“Oh, Sophia!” Constance moaned. “What trouble is this?”
Sophia’s lip curled with a disgusted air. Under that she hid her suffering.
She had not seen him for thirty-six years. He must be over seventy years of age, and he had turned up again like a bad penny, doubtless a disgrace! What had he been doing in those thirty-six years? He was an old, enfeebled man now! He must be a pretty sight! And he lay at Manchester, not two hours away!
Whatever feelings were in Sophia’s heart, tenderness was not among them. As she collected her wits from the stroke, she was principally aware of the sentiment of fear. She recoiled from the future.
“What shall you do?” Constance asked. Constance was weeping.
Sophia tapped her foot, glancing out of the window.
“Shall you go to see him?” Constance continued.
“Of course,” said Sophia. “I must!”
She hated the thought of going to see him. She flinched from it. She felt herself under no moral obligation to go. Why should she go? Gerald was nothing to her, and had no claim on her of any kind. This she honestly believed. And yet she knew that she must go to him. She knew it to be impossible that she should not go.
“Now?” demanded Constance.
Sophia nodded.
“What about the trains? … Oh, you poor dear!” The mere idea of the journey to Manchester put Constance out of her wits, seeming a business of unparalleled complexity and difficulty.
“Would you like me to come with you?”
“Oh no! I must go by myself.”
Constance was relieved by this. They could not have left the servant in the house alone, and the idea of shutting up the house without notice or preparation presented itself to Constance as too fantastic.
By a common instinct they both descended to the parlour.
“Now, what about a timetable? What about a timetable?” Constance mumbled on the stairs. She wiped her eyes resolutely. “I wonder whatever in this world has brought him at last to that Mr. Boldero’s in Deansgate?” she asked the walls.
As they came into the parlour, a great motorcar drove up before the door, and when the pulsations of its engine had died away, Dick Povey hobbled from the driver’s seat to the pavement. In an instant he was hammering at the door in his lively style. There was no avoiding him. The door had to be opened. Sophia opened it. Dick Povey was over forty, but he looked considerably younger. Despite his lameness, and the fact that his lameness tended to induce corpulence, he had a dashing air, and his face, with its short, light moustache, was boyish. He seemed to be always upon some joyous adventure.
“Well, aunties,” he greeted the sisters, having perceived Constance behind Sophia; he often so addressed them. “Has Dr. Stirling warned you that I was coming? Why haven’t you got your things on?”
Sophia observed a young woman in the car.
“Yes,” said he, following her gaze, “you may as well look. Come down, miss. Come down, Lily. You’ve got to go through with it.” The young woman, delicately confused and blushing, obeyed. “This is Miss Lily Holl,” he went on. “I don’t know whether you would remember her. I don’t think you do. It’s not often she comes to the Square. But, of course, she knows you by sight. Granddaughter of your old neighbour, Alderman Holl! We are engaged to be married, if you please.”
Constance and Sophia could not decently pour out their griefs on the top of such news. The betrothed pair had to come in and be congratulated upon their entry into the large realms of mutual love. But the sisters, even in their painful quandary, could not help noticing what a nice, quiet, ladylike girl Lily Holl was. Her one fault appeared to be that she was too quiet. Dick Povey was not the man to pass time in formalities, and he was soon urging departure.
“I’m sorry we can’t come,” said Sophia. “I’ve got to go to Manchester now. We are in great trouble.”
“Yes, in great trouble,” Constance weakly echoed.
Dick’s face clouded sympathetically. And both the affianced began to see that to which the egotism of their happiness had blinded them. They felt that long, long years had elapsed since these ageing ladies had experienced the delights which they were feeling.
“Trouble? I’m sorry to hear that!” said Dick.
“Can you tell me the trains to Manchester?” asked Sophia.
“No,” said Dick, quickly, “But I can drive you there quicker than any train, if it’s urgent. Where do you want to go to?”
“Deansgate,” Sophia faltered.
“Look here,” said Dick, “it’s half-past three. Put yourself in my hands; I’ll guarantee at Deansgate you shall be before half-past five. I’ll look after you.”
“But—”
“There isn’t any ‘but.’ I’m quite free for the afternoon and evening.”
At first the suggestion seemed absurd, especially to Constance. But really it was too tempting to be declined. While Sophia made ready for the journey, Dick and Lily Holl and Constance conversed in low, solemn tones. The pair were waiting to be enlightened as to the nature of the trouble; Constance, however, did not enlighten them. How could Constance say to them: “Sophia has a husband that she hasn’t seen for thirty-six years, and he’s dangerously ill, and they’ve telegraphed for her to go?” Constance could not. It did not even occur to Constance to order a cup of tea.
III
Dick Povey kept his word. At a quarter-past five he drew up in front of No. 49, Deansgate, Manchester. “There you are!” he said, not without pride. “Now, we’ll come back in about a couple of hours or so, just to take your orders, whatever they are.” He was very comforting, with his suggestion that in him Sophia had a sure support in the background.
Without many words Sophia went straight into the shop. It looked like
