"You must 'a been a tremendous long walk," said Yates; "but you're
looking all the better for it, ma'am--though you aren't brought back an
appetite."
Mrs. Thompson was trifling with her supper--only pretending to eat. The
electric light, shining on her hair, made the rounded coils and central
mass bright, smooth, and glossy; the colour in her cheeks glowed vividly
and faded quickly, and, as it came and went, the whole face seemed
softened and yet unusually animated; the parted lips were slightly
tremulous, and the eyes, with distended pupils, were darker and larger
than they had been in the daylight. By a queer chance the old servant
began to speak of her mistress's personal appearance.
"Yes," said Yates, "it's the fresh air you want.--Stands to reason you
do, shut up in the shop all day. You look another woman to what you did
when you went out;" and she studied Mrs. Thompson's face critically and
admiringly.
Mrs. Thompson smiled, and her lips were quite tremulous.
"Another woman, Yates? What sort of woman do I look like now?"
"A very handsome one," said Yates affectionately. "And more like the
girl Mr. Thompson led up the stairs such a long time ago--the first time
I ever set eyes on her, and was thinking however she and I would get on
together."
"We've got on well together, haven't we, Yates?"
"That we have," said Yates, with enthusiasm.
"Yates, don't stare so;" and Mrs. Thompson laughed. "You make me
nervous. And I don't want you to flatter me.... But tell me, candidly,
supposing you met me now as a stranger--how old would you guess I was?"
Yates, with her head slightly on one side, scrutinized her mistress very
critically.
"Why, I don't believe that anyone seeing you as I do now would take you
for more than forty-two--at the outside."
"Forty-two! Three years less than my real age. Thank you for nothing,
Yates." Mrs. Thompson laughed, but with little merriment in her laugh.
"You haven't joined my band of flatterers. You have given me an honest
answer."
Perhaps, if some faint doubt was lingering in Mrs. Thompson's mind,
Yates had provided an answer to that as well as to the direct question.
The mistress did not invite the servant to sit at table this evening and
help her through the lonely meal. Her thoughts were sufficient company.
At night she could not sleep. The contact with the fierce strong male
had completely upset her--never in all her life had she been so handled
by a man. And the extent of the contact seemed mysteriously to have
multiplied the effect of its local violences; the dreaded grip of the
powerful arms, the resistless pressure of the forcing hands, and the
cruel hot print of his kisses were the salient facts in her memory of
the embrace; but it seemed that from every point of the surface of her
body while compelled to touch him a nerve thrill had been sent vibrating
in her brain, and the diffused nerve-messages, concentrating there, had
produced overwhelmingly intense disturbance.
And memory gave her back these sensations--the wide thrilling wave from
surface to brain, and the explosion of the central nerve-storm flashing
its rapid recognition back to the outer boundaries. Lying in her dark
room she lived through the experience again--was forced to suffer the
embrace not once but again and again.
It was dreadful that a man, simply by reason of his sex, should have
this power, dreadful that he should abuse his power in thus treating a
woman,--and most dreadful that of all women in the world the woman
should be herself.
And she thought of the late Mr. Thompson's timid and maladroit
caresses--inspired, monotonous, stereotyped endearments, totally devoid
of nervous excitation, dutifully borne by her, day after day, month
after month, throughout the long years.
But memory, doing its faithful and accurate work, failed to restore to
her that glow of angry protest, that recoil of outraged dignity which
she had felt when the young man took her in his arms. She could feel his
arms about her still, but the sense of shame had gone.
Here in the darkened room she could see him--she could not help seeing
him. Hot tears filled her eyes, she writhed and twisted, she tossed and
turned, as the mental pictures came and went; but nothing could drive
him away. He had taken possession of her thoughts; and she wept because
she understood that he had not achieved this tyrannous rule to-day, or
yesterday, but a long time ago, a disgracefully long time ago. In
imagination she was watching him among the china and glass, when
Woolfrey and the others showed her plainly how dangerous he really
was--and it had begun then. Why else should she have felt such a
wrathful discontent at the idea of his courting all the silly girls? In
imagination, she could see him among the carpets, trundling the great
rolls, fascinating, enthralling the rude customer,--and it seemed to her
that it had begun even then. She and the shrew were one in their
weakness; both had been hypnotised together. Mears said all the women
in the shop had submitted to the spell--but not the silliest, most
feather-headed slut of them all had fallen into such idiotic depths as
those in which their proud and stately chief lay weeping.
She dried her eyes, got out of bed and drank water, stood at the open
window, turned on the light, turned off the light, lay down again and
tried desperately to sleep.
In a moment her cheeks were burning.--She could feel the hot kisses; she
could hear the hurried words. "A face made to be kissed--setting one's
blood on fire.... You are a woman all through--you are ripe for love."
Ah, if only one could give way to such a dream of rapture; if one could
believe that the lost years might be recovered, that all one has missed
in life--its passionate sweetness and its satisfying fullness--might be
won by a miraculous interposition of fate. Nothing less than a miracle
can bring back the wasted past.
She did not sleep; but with the return of day she grew calmer. Thoughts
of Enid helped her. A second marriage--even what the world would call a
wise and fitting alliance--was utterly out of the question. It would be
the death of her daughter's love; it would render the story of her own
life meaningless; it would destroy all the results of twenty-two years'
maternal devotion. Enid had been all in all to her: Enid must remain
what she had always been. If on the mother's part there was a brave
renunciation of self, it belonged to the dim past; it was over and done
with--a solid fact, not to be modified, far less overturned.
Least of all by such a marriage as this--laughter mingling with the
sound of bells, coarse jokes to be thrown after them instead of pretty
confetti, even the sacred words of the priest at the altar echoed by
derisive words of rabble in the porch! Enid would never forgive
her--were she ever to forgive herself.
In the broad light of day, in the cold light of logic, she saw that it
was impossible. Her emotions might be roused, unsuspected sexual
instincts might be partially awakened, beneath the matronly time-worn
outer case a virginal mechanism might be stirring; but the whole
intellectual side of her nature was strong enough to reinforce the
special functions of her will. Too late to snatch at lost joys! Reason
rejected the impossibility.
She was too old. The chance had gone years ago. The young man, even if
she could believe that he loved her now--much as a romantic subject
might fancy that he loved his queen,--would soon grow weary. Familiarity
would rob her of all queenly attributes; at the best nothing would be
left except disappointment, and at the worst disgust. And then she would
suffer intolerable torment. She saw it quite clearly--the martyrdom of a
middle-aged wife who cannot retain her young husband's love.
None of that. She rose after the sleepless night with her decision
fortified.