Part 9

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.

XII

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 façades 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.

XIII

They had been married nearly three months, and each month seemed longer to her than any year of her previous existence.

Many changes were visible at the shop. Indeed, from the back wall of the carters' yard to the sign-board over the front doors, nothing was quite as it used to be. The big white board, which told the world that the business "Established 1813" now belonged to Thompson & Marsden, was a makeshift affair; but the new partner had ordered a gigantic and artistic fascia, and this, he said, would be a real ornament to High Street.

He promised soon to inaugurate new departments, to introduce improvements in the old ones, to revolutionize old-fashioned time-wasting methods of book-keeping and all other office work; but so far he had only achieved something very like chaos.

"Don't fuss," he used to say. "I'll soon get to work; but I can't attend to it for the moment."

Thus the little realm behind the glass had been turned upside down and not yet replaced upon its feet again. The rooms were blocked with the opened and unopened packing-cases that contained the materials for Mr. Marsden's clever arrangement--innumerable desks and cabinets, immense index cupboards, racks and sideless stands, by the use of which weapons such antiquated devices as letter-presses, copying-machines, and pigeon-holes would be abolished. Every shred of paper would be filed flat; thousands of letters would lie in the space hitherto occupied by half a dozen; each correspondent would be allotted a file to himself, letter and answer together; and this novel system would deprive clerks of the power of making mistakes; order would reign; confusion would be impossible. But at present, with the two systems inextricably mixed, the new system half started and the old system half discarded, confusion was not only possible but unavoidable.

"Let them rub along as they can pro tem. I'll straighten it out for them directly I settle down to it."

Just now he could throw himself into the business only by fits and starts, but he assured everybody that it should soon secure his undivided care.

"_I'll_ wake 'em up;" and he tapped his forehead and laughed. "There's a reservoir of enterprise here--the ideas simply bubbling over." Then he would bring out his jewelled cigarette-case, light a cigarette, and swagger off to keep some pleasant appointment.

He was candidly enjoying the softer side of his new position, and postponing its arduous duties. He both looked and felt very jolly. Except when anyone accidentally made him angry, he was always ready to laugh and joke.

He had a small run-about car, and was rapidly learning to drive it while a much bigger car was being built for him. He was renewing old acquaintances and picking up fresh friends. He showed a fine catholic taste for amusement, and handsomely supported the theatre, the music-hall, the race-course. In the good company with which he was now able to surround himself he dashed to and fro all over England, to see the winter sport between the flags. He dressed grandly, drank bravely, spent freely--in a word, he was hastily completing his education as a gentleman.

"Must have my fling, old girl"--He was nearly always jolly about it to his wife. "But don't you fear that I'm turning into an idler. Not much. This is my holiday. And no one can say I haven't _earned_ a holiday. Ever since I was fourteen I've been putting my back into it like a good 'un."

He was especially genial when luck had been kind to him and he had won a few bets. Returning after a couple of fortunate days at Manchester or Wolverhampton, he jingled the sovereigns in his pockets and chattered gleefully.

"Rare fun up there--and little Dick came out on top. Cheer up, Jane. Give a chap a welcome. This doesn't cost one half what you might guess.... Besides, anyhow, I've got to do it--for a bit--not forever.... I'm young--don't forget that. Only one life to live--in this vale of tears."

He pleaded his youth, as if it must always prove a sufficient excuse for anything; but she never invited either excuses or apologies.

"Well, old girl, I'm leaving you to your own resources again--but, you understand, don't you? Boys will be boys;" and he laughed. "This isn't naughtiness--only what is called the levity of youth. Ta-ta--take care of yourself."

He liked to avail himself of a spare day between two race-meetings, and run up to London, make a swift tour of the wholesale houses, and do a little of that easiest and proudest sort of business which is known as "buying for a sound firm." His vanity was flattered by the outward show of respect with which these big London people received him. Managers fawned upon him; even principals begged him to join them at their luncheon table; and he described to his wife something of his satisfaction when he found himself seated with the bosses, at places that he used to enter a few years ago as a poor little devil trotting about the city to match a ribbon or a tape string.

He came home one night, when the rain was beating on the window-panes and sending a river down St. Saviour's Court to swell the sea of mud in High Street, and told her he had heard big news while lunching with his silk merchants.

She was waiting for him by the dining-room fire, and when he first came in he displayed anger because the cabman had wanted more than his fare.

"But he didn't get it. I took his number--and threatened to report him.... It's infernally inconvenient not being able to drive up to your own door--it's like living in a back alley."

Then, with an air of rather surly importance, he told her his news about Bence.

"They're _afraid_ of him. They gave me the straight tip that he's shaky. Mark my words, _that_ bubble is going to be burst."

"But people have said so for so long." And she explained that the story of Bence's approaching destruction was really a very old one. "Year after year Mr. Prentice used to tell me the same thing--that Bence's were financially rotten, and couldn't last."

"Prentice is an old ass, and you're quite right not to believe all _he_ tells you. Between you and me and the post, I reckon that Mr. P. wants a precious sharp eye kept on him--I don't trust him an inch farther than I can see him.... But what was I saying? Oh, yes, Bence's. Well, it is not what Prentice says now--it's what _I_ say."

Then he asked if there was anything in the house to eat. Yes, the dinner that had been ready for him three hours ago was still being kept hot for him.

"I don't want any dinner. I dined in London.... But I think I could do with a snack of supper."

He went over to the sideboard, unlocked a lower division of it with his private key, and drew forth a half-bottle of champagne.

"If you'll help me, I'll make it a whole bottle."

"No, thank you."

Before re-locking the cupboard, he peered into it suspiciously.

"I don't think my wine is any too safe in this cellaret. How do I know how many keys there aren't knocking about the house? I may be wrong, but I thought I counted three more bottles than what's left."

Then he rang the bell, and at the same time called loudly for the parlourmaid.

"Mary! Mary! Why the devil doesn't she come in and ask if anything's wanted?" He left the room, grumbling and fuming.

Mrs. Marsden heard his voice outside, and the voice of Yates timidly apologising.

Mary the parlourmaid had a very bad cold, and Yates had ventured to allow her to go to bed.

"Thank you for nothing.... Where's the cook? Cook--wake up, please;" and he went into the kitchen.

The servants feared him. They stammered and became stupid when he spoke to them crossly, but never failed to smile sycophantically when he expressed pleasure.

All that he required on this occasion from Cook was plenty of hot toast and cayenne pepper. But he sent Yates to buy some smoked salmon or herring at the restaurant in High Street.