pg5247 [247]
"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?"