The Old Wives’ Tale is a Webnovel created by Arnold Bennett.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“Why, I do believe–” Sophia began, and then stopped, glancing at the sewing-machine, which stood next to the sofa.
It was a Howe sewing-machine. It had a little tool-drawer, and in the tool-drawer was a small pair of pliers. Constance, engaged in sniffing at the lees of the potion in order to estimate its probable deadliness, heard the well-known click of the little tool-drawer, and then she saw Sophia nearing Mr. Povey’s mouth with the pliers.
“Sophia!” she exclaimed, aghast. “What in the name of goodness are you doing?”
“Nothing,” said Sophia.
The next instant Mr. Povey sprang up out of his laudanum dream.
“It jumps!” he muttered; and, after a reflective pause, “but it’s much better.” He had at any rate escaped death.
Sophia’s right hand was behind her back.
Just then a hawker pa.s.sed down King Street, crying mussels and c.o.c.kles.
“Oh!” Sophia almost shrieked. “Do let’s have mussels and c.o.c.kles for tea!” And she rushed to the door, and unlocked and opened it, regardless of the risk of draughts to Mr. Povey.
In those days people often depended upon the caprices of hawkers for the tastiness of their teas; but it was an adventurous age, when errant knights of commerce were numerous and enterprising. You went on to your doorstep, caught your meal as it pa.s.sed, withdrew, cooked it and ate it, quite in the manner of the early Briton.
Constance was obliged to join her sister on the top step. Sophia descended to the second step.
“Fresh mussels and c.o.c.kles all alive oh!” bawled the hawker, looking across the road in the April breeze. He was the celebrated Hollins, a professional Irish drunkard, aged in iniquity, who cheerfully saluted magistrates in the street, and referred to the workhouse, which he occasionally visited, as the Bastile.
Sophia was trembling from head to foot.
“What ARE you laughing at, you silly thing?” Constance demanded.
Sophia surrept.i.tiously showed the pliers, which she had partly thrust into her pocket. Between their points was a most perceptible, and even recognizable, fragment of Mr. Povey.
This was the crown of Sophia’s career as a perpetrator of the unutterable.
“What!” Constance’s face showed the final contortions of that horrified incredulity which is forced to believe.
Sophia nudged her violently to remind her that they were in the street, and also quite close to Mr. Povey.
“Now, my little missies,” said the vile Hollins. “Three pence a pint, and how’s your honoured mother to-day? Yes, fresh, so help me G.o.d!”
CHAPTER II
THE TOOTH
I
The two girls came up the unlighted stone staircase which led from Maggie’s cave to the door of the parlour. Sophia, foremost, was carrying a large tray, and Constance a small one. Constance, who had nothing on her tray but a teapot, a bowl of steaming and balmy-scented mussels and c.o.c.kles, and a plate of hot b.u.t.tered toast, went directly into the parlour on the left. Sophia had in her arms the entire material and apparatus of a high tea for two, including eggs, jam, and toast (covered with the slop-basin turned upside down), but not including mussels and c.o.c.kles. She turned to the right, pa.s.sed along the corridor by the cutting-out room, up two steps into the sheeted and shuttered gloom of the closed shop, up the showroom stairs, through the showroom, and so into the bedroom corridor. Experience had proved it easier to make this long detour than to round the difficult corner of the parlour stairs with a large loaded tray. Sophia knocked with the edge of the tray at the door of the princ.i.p.al bedroom. The m.u.f.fled oratorical sound from within suddenly ceased, and the door was opened by a very tall, very thin, black-bearded man, who looked down at Sophia as if to demand what she meant by such an interruption.
“I’ve brought the tea, Mr. Critchlow,” said Sophia.
And Mr. Critchlow carefully accepted the tray.
“Is that my little Sophia?” asked a faint voice from the depths of the bedroom.
“Yes, father,” said Sophia.
But she did not attempt to enter the room. Mr. Critchlow put the tray on a white-clad chest of drawers near the door, and then he shut the door, with no ceremony. Mr. Critchlow was John Baines’s oldest and closest friend, though decidedly younger than the draper. He frequently “popped in” to have a word with the invalid; but Thursday afternoon was his special afternoon, consecrated by him to the service of the sick.
From two o’clock precisely till eight o’clock precisely he took charge of John Baines, reigning autocratically over the bedroom. It was known that he would not tolerate invasions, nor even amba.s.sadorial visits.
No! He gave up his weekly holiday to this business of friendship, and he must be allowed to conduct the business in his own way. Mrs. Baines herself avoided disturbing Mr. Critchlow’s ministrations on her husband. She was glad to do so; for Mr. Baines was never to be left alone under any circ.u.mstances, and the convenience of being able to rely upon the presence of a staid member of the Pharmaceutical Society for six hours of a given day every week outweighed the slight affront to her prerogatives as wife and house-mistress. Mr. Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man, but when he was in the bedroom she could leave the house with an easy mind. Moreover, John Baines enjoyed these Thursday afternoons. For him, there was ‘none like Charles Critchlow.’
The two old friends experienced a sort of grim, desiccated happiness, cooped up together in the bedroom, secure from women and fools generally. How they spent the time did not seem to be certainly known, but the impression was that politics occupied them. Undoubtedly Mr.
Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man. He was a man of habits. He must always have the same things for his tea. Black-currant jam, for instance. (He called it “preserve.”) The idea of offering Mr. Critchlow a tea which did not comprise black-currant jam was inconceivable by the intelligence of St. Luke’s Square. Thus for years past, in the fruit-preserving season, when all the house and all the shop smelt richly of fruit boiling in sugar, Mrs. Baines had filled an extra number of jars with black-currant jam, ‘because Mr. Critchlow wouldn’t TOUCH any other sort.’
So Sophia, faced with the shut door of the bedroom, went down to the parlour by the shorter route. She knew that on going up again, after tea, she would find the devastated tray on the doormat.
Constance was helping Mr. Povey to mussels and c.o.c.kles. And Mr. Povey still wore one of the antimaca.s.sars. It must have stuck to his shoulders when he sprang up from the sofa, woollen antimaca.s.sars being notoriously parasitic things. Sophia sat down, somewhat self-consciously. The serious Constance was also perturbed. Mr. Povey did not usually take tea in the house on Thursday afternoons; his practice was to go out into the great, mysterious world. Never before had he shared a meal with the girls alone. The situation was indubitably unexpected, unforeseen; it was, too, piquant, and what added to its piquancy was the fact that Constance and Sophia were, somehow, responsible for Mr. Povey. They felt that they were responsible for him. They had offered the practical sympathy of two intelligent and well-trained young women, born nurses by reason of their s.e.x, and Mr. Povey had accepted; he was now on their hands.
Sophia’s monstrous, sly operation in Mr. Povey’s mouth did not cause either of them much alarm, Constance having apparently recovered from the first shock of it. They had discussed it in the kitchen while preparing the teas; Constance’s extraordinarily severe and dictatorial tone in condemning it had led to a certain heat. But the success of the impudent wrench justified it despite any irrefutable argument to the contrary. Mr. Povey was better already, and he evidently remained in ignorance of his loss.
“Have some?” Constance asked of Sophia, with a large spoon hovering over the bowl of sh.e.l.ls.
“Yes, PLEASE,” said Sophia, positively.
Constance well knew that she would have some, and had only asked from sheer nervousness.
“Pa.s.s your plate, then.”
Now when everybody was served with mussels, c.o.c.kles, tea, and toast, and Mr. Povey had been persuaded to cut the crust off his toast, and Constance had, quite unnecessarily, warned Sophia against the deadly green stuff in the mussels, and Constance had further pointed out that the evenings were getting longer, and Mr. Povey had agreed that they were, there remained nothing to say. An irksome silence fell on them all, and no one could lift it off. Tiny clashes of sh.e.l.l and crockery sounded with the terrible clearness of noises heard in the night. Each person avoided the eyes of the others. And both Constance and Sophia kept straightening their bodies at intervals, and expanding their chests, and then looking at their plates; occasionally a prim cough was discharged. It was a sad example of the difference between young women’s dreams of social brilliance and the reality of life. These girls got more and more girlish, until, from being women at the administering of laudanum, they sank back to about eight years of age–perfect children–at the tea-table.
The tension was snapped by Mr. Povey. “My G.o.d!” he muttered, moved by a startling discovery to this impious and disgraceful oath (he, the pattern and exemplar–and in the presence of innocent girlhood too!).
“I’ve swallowed it!”
“Swallowed what, Mr. Povey?” Constance inquired.
The tip of Mr. Povey’s tongue made a careful voyage of inspection all round the right side of his mouth.
“Oh yes!” he said, as if solemnly accepting the inevitable. “I’ve swallowed it!”
Sophia’s face was now scarlet; she seemed to be looking for some place to hide it. Constance could not think of anything to say.
“That tooth has been loose for two years,” said Mr. Povey, “and now I’ve swallowed it with a mussel.”
“Oh, Mr. Povey!” Constance cried in confusion, and added, “There’s one good thing, it can’t hurt you any more now.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Povey. “It wasn’t THAT tooth that was hurting me. It’s an old stump at the back that’s upset me so this last day or two. I wish it had been.”
Sophia had her teacup close to her red face. At these words of Mr.
Povey her cheeks seemed to fill out like plump apples. She dashed the cup into its saucer, spilling tea recklessly, and then ran from the room with stifled snorts.
“Sophia!” Constance protested.