When he had silently sipped some hot milk, he drew a thick bunch of papers, white and blue, from his bulging breast-pocket.
“Now, Maria Critchlow,” he called, edging round his chair slightly. “Ye’d best go back home.”
Maria Critchlow was biting at a bit of walnut cake, while in her right hand, all seamed with black lines, she held a cup of coffee.
“But, Mr. Critchlow—!” Constance protested.
“I’ve got business with Sophia, and I must get it done. I’ve got for to render an account of my stewardship to Sophia, under her father’s will, and her mother’s will, and her aunt’s will, and it’s nobody’s business but mine and Sophia’s, I reckon. Now then,” he glanced at his wife, “off with ye!”
Maria rose, half-kittenish and half-ashamed.
“Surely you don’t want to go into all that tonight,” said Sophia. She spoke softly, for she had already fully perceived that Mr. Critchlow must be managed with the tact which the capricious obstinacies of advanced age demanded. “Surely you can wait a day or two. I’m in no hurry.”
“Haven’t I waited long enough?” he retorted fiercely.
There was a pause. Maria Critchlow moved.
“As for you being in no hurry, Sophia,” the old man went on, “nobody can say as you’ve been in a hurry.”
Sophia had suffered a check. She glanced hesitatingly at Constance.
“Mrs. Critchlow and I will go down into the parlour,” said Constance, quickly. “There is a bit of fire there.”
“Oh no. I won’t hear of such a thing!”
“Yes, we will, won’t we, Mrs. Critchlow?” Constance insisted, cheerfully but firmly. She was determined that in her house Sophia should have all the freedom and conveniences that she could have had in her own. If a private room was needed for discussions between Sophia and her trustee, Constance’s pride was piqued to supply that room. Further, Constance was glad to get Maria out of Sophia’s sight. She was accustomed to Maria; with her it did not matter; but she did not care that the teeth of Sophia should be set on edge by the ridiculous demeanour of Maria. So those two left the drawing room, and the old man began to open the papers which he had been preparing for weeks.
There was very little fire in the parlour, and Constance, in addition to being bored by Mrs. Critchlow’s inane and inquisitive remarks, felt chilly, which was bad for her sciatica. She wondered whether Sophia would have to confess to Mr. Critchlow that she was not certainly a widow. She thought that steps ought to be taken to ascertain, through Birkinshaws, if anything was known of Gerald Scales. But even that course was set with perils. Supposing that he still lived, an unspeakable villain (Constance could only think of him as an unspeakable villain), and supposing that he molested Sophia—what scenes! What shame in the town! Such frightful thoughts ran endlessly through Constance’s mind as she bent over the fire endeavouring to keep alive a silly conversation with Maria Critchlow.
Amy passed through the parlour to go to bed. There was no other way of reaching the upper part of the house.
“Are you going to bed, Amy?”
“Yes’m.”
“Where is Fossette?”
“In the kitchen, m’m,” said Amy, defending herself. “Mrs. Scales told me the dog might sleep in the kitchen with Spot, as they was such good friends. I’ve opened the bottom drawer, and Fossit is lying in that.”
“Mrs. Scales has brought a dog with her!” exclaimed Maria.
“Yes’m!” said Amy, drily, before Constance could answer. She implied everything in that affirmative.
“You are a family for dogs,” said Maria. “What sort of dog is it?”
“Well,” said Constance. “I don’t know exactly what they call it. It’s a French dog, one of those French dogs.” Amy was lingering at the stairfoot. “Good night, Amy, thank you.”
Amy ascended, shutting the door.
“Oh! I see!” Maria muttered. “Well, I never!”
It was ten o’clock before sounds above indicated that the first interview between trustee and beneficiary was finished.
“I’ll be going on to open our side-door,” said Maria. “Say good night to Mrs. Scales for me.” She was not sure whether Charles Critchlow had really meant her to go home, or whether her mere absence from the drawing room had contented him. So she departed. He came down the stairs with the most tiresome slowness, went through the parlour in silence, ignoring Constance, and also Sophia, who was at his heels, and vanished.
As Constance shut and bolted the front door, the sisters looked at each other, Sophia faintly smiling. It seemed to them that they understood each other better when they did not speak. With a glance, they exchanged their ideas on the subject of Charles Critchlow and Maria, and learnt that their ideas were similar. Constance said nothing as to the private interview. Nor did Sophia. At present, on this the first day, they could only achieve intimacy by intermittent flashes.
“What about bed?” asked Sophia.
“You must be tired,” said Constance.
Sophia got to the stairs, which received a little light from the corridor gas, before Constance, having tested the window-fastening, turned out the gas in the parlour. They climbed the lower flight of stairs together.
“I must just see that your room is all right,” Constance said.
“Must you?” Sophia smiled.
They climbed the second flight, slowly. Constance was out of breath.
“Oh, a fire! How nice!” cried Sophia. “But why did you go to all that trouble? I told you not to.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Constance, raising the gas in the bedroom. Her tone implied that bedroom fires were a quite ordinary incident of daily life in a place like Bursley.
“Well, my dear, I hope you’ll find everything comfortable,” said Constance.
“I’m sure I shall. Good night, dear.”
“Good night, then.”
They looked at each other again, with timid affectionateness. They did not kiss. The thought in both their minds was: “We couldn’t keep on kissing every day.” But there was a vast amount of quiet, restrained affection, of mutual confidence and respect, even of tenderness, in their tones.
About half an
