The abnormally bright weather continued in an unbroken spell, and it
seemed to her a part of the miracle that had been granted to her
prayers--as if nature had suddenly abrogated all laws, and when giving
her back love and youth, had given warmth and sunshine to the whole
world.
One afternoon, as they were sauntering home to the hotel, he asked her
if there was not some special name for this snatch of unseasonable
autumn brightness.
"It's more than we had a right to expect, Janey, so late in the year.
Here we are in the first week of November, and I'll swear to-day has
been as warm as May or June."
"Yes, hasn't it?"
"But what do they call it when the weather plays tricks at this time of
year? You know--not the Hunter's moon, but some name like that."
"Oh, yes, I know what you mean--St. Martin's summer."
"That's right--learned old girl! St. Martin's Summer."
Then they turned to the shop windows, and considered the window-dressing
art as displayed by these Brighton tradesmen. All through their
honeymoon the King's Road shops provided a source of unfailing
entertainment.
"I don't see that they know much," he said patronisingly. "I think I
could open their eyes. You wait, old girl, till we get back to
Mallingbridge, and I'll astonish you. I'm bubbling over with ideas....
Halloa! That's rather tasty."
They were looking into a jeweller's window, and his eye had been caught
by a cigarette case.
"Now I wonder, Janey, what they'd have the cheek to ask for that."
"Let us go in and enquire."
"Oh, no. It's not worth while. Why, the gold alone, without the gems,
would cost fifteen quid; and if the stones are as good as they look, I
daresay this chap would expect a hundred guineas for it."
"Well, we might enquire."
"No, I mustn't think about it. Come on, old girl, or my mouth will begin
to water for it;" and, laughing, he linked his arm in hers, and led her
away from this too tempting shop. "Let 'em keep it till they can catch a
millionaire."
They ordered tea in the great noisy hall of the hotel, which he
preferred to the quiet grandeur of the private sitting-room; and she,
pretending that she wished to go upstairs, hurried past the lift door,
dodged round by a crowd of new arrivals, ran down the steps, and left
the building.
She was hot and red and breathless when, after twenty minutes, she came
bustling into the hall again. The tea-tray stood waiting for them; but
he had moved away to another table, and was drinking a whisky and soda
with some hotel acquaintances. These were a loud vulgar man and two
over-dressed, giggling, free-and-easy daughters. Marsden for a little
time did not see his wife: he was laughing and talking vivaciously; and
the young women contorted themselves in shrill merriment, ogled and
leered, and made chaffing, unbecomingly familiar interjections.
"That fellow," said Marsden presently, when he had returned to his
wife's table, "is in a very big way of business--and he might be useful
to us some day or other. That's why I do the civil to him."
"Yes," said Mrs. Marsden.
"But where the dickens did you slip away to? Your tea must be cold.
Shall I order a fresh pot?"
"Oh, no, this is quite right, thank you."
She drank a little of her tepid tea; and then, fumblingly, with fingers
that were slightly trembling, she brought the little parcel out of her
pocket and put it in his hand.
"What on earth is this?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No--I can't imagine--unless"-- He was slowly unfolding the layers of
tissue paper; and until the precious metal discovered itself, he did not
raise his eyes. "Oh, I _say_! Janey! But you shouldn't have done it--you
really shouldn't. It's too bad--altogether too bad of you."
"Dick!"
"Come upstairs and let me kiss you--or I shall have to kiss you here,
with everybody looking at us."
Then Mrs. Marsden was well content with her little act of extravagance.
The culmination of the glorious weather came on Sunday. In the morning,
when she emerged from the dim church where she had been pouring out her
fervent gratitude for so much happiness, the glare of the sea-front
almost blinded her. All the wide lawns by the sea were densely thronged
with people, and amongst the moving crowd she searched in vain for her
husband. He had said he would meet her for this church parade.
But at the hotel there was a note to explain his absence. "My friends,"
she read, "insist on carrying me off for a long run in their car. Shall
try to be back for dinner. But don't wait."
While she was kneeling in the church, thanking God for having given him
to her, he was rolling fast away--with that loud man and the two shrill
young women.
It was late in the afternoon--the close of the brilliant sun-lit day,
and the Hove lawns were still crowded. The sky preserved its clear blue,
unspoilt by the faint white stains of cloud; the sea sparkled; and the
shadows thrown by the green chairs and the iron railings crept
imperceptibly across the grass. Behind the railings the long facades of
the white houses stretched westward like a perspective-drawing; and down
the broad road a motor fizzed past every moment, changed to a black
speck, and vanished. The gaiety and life of the hours was lasting
bravely. Coloured flags floated above the pier; and from the monstrous
protuberance at its far end, the glass and iron castle of the tourist
mob, light flashed as though striking mirrors; a band was playing at a
distance; and the Worthing steamboat, as it hurriedly approached, made a
rhythmic beating on the water.
Mrs. Marsden, in possession of a penny chair, sat alone, and watched the
crowd that had been walking all day long. She felt absolutely lost in
the crowd; and it seemed to her, coming from her quiet country town,
that the world could not contain so many people.
She watched them with tired eyes. All sorts: fine ladies and gentlemen;
visitors and residents--down the scale to mere shopgirls and housemaids;
pale men who toiled indoors, bronzed men who lived in the open air; Jews
and Jewesses; smiling matrons, sour-visaged spinsters; girls with
powdered faces and immense hats--whom she classed as actresses, and
judged to be no better than they ought to be,--lounging and simpering
beside sawny cavaliers.
She watched the various couples--boys and girls, men and women, young
and old; and she saw that every couple was of corresponding, _suitable_
age: tottering old men and white-haired wrinkled dames--thinking of
their golden weddings; fat paunchy men in the prime of life with
gorgeous mature consorts; lithe and athletic men with long-legged,
striding, game-playing mates; and so on, like with like, or each the
normal complement of the other.
It happened that, while she watched with a growing intentness, there
passed no Mays and Decembers. An old man and his daughter--or just
possibly his wife! But no young man with a middle-aged woman. Not even a
son escorting his mother. Age has no claim on youth.
Then she saw the roaming solitary men who were seeking love or
adventure; saw how they stared at the girls,--stopped and turned,--with
their eyes wistfully followed the graceful gracious forms.
And no man in all the vast crowd looked at her. Not even the
purple-cheeked veterans. None gave her the aldermanic approving glance
that might seem to say, "There's a well-preserved woman--not yet quite
devoid of charm." Not even a glance of curiosity. It was as if for a
penny the chair had rendered her invisible.
A cold air came off the sea, and she shivered. Looking round, she saw
that the sun had just dipped behind the long white cornice of the
stately houses. The wide lawn was in shadow.
She felt cold, and shivered several times as she walked home to the
noisy hotel.