Indeed, a rigid equality was the rule in the chamber, the single exception being that behind the door were three hooks, of which Constance commanded two.
“Well,” Sophia began, when Constance appeared. “How’s darling Mr. Povey?” She was lying on her back, and smiling at her two hands, which she held up in front of her.
“Asleep,” said Constance. “At least mother thinks so. She says sleep is the best thing for him.”
“‘It will probably come on again,’” said Sophia.
“What’s that you say?” Constance asked, undressing.
“‘It will probably come on again.’”
These words were a quotation from the utterances of darling Mr. Povey on the stairs, and Sophia delivered them with an exact imitation of Mr. Povey’s vocal mannerism.
“Sophia,” said Constance, firmly, approaching the bed, “I wish you wouldn’t be so silly!” She had benevolently ignored the satirical note in Sophia’s first remark, but a strong instinct in her rose up and objected to further derision. “Surely you’ve done enough for one day!” she added.
For answer Sophia exploded into violent laughter, which she made no attempt to control. She laughed too long and too freely while Constance stared at her.
“I don’t know what’s come over you!” said Constance.
“It’s only because I can’t look at it without simply going off into fits!” Sophia gasped out. And she held up a tiny object in her left hand.
Constance started, flushing. “You don’t mean to say you’ve kept it!” she protested earnestly. “How horrid you are, Sophia! Give it me at once and let me throw it away. I never heard of such doings. Now give it me!”
“No,” Sophia objected, still laughing. “I wouldn’t part with it for worlds. It’s too lovely.”
She had laughed away all her secret resentment against Constance for having ignored her during the whole evening and for being on such intimate terms with their parents. And she was ready to be candidly jolly with Constance.
“Give it me,” said Constance, doggedly.
Sophia hid her hand under the clothes. “You can have his old stump, when it comes out, if you like. But not this. What a pity it’s the wrong one!”
“Sophia, I’m ashamed of you! Give it me.”
Then it was that Sophia first perceived Constance’s extreme seriousness. She was surprised and a little intimidated by it. For the expression of Constance’s face, usually so benign and calm, was harsh, almost fierce. However, Sophia had a great deal of what is called “spirit,” and not even ferocity on the face of mild Constance could intimidate her for more than a few seconds. Her gaiety expired and her teeth were hidden.
“I’ve said nothing to mother ——” Constance proceeded.
“I should hope you haven’t,” Sophia put in tersely.
“But I certainly shall if you don’t throw that away,” Constance finished.
“You can say what you like,” Sophia retorted, adding contemptuously a term of opprobrium which has long since passed out of use: “Cant!”
“Will you give it me or won’t you?”
“No!”
It was a battle suddenly engaged in the bedroom. The atmosphere had altered completely with the swiftness of magic. The beauty of Sophia, the angelic tenderness of Constance, and the youthful, naive, innocent charm of both of them, were transformed into something sinister and cruel. Sophia lay back on the pillow amid her dark-brown hair, and gazed with relentless defiance into the angry eyes of Constance, who stood threatening by the bed. They could hear the gas singing over the dressing-table, and their hearts beating the blood wildly in their veins. They ceased to be young without growing old; the eternal had leapt up in them from its sleep.
Constance walked away from the bed to the dressing-table and began to loose her hair and brush it, holding back her head, shaking it, and bending forward, in the changeless gesture of that rite. She was so disturbed that she had unconsciously reversed the customary order of the toilette. After a moment Sophia slipped out of bed and, stepping with her bare feet to the chest of drawers, opened her work-box and deposited the fragment of Mr. Povey therein; she dropped the lid with an uncompromising bang, as if to say, “We shall see if I am to be trod upon, miss!” Their eyes met again in the looking-glass. Then Sophia got back into bed.
Five minutes later, when her hair was quite finished, Constance knelt down and said her prayers. Having said her prayers, she went straight to Sophia’s work-box, opened it, seized the fragment of Mr. Povey, ran to the window, and frantically pushed the fragment through the slit into the Square.
“There!” she exclaimed nervously.
She had accomplished this inconceivable transgression of the code of honour, beyond all undoing, before Sophia could recover from the stupefaction of seeing her sacred work-box impudently violated. In a single moment one of Sophia’s chief ideals had been smashed utterly, and that by the sweetest, gentlest creature she had ever known. It was a revealing experience for Sophia — and also for Constance. And it frightened them equally. Sophia, staring at the text, “Thou God seest me,” framed in straw over the chest of drawers, did not stir. She was defeated, and so profoundly moved in her defeat that she did not even reflect upon the obvious inefficacy of illuminated texts as a deterrent from evil-doing. Not that she eared a fig for the fragment of Mr. Povey! It was the moral aspect of the affair, and the astounding, inexplicable development in Constance’s character, that staggered her into silent acceptance of the inevitable.
Constance, trembling, took pains to finish undressing with dignified deliberation. Sophia’s behaviour under the blow seemed too good to be true; but it gave her courage. At length she turned out the gas and lay down by Sophia. And there was a little shuffling, and then stillness for a while.
“And if you want to know,” said Constance in a tone that mingled amicableness with righteousness, “mother’s decided with Aunt Harriet that we are BOTH to leave school next term.”
Chapter 3
A Battle
I
The day sanctioned by custom in the Five Towns for the making of pastry is Saturday. But Mrs. Baines made her pastry on Friday, because Saturday afternoon was, of course, a busy time in the shop. It is true that Mrs. Baines made her pastry in the morning, and that Saturday morning in the shop was scarcely different from any other morning. Nevertheless, Mrs. Baines made her pastry on Friday morning instead of Saturday morning because Saturday afternoon was a busy time in the shop. She was thus free to do her marketing without breath-taking flurry on Saturday morning.
On the morning after Sophia’s first essay in dentistry, therefore, Mrs. Baines was making her pastry in the underground kitchen. This kitchen, Maggie’s
