The Old Wives' Tale - Arnold Bennett [225]
When, immediately afterwards, Amy opened the drawing-room door (having first knocked—the practice of encouraging a servant to plunge without warning of any kind into a drawing-room had never been favoured in that house) she saw the sisters sitting rather near to each other at the walnut oval table, Mrs. Scales very upright, and staring into the fire, and Mrs. Povey 'bunched up' and staring at the photograph album; both seeming to Amy aged and apprehensive; Mrs. Povey's hair was quite grey, though Mrs. Scales' hair was nearly as black as Amy's own. Mrs. Scales started at the sound of the knock, and turned her head.
"Here's Mr. and Mrs. Critchlow, m'm," announced Amy.
The sisters glanced at one another, with lifted foreheads. Then Mrs. Povey spoke to Amy as though visits at half-past eight at night were a customary phenomenon of the household. Nevertheless, she trembled to think what outrageous thing Mr. Critchlow might say to Sophia after thirty years' absence. The occasion was great, and it might also be terrible.
"Ask them to come up," she said calmly.
But Amy had the best of that encounter. "I have done," she replied, and instantly produced them out of the darkness of the corridor. It was providential: the sisters had made no remark that the Critchlows might not hear.
Then Maria Critchlow, simpering, had to greet Sophia. Mrs. Critchlow was very agitated, from sheer nervousness. She curvetted; she almost pranced; and she made noises with her mouth as though she saw some one eating a sour apple. She wanted to show Sophia how greatly she had changed from the young, timid apprentice. Certainly since her marriage she had changed. As manager of other people's business she had not felt the necessity of being effusive to customers, but as proprietress, anxiety to succeed had dragged her out of her capable and mechanical indifference. It was a pity. Her consistent dullness had had a sort of dignity; but genial, she was merely ridiculous. Animation cruelly displayed her appalling commonness and physical shabbiness. Sophia's demeanour was not chilly; but it indicated that Sophia had no wish to be eyed over as a freak of nature.
Mr. Critchlow advanced very slowly into the room. "Ye still carry your head on a stiff neck," said he, deliberately examining Sophia. Then with great care he put out his long thin arm and took her hand. "Well, I'm rare and glad to see ye!"
Every one was thunderstruck at this expression of joy. Mr. Critchlow had never been known to be glad to see anybody.
"Yes," twittered Maria, "Mr. Critchlow would come in to-night. Nothing would do but he must come in to-night."
"You didn't tell me this afternoon," said Constance, "that you were going to give us the pleasure of your company like this."
He looked momentarily at Constance. "No," he grated, "I don't know as I did."
His gaze flattered Sophia. Evidently he treated this experienced and sad woman of fifty as a young girl. And in presence of his extreme age she felt like a young girl, remembering the while how as a young girl she had hated him. Repulsing the assistance of his wife, he arranged an armchair in front of the fire and meticulously put himself into it. Assuredly he was much older in a drawing-room than behind the counter of his shop. Constance had noticed that in the afternoon. A live coal fell out of the fire. He bent forward, wet his fingers, picked up the coal and threw it back into the fire.
"Well," said Sophia. "I wouldn't have done that."
"I never saw Mr. Critchlow's equal for picking up hot cinders," Maria giggled.
Mr. Critchlow deigned no remark. "When did ye leave this Paris?" he demanded of Sophia, leaning back, and putting his hands on the arms of the chair.
"Yesterday morning," said Sophia,
"And what'n ye been doing with yeself since yesterday morning?"
"I spent last night in London," Sophia replied.
"Oh, in London, did ye?"
"Yes. Cyril and I had an evening together."
"Eh? Cyril! What's yer opinion o' Cyril, Sophia?"
"I'm very proud to have Cyril for a nephew," said Sophia.
"Oh! Are ye?" The old man was obviously ironic.