She would have been surprised to hear that her attitude, bearing, and expression powerfully recalled those of her reprehensible daughter.
But it was so.
A good angel made her restless, and she went idly to the window and glanced upon the empty, shuttered Square.
She too, majestic matron, had strange, brief yearnings for an existence more romantic than this; shootings across her spirit's firmament of tailed comets; soft, inexplicable melancholies.
The good angel, withdrawing her from such a mood, directed her gaze to a particular spot at the top of the square.
She passed at once out of the room--not precisely in a hurry, yet without wasting time.
In a recess under the stairs, immediately outside the door, was a box about a foot square and eighteen inches deep covered with black American cloth.
She bent down and unlocked this box, which was padded within and contained the Baines silver tea-service.
She drew from the box teapot, sugar- bowl, milk-jug, sugar-tongs, hot-water jug, and cake-stand (a flattish dish with an arching semicircular handle)--chased vessels, silver without and silver-gilt within; glittering heirlooms that shone in the dark corner like the secret pride of respectable families.
These she put on a tray that always stood on end in the recess.
Then she looked upwards through the banisters to the second floor.
"Maggie!" she piercingly whispered.
"Yes, mum," came a voice.
"Are you dressed?"
"Yes, mum.
I'm just coming."
"Well, put on your muslin."
"Apron," Mrs. Baines implied.
Maggie understood.
"Take these for tea," said Mrs. Baines when Maggie descended.
"Better rub them over.
You know where the cake is--that new one.
The best cups.
And the silver spoons."
They both heard a knock at the side-door, far off, below.
"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Baines.
"Now take these right down into the kitchen before you open."
"Yes, mum," said Maggie, departing.
Mrs. Baines was wearing a black alpaca apron.
She removed it and put on another one of black satin embroidered with yellow flowers, which, by merely inserting her arm into the chamber, she had taken from off the chest of drawers in her bedroom.
Then she fixed herself in the drawing-room.
Maggie returned, rather short of breath, convoying the visitor.
"Ah! Miss Chetwynd," said Mrs. Baines, rising to welcome.
"I'm sure I'm delighted to see you.
I saw you coming down the Square, and I said to myself,
'Now, I do hope Miss Chetwynd isn't going to forget us.'"
Miss Chetwynd, simpering momentarily, came forward with that self- conscious, slightly histrionic air, which is one of the penalties of pedagogy.
She lived under the eyes of her pupils.
Her life was one ceaseless effort to avoid doing anything which might influence her charges for evil or shock the natural sensitiveness of their parents.
She had to wind her earthly way through a forest of the most delicate susceptibilities--fern-fronds that stretched across the path, and that she must not even accidentally disturb with her skirt as she passed.
No wonder she walked mincingly!
No wonder she had a habit of keeping her elbows close to her sides, and drawing her mantle tight in the streets!
Her prospectus talked about 'a sound and religious course of training,' 'study embracing the usual branches of English, with music by a talented master, drawing, dancing, and calisthenics.'
Also 'needlework plain and ornamental;' also 'moral influence;' and finally about terms, 'which are very moderate, and every particular, with references to parents and others, furnished on application.' (Sometimes, too, without application.) As an illustration of the delicacy of fern- fronds, that single word 'dancing' had nearly lost her Constance and Sophia seven years before!
She was a pinched virgin, aged forty, and not 'well off;' in her family the gift of success had been monopolized by her elder sister.
For these characteristics Mrs. Baines, as a matron in easy circumstances, pitied Miss Chetwynd.
On the other hand, Miss Chetwynd could choose ground from which to look down upon Mrs. Baines, who after all was in trade.
Miss Chetwynd had no trace of the local accent; she spoke with a southern refinement which the Five Towns, while making fun of it, envied.
All her O's had a genteel leaning towards 'ow,' as ritualism leans towards Romanism.
And she was the fount of etiquette, a wonder of correctness; in the eyes of her pupils' parents not so much 'a perfect LADY' as 'a PERFECT lady.'