But the fortifying of the decision had cost her much, and the
after-effects of nerve-strain were easily to be perceived.
She was rather terrible in the shop, and all noticed a sudden and
mysterious change. Of a morning she used to appear with dark circles
round her eyes; her greetings, or acknowledgments of greetings, were
less cordial; she moved more slowly; and in her stern glance it seemed
that there was the certainty of finding something amiss, instead of the
hope of seeing nothing wrong.
Rather terrible--easily irritated, impatient of argument, quick to
resent advice: as the young ladies put it, ready to snap your head off
at any minute. A whisper, somehow passing out of house to shop, said she
was suffering from continued sleeplessness; and the loyal staff were
eager to make allowances. But they wondered how long the change would
last; they hoped that she would soon get a comfortable night, and wake
up again as their kind and considerate mistress.
In fact, many little things that once would not have worried her now
jarred upon tired nerves. She felt worried by Bence's, by her husband's
stupid relations, by Mr. Mears; and by Mr. Prentice, the solicitor, who
took the liberties permitted to an old friend. He and all other old
friends worried her.
She was altogether unable to laugh as of old at the impudence of Bence.
She frowned and stamped her foot when, looking across the road, she
first read the placard on the shuttered frontage of the ancient sadler
and the bookseller. It was not in small print: you could read it from
Thompson's without a telescope. "These Premises," said the poster, "will
shortly be opened as the new Furniture department of Bence Brothers, and
a long-felt want will be supplied by an extensive stock of high-class
goods at reasonable prices." And this, if you please, immediately facing
the two windows that from immemorial time had exhibited Thompson's solid
oak chairs and polished walnut tables! The gross, large-typed piece of
impertinence annoyed her excessively.
She had always been extraordinarily good to old Thompson's relatives,
who were common and troublesome. They all hung on to her, called her
Cousin Jenny, boasted about their prosperous connection by marriage;
they received benefits with scant thanks, grumbled when they fancied
themselves neglected; and they were all extremely jealous and watchful
of one another. Yet till now they had never exhausted her patience and
magnanimity.
One of them, John Edward Thompson, a grocer in a small way of business
at Haggart's Cross, had often drawn heavily upon her for financial aid.
He was a short, squat, bearded man; and he used to come into the shop
unexpectedly, and meander about it aimlessly, to the trouble and
confusion of the shop-walkers.
"What department, sir?"
He did not answer.
"What can I have the pleasure of showing you, sir?"
"Don't mind me, young man. Go on with your work. I'm just looking round
to find my cousin."
"May I be of assistance, sir? If you will be good enough to tell me your
cousin's name?"
"My cousin's name," said John Edward shortly, "is _Mrs. Thompson_....
There. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."
It nearly always happened that he found Mrs. Thompson with her back
turned towards him. Then he would put two somewhat grubby hands on her
shoulders, with cousinly playfulness pull her round the right way, and
publicly kiss her. This was an act of affection, and a triumphant
assertion of the relationship--something more for those foppish
shopwalkers to put in their pipes and smoke.
"Cousin Jenny, how goes it?"
Then, after the kiss, he would look at her reproachfully, and begin to
grumble.
"Cousin Jenny, you drove through Haggart's Cross last Thursday in your
carriage and pair. _I_ saw you. But you didn't see _me_. No, you didn't
think of stopping the horses for half a minute, and passing the time of
day to your cousin."
Mrs. Thompson used smilingly to lead him into the counting-house, give
him kind words, give him good money. He took the money grumblingly, as
if it was the least that could be offered as atonement for the
neglectfulness of last Thursday; but he went home very happy.
He had done all this scores of times, and Mrs. Thompson had borne it all
with unflinching generosity. But now, on a broiling July day, he did it
once too often. He got as far as the public salute, and no further.
She was upstairs, standing near a desk, with her back towards China and
Glass. He came behind her, playfully laid hold of her, kissed her. She
gave a cry, turned upon him in a white fury, and, seeing who he was,
snapped his head off.
That day he did not go home happy.
Other cousins were old Mrs. Price and her two daughters, who would all
three have been in the workhouse but for Mrs. Thompson. Thanks to her,
they were living comfortably at Riverdale, with a pleasant rent-free
cottage, garden, and orchard. The Miss Prices made jam and brought it
as a present to Mrs. Thompson, keeping up a baseless tradition that she
loved their preserve--and taking immense gifts in exchange for it. They
visited their cousin twice in July, first to say they would soon make
the jam, secondly to bring the jam; and each time they spent a long day
at Mallingbridge, coming in and out of house and shop, cackling and
giggling, and almost driving Mrs. Thompson mad.
Then there was Gordon Thompson, a farmer at Linkfield, who sometimes
came into town on market day, and ate his mid-day meal with his rich
cousin in St. Saviour's Court. He used to open the house door without
ringing the bell, and whistle a few notes as a familiar signal. "Cousin
Jen-ny! Cousin Jen-ny." He would shout this with an ascending
intonation, and then come clambering up the steep staircase.
"Any dinner to-day for a poor relation?... Ah, my dear, you're not the
sort to turn a hungry man away from your table. Garr--but I can tell you
I'm sharp set."
He was a hale and hearty-looking fellow, full of noisy jests, with a
great affectation of joviality; but in his twinkling eyes and about his
pursed lips there was the peasant's wariness, astuteness, and greed.
Truly he took all he could get from everybody, including his fortunate
cousin. Enid said his hob-nailed boots were dirty as well as ugly,
malodorous too; and she always fled at his approach, and did not
reappear while Mrs. Thompson feasted him and made much of him.
Now, when Mrs. Thompson heard the well-known whistle in the hall, she
followed her daughter's example; forsaking the luncheon-dishes, she fled
back to the shop through the door of communication, and left Yates to
entertain hungry Gordon.
Enid was at home, but she failed as a soothing and calming influence.
If her mother turned to her, endeavoured to lean upon her for support in
an unexpected need, she found a blank void, a totally inadequate
buttress. Enid was self-absorbed, busy with her own little affairs,
taking lessons from the new riding-master at Young's school, spending
long hours away from the house. She seemed like a person who really has
no intuitive sympathy to offer: a person locking up her life against
intruders, keeping close guard over secret emotions, and neither willing
to share her own hopes and fears nor to comprehend those of others.
Perhaps Enid's coldness--so often felt, but never till now admitted in
the mother's thoughts--added to the hidden trouble of Mrs. Thompson.
She entered the China department as rarely as possible, and her
intercourse with its head was of the most formal and distant character.
The conduct of Mr. Marsden was irreproachable: he was composed, polite,
respectful; and he never came down behind the glass. But he used his
eyes--a mute yet deadly attack, whenever she encountered them. She
dreaded the attack, braced herself for it when it could no longer be
avoided; and these meetings, however brief, had painful consequences.
They enervated her, sapped her energy, and left her with an incredible
sense of fatigue, so that after each of them she walked downstairs to
her room heavily and wearily, sat at the big desk breathing fast and
trembling, feeling for a little while quite unable to work--almost as if
she had been worn out by another physical tussle, instead of by a mere
exchange of glances.
She was sitting thus, breathless and perturbed, when Mr. Mears came
bothering. Earlier in the day she had admonished the second in command
very sharply, and it appeared that he could not bear her momentary
censure. He said she had snapped at him as she had never, never
snapped. The vast ponderous man was completely overcome; his voice
shook, his hands shook, and tears trickled down his cheeks while he
solemnly tendered his resignation.
"Resign? What nonsense are you talking, Mr. Mears?"
But Mears said it was not nonsense: he meant every word of it. Rather
than suffer here, he would go out and brave the world in his old age.
"Sit down, Mr. Mears--and don't be so foolish."
"I don't recognise you these last weeks," said Mears sadly; and he told
her of how intensely he had always venerated her. "Everything you did
was right--It is almost a religion with me. And now I couldn't bear
it--it would break my heart if I was to be pushed aside."
"You won't be pushed aside. No fear of that."
"Or if there was to be any great changes in the shop."
"There will be no great changes in the shop."
"Nor in your private life?"
Then Mrs. Thompson snapped again.
"What do you mean by that? What is my private life to you--or anybody
else? What are you insinuating?... Answer me. What do you mean?"
He would not, or he could not say. Perhaps he really did not know what
he meant; or some subtle instinct, telling him that a great peril to his
peace and comfort was drawing nearer and nearer, had enabled him to
pierce the mystery and had prompted the words of the offending question.
He sat gasping and gaping while she stormed at him.
"Understand once for all that I won't be watched and spied upon."
"I am no spy," he said huskily; "except when you've made me one."
The door was closed, but her angry voice rang out above the glass
partitions. All through the offices it was known that the manager had
put Mrs. T. into tantrums.
Suddenly the storm blew itself out. Mrs. Thompson paced the room; then
stopped near the empty fireplace, with her hands clasped behind her
back. Her attitude was altogether manlike. It was the big man, sitting
huddled on the chair, wiping his cheeks, and blowing his nose, who
displayed signs of womanish emotion.
"Mr. Mears, don't let's have any more of it. You and I must never
quarrel. It would be too absurd. We are _friends_--we are _comrades_;"
and she went over to the chair, and shook hands with her comrade.
"That's right. You and I _know_ each other; you and I can _trust_ each
other."
Then she again walked up and down the room, speaking as she moved.
"To show how absolutely I trust you, I'll say to you what I wouldn't say
to anyone--no, not to my daughter. I am sorry if I have seemed fretful
of late. But the reason is this. I have been passing through a mental
struggle--a struggle that has tried me sorely." In her tone and the
whole aspect of her face as she made this confession, there was
something far above the narrow realm of sex, something that man or woman
might be proud to show--a generous candour, a fearless truth, a noble
simplicity. "A hard struggle, Mr. Mears--and I'm a little shaken, but
quite victorious.... Now this is between ourselves--and it must go no
further."
"It never shall," said Mr. Mears earnestly.
"And not a word either about our tiff, or your unkind threat to resign."
"No--er, no. I shan't say another word about that."
But unfortunately Mr. Mears had already said a word or two about it to
Mr. Prentice the solicitor; and very soon Mr. Prentice came, tactlessly
blundering, to see Mrs. Thompson.
No one could admire her more than Mr. Prentice--truly his admiration
was so obviously genuine that people sometimes wondered what Mrs.
Prentice thought about it. Staunch friendship, skilled service, as well
as the admiration, had won him many privileges; but he overstepped their
limits now.
"I say. Is it all serene between you and Mears? Let me advise you--don't
allow the breach to widen. I should consider it a great pity if you were
to part with your right-hand man because of any trifling difference
of--"
Mrs. Thompson cut him short.
"Mr. Prentice, there is one thing I cannot permit--even from you." She
was dignified, but terrible. "I cannot, and I will not permit
interference in what is my business, and my business only."
"Sorry--very sorry.... No idea I should put you out like this."
Mr. Prentice, with muttered apologies, hurried away, looking scared and
abashed, carrying his square bowler all through the shop into the
street, as if in his confusion he had forgotten that it belonged to his
head.