One of the oldest of her dreams had become partially true. She had
bought that pretty country-house, and was living in it with Enid. Not
the total fulfilment of the dream, because she had not retired from
business. She was busier than ever.
Many things foretold by her had now come to pass. The military camp on
the downs, with its twenty thousand armed men and half as many thousand
followers, had brought increased prosperity to the neighbourhood; the
carriage and locomotive works established by the railway company had
added to the old town another town that by itself would have been big
enough to sustain a mayor and corporation; builders could not build fast
enough to house the rapidly swelling population; the well-filled suburbs
stretched for two long miles in all directions from the ancient town
boundaries; and by platform lecturers, by members of parliament, by
writers of statistical reviews, the growth of Mallingbridge was cited as
one of the most remarkable and gratifying achievements of the last
decade.
In a word--the cant word--Mallingbridge had boomed. And right at the top
of the boom, rolling on to glory, was Bence's.
The prodigious success of Bence's made the world gasp. Nothing could
hinder it. People fancied that the rebuilding might prove a dangerous,
if not a fatal crisis in its affairs; but the proprietress accomplished
the colossal operation without even a temporary set-back. She moved
Bence's bodily across the road, squashed it into the confines of old
Thompson's, and left it there for eighteen months while the new Bence
palace was being erected. The magnificence of these modern up-to-date
premises surpassed belief--facade of pure white stone; gigantic
caryatids, bearing on their heads the projected ledge of the second
floor, and holding in their hands the sculptured brackets of the
monstrous arc lamps; fluted columns from the second floor to the fourth;
and above the deep cornice, just visible from the street, the cupola on
top of the vast dome that was the crowning splendour of the whole.
Then directly the shop had been moved back into this ornate frame, down
went the old red-brick block of Thompson's; and on the site still
another palace for Bence began to rise. It seemed no less magnificent
than the other; and it was finished off--by way of balance to the
dome--with a stupendous clock-tower. The local press, in a series of
articles describing this useful monument, said that the four-faced
time-piece was an exact replica of Big Ben at Westminster; the base of
the numeral twelve was one hundred and thirty-two feet above the
pavement; the small hand was as long as a short man, and the long hand
was longer than an excessively tall man;--and so on. The author of the
articles also stated that the architectural effect of Bence on both
sides of the street was very similar to the _coup d'oeil_ offered by the
dome and tower of the cathedral at Florence.
Customers scarcely knew on which side of the street they were doing
their shopping: they went into one of the two palaces, and surprised
themselves by emerging from the other. You entered a lift, and, as it
swooped, the crowded floors flashed upward. "Which department, madam?
Parisian Jewellery?... Boots and Shoes! Step this way." You passed
through a long, narrow and brilliantly illuminated department, such as
Sham Diamonds or Opera Cloaks, where artificial light is a necessity
for correct selection; you went up a broad flight of shallow stairs; and
there you were, in Boots and Shoes. But the thing you didn't know, the
funny thing, was that all unconsciously you had been through a sub-way
under the road. Just when you stood to gape at the sparkling ear-rings
or to finger the rich soft cloaks, the heavy traffic of High Street was
bang over your head.
And truly there was nothing that you could not buy now at Bence's--on
one side of the road or the other. Ball dresses for as much as fifty
guineas, tailor-made walking costumes for as little as eighteen
shillings, a thousand pound coat of Russian sable, or a farthing packet
of pins, palm trees for the conservatory or Brussels sprouts for the
kitchen--whatever the varied wants of the universe, it was Bence's proud
boast that they could be supplied here without failure or delay.
Sometimes when business had taken Mrs. Marsden to London and she and
Yates were driving through the streets in a four-wheeled cab, she
studied the appearance of the great metropolitan shops, and mentally
compared them with what she had left behind her at Mallingbridge. Once,
when the dusk of an autumn day was falling and she chanced to pass the
most world-famous of all emporiums, she told the cabman to let his horse
walk; then, as they crawled by the endless frontage, she measured the
glare of the electric lamps, counted the big commissionaires, estimated
the volume of the crowd outside the glittering windows; and, critically
examining the thing in its entirety, she felt a supreme satisfaction. To
her eye and judgment it was no bigger, brighter, or more impressive than
Bence's. In all respects Bence's was every bit as good.
Each morning, fair or foul, at nine-thirty sharp, she left her charming
and luxurious home, and came spinning in her small motor-car down the
three-mile slope that now divided house from shop. The car, avoiding
High Street, wheeled round through Trinity Square, worked its swift way
to the back of Bence's, swept into a quiet, stately court-yard, and
delivered her at the perron of a noble architraved doorway. This was the
private or business entrance to the domed palace.
A porter in sombre livery was waiting on the marble steps to receive
her, to carry her shawl or reticule, to usher her to the golden gates of
the private lift.
In a minute she had majestically soared to an upper floor.
This managerial side of the building would not unworthily have formed a
portion of a public department, such as the Treasury or India Office: it
was all spacious, silent, grand. She passed through a wide and lofty
corridor, with mahogany doors on either hand--the closed doors of the
managers' rooms; and no sound of the shop was audible, no sign of it
visible.
Her own room, at the end of the corridor, was very large, very high,
very plainly decorated. Mahogany book-cases, with a few busts on top of
them; one table with newspapers of all countries, another table with
four or five telephonic instruments--but absolutely no office equipment
of any sort: not so much as a writing desk, Yankee or British. She
scarcely ever writes a letter now; even marginal notes are dictated.
Time is too precious to be wasted on manual labour, however rapid. Time
is capital; and it must be invested in the way that will yield the
highest interest.
"What is the time?" and she glanced at the clock on the carved stone
mantelpiece.
"It wants seven minutes of ten."
All clocks are correct, because they are carefully synchronized with the
clock in the tower; and that _must_ be correct, because time-signals
from Greenwich are continually instructing it--and the whole town works
by Bence time.
"Good. Then I am not late."
"No, madam."
She came earlier now than she used to do a little while ago. But since
Mr. Archibald finally withdrew from affairs, she has been in sole charge
of the mighty organization. She could not refuse to let Archibald enjoy
his well-earned rest. Though still under fifty years of age, he was a
tired man, worn out by the battle, needing repose. And why should he go
on working? Thanks to the liberality of his patron, he possessed ample
means--almost one might say he was opulent.
"I am ready."
"Yes, madam."
Then the day's toil begins.
First it is the solemn entry of the managers, one after another
succinctly presenting his report. Then it is the turn of head clerks and
secretaries, who have gathered and are silently waiting outside the
door. After that, audience is given to buyers who have returned from or
are about to leave for the marts of the world.
And with the fewest possible words she issues her commands. She sits
with folded hands, or paces to and fro with hands clasped behind her
back, or stands and knits her brows; but not a word, not a moment is
squandered. She says, Do this; but very rarely explains how it is to be
done. It is their duty to know how. If they don't know, they are
inefficient. It is for her to give orders: it is for subordinates to
carry them into effect. The general of an army must be something more
than a good regimental officer; the admiral of the fleet cannot teach
common sailors the best way to polish the brass on the binnacle.
With surprising rapidity these opening labours are completed. Well
before noon the last of the clerks has gone, and Mrs. Marsden-Thompson
stands in an empty room--may take a breathing-pause, or, if she pleases,
fill it with tasks of light weight.
Perhaps now an old friend is announced. It is Miss Woolfrey from China
and Glass. May she come in? Or shall she call again? No, ask Miss
Woolfrey to come in.
And then time is flagrantly wasted. Miss Woolfrey has nothing to say,
can put forward no valid reason for bothering the commander-in-chief.
Miss Woolfrey giggles foolishly, gossips inanely, meanders with a stream
of senseless twaddle; but she is gratified by smiles and nods and
handshakings.
"Well, now, really--my dear Miss Woolfrey--you cheer me with your
excellent account of this little storm in a tea-cup.... Yes, I'll
remember all you say.... How kind of you to ask! Yes, my daughter is
very well."
And Miss Woolfrey goes away happy. She is a licensed offender--has been
accorded unlimited privilege to waste time. Incompetent as ever, and
totally unable to adapt herself to modern conditions, she enjoys a
splendid sinecure in the new China and Glass. She has clever people over
her to keep her straight, and will never be deprived of her salary until
she accepts a pension in exchange.
Sooner or later during the forenoon, Mrs. Marsden-Thompson rings her
bell and asks for Mr. Mears.
"Is Mr. Mears in his room?"
"I believe so, madam."
"Then give Mr. Mears my compliments, and say I shall be glad to see him
if it is convenient to him--only if convenient, not if he is occupied."
It was always convenient to Mr. Mears. His convenience is her
convenience. Almost immediately the door opens, and he appears--and
very grand he looks, bowing on the threshold; massive and strong again;
no shaky dotard, but a vigorous elderly man, who might be mistaken for a
partner in a bank, a president of a chamber of commerce, a member of the
Privy Council, or anybody eminently prosperous and respectable.
"Good morning, Mr. Mears. Please be seated."
And then she discusses with him all those matters of which she can speak
to no one else. Mears is never a time-waster; he, too, makes few words
suffice; long practice has given him quickness in catching her thought.
"Mr. Mears, what are we to do about Mr. Greig? Frankly, he is getting
past his work."
"I admit it," says Mears.
"It will be better for all parties if he retires."
"He won't like the idea."
Mr. Greig, the obese chieftain of Cretonnes in the days of old
Thompson's, is threatened with no real peril. If he ceases working
to-morrow, he will continue to receive his working wage till death; but
the difficulty is to remove him from the sphere of action without a
wound to his feelings.
"Will you talk to him--introduce the idea to him gradually, bring him to
it little by little, so that if possible he may come to think that it is
his own idea, and that he himself wants to retire?"
And Mears promises that he will deal thus diplomatically with the
faithful old servant.
They are nearly all here--the old servants; from chieftains like Greig
and Ridgway to lieutenants like Davies the night watchman, each has
found his snug billet. All who shivered with her in the cold are welcome
to warmth and sunshine. She has forgotten no one: she could not forget
old friends.
Sometimes, of course, her bounteous intentions have been rendered
nugatory by fate. A few friends are gone beyond the reach of help;
others it has been impossible to discover. Even now Mears has
occasionally to tell her of someone raked out of the past. For instance,
this morning he brings with him a small bundle of papers, and speaks to
her of such an one.
They have only now found Mr. Fentiman, the lanky and sententious lord of
Thompson's Woollens.
Mr. Fentiman had sunk very low--never knew that she was Bence's, never
saw her advertisements in agony columns, never guessed year after year
that a munificent protector was seeking him. But he has been found at
last, in a wretched little hosier's at Portsmouth--ill and weak and
pitifully poor.
"Are you quite sure that he is our Fentiman?"
"Quite," said Mears; and he laid the Fentiman dossier on the table.
When Mears had left her she fetched an ink-pot from the mantelpiece,
opened a drawer, and extracted pens and note-paper. This morning it was
necessary to write a letter in her own hand. Secretaries could not
assist her with the task, and time must no longer be nicely measured.
"My dear Mr. Fentiman, I am so glad to hear of you again, and so sorry
to learn that your health is not what it should be." Then she invited
him to resign his present situation and come to Mallingbridge, where it
would doubtless be easy to offer him an opening more suited to his
experience and capacity. If he would kindly advise Mr. Mears as to the
arrival of his train, Mr. Mears would meet him at the railway station
and conduct him to apartments. "Before you plunge into work again, I
must beg you to take a complete rest; and as soon as you feel strong
enough, I particularly wish you to spend a holiday in Switzerland. I
expressed this wish many years ago, one night when you had kindly given
me your company at dinner; but although you tacitly allowed me to
understand that you would comply with it, circumstances prevented its
fulfilment. If you are still of the same mind, it will afford me the
utmost pleasure to arrange for your Swiss tour."
Having written so far, she laid down her pen, picked up a telephone
receiver, and spoke to the counting-house.
She was writing again, and did not raise her eyes, when a clerk came
into the room.
"Put them down."
And the clerk placed the bank-notes on the table, and silently retired.
"Meanwhile," she was writing, "I must ask you to accept my small
enclosure, and to believe me to be, Yours with sincere regard, Jane
Marsden-Thompson."
Then she sealed the envelope, rang a bell, and told someone to despatch
her letter by registered post.
Fentiman had mopped up a lot of time--but no matter. Nevertheless, she
moved with quick footsteps as she went from the room, and passed along
the lofty, silent corridors. Presently using a master-key, she opened a
fire-proof door, and entered a narrow passage. In this passage the
silence was broken by a vague murmuring sound--like the ripple of sea
waves heard echoing in a shell.
She opened another door, and immediately the sound swelled to a confused
roar. Through this second door she had come out into a circular gallery
just beneath the huge concave of the dome. Looking downward, she could
see the extraordinary inverted perspective of circles, floor below
floor, each circle apparently smaller than the one above; she could see
long strands of gauze and lace, artfully festooned in void space from
the gilt rails of the Curtain department, like streamers of white cloud;
and beneath the pretty cloud she could see the rainbow colours of
delicate satins and silks; and still lower she could see the stir of
multitudinous life concentrating at this focal point of the busy shop.
But she scarcely looked: she listened. Perched high in her dome,
solitary, motionless, august, she was like the queen-bee in the upper
part of a hive attentively listening to the buzz of industry. And it
seemed that the sound was sufficient: her instinct was so fine--she knew
by the quality of the humming note that Bence's was working well.