Time was passing. One Sunday morning in November, while the vicar of St.
Saviour's preached a sermon about immortality, she looked at the
familiar faces of the congregation and thought sadly of the impermanence
of all earthly things.
So many of the people she had known were gone; so few remained, and
these each showed so plainly the havoc and the change wrought by the
flying years. She glanced at the card in the metal frame that was half
hidden by her prayer-books--"Mrs. Marsden, two seats." Once the writing
on the card read "Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, three seats," and she had sat
there with her husband and mother. Then the writing changed again--"Mrs.
Thompson, two seats." How many years she and Enid had been here
together!
And the other people in the pew--a man and a wife, with little children
who had slowly grown into men and women; two elderly ladies; a widower
and his sister--all had gone. She glanced across the side aisle at a
white-haired feeble old man, and a wizened monkey-like old dame who
nodded and shook unceasingly--Mr. Bennett, the High Street butcher, and
his palsied helpmate;--and she thought of what they were when first she
came to St. Saviour's: a hearty vigorous couple in the prime of life,
the man seeming big enough to knock down one of his bullocks, and the
woman singing the hymns so loudly that her neighbours could not hear the
choir. Now they had dwindled and shrunk to this--nerveless arms,
bloodless hues, and frozen silence.
Wherever she turned her eyes, she saw the same signs and could read the
same story--bowed backs, bald heads, blue-veined hands. Everyone had
grown old, everyone had grown feeble, of those who had seen her as a
young bride, as a young mother. And no new faces seemed to have replaced
the faces that had vanished. Fashion in recent years had leaned steadily
towards the other church. Holy Trinity possessed lighted candles on its
altars, embroidered copes on its priests, stringed instruments in its
organ loft: it was there that all the young people went--to be thrilled
with strange music, to be charmed with smart hats, to be set throbbing
with irrelevant dreams of courtship and love. Only the old and the worn
out had been true to quiet peaceful St. Saviour's.
She herself was absolutely faithful to the church that she had used and
loved for so long. It had become her place of rest, her harbour of
refuge. It was only here that she ever felt quite at peace. She knew
that here she was safe for an hour at least; while the service lasted no
one could molest her; no one could even speak to her: during this brief
hour she belonged to herself.
She could not forget the outside world, but she resolutely tried not to
think of it. Just now she had driven away a thought of Marsden. He was
lying in bed; perhaps he would sleep till late afternoon; perhaps he
would be lazily getting ready for his food when she returned to the
house;--but she need not think of him. He would not join her here. She
folded her hands, and listened to the kind old vicar as he told her of
things that are incomprehensible, immutable, and everlasting.
A man had come up the side aisle, and was stupidly staring at the people
in the pews. Mrs. Marsden, glancing at him inattentively, vaguely
wondered why he didn't take one of the many empty seats and sit down.
She knew him very well. He was a loafer of the better class; and on
Sundays he regularly made his beat up and down St. Saviour's Court,
picking up odd six-pences by running off to fetch cabs, bringing
forgotten umbrellas, or retailing second-hand newspapers to laggards who
had missed the paper-boy.
Presently he discovered Mrs. Marsden's pew, entered it, and whispered
hoarsely.
"You're wanted at the house. The gentleman said you was to come at
once."
Followed by this seedy messenger, she hastened from the church.
"What is it?" she asked him when they got outside.
"I dunno. The gentleman hollered to me from the door, and sent me to
fetch you."
The house door stood ajar; and her husband, in his dressing-gown and
slippers, was anxiously waiting for her and guarding the foot of the
stairs.
"All right," he said to the loafer. "I'll remember you another time;"
and he shut the door and bolted it.
From the top of the stairs there came a sound of wailing and
lamentation.
"Jane, look here. I want you to stop this fool's mouth--what's her
name--Susan. I've somehow upset her. And that infernal cook is
encouraging her to squall the house down."
Without a word Mrs. Marsden hurried upstairs. The cook, a sour-visaged
woman of thirty-five, was on the threshold of the kitchen; and Susan,
the apple-cheeked housemaid, was clinging to cook's arm, and sobbing and
howling.
"Emily--Susan," said Mrs. Marsden quietly, "what _is_ all this noise and
fuss about?"
"The master frightened her," said the cook, very sourly, "and she
wishes to go to the police."
"The police! What nonsense! Why?"
"The master rang, and she took up his shaving water--and what happened
frightened her."
"Where's father and mother?" cried Susan. "I want my mother. Take me
home to tell father. Or let me go to the police station, and I'll tell
them."
Marsden had followed his wife upstairs, and he showed himself at the
kitchen door. At sight of him, Susan ceased talking and began to howl
again.
"She's frightened to death," said the cook.
Mrs. Marsden was patting the girl's shoulder, studying her tear-stained
face eagerly and intently.
"There, there," she said gently, as if reassured by all that the red
cheeks and streaming eyes had told her. "I think this is a great noise
about nothing at all."
"Of course it is," said Marsden, at the door.
"Don't leave me alone with him," bellowed Susan. "I won't be kep' a
prisoner. I want to see my mother--and my father."
"Hush--Susan," said Mrs. Marsden, soothingly. "Compose yourself. There
is no need to cry any more."
"No need to have cried at all," said Marsden.
Obviously he was afraid: he alternately blustered and cringed.
"You silly girl," he said cringingly, "what rubbish have you got into
your head? I pass a few chaffing remarks--and you suddenly behave like a
raving lunatic." And then he went on blusteringly. "Talk about going!
It's _us_ who ought to dismiss you for your impudence, and your
disrespect."
"You did something to frighten her, sir," said the cook.
"It's a lie--a damned lie."
"If so," said the cook, with concentrated sourness, "why not let her go
to the police, as she wishes?"
"No," shouted Marsden. "I can't have my servants libelling and
scandalizing me. I've a public position in this town--and I won't have
people sneaking out of my house to spread a lot of innuendos against
their employers."
Then he beckoned his wife, and spoke to her in a whisper. "For God's
sake, shut her up. Give her a present--square her. Shut her mouth
somehow.... It's all right, you know--but we mustn't give her the chance
of slandering me;" and he went out of the kitchen.
But he returned almost immediately, to beckon and whisper again.
"Jane. Don't let her out of your sight."
So this was her task for the remainder of the day of rest--to sit and
chat with a blubbering housemaid until a pacification of nerves and mind
had been achieved.
She performed the task, but found it a fatiguing one. Susan made her
labours arduous by returning to the starting point every time that any
progress had been made.
"I'd sooner go back 'ome at once, ma'am."
"I think that would be a pity, Susan. If you leave me like this, I may
not be able to get you another place. Why should you throw up a
comfortable situation?"
"It isn't comfortable."
"Susan, you shouldn't say that. Haven't I treated you kindly?"
"Yes, _you_ have."
"And haven't I taken trouble in teaching you your duties? You are
getting on very nicely; and if you stay with me a little longer, I shall
be able to recommend you as competent."
But this servant said what all other servants had said to Mrs. Marsden.
Susan had no fault to find with her mistress.
"I should be comfortable, if it wasn't for _him_. But I've never been
comfortable with him."
And then she went back to her starting point.
"I'd rather go 'ome. I must ask mother's advice--and tell father too. I
don't believe father would wish it 'ushed up."
However, Mrs. Marsden finally succeeded. By bedtime Susan was pacified.
"Yes, I'll stay, ma'am. I'd like to stay with you--but may I sleep in
Em'ly's room?"
"Of course you may."
Next morning no one came to call Mrs. Marsden; no fires were lighted; no
breakfast was being prepared. Both the servants had gone. In the night
cook had persuaded the girl to change her mind.
A letter from cook, conspicuously displayed on the dining-room
mantelpiece, explained matters.
"_Dear Madame_,--
"We are sorry to leave you but feel we cannot stay in this house. I
have advised Susan to go to her Home and she has gone there.
"Yours respectfully,
"MISS EMILY HOWARD."
Mrs. Marsden went to her husband's room, woke him, and repeated the
substance of Miss Howard's note.
He was dreadful to see, in the cold morning light--unshaven, white and
puffy; sitting up in bed, biting his coarse fingers, and looking at her
with cowardly blood-shot eyes.
"Where is her home?"
Mrs. Marsden said that Susan's parents lived somewhere on the other side
of Linkfield.
"Twelve miles away! She's gone out by train. She has got there by now.
What are we to do?"
"I scarcely know."
"Let me think a minute.... Yes, look here. Get hold of old
Prentice--He's a man of the world. He'll help you. He'll be able to shut
them up."
And with terrified haste he gave her his directions. She was to run to
Mr. Prentice's private house, and catch him before he started for his
office. Then she was to run to Cartwright's garage and hire a motor-car
for the day; and then she and Mr. Prentice were to go scouring out into
the country, to silence Susan and all her relatives.
"Tell Prentice to take plenty of money with him. And don't forget--ask
for Cartwright's open car. It's faster. And don't waste a minute--don't
wait for breakfast or anything--and don't let Prentice wait either."
In an hour she and her old friend were spinning along the Linkfield road
in the hired motor-car. The east wind cut their faces, dirt sprinkled
their arms, gloomy thoughts filled their minds.
This, then, was her Monday's task--to begin Sunday's toil, on a larger
scale, all over again.
With some difficulty they found the cottage for which they were seeking.
Susan's mother opened the door in response to prolonged tappings. Susan
had safely reached home.
"Oh, come inside," said the mother; and she pretended to shed tears. "Oh
dear, oh dear. Who could of believed such a thing 'appening?"
"Nothing has happened," said Mr. Prentice, confidently and jovially;
"except that your daughter has left her situation without warning, and
we want to know what she means by it."
"Oh, she's told me everything," said the mother, dolefully shaking her
head. "Everything."
"There was nothing to tell," said Mr. Prentice; "beyond the fact that
she has behaved in a very stupid manner. Where is she?"
The mother indicated a door behind her. "Poor dear, she's so exhausted,
I've been trying to persuade her to eat a morsel of something."
Mr. Prentice lifted a latch, opened the inner door, and disclosed the
humble home-picture--Susan, with her mouth full of bacon and bread,
stretching a hearty hand towards the metal tea-pot.
"Ah, thank goodness," said the mother, "she _'as_ bin able to pick a
bit. Don't be afraid, Susan--you're 'ome now, along of your own mother
and father;" and she addressed Mrs. Marsden. "'Er father 'as 'eard
everything, too."
Mr. Prentice was laughing gaily.
"Well done, Susan. Don't be afraid of another slice of bacon. Don't be
afraid of a fourth cup of tea."
"No, sir," said Susan shyly.
"Where _is_ her father?" asked Mr. Prentice. "I'd like to have a few
words with him."
But father, having heard his daughter's tale, had started on a long
journey with an empty waggon. He would return with it full of manure any
time this afternoon. And going, and loading, and returning, he would be
thinking over everything, and deciding what he and Susan should next do.
Mr. Prentice, considering that even a hired motor-car ought to be able
to overtake a manure waggon though empty, started in pursuit of father;
and Mrs. Marsden was left to conduct the pacific negotiations at the
cottage.
It was a long and weary day, full of small difficulties--father, when
recovered, not a free man, unable to talk, compelled to attend to his
master's business; mother unable to express any opinion without previous
discussion with father; empty fruitless hours slowly dragging away;
meals at a public-house; a walk with Susan;--then darkness, and father
talking to Mr. Prentice in the parlour; and, finally, mother and Mrs.
Marsden summoned from the kitchen to assist at ratification of peace
proposals.
It was late at night when Mrs. Marsden got back to St. Saviour's Court.
Her husband had not been out all day. He was sitting by the dining-room
fire, with his slippered feet on the fender, and a nearly emptied whisky
bottle on the corner of the table near his elbow.
"Well?" He looked round anxiously and apprehensively.
"It is over. There will be no trouble--not even a scandal."
She was blue with cold; her hands were numbed, and hung limply at her
sides; her voice had become husky.
"Bravo! Well done!" He stood up, and stretched and straightened himself,
as if throwing off the heavy load that had kept him crouched and bent in
the armchair. "Excellent! I knew you'd do it all right;" and he drew a
deep breath, and then began to chuckle. "And, by Jove, old girl, I'm
grateful to you.... Look here. Have you had your grub? Don't you want
some supper?"
"No."
"Well, understand--my best thanks;" and really he seemed to feel some
little gratitude as well as great satisfaction. "Jane, you're a brick.
You never show malice. You've a large heart."
"No," she said huskily; and with a curious slow gesture, she raised her
numbed hands and pressed them against her breast. "I had a large heart
once; but it has grown smaller and smaller, and harder and harder--till
now it is a lump of stone."
"No, no. Rot."
"Yes. And that's lucky--or before this you would have broken it."
He stood staring at the door when it had closed behind her. Then he
shrugged his shoulders, turned to the table, and replenished his glass
with whisky.