But she was in a net; she was in the meshes of family correctness.
Do what she would, she could not invent a reason for not going.
Certainly she could not tell her aunt that she merely did not want to go.
She was capable of enormities, but not of that.
And then began Aunt Harriet's intricate preparations for going.
Aunt Harriet never did anything simply.
And she could not be hurried.
Seventy-two hours before leaving she had to commence upon her trunk; but first the trunk had to be wiped by Maggie with a damp cloth under the eye and direction of Aunt Harriet.
And the liveryman at Axe had to be written to, and the servants at Axe written to, and the weather prospects weighed and considered.
And somehow, by the time these matters were accomplished, it was tacitly understood that Sophia should accompany her kind aunt into the bracing moorland air of Axe.
No smoke at Axe!
No stuffiness at Axe!
The spacious existence of a wealthy widow in a residential town with a low death-rate and famous scenery!
"Have you packed your box, Sophia?"
No, she had not.
"Well, I will come and help you."
Impossible to bear up against the momentum of a massive body like Aunt Harriet's!
It was irresistible.
The day of departure came, throwing the entire household into a commotion.
Dinner was put a quarter of an hour earlier than usual so that Aunt Harriet might achieve Axe at her accustomed hour of tea.
After dinner Maggie was the recipient of three amazing muslin aprons, given with a regal gesture.
And the trunk and the box were brought down, and there was a slight odour of black kid gloves in the parlour.
The waggonette was due and the waggonette appeared ("I can always rely upon Bladen!" said Aunt Harriet), and the door was opened, and Bladen, stiff on his legs, descended from the box and touched his hat to Aunt Harriet as she filled up the doorway.
"Have you baited, Bladen?" asked she.
"Yes'm," said he, assuringly.
Bladen and Mr. Povey carried out the trunk and the box, and Constance charged herself with parcels which she bestowed in the corners of the vehicle according to her aunt's prescription; it was like stowing the cargo of a vessel.
"Now, Sophia, my chuck!" Mrs. Baines called up the stairs.
And Sophia came slowly downstairs.
Mrs. Baines offered her mouth. Sophia glanced at her.
"You needn't think I don't see why you're sending me away!" exclaimed Sophia in a hard, furious voice, with glistening eyes.
"I'm not so blind as all that!"
She kissed her mother--nothing but a contemptuous peck.
Then, as she turned away she added:
"But you let Constance do just as she likes!"
This was her sole bitter comment on the episode, but into it she put all the profound bitterness accumulated during many mutinous nights.
Mrs. Baines concealed a sigh.
The explosion certainly disturbed her.
She had hoped that the smooth surface of things would not be ruffled.
Sophia bounced out.
And the assembly, including several urchins, watched with held breath while Aunt Harriet, after having bid majestic good-byes, got on to the step and introduced herself through the doorway of the waggonette into the interior of the vehicle; it was an operation like threading a needle with cotton too thick.
Once within, her hoops distended in sudden release, filling the waggonette.
Sophia followed, agilely.
As, with due formalities, the equipage drove off, Mrs. Baines gave another sigh, one of relief.
The sisters had won.
She could now await the imminent next advent of Mr. Gerald Scales with tranquillity.
II
Those singular words of Sophia's,
'But you let Constance do just as she likes,' had disturbed Mrs. Baines more than was at first apparent.
They worried her like a late fly in autumn.
For she had said nothing to any one about Constance's case, Mrs. Maddack of course excepted.