Soon afterwards the bell was rung for a fourth time, and not answered.
"I suppose she hasn"t come back yet. But I thought I heard the door.
What a long time she is!"
"What do you want?" Sophia asked.
"I just want to speak to her," said Constance.
When the bell had been rung seven or eight times, Amy at length re-appeared, somewhat breathless.
"Amy," said Constance, "let me examine those sheets, will you?"
"Yes"m," said Amy, apparently knowing what sheets, of all the various and mult.i.tudinous sheets in that house.
"And the pillow-cases," Constance added as Amy left the room.
So it continued. The next day the fever heightened. Constance was up early, before Sophia, and trotting about the house like a girl.
Immediately after breakfast Cyril"s bedroom was invested and revolutionized; not till evening was order restored in that chamber.
And on the Wednesday morning it had to be dusted afresh. Sophia watched the preparations, and the increasing agitation of Constance"s demeanour, with an astonishment which she had real difficulty in concealing. "Is the woman absolutely mad?" she asked herself. The spectacle was ludicrous: or it seemed so to Sophia, whose career had not embraced much experience of mothers. It was not as if the manifestations of Constance"s anxiety were dignified or original or splendid. They were just silly, ordinary fussinesses; they had no sense in them. Sophia was very careful to make no observation. She felt that before she and Constance were very much older she had a very great deal to do, and that a subtle diplomacy and wary tactics would be necessary.
Moreover, Constance"s angelic temper was slightly affected by the strain of expectation. She had a tendency to rasp. After the high-tea was set she suddenly sprang on to the sofa and lifted down the "Stag at Eve" engraving. The dust on the top of the frame incensed her.
"What are you going to do?" Sophia asked, in a final marvel.
"I"m going to change it with that one," said Constance, pointing to another engraving opposite the fireplace. "He said the effect would be very much better if they were changed. And his lordship is very particular."
Constance did not go to Bursley station to meet her son. She explained that it upset her to do so, and that also Cyril preferred her not to come.
"Suppose I go to meet him," said Sophia, at half-past five. The idea had visited her suddenly. She thought: "Then I could talk to him before any one else."
"Oh, do!" Constance agreed.
Sophia put her things on with remarkable expedition. She arrived at the station a minute before the train came in. Only a few persons emerged from the train, and Cyril was not among them. A porter said that there was not supposed to be any connection between the Loop Line trains and the main line expresses, and that probably the express had missed the Loop. She waited thirty-five minutes for the next Loop, and Cyril did not emerge from that train either.
Constance opened the front-door to her, and showed a telegram--
"Sorry prevented last moment. Writing. CYRIL."
Sophia had known it. Somehow she had known that it was useless to wait for the second train. Constance was silent and calm; Sophia also.
"What a shame! What a shame!" thumped Sophia"s heart.
It was the most ordinary episode. But beneath her calm she was furious against her favourite. She hesitated.
"I"m just going out a minute," she said.
"Where?" asked Constance. "Hadn"t we better have tea? I suppose we must have tea."
"I shan"t be long. I want to buy something."
Sophia went to the post-office and despatched a telegram. Then, partially eased, she returned to the arid and painful desolation of the house.
IV
The next evening Cyril sat at the tea-table in the parlour with his mother and his aunt. To Constance his presence there had something of the miraculous in it. He had come, after all! Sophia was in a rich robe, and for ornament wore an old silver-gilt neck-chain, which was clasped at the throat, and fell in double to her waist, where it was caught in her belt. This chain interested Cyril. He referred to it once or twice, and then he said: "Just let me have a LOOK at that chain,"
and put out his hand; and Sophia leaned forward so that he could handle it. His fingers played with it thus for some seconds; the picture strikingly affected Constance. At length he dropped it, and said: "H"m!" After a pause he said: "Louis Sixteenth, eh?" and Sophia said:
"They told me so. But it"s nothing; it only cost thirty francs, you know." And Cyril took her up sharply:
"What does that matter?" Then after another pause he asked: "How often do you break a link of it?"
"Oh, often," she said. "It"s always getting shorter."
And he murmured mysteriously: "H"m!"
He was still mysterious, withdrawn within himself extraordinarily uninterested in his physical surroundings. But that evening he talked more than he usually did. He was benevolent, and showed a particular benevolence towards his mother, apparently exerting himself to answer her questions with fullness and heartiness, as though admitting frankly her right to be curious. He praised the tea; he seemed to notice what he was eating. He took Spot on his knee, and gazed in admiration at Fossette.
"By Jove!" he said, "that"s a dog, that is! ... All the same...." And he burst out laughing.
"I won"t have Fossette laughed at," Sophia warned him.
"No, seriously," he said, in his quality of an amateur of dogs; "she is very fine." Even then he could not help adding: "What you can see of her!"
Whereupon Sophia shook her head, deprecating such wit. Sophia was very lenient towards him. Her leniency could be perceived in her eyes, which followed his movements all the time. "Do you think he is like me, Constance?" she asked.
"I wish I was half as good-looking," said Cyril, quickly; and Constance said:
"As a baby he was very like you. He was a handsome baby. He wasn"t at all like you when he was at school. These last few years he"s begun to be like you again. He"s very much changed since he left school; he was rather heavy and clumsy then."
"Heavy and clumsy!" exclaimed Sophia. "Well, I should never have believed it!"
"Oh, but he was!" Constance insisted.
"Now, mater," said Cyril, "it"s a pity you don"t want that cake cutting into. I think I could have eaten a bit of that cake. But of course if it"s only for show...!"
Constance sprang up, seizing a knife.
"You shouldn"t tease your mother," Sophia told him. "He doesn"t really want any, Constance; he"s regularly stuffed himself."
And Cyril agreed, "No, no, mater, don"t cut it; I really couldn"t. I was only ga.s.sing."
But Constance could never clearly see through humour of that sort. She cut three slices of cake, and she held the plate towards Cyril.
"I tell you I really couldn"t!" he protested.
"Come!" she said obstinately. "I"m waiting! How much longer must I hold this plate?"
And he had to take a slice. So had Sophia. When she was roused, they both of them had to yield to Constance.
With the dogs, and the splendour of the tea-table under the gas, and the distinction of Sophia and Cyril, and the conversation, which on the whole was gay and free, rising at times to jolly garrulity, the scene in her parlour ought surely to have satisfied Constance utterly. She ought to have been quite happy, as her sciatica had raised the siege for a s.p.a.ce. But she was not quite happy. The circ.u.mstances of Cyril"s arrival had disturbed her; they had in fact wounded her, though she would scarcely admit the wound. In the morning she had received a brief letter from Cyril to say that he had not been able to come, and vaguely promising, or half-promising, to run down at a later date. That letter had the cardinal defects of all Cyril"s relations with his mother; it was casual, and it was not candid. It gave no hint of the nature of the obstacle which had prevented him from coming. Cyril had always been too secretive. She was gravely depressed by the letter, which she did not show to Sophia, because it impaired her dignity as a mother, and displayed her son in a bad light. Then about eleven o"clock a telegram had come for Sophia.