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Updated: May 19, 2025
Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for, instead of a bedstead, it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat down together on the foot of it. "This is aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and next to it, out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is where Mamma and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?"
A few coloured prints and engravings representing, for example, Louis Philippe and his family, and people perishing on a raft broke the tedium of the walls. The first impression on Sophia's eye was one of sombre splendour. Everything had the air of being richly ornamented, draped, looped, carved, twisted, brocaded into gorgeousness.
Harold very often read aloud to them. It was astonishing how quickly, not imperceptibly, but determinedly, the Canadian girl took on the habits and manners of the lady beside her; not thereby producing a poor imitation, for Eliza was not imitative, but by careful study reproducing in herself much of Sophia's refinement.
She thought the hour badly chosen for verbal pleasantry, but he was so kind that she made no complaint. Thus there were six people at Sophia's funeral, including Mr. Critchlow. No refreshments were offered. The mourners separated at the church. When both funerals were accomplished Cyril sat down and played the harmonium softly, and said that it had kept well in tune.
Povey and Constance; unlike anything in Sophia's experience! She wanted to go into the parlour, but she could not bring herself to do so. She crept away again, forlorn and puzzled, and next discovered herself in the bedroom which she shared with Constance at the top of the house; she lay down in the dusk on the bed and began to read "The Days of Bruce;" but she read only with her eyes.
Olivia, the elder daughter, was open, sprightly, and commanding; Sophia's features were not so striking at first, but often did more certain execution, for they were soft, modest, and alluring.
Sophia's cheeks grew white, but she did not turn to me: she played the nocturne through to the end, got up, and closed the piano. 'Where are you going? I asked her in some perplexity. 'You have no answer to make me? 'What answer can I make you? I don't know what you 're talking about.... And I am not good at pretending.... She began putting by the music. The blood rushed to my head.
"Never!" cried Madame Foucault. "It is finished. And he is the last!" Laurence, ignoring Madame Foucault, approached Sophia. "You have an air very fatigued," she said, caressing Sophia's shoulder with her gloved hand. "You are pale like everything. All this is not for you. It is not reasonable to remain here, you still suffering! At this hour! Truly not reasonable!"
Povey's door was slightly ajar. They listened; not a sound. "Mr. Povey!" Constance coughed discreetly. No reply. It was Sophia who pushed the door open. Constance made an elderly prim plucking gesture at Sophia's bare arm, but she followed Sophia gingerly into the forbidden room, which was, however, empty. The bed had been ruffled, and on it lay a book, "The Harvest of a Quiet Eye."
It was the moral aspect of the affair, and the astounding, inexplicable development in Constance's character, that staggered her into silent acceptance of the inevitable. Constance, trembling, took pains to finish undressing with dignified deliberation. Sophia's behaviour under the blow seemed too good to be true; but it gave her courage. At length she turned out the gas and lay down by Sophia.
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