully and precisely seated, opened the
conversation by explaining that even if Mrs. Baines had not
written she should have called in any case, as she made a practice
of calling at the home of her pupils in vacation time: which was
true. Mrs. Baines, it should be stated, had on Friday afternoon
sent to Miss Chetwynd one of her most luxurious notes--lavender-
coloured paper with scalloped edges, the selectest mode of the
day--to announce, in her Italian hand, that Constance and Sophia
would both leave school at the end of the next term, and giving
reasons in regard to Sophia.
Before the visitor had got very far, Maggie came in with a
lacquered tea-caddy and the silver teapot and a silver spoon on a
lacquered tray. Mrs. Baines, while continuing to talk, chose a key
from her bunch, unlocked the tea-caddy, and transferred four
teaspoonfuls of tea from it to the teapot and relocked the caddy.
"Strawberry," she mysteriously whispered to Maggie; and Maggie
disappeared, bearing the tray and its contents.
"And how is your sister? It is quite a long time since she was
down here," Mrs. Baines went on to Miss Chetwynd, after whispering
"strawberry."
The remark was merely in the way of small-talk--for the hostess
felt a certain unwilling hesitation to approach the topic of
daughters--but it happened to suit the social purpose of Miss
Chetwynd to a nicety. Miss Chetwynd was a vessel brimming with
great tidings.
"She is very well, thank you," said Miss Chetwynd, and her
expression grew exceedingly vivacious. Her face glowed with pride
as she added, "Of course everything is changed now."
"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Baines, with polite curiosity.
"Yes," said Miss Chetwynd. "You've not heard?"
"No," said Mrs. Baines. Miss Chetwynd knew that she had not heard.
"About Elizabeth's engagement? To the Reverend Archibald Jones?"
It is the fact that Mrs. Baines was taken aback. She did nothing
indiscreet; she did not give vent to her excusable amazement that
the elder Miss Chetwynd should be engaged to any one at all, as
some women would have done in the stress of the moment. She kept
her presence of mind.
"This is really MOST interesting!" said she.
It was. For Archibald Jones was one of the idols of the Wesleyan
Methodist Connexion, a special preacher famous throughout England.
At 'Anniversaries' and 'Trust sermons,' Archibald Jones had
probably no rival. His Christian name helped him; it was a
luscious, resounding mouthful for admirers. He was not an
itinerant minister, migrating every three years. His function was
to direct the affairs of the 'Book Room,' the publishing
department of the Connexion. He lived in London, and shot out into
the provinces at week-ends, preaching on Sundays and giving a
lecture, tinctured with bookishness, 'in the chapel' on Monday
evenings. In every town he visited there was competition for the
privilege of entertaining him. He had zeal, indefatigable energy,
and a breezy wit. He was a widower of fifty, and his wife had been
dead for twenty years. It had seemed as if women were not for this
bright star. And here Elizabeth Chetwynd, who had left the Five
Towns a quarter of a century before at the age of twenty, had
caught him! Austere, moustached, formidable, desiccated, she must
have done it with her powerful intellect! It must be a union of
intellects! He had been impressed by hers, and she by his, and
then their intellects had kissed. Within a week fifty thousand
women in forty counties had pictured to themselves this osculation
of intellects, and shrugged their shoulders, and decided once more
that men were incomprehensible. These great ones in London,
falling in love like the rest! But no! Love was a ribald and
voluptuous word to use in such a matter as this. It was generally
felt that the Reverend Archibald Jones and Miss Chetwynd the elder
would lift marriage to what would now be termed an astral plane.
After tea had been served, Mrs. Baines gradually recovered her
position, both in her own private esteem and in the deference of
Miss Aline Chetwynd.
"Yes," said she. "You can talk about your sister, and you can call
HIM Archibald, and you can mince up your words. But have you got a
tea-service like this? Can you conceive more perfect strawberry
jam than this? Did not my dress cost more than you spend on your
clothes in a year? Has a man ever looked at you? After all, is
there not something about my situation ... in short, something
...?"
She did not say this aloud. She in no way deviated from the
scrupulous politeness of a hostess. There was nothing in even her
tone to indicate that Mrs. John Baines was a personage. Yet it
suddenly occurred to Miss Chetwynd that her pride in being the
prospective sister-in-law of the Rev. Archibald Jones would be
better for a while in her pocket. And she inquired after Mr.
Baines. After this the conversation limped somewhat.
"I suppose you weren't surprised by my letter?" said Mrs. Baines.
"I was and I wasn't," answered Miss Chetwynd, in her professional
manner and not her manner of a prospective sister-in-law. "Of
course I am naturally sorry to lose two such good pupils, but we
can't keep our pupils for ever." She smiled; she was not without
fortitude--it is easier to lose pupils than to replace them.
"Still"--a pause--"what you say of Sophia is perfectly true,
perfectly. She is quite as advanced as Constance. Still"--another
pause and a more rapid enunciation--"Sophia is by no means an
ordinary girl."
"I hope she hasn't been a very great trouble to you?"
"Oh NO!" exclaimed Miss Chetwynd. "Sophia and I have got on very
well together. I have always tried to appeal to her reason. I have
never FORCED her ... Now, with some girls ... In some ways I look
on Sophia as the most remarkable girl--not pupil--but the most
remarkable--what shall I say?--individuality, that I have ever met
with." And her demeanour added, "And, mind you, this is something-
-from me!"
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Baines. She told herself, "I am not your
common foolish parent. I see my children impartially. I am
incapable of being flattered concerning them."
Nevertheless she was nattered, and the thought shaped itself that
really Sophia was no ordinary girl.
"I suppose she has talked to you about becoming a teacher?" asked
Miss Chetwynd, taking a morsel of the unparalleled jam.
She held the spoon with her thumb and three fingers. Her fourth
finger, in matters of honest labour, would never associate with
the other three; delicately curved, it always drew proudly away
from them.
"Has she mentioned that to you?" Mrs. Baines demanded, startled.
"Oh yes!" said Miss Chetwynd. "Several times. Sophia is a very
secretive girl, very--but I think I may say I have always had her
confidence. There have been times when Sophia and I have been very
near each other. Elizabeth was much struck with her. Indeed, I may
tell you that in one of her last letters to me she spoke of Sophia
and said she had mentioned her to Mr. Jones, and Mr. Jones
remembered her quite well."
Impossible for even a wise, uncommon parent not to be affected by
such an announcement!
"I dare say your sister will give up her school now," observed
Mrs. Baines, to divert attention from her self-consciousness.
"Oh NO!" And this time Mrs. Baines had genuinely shocked Miss
Chetwynd. "Nothing would induce Elizabeth to give up the cause of
education. Archibald takes the keenest interest in the school. Oh
no! Not for worlds!"
"THEN YOU THINK SOPHIA WOULD MAKE A GOOD TEACHER?" asked Mrs.
Baines with apparent inconsequence, and with a smile. But the
words marked an epoch in her mind. All was over.
"I think she is very much set on it and--"
"That wouldn't affect her father--or me," said Mrs. Baines
quickly.
"Certainly not! I merely say that she is very much set on it. Yes,
she would, at any rate, make a teacher far superior to the
average." ("That girl has got the better of her mother without
me!" she reflected.) "Ah! Here is dear Constance!"
Constance, tempted beyond her strength by the sounds of the visit
and the colloquy, had slipped into the room.
"I've left both doors open, mother," she excused herself for
quitting her father, and kissed Miss Chetwynd.
She blushed, but she blushed happily, and really made a most
creditable debut as a young lady. Her mother rewarded her by
taking her into the conversation. And history was soon made.
So Sophia was apprenticed to Miss Aline Chetwynd. Mrs. Baines bore
herself greatly. It was Miss Chetwynd who had urged, and her
respect for Miss Chetwynd ... Also somehow the Reverend Archibald
Jones came into the cause.
Of course the idea of Sophia ever going to London was ridiculous,
ridiculous! (Mrs. Baines secretly feared that the ridiculous might
happen; but, with the Reverend Archibald Jones on the spot, the
worst could be faced.) Sophia must understand that even the
apprenticeship in Bursley was merely a trial. They would see how
things went on. She had to thank Miss Chetwynd.
"I made Miss Chetwynd come and talk to mother," said Sophia
magnificently one night to simple Constance, as if to imply, 'Your
Miss Chetwynd is my washpot.'
To Constance, Sophia's mere enterprise was just as staggering as
her success. Fancy her deliberately going out that Saturday
morning, after her mother's definite decision, to enlist Miss
Chetwynd in her aid!
There is no need to insist on the tragic grandeur of Mrs. Baines's
renunciation--a renunciation which implied her acceptance of a
change in the balance of power in her realm. Part of its tragedy
was that none, not even Constance, could divine the intensity of
Mrs. Baines's suffering. She had no confidant; she was incapable
of showing a wound. But when she lay awake at night by the
organism which had once been her husband, she dwelt long and
deeply on the martyrdom of her life. What had she done to deserve
it? Always had she conscientiously endeavoured to be kind, just,
patient. And she knew herself to be sagacious and prudent. In the
frightful and unguessed trials of her existence as a wife, surely
she might have been granted consolations as a mother! Yet no; it
had not been! And she felt all the bitterness of age against
youth--youth egotistic, harsh, cruel, uncompromising; youth that
is so crude, so ignorant of life, so slow to understand! She had
Constance. Yes, but it would be twenty years before Constance
could appreciate the sacrifice of judgment and of pride which her
mother had made, in a sudden decision, during that rambling,
starched, simpering interview with Miss Aline Chetwynd. Probably
Constance thought that she had yielded to Sophia's passionate
temper! Impossible to explain to Constance that she had yielded to
nothing but a perception of Sophia's complete inability to hear
reason and wisdom. Ah! Sometimes as she lay in the dark, she
would, in fancy, snatch her heart from her bosom and fling it down
before Sophia, bleeding, and cry: "See what I carry about with me,
on your account!" Then she would take it back and hide it again,
and sweeten her bitterness with wise admonitions to herself.
All this because Sophia, aware that if she stayed in the house she
would be compelled to help in the shop, chose an honourable
activity which freed her from the danger. Heart, how absurd of you
to bleed!
Read next: BOOK I MRS. BAINES: CHAPTER IV - ELEPHANT: PART I
Read previous: BOOK I MRS. BAINES: CHAPTER III - A BATTLE: PART IV
Table of content of Old Wives' Tale
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
