In her marriage she had sacrificed all the natural hopes and
inclinations of a healthy young woman. She and her widowed mother were
very poor, quite alone in the world; and it seemed a proper and a wise
thing to marry Mr. Thompson for his money. No one could guess that the
money was already a phantom and no longer a fact. The man was
middle-aged, feeble of body and mind, a stupid and a selfish person; but
it seemed that he would assure the future of his wife and provide a
comfortable home for his mother-in-law.
Then after five years the man and his money were gone forever; the
mother for whom the sacrifice had been made was herself dead; only the
wife and her little child remained. Five years of dull submission to an
unloved husband; five years spent in the nursing of two invalids, with
the vapid meaningless monotony of wasted days broken sharply by the
pains of child-birth, the agonized cares of early motherhood, and the
shock of death;--and at the end of the years, a sudden call for
limitless courage and almost impossible energy.
Quiet unobtrusive Mrs. Thompson answered the call fully. Deep-seated
fighting instincts arose in her; unsuspected powers were put forth to
meet the exigencies of the occasion; the hero-spirit that lies buried in
many natures sprang nobly upward.
At first she possessed only one commercial asset, the reputation of
Thompson's. For so many years Thompson's had been known as a good shop
that here was a legend which might counterbalance debts, exhausted
credit, antiquated stock, and incompetent staff.
The town and the country during generations had come to Thompson's for
good things--not cheap things, but the things that last: dress fabrics
that stand up by themselves, chairs and tables that you can leave intact
to your grandchildren, carpets that unborn men will be beating when you
yourself are dust.
Mrs. Thompson, in her widow's weeds, went round the big supply houses,
telling the great trade chieftains that the legend was still alive,
though the man who already owed them so much money was dead; saying in
effect to all the people who held her fate in their hands, "Don't let
old Thompson's go down. Don't smash me. Help me. Give me time to secure
your twenty shillings in the pound, instead of the meagre seven and
sixpence which you can get now."
The wholesale trade helped her. Little by little all the world came to
her aid. Mr. Prentice the solicitor was a skilful ally. As soon as it
could be seen locally that she was keeping her head above water, friends
on the bank began to beckon to her. Rich aldermen, advised that there
was now small risk, lent her money; and these loans rendered her
independent of Trade assistance. Soon she could get whatever sums she
required for the restoration and expansion of the business.
In all her dealings she won respect. The confidence that she inspired
was her true commercial asset, her capital, her good-will, her
everything; and it was always growing. "Very remarkable," said
travellers, reporting at headquarters, "how that Mrs. Thompson has
pulled the fat out of the fire at Mallingbridge. What she wants now is
some sound business man for partner--and there's no knowing what she
mightn't do."
Then some other and more philosophic traveller, impressed by the swift
revivification of Thompson's, said enthusiastically, "The best business
head in this town is on a woman's shoulders." The saying was quoted,
misquoted, echoed and garbled, until it concreted itself into an easy
popular formula which the whole town used freely. "The best man of
business in Mallingbridge is a woman." Everyone knew who that woman was.
Mrs. Thompson. And the town, speaking on important occasions through the
mouth of its mayor, aldermen, and councillors, for the first time said
that it was proud of her.
And then the town began to ask her hand in wedlock.
In these days, at the dawn of her success, Mrs. Thompson was not without
obvious personal attraction. She was fair and plump, with light wavy
hair, kind grey eyes beneath well-marked eyebrows, and good colour
warmly brightening a clean white skin;--she "looked nice" in her widow's
black, smiling at a hard world and so bravely tackling her life problem.
Quite a large number of well-to-do citizens were smilingly rejected by
the buxom widow. Pretenders were slow to believe in the finality of her
refusals; as the success became more patent, they tried their luck
again, and again, but always with the same emptiness of result. Indeed
it was a town joke, as well as an unquestionable fact, that old Chambers
the wine-merchant regularly proposed three times a year to nice-looking
Mrs. Thompson.
She wanted no second husband. The fight and the child were enough for
her. Those deep and unsapped springs of love that might have gushed
forth to make a fountain stream of happiness for Alderman Brown or
Councillor Jones flowed calmly and steadfastly now in a concentrated
channel of motherly affection. To work for the child, to love and tend
the child--that was henceforth her destiny. And she felt strong enough
to watch in her own face the blurring destructive print of time, if she
might watch in her girl's face time's unfolding glories.
For the cruel years took from her irrevocably those physical seductions
of neatly rounded form and smooth pinkness and whiteness. The colour
that had been sufficient became too much, plumpness changed to
stoutness--once, for a year, she was fat. But she tackled this trouble
too, bravely and unflinchingly,--went to London for Swedish exercises;
banted; brought herself down, down, down, until Dr. Eldridge told her
she must stop, or she would kill herself. After that she settled to a
steady solidness, a well-maintained amplitude of contour; and the years
seemed to leave her untouched as the wide-breasted, rotund-hipped,
stalwart Mrs. Thompson of a decade--red-cheeked, bright-eyed, gallant
and strong.
Yet still she had suitors. The physical charm was gone, but other charm
was present--that blending of kindness and power which wins men's
hearts, if it does not stir their pulses, gave her a dominating
personality, and made the circle of her influence exactly as large as
the circle of her acquaintance. People at the circumference of the
circle seemed to be surely drawn, by a straight or vacillating radius,
to its centre. The better you knew her, the more you thought about her.
So that old friends after years of thought now and then surprised her by
suggesting that friendship should be exchanged for a closer bond;
pointing out the advantages of a common-sense union, the marriage of
convenience, sympathy, and mutual regard, that becomes appropriate when
the volcano glow of youth has faded; and inviting her to name an early
day for going to St. Saviour's Church with them.
In the shop, among all grades of employees, there had ever been a dread
of St. Saviour's Church and wedding bells. They got on so well with
their mistress that the idea of a master was extraordinarily abhorrent
to them. But one day, a day now long past, Mrs. Thompson told Mr. Mears
authoritatively that joy bells would never sound for her again; Mr.
Mears, by permission, or in the exercise of his own discretion, passed
on the glad tidings; and the only dark thought that could worry a
contented staff was removed.
"No, Mr. Mears, I don't say that I have never contemplated the
possibility of such an event; but I can say emphatically I have decided
that in my case it _is_ impossible."
That was sufficient. What Mrs. Thompson said Mrs. Thompson meant. A
decision with her was a decision.
Of all her trusty subordinates none had served her so loyally as big Mr.
Mears. His whole life had been spent in Thompson's. Once he had been boy
messenger, window-cleaner, boot-blacker; and now, at the age of sixty,
he had risen to managerial rank. He was the acknowledged chief of the
staff, Mrs. Thompson's right-hand man; and he was as proud of his
position and the culminating grandeurs of his career as if he had been a
successful general, a prime-minister, or a pope. Mrs. Thompson knew and
openly told him that he was invaluable to her. Such words were like wine
and music: they intoxicated and enchanted him. Truly he was
whole-hearted, faithful, devoted, with a deep veneration for his
mistress; with an intense and almost passionate esteem for her skill,
her comprehension, her vigour, and for her herself--perhaps too with a
love that he scarcely himself understood.
Anyhow this heavy grey-haired shopman and his employer were very close
allies, generally thinking as one, and always acting as one, able to
talk together with a nearly absolute freedom on any question, however
intimately private in its character.
"You see, Mr. Mears, if I ever meant to do it, I should have done it
ages ago. Now that my daughter is growing up, her claims for attention
are becoming stronger every day."
Mr. Mears and the rest of the staff were more than satisfied. Perhaps
they blessed the idolized Enid for an increasing capacity to absorb
every energy and volition that Mrs. Thompson could spare from the shop.
Whatever Enid wished for her mother provided. She racked her brains in
order to forestall the child's wishes. But the difficulty always was
this, one could not be quite sure what Enid really wished. She accepted
the pretty gifts, the conditions of her life, the plans for her future,
with a calm unruffled acquiescence.
When Mrs. Thompson regretfully decided that it would be advisable to
dismiss the expensive governesses and send the home pupil to an
expensive school, Enid placidly and immediately agreed. Mrs. Thompson
thought that school would open Enid's mind, that school would give her
an opportunity of making nice girl-friends. Enid at once thought so,
too.
"But, oh, my darling, what a gap there will be in this house! You'll
leave a sore and a sad heart behind you. I shall miss you woefully."
"And I shall miss you, mamma."
Then, when Enid had gone to the fashionable seminary at Eastbourne, with
the faithful Yates as escort, with a wonderful luncheon-basket of
delicacies in the first-class reserved compartment, with several huge
boxes of school trousseau in the luggage van, Mrs. Thompson began to
suffer torment. Was it not cruel to send the brave little thing away
from her? Might not her darling be now a prey to similar yearnings and
longings for a swift reunion? The torment became agony; and after two
days Mrs. Thompson rushed down to see for herself if the new scholar was
all right.
Enid was entirely all right--playing with the other girls at the bottom
of the secluded garden.
"Is that you, mummy?" This was a form of greeting peculiar to Enid from
very early days. "I am so glad to see you," and she kissed mamma
affectionately.
She was uniformly affectionate, whether at school or at home, but never
explosive or demonstrative in the manifestations of her affection. There
was more warmth in her letters than in her spoken words. "My own dearest
mother," she used to write, "I am so looking forward to being with you
again. Do meet me at the station." But when the train arrived and Mrs.
Thompson, who had been pacing the Mallingbridge platform in a fever of
expectation, clasped the beloved object to her heart, she experienced
something akin to disappointment. It was a sedately composed young lady
that offered a cool cheek to the mother's tremulous lips.
Now and then a school-friend came to stay with Enid. A Miss Salter,
whose parents proved large-minded enough to overlook the glaring fact of
the shop, was a fairly frequent visitor. During the visit one of Mr.
Young's carriages stood at the disposal of the young hostess and her
guest all day long; breakfasts were served in bed; a private box at the
local theatre might be occupied any evening between the cosy dinner and
the dainty little supper; and Mrs. Thompson arranged delightful
expeditions to London, where, under the guardianship of Yates, larger
sights and more exciting treats could be enjoyed than any attainable in
Mallingbridge.
The condescending guest returned to her distinguished circle laden with
presents, and frankly owned that she had been given a royal time at the
queer shop-house in St. Saviour's Court.
Enid in her turn visited the houses of her friends, and came home to
tell Mrs. Thompson of that pleasant gracious world in which people do
not work for their living, but derive their ample means from splendidly
interred ancestors. With satisfaction, if not with animation, she
described how greatly butlers and footmen surpass the art of
parlourmaids in waiting at table; how gay an effect is produced by young
men dining in red coats, how baronets often shoot with three guns, how
lords never use less than two horses in the hunting field, and so on.
And Mrs. Thompson was happy in the thought that her daughter should be
mingling with fine company and deriving pleasure from strange scenes.
She was careful to obliterate herself in all such social intercourse.
Courteous letters were exchanged between her and Enid's hosts; but the
girl and Yates were despatched together, and Mrs. Thompson refused even
a glimpse of the Salters' mansion.
"Later on," she told Enid, "when we have done with the shop, I shall
hope to take my place in society by my pretty daughter's side. But for
the present I must just keep to myself.... The old prejudice against
retail trade still lingers--more especially among the class that used to
be termed _country_ people."
Enid dutifully agreed. Indeed she told her mother that the old prejudice
was much more active than anyone could guess who had not personally
encountered it. The shop was, so to speak, a very large pill, and needed
a considerable amount of swallowing.
"I found that out in my first term at school, mother dear."
"Mother dear" was now Enid's unvaried mode of address when talking to
her mamma. All her friends addressed their mammas as mother dear. School
was over in these days. Miss Thompson had been finished; she did her
country-house visiting with a maid of her own, and no longer with old
Yates; as much as she appeared to like anything, she liked staying about
at country-houses; she never refused an invitation--except when she was
previously engaged.
Something perhaps wanting here in the finished article, as polished and
pointed by Eastbourne school-mistresses; something not quite right in
Enid's placid acquiescences and too rapid concurrences; something that
suggested the smooth surface of a languid shallow stream, and not the
broad calm that lies above deep strong currents! Perhaps Mrs. Thompson
would have preferred a more exuberant reciprocity in her great love;
perhaps she secretly yearned for a full response to the open appeal of
her expansive, generous nature.
If so, she never said it. She was generous in thoughts as well as in
deeds. In big things as in small things she seemed to think that it was
for her to give and for others to receive. From the vicar craving funds
for his new organ to the crossing sweeper who ostentatiously slapped his
chest on cold mornings, all who asked for largesse received a handsome
dole. At the railway-station, when she appeared, ticket-collectors and
porters tumbled over one another in their rush to dance attendance--so
solid was her reputation as a lavishly tremendous tipper.
"She is making so much money herself that she can afford to be free with
it." That was the view of the town, and her own view, too. So all the
tradesmen with whom she dealt flagrantly overcharged her--dressmakers,
livery stable keepers, wine-merchants, florists, every one of them said
it was a privilege to serve her, and then sent in an extortionate bill.
And she paid and thanked with a genial smile.
Donations to the hospitals, subscriptions to the police concert, the
watermen's regatta, the railway servants' sports--really there was no
end to the demands that she met so cheerily. Christmas turkeys for the
Corporation underlings; cigars for the advertisement printers; small and
big dinners, with salvos of champagne corks threatening the Dolphin
ceilings, for aldermen, councillors, and all other urban
magnates--really it was no wonder that the town had a good word for her.
Mr. Prentice, the solicitor, always tried and always failed to curb her
liberality. Mr. Prentice kept himself outside of the Corporation's
affairs, and expressed considerable contempt for the municipal
representatives and the local tradesmen. When Mrs. Thompson spoke with
gratitude of the kindness of friends who helped her by loans in her
early struggle, Mr. Prentice mocked at these spurious benefactors.
"They did nothing for you," said Mr. Prentice.
"Oh, how can you pretend that?"
"They lent you money on excellent security and took high interest; and
you have been feasting them and flattering them ever since."
"I do like to feel that I am on good terms with those about me."
Then Mr. Prentice would laugh. "Oh, well, you have certainly got the
Corporation in your pocket. You make them your slaves--as you make me
and everyone else. So I'll say no more. No doubt you know your own
business best."
And she did. That well-used formula of the town might have been a
high-flown compliment at the beginning, but it was sober truth now. No
man in Mallingbridge could touch her. The years, taking so much from
her, had also brought her much. With ripening judgment, widening
knowledge, and the accumulated treasure of experience, her business
faculty had developed into something very near the highest form of
genius. She had insight, sense of organization, the power of launching
out boldly and accepting heavy risks to secure large gains; but she had
also caution, concentration of purpose in minor aims, and rapid decision
in facing a failure and cutting short consequent losses. In a word, she
possessed all the best attributes of your good man of business, and the
little more that makes up greatness.
She could always do that which very few men consistently achieve. She
mastered the situation of the moment, struck directly at the root of the
difficulty that confronted her, and, sweeping aside irrelevancies,
non-essentials, and entanglements, saw in the cold bright light of
logical thought the open road that leads from chaos to security.
And no man could have been a more absolute ruler. Every year of her
success made her dominion more complete. Womanlike, she ruled her world
by kindness; but man-like, she enforced her law by a show of strength,
and weight, and even of mere noise. Not often, but whenever necessary,
she acted a man's violence, and used bad language. When Mrs. Thompson
swore the whole shop trembled.
The swearing was a purely histrionic effort, but she carried it through
nobly.
"Have you heard?" A tremulous whisper ran along the counters. "Mrs. T.
went out into the yard, and damned those carters into heaps.... Mrs. T.
'as just bin down into the packing room, and given 'em damson pie--and
I'm sure they jolly well deserved it.... Look out. Here she comes!"
The brawny carters hung their heads, the hulking packers cleared their
throats huskily, the timorous shop-hands looked at the floor. Mrs.
Thompson passed like a silent whirlwind through the shop, and banged the
counting-house door behind her.
When Enid was away from home the counting-house was sometimes occupied
to a late hour. Staff long since gone, lights out everywhere; but light
still shining in that inner room, fighting the darkness above the glass
partitions. The night watchman, pacing to and fro, kept himself alert--a
real watchman, ready with his lantern to conduct Mrs. Thompson through
the shrouded avenues of counter, and upstairs to the door of
communication.
When Enid was away the house seemed empty; and the empty house,
curiously enough, always seemed smaller. It was as though because the
life of the house had contracted, the four walls had themselves drawn
nearer together. Yet the little rooms were just big enough to hold
ghosts and sad memories.
"You look thoroughly fagged out, ma'am. You overdo it. Let me open you a
pint of champagne for your supper."
"No, thank you, Yates.... But sit down, and talk to me."
The old servant sat at the table, and kept her mistress company through
what would otherwise have been a lonely meal. In Miss Enid's absence she
had no house news to offer, so Mrs. Thompson gave her the shop news.
"I swore at them to-day, Yates."
"Did you indeed, ma'am?"
"Yes."
"What drove you to that, ma'am?"
"Oh, the packing-room again--and those carters. I informed Mr. Mears
that I should do it; and he kept his eyes open, and came up quietly and
told me when.... Mr. Mears was delighted with it. He told me at closing
time that things had gone like clockwork ever since."
In her comfortable bedroom Mrs. Thompson shivered.
"Yates, I feel cold. I suppose it is because I'm tired."
"Shall I make you a glass of hot grog to drink in bed?"
"No.... But come in again when I ring--and stay with me for a few
minutes, will you, Yates?"
The old servant sat by the bedside until her mistress became drowsy.
"I'll leave you now, ma'am. Good-night, and pleasant dreams."
"Yates--kiss me."
Yates stooped over her lonely mistress, and kissed her. Then she softly
switched off the light, and left Mrs. Thompson alone in the darkness.