She was conscious that the whole world had turned against her; in every
face she could read her condemnation; when she drove through High Street
she felt like a deposed monarch--hats were still removed, but with
pitying courtesy instead of with loyal fervour. Constraint and
embarrassment sounded in every fresh voice to which she listened. Mr.
Prentice, taking her instructions, assumed a ridiculously hollow
cheerfulness, as if he had been speaking to somebody who had contracted
an incurable disease. The shop staff dared not look at her, and yet
could not look away from her with any air of naturalness; up and down
the counters male and female assistants, so soon as she appeared, became
preposterously busy; and she knew that they avoided meeting her eyes.
She knew also that the moment she had passed, their eyes followed
her--they were at once frightened and fascinated, as if she had been a
person who had confessed to a great crime, who was still at large, but
who would be arrested almost immediately.
During the first few days of her engagement she suffered under the heavy
sense that every friend had abandoned her. In street, shop, or house,
she could find no comforter. Even Yates was cruel.
"Why do you look so glum?" At last she roundly upbraided Yates. "Don't
wait upon me at all, if you can only do it as though you were going to a
funeral."
Yates, in sorrowful tones said that her glumness was caused by her
thoughts.
Then Mrs. Thompson piteously prayed for support from the old servant.
"Are you going to drive me mad among you--make me commit suicide? Oh,
Yates, do stand by me."
And Yates wept, and swore that henceforth she would stand by her
mistress.
"Say you think I'm right in what I'm doing."
"I'll say this, ma'am--that no one should be the judge except you of
what's right. No one hasn't any qualification to interfere with you in
what you please to do."
"But, Yates, say you approve of it."
"Well then, I do say it."
Yates said that she approved; but no one else said so. Enid did not
pretend to approve--although she talked very little about her mother's
plans. She had obtained the desire of her own heart; she and Mr. Kenion
were to be made one as soon as possible; she was buying her trousseau,
and Mr. Prentice was drawing the marriage settlement.
Both marriages were to be pushed on rapidly. No time like the present,
as Marsden joyously declared. "What's the good of waiting, when you have
made up your mind?" But Enid was to be cleared out of the way first; and
not till Enid had left the little house could her mother throw herself
completely into her own dream of bliss.
There were some trifling difficulties, some slight delays. Mr. Kenion,
as one about to become a member of the family, frankly confessed that he
viewed the Marsden alliance with repugnance. He told Mr. Prentice that
it altered the whole condition of affairs, that his relatives begged him
to stand out for a much more liberal settlement than would previously
have appeared to be ample; and he hinted on his own account that if Mrs.
Thompson didn't stump up, he would feel justified in withdrawing
altogether. Mr. Prentice, however, made short work of this suitor's
questionings and threatenings. He did not mention that, on the strong
advice of Mr. Marsden, his client had largely cut down the proposed
amount; but he said that in his own opinion the settlement was quite
ample.
"Of course," said Kenion, "what we get now is all we shall ever get. I
don't value Enid's further expectations at a brass farthing."
"That's as it may be. Possibly you are wise in not building on the
future. But my instructions merely concern the present. As to the amount
decided on by my client, whether big or little--well, it is to take or
leave."
Charlie Kenion, lounging deep in one of the solicitor's leather
armchairs, said that he would take it.
At this period Mr. Prentice also received visits from the other suitor.
Marsden called several times, to talk about the terms of his
partnership, and to urge the importance of not overdoing it with regard
to the provision for Enid. These marriage settlements, he reminded the
solicitor, are irrevocable things--what you put into them you can't get
out of them. Nothing ever comes back to you. A woman in Mrs. Thompson's
position should therefore exercise some caution. She is rich now, but
she may not always be so rich; she must not give away more than she can
spare; it is folly not to keep a reserve fund.
Then, when paying his last call before his departure for London, he slid
very naturally from the subject of Enid's settlement to a vague question
about a settlement in his own case. Was there any idea of making a
permanent provision for him?
"Of course there is. You are to be a partner."
That of course was understood, but Marsden had some doubt as to whether
there were other intentions.
"I am only asking," he said pleasantly. "I leave myself entirely in
your hands--and I'd like to say that I've the utmost confidence in
_you_."
"Thank you," said Mr. Prentice drily.
"These settlements seem the usual things in marriages--so I thought the
rule would apply to my marriage."
"In _your_ marriage, Mr. Marsden, there is very little that is
usual--but, nevertheless, I think the usual rules should apply."
"You do? You think some moderate settlement would be proper."
"Very proper indeed--if you have anything to settle. By giving you a
half share in her business Mrs. Thompson is treating you with a
generosity--a munificence--an unprecedented munificence--"
"Oh, I know she is."
"And if therefore you on your side can make a settlement--however
moderate--in her favour, it will be a graceful and a natural act."
Marsden laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.
"That's very funny--very neatly put. But I see what you mean. You think
I ought not to have made the suggestion."
"Oh, no," said Mr. Prentice, obviously meaning, "Oh, yes."
"I fancied that she herself might wish it; but I haven't said a word
about it to her.... Don't mention it to her.... Good morning."
Meanwhile Enid was collecting garments, hats, frills, and feathers. She
had been given unlimited scope; prices need not be scrutinized; the best
London shops, as well as Thompson's, were open to her; and she went
about her business in a commendably business-like fashion. She did not
require Mrs. Thompson's advice--she knew exactly what she wanted.
When those few trickling tears had been dried and the bombshell-tidings
of her mother's engagement had burst upon her with such appalling
violence, she hardened and grew cold again. Nothing now would soften
her.
She calmly announced that Charles had been lucky enough to find just the
house they wished for--a farmhouse recently converted into a gentleman's
residence, with some land and excellent stabling, eight miles from
Mallingbridge, between Haggart's Cross and Chapel-Norton; but she did
not invite Mrs. Thompson to inspect the premises, or even to examine the
patterns of the new wallpapers.
She disgusted Mr. Prentice by her obstinate support of her future
husband in his final contention that the life interest given to him
under the settlement should be absolute and inalienable. Mr. Prentice
naturally desired to protect her from obvious dangers; but, instead of
strengthening his hands, she idiotically declared her wish to compliment
Kenion by an exhibition of blind confidence.
"It must be as Enid wishes," said Mrs. Thompson; and Mr. Prentice was
forced to give way.
The days were racing by. Mornings had a snap of frost in the air; autumn
rains brought the yellow leaves tumbling from the churchyard elms, and
autumn winds sent them spinning and eddying over the iron railings into
St. Saviour's Court. Very soon now October would be here--and on the
first day of October the church bells were to ring for Enid Thompson,
spinster, of this parish.
Mrs. Thompson heard the banns read; but she could not hear the other
banns in which the name of Thompson was again mumbled. Her emotion made
the sound of the parson's voice inaudible to her.
One afternoon she saw Yates carrying up a large cardboard box to Enid's
dressing-room, and the printed label on the box gave her a stab of
pain. _Bence Brothers!_ Enid, pressed for time, or now careless of how
often she wounded her mother's sensibilities, had gone across the road
to buy her ultimate batch of fal-lals.
Then one morning--a dull, grey first of October--Enid offered her cheek
to her mother's lips.
"I hope you'll be very happy, mother." These were her last words.
The rooks, startled by the clashing bells, flew up from the tops of the
churchyard trees; the misty air vibrated as the organ rolled out its
voluminous music; the keen, sharp-edged wind blew the dead leaves down
the court and past the house;--and Enid was blown away with them, into
her lover's arms and out of her mother's life, as it seemed, forever.
The days were swinging in a mad whirl; Mrs. Thompson had entered upon
her feverish dream; and nothing outside herself seemed of any
consequence to her now--except the man who was to be her husband.
He was in London, well supplied with cash for his immediate necessities,
and he would not return until he came to lead her to the altar. Several
times she ran up to London with Yates, bought trousseau all the morning,
and then, casting off Yates, had luncheon with him at some smart
restaurant.
A first glance told her that he was more splendid than any other man in
the building, and then everything about and beyond him became vague and
dim and unsubstantial. She could see nothing else. Light and sound
mingled; past and present fused, to make a panoramic changing background
in front of which he could stand out more solidly and brilliantly. She
heard the wheels of the train that had brought her to him, and at the
same time she heard the waltz played by this restaurant band; she was
surrounded by meaningless figures, from the field of vision and the fog
of memory; close to her sat fashionable people at little tables;--but
among them and through them moved the people she had seen in the open
street, at the dressmaker's, to-day, yesterday, or a year ago.
But there was nothing vague or uncertain about him: he was
overpoweringly, gloriously distinct. She could see every thread in his
lovely new clothes, every hair in his perfumed, carefully brushed
moustache, each tiny speck of brown on the liquid amber of his eyes.
From those eyes, as she knew so well, he could shoot the darts of flame
that lodged a burning distress in one's breast, as easily as he could
send forth the gentle caressing beams that made one slowly melt in
ecstasy.
His glance was always softly caressing now, soothing her, calming her,
filling her with joy.
She could not eat. She could only look at him while he ate, with hearty
youthful vigour, quite enough for two. She drank a glassful out of his
bottle of wine, and found an incredible delight in watching him drink
the remainder. The waiter put the programme of the day's music by her
side; but it did not matter what the band played. Her music--the only
significant music--was in her sweetheart's voice. He called her Janey,
Little woman, My kind fairy; and each time that he spoke to her thus
endearingly she thrilled with rapture.
"Well, Janey, what do you think of my new coat? I look all right, don't
I? You are not ashamed to be seen with me--eh, little woman?... And
how's Mallingbridge? What do they say of me down there?...
"Oh, by the way, I haven't thanked my kind fairy for the present she
sent me yesterday. It's a dressing-case fit for a king;" and then he
laughed gaily. "Janey, take care. You are trying to spoil me."
Sometimes for a moment he held her hand under the table-cloth, and
pressed it lovingly.
When the luncheon was over she was glad to notice that he tipped the
waiter liberally. It would have been irksome to her, as a prodigious
tipper, to observe any economy--but Marsden gave almost as much as if
she herself had taken the money out of the purse. She used to hand him
her purse as they went into the restaurant, and he gave it back to her
as they came out again.
Serving-girls at the fashionable London shops were inclined to smile
while they waited upon Mrs. Thompson choosing her nuptial finery. She
seemed to them so innocent--appealing to them with simple trustfulness,
and begging them to show her not merely pretty things, but the things
that gentlemen would think pretty.
In truth, all her business faculty had temporarily forsaken her; the
strong will, the quick insight, the grit and the grip were gone; the
experience of long years had been washed out: she was an inexperienced
girl again, with all a girl's tremors, joyous hopes, and nameless fears
for the future.
Her fingers shook as she smoothed and patted the wonderful underclothes
offered by a famous lingerie establishment; and as old Yates, sitting by
the side of her mistress, gave a casting vote for this or that daintily
laced garment, the lingerie young woman was obliged to turn a slim back
in order to conceal her mirth. Perhaps it would have made her cry if she
could have understood. But no one could see the poignantly touching
truth, that beneath the beaded mantle of this reddish, stoutish,
middle-aged customer, a maiden's heart was fondly beating.
"You know, Yates, I'm not so stupid as to suppose that I shall always
be able to keep him tied to my apron strings." This was in the train,
when they were returning to Mallingbridge after an arduous day's
shopping. They had the compartment to themselves, and they nearly filled
it with their parcels. "Men must be allowed freedom and liberty."
"Yes, ma'am, _bachelor_ gentlemen. But I'm not so sure about too much
liberty for _married_ gentlemen."
"They can't be continually cooped up in their home--however comfortable
you make it for them. No, many happy marriages are upset by the wife's
silliness--in thinking that a husband is forever to be dancing
attendance on her. I shan't commit that error."
"No, ma'am. Of course it isn't as if it was your first time."
Truly, however, it was her first time. The recollection of the dead
husband and the loveless marriage made her wince.
"A little tact," she said hurriedly. "A wife--especially in the early
days--is called on for a little tact."
"Oh, ma'am, you'll manage him all right--with your knowledge of the
world."
But her knowledge of the world had gone, and she did not wish it back
again. Each time that for a brief space she thought logically and
clearly, doubt and fear tortured her.
In the night fear used to come. Suddenly her rainbow-tinted dream
disintegrated, fell into shreds and patches of cloud with wisps of
coloured light that gyrated and faded; and then she lay staring at the
blank wall of hard facts. This thing was monstrous--no valid hope of
permanent happiness in it.
And she thought with dreadful clearness that she was either not young
enough or not old enough for such a marriage. If she had been ten years
older, it would not have mattered--it would be just a legalized
companionship--an easier arrangement, but essentially the same thing as
though she had adopted him as her son. But now it must be a _real_
marriage--or a most tragic failure. He had made her believe that the
realm of passion and love was not closed to her; that he would give her
back what the years had taken from her; that she might drink at the
fountain of his youth and so renew her own.
In the dark cold night when the dream vanished, fear ruled over her. The
words of the marriage service--heard so lately--echoed in her ears.
Solemnization or sacrament--it is impious, blasphemous to enter God's
house and ask for a blessing on the bond, unless the marriage falls
within the limits of nature's laws. She remembered what the priest says
about the causes for which matrimony was ordained; she remembered what
the woman has to say about God's holy ordinance; and best of all she
remembered what the man, taught by the priest, says when he slips the
ring on the woman's finger.
"With my body I thee worship!"... Could it be possible? "Taught by the
Priest"--yes, but the man should need no teaching. The words on his lips
should be the light rippling murmur above the strong-flowing stream of
his secret thoughts, and the stream must be fed by deep springs of
perfectly normal love. Nothing less will satisfy, nothing less _can_
satisfy the hungry heart that is surrendering itself to his power.
Respect, esteem, steadfast affection--none of that will do. It must be
love, or nothing.
Yet after each of these troubled nights the day brought back her dream.
Yates had promised to stand by her, and she faithfully kept the promise.
She gave homely, well-meant advice; occasionally administered a little
dose of pain in what was intended for a sedative or stimulant; but was
always ready with sympathy, even when she failed to supply consolation
and encouragement. Apparently forgetting in the excitement of the hour
that she herself was an old spinster, she spoke with extreme confidence
of all the mysteries of the marriage state.
There was uneasiness about little secrets concerning Mrs. Thompson's
toilet; but Yates made light of them.
"Oh, nonsense," said Yates. "It isn't as if you were like some of these
meretrishis ladies with nothing genuine about 'em. You're all
genuine--and not a grey hair on your head."
There was nothing very terrible in the secrets. The worst secret perhaps
was the diminution in aspect, the shrinking of the coronet of hair, when
the sustaining frame had been removed.
But Yates, the old spinster, speaking so wisely and confidently, said,
"Don't tell me, ma'am. If he's fond of you, a little thing like that
isn't going to put him off.... Besides, you must fluff it out big--like
I'm doing;" and Yates worked on with brush and comb. "Now look at
yourself."
And Mrs. Thompson peered at her reflection in the glass. The frame lay
on the dressing-table. Still she seemed to have a fine tawny mane of her
own, fluffed wide from her brows, and falling in respectably big masses.
"Show me, Yates, exactly how you get the effect."
And under the watchful tuition of Yates, Mrs. Thompson toiled at her
lesson.
"Is that right?"
"Yes, that's pretty near as well as I can work it out, myself.... Yes,
that'll do very nice.... You know, it'll only be at first that you need
take so much trouble."
"Yates, I shall be nervous and clumsy--I shall forget, and make a mess
of it."
"Then take me with you," said Yates earnestly. "I can't think why you
don't take me along with you."
"Oh, I couldn't," said Mrs. Thompson. "I _couldn't_ have anyone with
me--least of all, anyone who'd known me before."
It had come to be the day before the day of days, and St. Saviour's
Court lay wrapped in drab-hued fog, so that from the windows of the
house she could not see as far as the churchyard on one side or the
street on the other; and all day long, behind the curtain of fog, the
chilly autumn rain was falling.
Throughout the day she remained indoors, reviewing and arranging her
trousseau, watching Yates pack the new trunks and bags, and learning how
and where she was to find things when she and some strange hotel
chambermaid hastily did the unpacking. Now, late at night, her bedroom
was still in confusion--empty cardboard boxes littering the floor,
dressing-gowns trailing across the backs of chairs, irrepressible silk
skirts bulging from beneath trunk lids.
At last Yates finished the task, prepared her mistress for bed, and left
her.
"Good-night, ma'am--and mind you sleep sound. Don't get thinking about
to-morrow, and wearing yourself out instead of taking your rest."
Unfortunately Mrs. Thompson was not able to follow this sensible advice.
A fire burned cheerfully in the grate, the room was warm and
comfortable, and she wandered about aimlessly and musingly--picking up
silver brushes and putting them down again, gently pressing the trunk
tops, looking at the new initials that had been painted on the glazed
leather.
Presently she was stooping over one of the smaller trunks, smoothing and
patting the folded night-dress that she and Yates had so carefully
selected at the famous London shop. Her lips parted in a smile as she
looked at its infinitely delicate tucks and frills, and she let her
fingers play with the lace and feel the extraordinary lightness and
softness of its texture.
Then, yielding to a sudden impulse, she pulled out the garment, carried
it to the bed, and, hastily stripping, tried it on.
To-night Yates had done no fluffing-out of her hair. It was tightly
screwed against her head, in the metal curling-clips that were to give
it a pretty wave when pulled over the frame to-morrow; but it had a bald
aspect now, with its queer little rolled excrescences protruding above
the scalp, and two mean pigtails hanging limply behind the ears, and
hiding their ends in the lace of the night-dress collar.
The electric light was shining full into the cheval glass as she came
and stood before it, with the smile of pleasure still on her lips. Then
she saw herself in the glass, and began to tremble.
Through the diaphanous veil the strong light seemed to show her a
grotesque and lamentable figure: heavy fullness instead of shapely
slenderness, exaggerated curves, distorted outlines,--the pitiless
ravages wrought by time.
With a sob of terror, she ran to the door, and again to the
dressing-table, switching off the light, desperately seeking the kindly
darkness. Her hands were shaking, she felt sick and faint, while she
tore the nightgown from her shoulders and kicked it from her on the
floor. Then she covered herself with a woollen dressing-gown and crept,
sobbing, into bed.
The firelight flickered on the ceiling, but no heat was thrown by the
yellow flames or the red coals; a deadly chill seemed to have issued
from the polished surface of the big glass, striking at her heart,
reaching and gripping her bones. She lay shivering and weeping.
Outside the windows the cruel autumn rain pattered on the stone flags,
the cruel autumn wind sighed and moaned and echoed from the cold brick
walls. The year was dying; the fertile joyous months were dead; soon the
barren hopeless winter would be here. And she felt that her own life was
dead; warmth, colour, beauty, had gone from it; only ugliness,
disfigurement, decay, were left. And she wept for her wasted youth, her
vanished grace, for all that makes the summer in a woman's life.
But next day she woke in sunlight. White clouds raced across a blue sky;
the air was warm and genial; and, as she walked up St. Saviour's Court,
leaning on the kind arm of Mr. Prentice, she was a girl again.
There were many people in the church, but their curious glances did not
trouble her. Sunbeams streaming through painted glass made a rainbow
radiance on the chancel steps; and here she stood by her lover's side,
feeling happy and at ease in the radiant heart of the glorious dream.
Sweet music, sacred words--and then the sound of his voice, the pressure
of his fingers. Nothing could touch her now--she was safe in the dream,
beyond the reach of ridicule, high above the range of pity.
Solemnization or sacrament--now at the last it did not matter which; for
she had brought to the rites all that priests can demand: pure and
unselfish thoughts, guileless faith, and innocent hope.
The loud swelling pipes of the organ rolled forth their harmonious
thunders, filling the air with waves, making the book on the vestry
table throb beneath her hand. She was half laughing, half crying, and a
shaft of sunlight danced about her head.
"Happy is the bride that the sun shines on," said Mr. Prentice, very,
very kindly. "God bless you, my dear."
Another day's sun was shining on the bride. This was the third day of
the wonderful, miraculously blissful honeymoon; and, with windows wide
open and the sweet clean air blowing in upon them, the husband and wife
lingered over their breakfast in the private sitting-room of the
tremendous and magnificent Brighton hotel.
Presently Mr. Marsden got up, stretched himself; and, going to one of
the windows, looked down at the sparkling brightness and pleasant gaiety
of the King's Road.
"Now, little woman, I'm going to smoke my cigar outside.... You can put
on your hat, and join me whenever you please."
Mrs. Marsden followed him to the window, sat upon the arm of a large
velvet chair, and leaned her face against his coat sleeve.
"Take care," he said, laughing, "or you'll find yourself on the floor."
The chair had in fact shown signs of overturning, and Mrs. Marsden
playfully pretended that she could not retain her position, and allowed
herself to flop down upon her knees.
"Isn't this my right place, Dick--kneeling on the ground at your feet?"
Then with a gesture that would have been infinitely graceful in quite a
young girl, she took his hand and held it to her lips.
"You foolish Janey, get up," and he gave her cheek a friendly tap.
"My own boy," she murmured, "why shouldn't I kneel? You have opened the
gates of heaven for me."
After he had left the room she stood at the window, and watched until he
reappeared on the broad pavement below.
People were walking, riding, spinning along in motor-cars; gulls hovered
above the beach on lazy wings; pebbles, boat gunwales, lamp-posts, every
smooth hard surface, flashed in the sunlight; the gentle breeze smelt
deliciously fresh and clean;--all was bright and gay and splendid,
because so full of pulsing life. But the most splendid thing in sight
was her husband. The man out there--that glorious creature, with his hat
cocked and his stick twirling as he swaggered across the broad
roadway--was her handsome, splendid husband.
The sun shone on her face, and the love shone out of it to meet the
genial vivifying rays. "My husband;" and she murmured the words aloud.
"My own darling boy. My strong, kind, noble husband."
It was a real marriage.