“It’s a great deal better built than a lot of those new houses by the Park,” Constance sharply retorted. In spite of herself she resented any criticism of her house. She even resented the obvious truth that it was old.
“You’ll never get a servant to stay in that cellar-kitchen, for one thing,” said Sophia, keeping calm.
“Oh! I don’t know about that! I don’t know about that! That Bennion woman didn’t object to it, anyway. It’s all very well for you, Sophia, to talk like that. But I know Bursley perhaps better than you do.” She was tart again. “And I can assure you that my house is looked upon as a very good house indeed.”
“Oh! I don’t say it isn’t; I don’t say it isn’t. But you would be better away from it. Everyone says that.”
“Everyone?” Constance looked up, dropping her work. “Who? Who’s been talking about me?”
“Well,” said Sophia, “the doctor, for instance.”
“Dr. Stirling? I like that! He’s always saying that Bursley is one of the healthiest climates in England. He’s always sticking up for Bursley.”
“Dr. Stirling thinks you ought to go away more—not stay always in that dark house.” If Sophia had sufficiently reflected she would not have used the adjective “dark.” It did not help her cause.
“Oh, does he!” Constance fairly snorted. “Well, if it’s of any interest to Dr. Stirling, I like my dark house.”
“Hasn’t he ever told you you ought to go away more?” Sophia persisted.
“He may have mentioned it,” Constance reluctantly admitted.
“When he was talking to me he did a good deal more than mention it. And I’ve a good mind to tell you what he said.”
“Do!” said Constance, politely.
“You don’t realize how serious it is, I’m afraid,” said Sophia. “You can’t see yourself.” She hesitated a moment. Her blood being stirred by Constance’s peculiar inflection of the phrase “my dark house,” her judgment was slightly obscured. She decided to give Constance a fairly full version of the conversation between herself and the doctor.
“It’s a question of your health,” she finished. “I think it’s my duty to talk to you seriously, and I have done. I hope you’ll take it as it’s meant.”
“Oh, of course!” Constance hastened to say. And she thought: “It isn’t yet three months that we’ve been together, and she’s trying already to get me under her thumb.”
A pause ensued. Sophia at length said: “There’s no doubt that both your sciatica and your palpitations are due to nerves. And you let your nerves get into a state because you worry over trifles. A change would do you a tremendous amount of good. It’s just what you need. Really, you must admit, Constance, that the idea of living always in a place like St. Luke’s Square, when you are perfectly free to do what you like and go where you like—you must admit it’s rather too much.”
Constance put her lips together and bent over her embroidery.
“Now, what do you say?” Sophia gently entreated.
“There’s some of us like Bursley, black as it is!” said Constance. And Sophia was surprised to detect tears in her sister’s voice.
“Now, my dear Constance,” she remonstrated.
“It’s no use!” cried Constance, flinging away her work, and letting her tears flow suddenly. Her face was distorted. She was behaving just like a child. “It’s no use! I’ve got to go back home and look after things. It’s no use. Here we are pitching money about in this place. It’s perfectly sinful. Drives, carriages, extras! A shilling a day extra for each dog. I never heard of such goings-on. And I’d sooner be at home. That’s it. I’d sooner be at home.” This was the first reference that Constance had made for a long time to the question of expense, and incomparably the most violent. It angered Sophia.
“We will count it that you are here as my guest,” said Sophia, loftily, “if that is how you look at it.”
“Oh no!” said Constance. “It isn’t the money I grudge. Oh no, we won’t.” And her tears were falling thick.
“Yes, we will,” said Sophia, coldly. “I’ve only been talking to you for your own good. I—”
“Well,” Constance interrupted her despairingly, “I wish you wouldn’t try to domineer over me!”
“Domineer!” exclaimed Sophia, aghast. “Well, Constance, I do think—”
She got up and went to her bedroom, where the dogs were imprisoned. They escaped to the stairs. She was shaking with emotion. This was what came of trying to help other people! Imagine Constance … ! Truly Constance was most unjust, and quite unlike her usual self! And Sophia encouraged in her breast the feeling of injustice suffered. But a voice kept saying to her: “You’ve made a mess of this. You’ve not conquered this time. You’re beaten. And the situation is unworthy of you, of both of you. Two women of fifty quarreling like this! It’s undignified. You’ve made a mess of things.” And to strangle the voice, she did her best to encourage the feeling of injustice suffered.
“Domineer!”
And Constance was absolutely in the wrong. She had not argued at all. She had merely stuck to her idea like a mule! How difficult and painful would be the next meeting with Constance, after this grievous miscarriage!
As she was reflecting thus the door burst open, and Constance stumbled, as it were blindly, into the bedroom. She was still weeping.
“Sophia!” she sobbed, supplicatingly, and all her fat body was trembling. “You mustn’t kill me … I’m like that—you can’t alter me. I’m like that. I know I’m silly. But it’s no use!” She made a piteous figure.
Sophia was aware of a lump in her throat.
“It’s all right, Constance; it’s all right. I quite understand. Don’t bother any more.”
Constance, catching her breath at intervals, raised her wet, worn face and kissed her.
Sophia remembered the very words, “You can’t alter her,” which she had used in remonstrating with Cyril. And now she had been guilty of precisely the same unreason as that with which she had reproached Cyril! She was ashamed, both for herself and for Constance. Assuredly
