_ The sisters had an early supper together in Constance's bedroom.
Constance was much easier. Having a fancy that a little movement
would be beneficial, she had even got up for a few moments and
moved about the room. Now she sat ensconced in pillows. A fire
burned in the old-fashioned ineffectual grate. From the Sun Vaults
opposite came the sound of a phonograph singing an invitation to
God to save its gracious queen. This phonograph was a wonderful
novelty, and filled the Sun nightly. For a few evenings it had
interested the sisters, in spite of themselves, but they had soon
sickened of it and loathed it. Sophia became more and more
obsessed by the monstrous absurdity of the simple fact that she
and Constance were there, in that dark inconvenient house, wearied
by the gaiety of public-houses, blackened by smoke, surrounded by
mud, instead of being luxuriously installed in a beautiful
climate, amid scenes of beauty and white cleanliness. Secretly she
became more and more indignant.
Amy entered, bearing a letter in her coarse hand. As Amy
unceremoniously handed the letter to Constance, Sophia thought:
"If she was my servant she would hand letters on a tray." (An
advertisement had already been sent to the Signal.)
Constance took the letter trembling. "Here it is at last," she
cried.
When she had put on her spectacles and read it, she exclaimed:
"Bless us! Here's news! He's coming down! That's why he didn't
write on Saturday as usual."
She gave the letter to Sophia to read. It ran--
"Sunday midnight.
"DEAR MOTHER,
"Just a line to say I am coming down to Bursley on Wednesday, on
business with Peels. I shall get to Knype at 5.28, and take the
Loop. I've been very busy, and as I was coming down I didn't write
on Saturday. I hope you didn't worry. Love to yourself and Aunt
Sophia.
"Yours, C."
"I must send him a line," said Constance, excitedly.
"What? To-night?"
"Yes. Amy can easily catch the last post with it. Otherwise he
won't know that I've got his letter."
She rang the bell.
Sophia thought: "His coming down is really no excuse for his not
writing on Saturday. How could she guess that he was coming down?
I shall have to put in a little word to that young man. I wonder
Constance is so blind. She is quite satisfied now that his letter
has come." On behalf of the elder generation she rather resented
Constance's eagerness to write in answer.
But Constance was not so blind. Constance thought exactly as
Sophia thought. In her heart she did not at all justify or excuse
Cyril. She remembered separately almost every instance of his
carelessness in her regard. "Hope I didn't worry, indeed!" she
said to herself with a faint touch of bitterness, apropos of the
phrase in his letter.
Nevertheless she insisted on writing at once. And Amy had to bring
the writing materials.
"Mr. Cyril is coming down on Wednesday," she said to Amy with
great dignity.
Amy's stony calmness was shaken, for Mr. Cyril was a great deal to
Amy. Amy wondered how she would be able to look Mr. Cyril in the
face when he knew that she had given notice.
In the middle of writing, on her knee, Constance looked up at
Sophia, and said, as though defending herself against an
accusation: "I didn't write to him yesterday, you know, or to-
day."
"No," Sophia murmured assentingly.
Constance rang the bell yet again, and Amy was sent out to the
post.
Soon afterwards the bell was rung for a fourth time, and not
answered.
"I suppose she hasn't come back yet. But I thought I heard the
door. What a long time she is!"
"What do you want?" Sophia asked.
"I just want to speak to her," said Constance.
When the bell had been rung seven or eight times, Amy at length
re-appeared, somewhat breathless.
"Amy," said Constance, "let me examine those sheets, will you?"
"Yes'm," said Amy, apparently knowing what sheets, of all the
various and multitudinous sheets in that house.
"And the pillow-cases," Constance added as Amy left the room.
So it continued. The next day the fever heightened. Constance was
up early, before Sophia, and trotting about the house like a girl.
Immediately after breakfast Cyril's bedroom was invested and
revolutionized; not till evening was order restored in that
chamber. And on the Wednesday morning it had to be dusted afresh.
Sophia watched the preparations, and the increasing agitation of
Constance's demeanour, with an astonishment which she had real
difficulty in concealing. "Is the woman absolutely mad?" she asked
herself. The spectacle was ludicrous: or it seemed so to Sophia,
whose career had not embraced much experience of mothers. It was
not as if the manifestations of Constance's anxiety were dignified
or original or splendid. They were just silly, ordinary
fussinesses; they had no sense in them. Sophia was very careful to
make no observation. She felt that before she and Constance were
very much older she had a very great deal to do, and that a subtle
diplomacy and wary tactics would be necessary. Moreover,
Constance's angelic temper was slightly affected by the strain of
expectation. She had a tendency to rasp. After the high-tea was
set she suddenly sprang on to the sofa and lifted down the 'Stag
at Eve' engraving. The dust on the top of the frame incensed her.
"What are you going to do?" Sophia asked, in a final marvel.
"I'm going to change it with that one," said Constance, pointing
to another engraving opposite the fireplace. "He said the effect
would be very much better if they were changed. And his lordship
is very particular."
Constance did not go to Bursley station to meet her son. She
explained that it upset her to do so, and that also Cyril
preferred her not to come.
"Suppose I go to meet him," said Sophia, at half-past five. The
idea had visited her suddenly. She thought: "Then I could talk to
him before any one else."
"Oh, do!" Constance agreed.
Sophia put her things on with remarkable expedition. She arrived
at the station a minute before the train came in. Only a few
persons emerged from the train, and Cyril was not among them. A
porter said that there was not supposed to be any connection
between the Loop Line trains and the main line expresses, and that
probably the express had missed the Loop. She waited thirty-five
minutes for the next Loop, and Cyril did not emerge from that
train either.
Constance opened the front-door to her, and showed a telegram--
"Sorry prevented last moment. Writing. CYRIL."
Sophia had known it. Somehow she had known that it was useless to
wait for the second train. Constance was silent and calm; Sophia
also.
"What a shame! What a shame!" thumped Sophia's heart.
It was the most ordinary episode. But beneath her calm she was
furious against her favourite. She hesitated.
"I'm just going out a minute," she said.
"Where?" asked Constance. "Hadn't we better have tea? I suppose we
must have tea."
"I shan't be long. I want to buy something."
Sophia went to the post-office and despatched a telegram. Then,
partially eased, she returned to the arid and painful desolation
of the house. _