Certainly, if Mrs. Thompson could not accept the bulk of Archibald Bence's compliments, she might justly pride herself on being always anxious to spot merit among her people. Unaided by any advice, she had quickly spotted the young man in the Carpets department.
Making her tour of inspection one day, she was drawn towards the wide entrance of Carpets by the unseemly noise of a common female voice. Looking into Carpets, she found the shrewish wife of an old farmer raging and nagging at everybody, because she could not satisfy herself with what was being offered to her. Half the stock was already on the floor; Number One and Number Two were at their wits' ends, becoming idiotic, on the verge of collapse; Number Three had just come to their rescue.
"Oh, take it away.... No—not a bit like what I'm asking for." And the virago turned to her hen-pecked husband. "You were a fool to bring me here. I told you we ought to have gone to London."
"But madam knows the old saying. One may go farther and fare worse. I can assure you, madam, there's nothing in the London houses that we can't supply here."
"Oh, yes, you're glib enough—but if you've got it, why don't you bring it out?"
"If madam will have patience, I guarantee that we will suit her—yes, in less than three minutes."
The young man spoke firmly yet pleasantly; and he looked and smiled at this ugly vixenish customer as though she had been young, gracious, and beautiful.
Mrs. Thompson did not intervene: she stood near the entrance, watching and listening.
"Now, madam, if you want value for your money, look at this.... No?... Very good. This is Axminster—genuine Axminster,—and very charming colouring.... No?... What does madam think ofthis?... No?"
He spun out the vast webs; with bowed back and quick movements of both hands he trundled the enormous rollers across the polished floor; he ran up the ladders and jerked the folded masses from the shelves; he flopped down the cut squares so fast that the piled heaps seemed to grow by magic before the customer's chair.
Doubtless he knew that he was being observed, but he showed no knowledge of the fact. As he hurried past Mrs. Thompson, she noticed that he was perspiring. He dabbed his white forehead with his handkerchief as he passed again, trundling a roll with one hand.
Mrs. Thompson felt astounded by his personal strength. Mr. Mears was strong, a man of comparatively huge girth and massive limbs; he could lift big weights; but Mears in his prime could not have shifted the carpet rolls as they were shifted by this slim-waisted stripling.
Two minutes gone, and the querulous, nagging tones were modulated to the note of vulgar affability. Two minutes—thirty seconds, and the customer had decided that her carpet should be one of the three which she was prodding at with her umbrella. She asked Mr. Marsden to help her in making the final selection.
Mr. Marsden was standing up now, Numbers One and Two clumsily hovering about him, while he talked easily and confidentially to the 'mollified customer. And while he talked, Mrs. Thompson scrutinized him carefully.
He could not be more than twenty-seven—possibly less.He was gracefully although so strongly built, of medium height, with an excellent poise of the head. His hair was brownish, stiff, cut very short; his small stiff moustache was brushed up in the military fashion; his features were of the firmest masculine type—nose perhaps a shade too thick and not sufficiently well modelled. She could not see the colour of his eyes.
But his manner! It was the salesman's art in its highest and rarest form. He had charmed, fascinated, hypnotised the troublesome customer. She bought her carpets, and two door mats; she smiled and nodded and prattled; she seemed quite sorry to say good-bye to Mr. Marsden.
"I shall tell my friends to come here," and then she giggled stupidly. "And I shall tell them to ask for you."
Without entering Carpets, Mrs. Thompson walked away. She did not utter a word then; but she had determined to promote Number Three, to give him more scope, and to see what she could make of him.
She moved him through the Woollens, the Cretonnes; and then again, upstairs into Crockery.
Crockery, which had of late betrayed sluggishness, was one side of a large department. Beginning with common pots and pans, it shaded off into glass and china; and on this side ran up to the big money which was properly demanded for the most delicate porcelain and ornamental ware—such as best English dinner services and modernSèvrescandelabra. Young Marsden was given charge of the cheaper and quicker-selling stuff, while Miss Woolfrey, a freckled, sandy lady of forty, remained for the present in control of the expensive side. But she was not a titular head; Mears and Mrs. Thompson herself superintended her, allowing her little discretion, and instructing her from day to day.
After a week Marsden, the newcomer, got a distinct move on the sluggish earthenware; and, after three weeks,Mears rather grudgingly confessed that the whole department appeared to be brisker, livelier, more what one would wish it to be.
On the whole, then, Mrs. Thompson was well pleased with her protégé. She spoke to him freely, encouraged him by carefully chosen words of approval.
One day, while talking to a desk-clerk, she saw him in an adjacent mirror that gave one a round-the-corner view of Glass and China. He was standing with a trade catalogue in his hands, surrounded by Miss Woolfrey and three girls. He seemed to be expounding the catalogue, and the women seemed to exhibit a docile attention.
Mrs. Thompson went in and talked to them.
There had been an accident, and Mr. Marsden was looking up the trade price of the destroyed article. Poor Miss Woolfrey had broken a cut-glass decanter—she got upon the steps to fetch it down, and it was heavier than she expected.
"Why," inquired Mrs. Thompson, "didn't you ask someone to help you?"
"I never thought till it was too late, and I'd found out my mistake."
There was no need to offer apologies to the proprietress, because all breakages of this character were made good out of an insurance fund to which all the employees subscribed. The whole shop was therefore interested in each smash, since everybody would pay a share of the damage.
"Mr. Marsden," said Miss Woolfrey, "has so very kindly priced it for me. He will send on the order at once. So it shall be replaced, ma'am, without delay."
The three interested girls lingered at Mr. Marsden's elbows; they watched his face; they hung upon his words. Miss Woolfrey continued to thank him for all the trouble he was taking.
Mrs. Thompson walked away, thinking about Mr. Marsden. These women were too obviously subject to the young man's personal fascination; their silly glances were easy to interpret; and middle-aged Miss Woolfrey and the three immature underlings had all betrayed the same weakness. This implied a situation that must be thought out. Lady-killers, though useful with the customers, may cause a lot of trouble with the staff.
There was no indication of the professional heart-disturber in the young fellow's general air. Mrs. Thompson had found his manner scrupulously correct—except that, as she remembered now, there was perhaps something too hardy in the way he kept his eyes fixed on her face. She attributed this to sheer intentness, mingled with juvenile simplicity. Most of the older men instinctively dropped their eyes in her presence.
After a little thought she called Mears behind the glass, and interrogated him. "Behind the glass" was a shop term for all the sacred region masked by the glass partitions, and containing counting-house, clerks' and secretary's offices, managerial and the proprietorial departments.
"If you want the plain fact," said Mr. Mears, "there's little difference in the pack of 'em."
"Do you mean they aresillyabout him?"
"Yes," said Mears scornfully. "Spoony sentimental—talking ridiculous over him."
"But isheall right with the girls? What ishisattitude?... Find out for me."
Mrs. Thompson was always wisely strict on this most important point of shop discipline. No playing the fool between the young ladies and young gentlemen under the care of Mrs. Thompson.
"I will not permit it," she said sternly; and she laid her open hand upon the desk, to give weightier emphasis to thewords. "We must have no condoning of that sort of thing. If I catch him at it—if I catch anyone, out he goes neck and crop."
In the course of a few days Mr. Mears reported, still grudgingly, that young Marsden's demeanour towards the young ladies was absolutely perfect. Stoical indifference, calm disregard, not even a trace of that flirting or innocently philandering tone which is so common, and to which one can scarcely object.
"Good," said Mrs. Thompson. "I'm glad to hear it—because now I shan't be afraid of advancing him."
"But," said Mears, "youhaveadvanced him. You aren't thinking of putting him up again?"
"I am not sure. Something must be done about Miss Woolfrey. I will think about it."
It was not long before Mears, young Marsden and Miss Woolfrey were all summoned together behind the glass. The typewriting girl had been sent out of the room; Mrs. Thompson sat in front of her bureau, looking like a great general; Mr. Mears, at her side, looked like a glum aide-de-camp; the young man looked like a soldier who had been beckoned to step forward from the ranks. He stood at a respectful distance, and his bearing was quite soldierlike—heels together, head well up, the broad shoulders very square, and the muscular back straight and flat. His eyes were on the general's face.
Sandy, freckled Miss Woolfrey merely looked foolish and frightened. She caught her breath and coughed when Mrs. Thompson informed her that Mr. Marsden was to be put in charge of the whole department.
"Over my head, ma'am?"
"It will make no difference to you. Your salary will be no less. And yours, Mr. Marsden, will be no more. But you will have fuller scope."
Miss Woolfrey feebly protested. She had hoped,—she had naturally hoped;—in a customary shop-succession the post should be hers.
"Miss Woolfrey, do you feel yourself competent to fill it? Hitherto you have been under the constant supervision of Mr. Mears. But do you honestly feel you could stand alone?"
"I'd do my best, ma'am."
"Yes," said Mrs. Thompson cordially, "I'm sure you would. But with the best will in the world, there are limits to one's capacity. I have come to the conclusion that this is a man's task;" and she turned to the fortunate salesman. "Mr. Marsden, you will not in any way interfere with Miss Woolfrey—but you will remember that the department is now in your sole charge. If I have to complain, it will be to you. If things go wrong, it is you that I shall call to account."
Nothing went wrong in China and Glass. But sometimes Mrs. Thompson secretly asked herself if she or Mears had been right. Had she acted wisely when pushing an untried man so promptly to the front?
During these pleasant if enervating months of May and June she watched him closely.
Somehow he took liberties. It was difficult to define. He talked humbly. His voice was always humble, and his words too—but his eyes were bold. Something of aggressive virility seemed to meet and attempt to beat down that long-assumed mastership to which everyone else readily submitted. In the shop she was a man by courtesy—the boss, the cock of the walk; and she was never made to remember, when issuing orders to the men who served her, that she was not really and truly male.
All this might be fancy; but it made a slight want ofease and comfort in her intercourse with Mr. Marsden—a necessity felt only with him, an instinct telling her that here was a servant who must be kept in his place.
Once or twice, when she was examining returns with him, his assiduous attention bothered her.
"Thank you, Mr. Marsden, I can see it for myself."
And there was a certain look in his eyes while he talked to her—respectfully admiring, pensively questioning, familiar,—no, not to be analysed. But nevertheless it was a look that she did not at all care about.
The eyes that he used so hardily were of a lightish brown, speckled with darker colour; and above them the dark eyebrows grew close together, making almost an unbroken line across his brow. She saw or guessed that his beard would be tawny, if he let it grow; but he was always beautifully shaved. High on his cheeks there were tiny russet hairs, like down, that he never touched with the razor.
All through May China and Glass did better and better. Miss Woolfrey, meekly submitting to fate, worked loyally under the new chief. "If anyone had to be put above me," said poor Miss Woolfrey, "I'd rather it was him."
When a truly excellent week's returns were shown in June, Mrs. Thompson took an opportunity of praising Mr. Marsden generously. And again, after he had bowed and expressed his gratification, she saw the look that she did not care about.
She read it differently now. It was probably directly traceable to the arrogance bred of youth and strength—and perhaps a fairly full measure of personal conceit. Although so circumspect with the other sex, he had a reliance on his handsome aspect. Perhaps unconsciously he was always falling back on this—because hitherto it might never have failed him.
It was Enid who made her think him handsome. Till Enid used the word, she would have thought it too big.
One morning she had brought her daughter to the China department in order to select a wedding-present for a girlfriend. Miss Woolfrey was serving her, but Mr. Marsden came to assist. Then Mrs. Thompson saw how he looked at Enid.
Some sort of introduction had been made—"Enid, my dear, Mr. Marsden suggests this vase;" and the girl had immediately transferred her attention from the insipid serving woman to the resourceful serving-man. Mr. Marsden showed her more and more things—"This is good value. Two guineas—if that is not beyond your figure. Or this is a quaint notion—Parrots! They paint them so natural, don't they?" And Mrs. Thompson saw the look, and winced. With his eyes on the girl's face, he smiled—and Enid began to smile, too.
"What is the joke, Mr. Marsden?" Mrs. Thompson had spoken coldly and abruptly.
"Joke?" he echoed.
"You appear to be diverted by the idea of my daughter's purchase—when really it is simply a matter of business."
"Exactly—but if I can save you time by—"
"Thank you, Miss Woolfrey is quite competent to show us all that we require;" and Mrs. Thompson turned her broad back on the departmental manager.
Enid, when leaving China and Glass, glanced behind her, and nodded to Mr. Marsden.
"Mother," she whispered, "how handsome he is.... But how sharply you spoke to him. You quite dropped on him."
"Well, my dear, one has to drop on people sometimes; and Mr. Marsden is just a little disposed to be pushing."
"Oh," said Enid, "I thought he was such a favourite of yours."
Alone in her room, Mrs. Thompson felt worried. A thought had made her wince. This young man carried about with him an element of vague danger. Of course Enid would never be foolish; and he would never dare to aspire to such a prize; still Enid should get her next wedding present in another department—or in another shop, if she must have china.
It was only a brief sense of annoyance or discomfort, say five minutes lost in a busy day. Mrs. Thompson dismissed it from her mind. But Mr. Marsden brought it back again.
Towards closing time, when she was signing letters at the big bureau, he came behind the glass and entered her room.
"What is it?" said Mrs. Thompson, without looking up.
"Mrs. Thompson, I want to make an apology and a request."
At the sound of his voice she perceptibly started. His presence down here was unusual and unexpected.
"I have been making myself rather unhappy about what happened when you and Miss Thompson were in my department."
"Nothing happened," said Mrs. Thompson decisively.
"Oh, yes, ma'am, and I offer an apology for my mistake."
"Mr. Marsden," said Mrs. Thompson, with dignity, "there is not the slightest occasion for an apology. Please don't make mountains out of molehills."
"No—but I am in earnest. It is your own great kindness that led me to forget. And I confess that I did for a moment forget the immense difference of social station that lies between us. A shopman should never speak to his employer—much less his employer's relatives—in a tone implying the least friendliness or equality."
"Mr. Marsden, you quite misunderstand."
"You were angry with me?"
"No," said Mrs. Thompson firmly. "To be frank, I was not exactly pleased with you—and I took the liberty of showing it. That is a freedom to which I am accustomed."
"Then I humbly apologise."
"I have told you it is unnecessary.... That will do, Mr. Marsden;" and she took up her pen again.
"But may I make one request—that when I am unfortunate enough to deserve reproof, it may be administered privately and not in public?"
"Mr. Marsden, I make no conditions. If people are discontented with my methods—well, the remedy lies in their own hands."
"Isn't that just a little cruel?"
"It is my answer to your question."
"I don't think, ma'am, you know the chivalrous and devoted feeling that runs through this shop. There's not a man in it to whom your praise and your blame don't mean light and darkness."
Mrs. Thompson flushed.
"Mr. Marsden, you are all very good and loyal. I recognize that. But I don't care about compliments."
"Compliments!... When a person is feeling almost crushed with the burden of gratitude—"
"But, Mr. Marsden, gratitude should be shown and not talked about."
"And I'll show mine some day, please God."
Mrs. Thompson turned right round on her revolving chair, and spoke very gently. "I am sorry that you should have upset yourself about such a trifle."
Then Mr. Marsden asked if he might come down behind the glass for direction and orders when he felt in doubt orperplexity. A few words now and then would be helpful to him.
Mrs. Thompson hesitated, and then answered kindly.
"Certainly. Why not? I am accessible here to any of the staff—from Mr. Mears to the door boy. That has always been a part of my system."
After this the young man appeared from time to time, craving a draught of wisdom at the fountain-head. The department was doing well, and he never brought bad news.
But he was a little too much inclined to begin talking about himself; telling his story—an orphan who had made his own way in the world; describing his efforts to improve a defective education, his speaking at a debating society, his acting with the Kennington Thespian Troupe.
"Your elocution," said Mrs. Thompson, "no doubt profited by the pains you took.... But now, if you please—"
Mrs. Thompson, with business-like firmness, stopped all idle chatter. A hint was enough for him, and he promptly became intent on matters of business.
He worked hard upstairs. He was the first to come and the last to go. Once or twice he brought papers down to the dark ground floor when Mrs. Thompson was toiling late.
One night he showed her the coloured and beautifully printed pictures that had been sent with the new season's lists.
"There. This is my choice."
She laid her hand flat on a picture; and he, pushing about the other pictures and talking, put his hand against hers. He went on talking, as if unconscious that he had touched her, that he was now touching her.
She moved her hand away, and for a moment an angry flame of thought swept through her brain. Had it been anaccident, or a monstrous impertinence? He went on talking without a tremor in his voice; and she understood that he was absolutely unconscious of what he had done. He was completely absorbed by consideration of the coloured prints of tea and dinner services.
Mrs. Thompson abruptly struck the desk bell, drew back her chair, and rose.
"Davies," she called loudly, "bring your lantern. I am going through.... Don't bother me any more about all that, Mr. Marsden. Make your own selections—and get them passed by Mr. Mears. Good-night."
Miss Enid had again taken up riding, and she seemed unusually energetic in her efforts to acquire a difficult art. During this hot dry weather the roads were too hard to permit of hacking with much pleasure; but Enid spent many afternoons in Mr. Young's fine riding school. She was having jumping lessons; and she threw out hints to Mrs. Thompson that next autumn she would be able not only to ride to meet, but even to follow hounds.
"Oh, my darling, I should never have a moment's peace of mind if I knew you were risking your pretty neck out hunting."
"I could easily get a good pilot," said Enid; "and then I should be quite safe."
One Thursday afternoon—early-closing day—Mr. Marsden, who happened to know that Enid would be at the school, went round to see his friend Mr. Whitehouse, the riding-master. He looked very smart in his blue serge suit, straw hat, and brown boots; and the clerk in Mr. Young's office quite thought he was one of the governor's toffs come to buy horses.
Mr. Marsden sent his card to Mr. Whitehouse; and then waited in a sloping sanded passage, obviously trodden by four-footed as well as two-footed people, from which he could peep into the dark office, a darker little dressing-room, and an open stable where the hind quarters of horses showed in stalls. There was a queer staircase without stairs, and he heard a sound of pawing over his head—horses upstairsas well as downstairs. The whole place looked and smelt very horsey.
The riding-master's horse was presently led past him; the lesson was nearly over, and the young lady was about to take a few leaps. A groom told him that he might go in.
The vast hall had high and narrow double doors to admit the horses; and inside, beneath the dirty glass roof, it was always twilight, with strange echoes and reverberations issuing from the smooth plastered walls; at a considerable height in one of the walls there was a large window, opening out of a room that looked like the royal box of a theatre.
This hall had been the military school; it remained as a last evidence of the demolished barracks, and the town was proud of its noble dimensions—a building worthy of the metropolis.
"How d'ye do," said the riding-master, a slim, tall, elegant young man in check breeches and black boots. "Come and stand by us in the middle."
There was another tall young man, who wore drab breeches and brown gaiters on his long thin legs, and who was helping a stableman to drag the barred hurdle across the tan and put it in position against the wall.
"Now, Miss Thompson.... Steady. Steady. Let her go."
Enid on a heavily bandaged bay mare came slowly round, advanced in a scrambling canter, and hopped over the low obstacle.
"Very good."
She looked charming as she came round again—her usually cold pale face now warm and red, a wisp of her dark hair flying, the short habit showing her neatly booted legs.
"Very good."
"I am lost in admiration," said Marsden; and the strange young man stared hard at him.
"Oh, is that you, Mr. Marsden," said Enid. "I didn't know I had an audience."
Then she jumped again. This time, in obedience to the directions of Mr. Whitehouse, she rode at the hurdle much faster; the mare cocked her ears, charged, and she and Enid sailed over the white bar in grand style.
But the thud of hoofs, the tell-tale reverberations roused the invisible Mr. Young, and brought him to the window of the private box.
"Not so fast—not nearly so fast," shouted Mr. Young. "There's no skill or sense in that.... Mr. Whitehouse, I can't understand you. D'you want that mare over-reaching herself?" And Mr. Young's voice, dropping in tone, still betrayed his irritation. "Who are these gentlemen? We can't have people in the school during lessons."
"All right," said the young man in the brown gaiters. "I've come to look at the new horse—the one you bought from Griffin."
"Very good, Mr. Kenion. I didn't see who you were.... But who's the other gentleman?"
"He is a friend of mine," said Mr. Whitehouse.
"Well, that's against our rules—visitors in lessons. You know that as well as I do."
"I am quite aware of your rules," said Mr. Whitehouse curtly. "But the lesson is finished.... That will be sufficient, Miss Thompson. Three minutes over your hour—and we don't want to tire you."
Mr. Young snorted angrily, and disappeared. The strange young man assisted Miss Enid to dismount and went out with her, the bandaged mare following them with the helper.
"Who," asked Marsden, "was that spindle-shanked ass?"
"Oh, he's not a bad boy," said the riding-masterpatronisingly. "And he can ride, mind you—which is more than most hunting men can."
"Is he a hunting man? What's his name?"
"Mr. Kenion.... Look here, don't hurry off. I want to have a yarn with you."
"But Mr. Young—"
"Oh, blast Mr. Young. I want to talk to you, my boy, about the ladies."
"Do you?" Marsden half closed his eyes, and showed his strong teeth in a lazy smile. "What do you think of our young lady?"
"Miss Thompson?" Mr. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, not bad."
Then long thin Mr. Kenion returned.
"Let's try the new crock over your sticks," said Mr. Kenion languidly. "I suppose heisa crock—or he wouldn't be here?"
"I won't bias your judgment," said Mr. Whitehouse as he strolled across the tan. "See for yourself," and he rang a noisy bell. "But I must make you known to each other;" and he introduced Mr. Marsden as "one of the managers at Thompson's."
Mr. Young's new purchase was brought in, and Mr. Kenion rode it. The horse at first appeared to resent the silly jumping performance; but Marsden heard the work of the rider's unspurred heels on the animal's flanks, watched the effective use Mr. Whitehouse made of his whip as he ran behind, and soon saw the hurdle negotiated in flying fashion, again and again—and faster and faster.
"Notso fast! God bless my soul, I think you must all be mad this afternoon." Old Young had come to his window, furious. "Mr. Kenion, I'm surprised at you, yes, I am, sir."
"How can I judge of a horse without trying him?"
"Well, I don't want my horses tried like that. You may buy 'em or leave 'em."
"All right," said Mr. Kenion, laughing. "Come out and have a drink. You've stood me a ride, and I'll stand you a drink."
Mr. Kenion, Mr. Young, and the jumping horse all disappeared, and Marsden and the riding-master were left together on the tan. Here, in the dim twilight that the glass roof made of this bright June day, they had a long quiet chat about women.
"Dicky," said the riding-master, "I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle."
"Fire away."
"All for your own good. See?... Now I suppose when you want a mash, you don't think of looking outside the shop."
"I never have a mash inside it."
"Is that so?" Mr. Whitehouse seemed astonished. "Why, I thought you smart managers with all those shop girls round you were like so many grand Turks with their serrallyhos."
"Not much. That's against etiquette—and a fool's game into the bargain. You're safe to be pinched—and, second, you get so jolly sick of being mewed up with 'em all day that you never want to speak to 'em out of hours."
"Then how do you get along? The customers?"
"Yes," said Marsden; and he stroked his moustache, and smiled. "Customers are often very kind."
"Not real ladies?"
"We don't ask their pedigrees. Go down St. Saviour's Court any fine evening, and see the domestic servants waiting in their best clothes. It'll remind you of Piccadilly Circus;" and both gentlemen laughed.
"There's a parlourmaid," continued Marsden, "out ofAdelaide Crescent—who is simply a little lump of all right. Venetian red hair—a picture."
"Red hair," said Mr. Whitehouse reflectively. "They say with us, a good horse has no colour. That means, if the horse is a good 'un, never mind his colour;—and I suppose it's true of women.... I don't object to chestnut horses—or red-haired gells.... But, look here, Master Dick, I tell you frank, you're wasting your opportunities."
"You can't teach me anything, old man."
"Can't I? Never turn a deaf ear to a friendly tip—a chance tip may alter a man's life. That's a motto with me—and I'm acting on it this moment, myself."
Then Mr. Whitehouse told his friend that he was about to leave Mallingbridge forever. Mallingbridge was too small; he intended to throw himself into the larger world of London. He had very nearly fixed up an engagement with the big Bayswater people; it was practically a settled thing.
"That's why I checked the old bloke like I done just now. Mr. Young he twigs there's something up; but he doesn't know what's in store for him. The minute I've got my job definite, I shall open my chest to him—tell him once for all what I think of him. 'E won't forget it;" and the riding-master laughed confidently.
"I'm sorry you're going."
"Thanks. But why am I lighting out so determined and sudden, instead of vegetating here half me life? Well—because I got a straight tip, and all by chance."
"How was that?"
"About a month ago a chap comes in here with a lady for a lesson. Captain Mellish—Meller—I forget the name. Anyhow, he was a son of a gun of a swell to look at—sploshing it about up at the Dolphin; and he brings inthis actress from the theatre—not a chorus gell, mind you, but the leading performer—who was drawing her hundred quid a week, so they said. Well, he evidently fancied he was a bit of a horseman himself, and he keeps chipping in. When I told her to get her hands back, and hold her reins long, he says, 'yes, but you'll want to hold a horse shorter by the head, if he balks at his fences.' I answered without hesitation, 'I'm very well aware of refusing horses,' I said, 'and also how easy it is to hang on by a horse's mouth when you land over a fence.... But,' I said, 'let me know who is giving the lesson—you or me. Wait, miss,' I said, 'if the Captain has other directions to give you.' She rounded on him at once, asking him to shut his head. He turned it off with a laugh, and gave me a slap on the back. 'Have it your own way, Mr. Riding-Master.' You'll understand, he said that sneering.
"But I believe he thought the more of me before the lesson was over. Anyhow, when his tart had gone to the dressing-room to change her things, he and I got yarning here—exactly as if it had been you and me—like we're doing now.
"Mind you, he was a wrong 'un. You couldn't talk friendly to him without twigging that. But, Holy Moses, he was fairly up to snuff.... We went yarning on, and presently he says, 'It beats me why a knowledgeable young chap like you should bury himself as a mere servant. Take my tip,' he says, 'Get hold of a bit of money, and light out on your own.'... 'And how am I to get the money?' I asked him.
"'Get it from the ladies,' he says. 'Take my tip. I suppose you make love to all your pupils—you fellows always do. Well, make 'em pay.' I'm giving you what he said, word for word. 'You're wasting yourself,' he says. 'See? You're only young once. You've gotsomething to bring to market, and you're letting it go stale every hour.'
"Then he run on about what women can do for a man nowadays—and heknew, mind you. He'dbeenthere. Who makes the members of parliament, the bishops, the prime ministers? Why, women. Leave them out of your plans—if you want to labour in the sweat of your brow till you drop. But if not, take the tip. It's the women that give a man his short-cut to ease and comfort. See?"
"Yes," said Mr. Marsden. "I see that—but I don't see anything new in it."
"Dicky," said Mr. Whitehouse solemnly, "it's a straight tip.... But you'll never profit by it, my boy, until you stop messing about with your dressed-up slaveys, and light out for something bigger."
"I have told you," said Marsden, smiling, "that you can't teach me anything."
"You're too cock-sure," said Mr. Whitehouse, almost sadly; "but you're just wasting yourself.... Here's the tip of a life-time. I've thought it all out, and I see my own line clear. Drop the gells—and go for the matrons. Pick your chance, and go for it hammer and tongs.... It's what I shall do meself. Bayswater is full of rich Jewesses—some of 'em fairly wallowing in it. And I shan't try to grab some budding beauty. I shall pick a ripe flower."
"I wish you luck."
"Same to you, old pal. But you won't find it the way you're trying just now;" and Mr. Whitehouse laughed enigmatically. "I can't teach you anything, but I can give you a parting warning.... D'you think I don't twig what you were after to-day—wanting to see me especial—and coming round here,—and losing yourself in admiration of Miss Thompson? And I don't say youmightn't have pulled it off, if you'd started a bit earlier. But you're too late. Mr. Kenion has got there first."
"Is that true—bar larks?"
"You may bet your boots on it. He's here every time she comes. After the lessons he sees her home—by a round-about way. The only reason he didn't go with her this afternoon is because the shop is shut, and they're afraid of meeting the old lady.... No, my little boy, your Miss Enid is booked."
Enid was away again, staying for a few days with some friends or friends of the Salters; and during her absence her mother suffered from an unusual depression of spirits. In the shop it was noticed that Mrs. Thompson seemed, if not irritable, at least rather difficult to please; but all understood that she felt lonely while deprived of the young woman's society, and all sympathised with her. Assistants, who happened to meet her after closing time, taking a solitary walk outside the boundaries of the town, were especially sympathetic, and perhaps ventured to think that fashionable Miss Enid left her too much alone.
One evening after a blazing airless day, Dick Marsden, very carefully dressed in his neat blue serge, with his straw hat jauntily cocked, came swaggering through St. Saviour's Court, and attracted, as he passed, many feminine glances of admiration. The pretty housemaid from Adelaide Crescent ogled and languished; but he merely bowed and passed by. He could not waste his time with her to-night. There was bigger game on foot.
At the bottom of Frederick Street he hurried down the walled passage that leads to the railway embankment; thence through the vaultlike tunnel under the line, past the gas-works; over the iron bridge that spans the black water of the canal, and out into the open meadows.
These meadows, a broad flat between the canal and the river, belonged to the railway company; and almost every gate and post reminded one of their legal owners. Notices in metal frames somewhat churlishly announced that, "Thisgate will be closed and locked on one day in each year"; "There is no right of way here"; "The public, who are only admitted as visitors, will kindly act as visitors and refrain from damage, or the privilege will be withdrawn." The public, enjoying the privilege freely but not arrogantly, ranged about the pleasant fields, played foot-ball in winter, picked buttercups and daisies in spring, and even provided themselves with Corporation seats—to be removed at a moment's notice if the Corporation should be bidden to remove them. On warm summer evenings like this, the public were principally represented by lovers strolling in linked pairs, looking into each other's eyes, and making of the railway fields a road through dreamland to paradise.
Marsden walked swiftly across the parched grass, moving with strong light tread, and gazing here and there with clear keen vision. As he moved thus lightly and swiftly, looking so strong and yet so agile, he seemed a personification of masculine youth and vigour, the coarse male animal in its pride of brutal health. Or, if one merely noticed the catlike tread, so springy and easy in its muscular power, he might suggest the graceful yet fierce beast of prey who paces through failing sunlight and falling shadows in search of the inoffensive creature that he will surely destroy.
A solitary figure moving slowly between the trees by the river—Mr. Marsden hurried on.
"Good evening, Mrs. Thompson."—He took off his hat, and bowed very respectfully.
"Oh! Good evening, Mr. Marsden."
"You don't often come this way?"
"Oh, yes, I do," said Mrs. Thompson rather stiffly. "It is a favourite walk of mine."
"I venture to applaud your taste." And he pointed in the direction of the town. "Old Mallingbridge looks quiteromantic from along here.... But the gas-works spoil the picture, don't they?"
The town looked pretty enough in the mellow evening glow. Beyond the railway embankment, where signal lamps began to show as spots of faint red and green, the clustered roofs mingled into solid sharp-edged masses, and the two church towers appeared strangely high and ponderous against the infinitely pure depths of a cloudless sky. Soon a soft greyness would rise from the horizon; indistinctness, vagueness, mystery would creep over the town and the fields, blotting out the ugly gas-works, hiding the common works of men, giving the world back to nature; but there would be no real night. In these, the longest days of the year, the light never quite died.
The colour of her blue dress and of the pink roses in her toque was clearly visible, as Mrs. Thompson and the young man walked on side by side. For a minute she politely made conversation.
"I have often wondered," she said, with brisk business-like tones, "what use the railway company will eventually make of all this land."
"Ah! I wonder."
"They would not have bought it unless they had some remote object in view; and they would not have held it if the object had vanished. Sensible people don't keep two hundred acres of land lying idle unless they have a purpose."
"No."
"It has often occurred to me—from what I have heard—that they will one day convert it into some sort of depot. There is nothing in the levels to prevent their doing so. The embankment is no height."
"I should think you have made a very shrewd guess."
"If that were to happen, the question would arise, Will it prove an injury or a benefit to the town?"
Then Mrs. Thompson ceased to make conversation; her manner became very dignified and reserved; and she carried herself stiffly—perhaps wishing to indicate by the slight change of deportment that the interview was now at an end.
But Marsden did not take the hint. He walked by her side, and soon began to talk about himself. An effort was made to check him when he entered on the subject of the great benefits that a kind hand had showered upon him, but presently Mrs. Thompson was listening without remonstrance to his voice. And her own voice, when in turn she spoke, was curiously soft and gentle.
"As this chance has come," he said humbly, "I avail myself of it. Though I could never thank you sufficiently, I have been longing for an opportunity to thank yousomehowfor the confidence you have reposed in me."
"I'm sure you'll justify it, Mr. Marsden."
"I don't know. I'm afraid you'll think not—when you hear the dreadful confession that I have to make."
Mrs. Thompson drew in her breath, and stopped short on the footpath.
"Mr. Marsden"—she spoke quite gently and kindly—"You really must not tell me about your private affairs. Unless your confession concerns business matters—something to do with the shop—I cannot listen to it."
"Oh, it only amounts to this—but I know it will sound ungrateful ... Mrs. Thompson, in spite of everything, of all you have done for me, I am not very happy down here."
"Indeed?" She had drawn in her breath again, and she walked on while she spoke. "Does that mean that you are thinking of leaving us?"
"Yes, I sometimes think of that."
"To better yourself?"
"Oh, no—I should never find such another situation."
"Then why are you discontented in this one?"
With the permission conveyed by her question, he described at length his queer state of mind—a man on whom fortune had smiled, a man with work that he liked, yet feeling restless and unhappy, feeling alone in the midst of a crowd, longing for sympathy, yearning for companionship.
"That's how I feel," he said sadly, after a long explanation.
Mrs. Thompson had been looking away from him, staring across the river. She held herself rigidly erect, and she spoke now in another voice, with a tone of hardness and coldness.
"I think I recognize the symptoms, Mr. Marsden. When a young man talks like this, the riddle is easy to guess."
"Then guess it."
"Well," she said coldly, "you force me to the only supposition. You are telling me that you have fallen in love."
"Yes."
She winced almost as if he had struck her; and then the parted lips closed, her whole face assumed a stonelike dignity.
"Tell me all about it, Mr. Marsden—since you seem to wish to."
"Love is a great crisis in a man's life. It generally makes him or breaks him forever."
"I hope that fate will read kindly—in your case."
"He either fears his fate too much or his deserts are small—But, Mrs. Thompson, I do fear my fate. It isn't plain-sailing for me. There are difficulties, barriers—it's all darkness before me."
"I hope you haven't made an injudicious choice."
"Yes, I have—in one way. Shall we sit down here? It is still very warm."
It was as though the heated earth panted for breath; no evening breeze stirred the leaves; the air was heavy and languorous. Mrs. Thompson seemed glad to sit upon the Corporation bench. She sank down wearily, leaned her back against the wooden support, and stared at the darkly flowing water.
"So difficult," he murmured. "So many difficulties." He looked behind him at the empty meadows, and up and down the empty path. Then he took off his hat, laid it on the seat beside him; and, bringing a silk handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped his forehead. "There are almost insurmountable barriers between us."
"Have you given your heart to some married woman? Is she not free to respond to your affections?"
"No, she was married, but she's free now.... And I think it amuses her to encourage me—and make me suffer." He had taken one of the hands that lay listlessly in the wide lap. "She isyou."
Mrs. Thompson snatched her hand away, sprang up from the seat, and spoke indignantly.
"Mr. Marsden, have you gone out of your senses?"
"Yes, I think I have. And who's to blame? Who's driven me out of them?" He was standing close in front of her, barring the path. "Oh, I can't go on with all this deception. I lied to you just now. I knew you were coming here,—and I followed you. I felt I must once for all be with you alone."
"Not another word. I will not listen.... Oh!"
Suddenly he had seized her. Roughly and fiercely he flung his arms round her, forced her to him, and kissed her.
"Mr. Marsden!... Shame!... How dare you?... Let me go."
She was struggling in his arms, her head down, her two hands trying to keep him off. Her broad bosom panted, her big shoulders heaved; but with remorseless brutal use of his strength he held her tightly and closely against him.
"There," he said. "Don't fight. You'll have to go through it now.... You women think you can play the fool with a man—set all his blood on fire, and then tell him to behave himself."
"Mr. Marsden, let me go—or I shall die of shame."
"No you won't. Rot. D'you hear? Rot. You're a woman all through: and that face was made to be kissed—like this—like this.... There, this is my hour—"
"Will you let me go?"
"Yes, in a minute.... You'll dismiss me to-morrow, won't you? I'd better pack to-night. But I shall always go on loving you.... Oh, my goodness, what is my life to be without you?"
And suddenly he released her, dropped upon the seat, and buried his face in his hands.
She walked fast away—and then slowly returned. He was still sitting, with his head down, motionless.
"Mr. Marsden!... You have insulted me in the most outrageous manner—and the only possible excuse would be the absolute sincerity of the feelings that you have expressed so brutally. If I could for a moment believe—"
"Why can't you believe?"
"Because it is too absurd. I am no longer young—the mother of a girl old enough herself to marry."
"I don't want any pasty-faced girls. I wantyou."
He spoke without looking up at her, and his face remained hidden by his hands.
"If I sit down and talk to you quietly, will you promise that you won't begin again?"
"Yes."
"You give me your word of honour that you won't—won't touch me?"
"Oh, yes," he said dejectedly, "I promise."
"When you began just now, you implied—you accused me as if you thought I had been—encouraging you. But, Mr. Marsden, you must know that such an accusation is unjust and untrue."
"Is it? I don't think you women much care how you lead people on."
"But indeed I do care. I should be bitterly ashamed of myself if I was not certain that I had never given you the slightest encouragement."
"Oh, never mind. What does it matter? I have made a fool of myself—that's all. Love blinds a man to plain facts."
He had raised his head again, and was looking at her. They sat side by side, and the dusk began to envelope them so that their faces were white and vague.
"At the first," he went on, "I could see that it was hopeless. If social position didn't interfere, the money would prove a barrier there'd be no getting round. You are rich, and I am poor. At the first I saw how unhappy it was going to make me. I saw it was hopeless—most of all, because I'm not a man who could consent to pose as the pensioner of a rich wife.... But then I forgot—and I began to hope. Yes, I did really hope."
"What is it you hoped for?"
"Why, that chance would turn up lucky—that somehow I might be put more on an equality. Or that you would marry me in spite of all—that you'd come to think money isn't everything in this world, and love counts most of all."
"But, Mr. Marsden, how can I for one moment of time credit you with—with the love you will go on talking about?"
"Haven't Ishownit to you?"
"I think—I am quite sure you are deceiving yourself. But nothing can deceive me. You mistake the chivalrous romantic feelings of youth for something far different."
"No, I don't mistake."
"The disparity in our years renders such a thing impossible. Between you and me, love—the real love—is out of the question."
"Yes, you can say that easily—because no doubt it's true on your side. If you felt for me what I feel for you—then it would be another story."
"But suppose I had been foolish enough to be taken with you, to let myself be carried away by your eloquence—which I believe was all acting!"
"Acting? That's good—that's devilish good."
"I say, suppose I had believed you—and yielded one day, don't you know very well that all the world would laugh at me?"
"Why?"
"Why—because, my dear boy, I'm almost old enough to be your mother—and I have done with love, and all that sort of thing."
"No, you haven't. You're just ripe for love—I feltthatwhen I was kissing you."
Mrs. Thompson rose abruptly.
"I must go home.... Come;" and they walked side by side through the summer dusk towards the lamp-light of the town.
"This must never be spoken of again," she said firmly; and before they reached the last field gate, she had told him many times that her rejection of his suit was final and irrevocable. Hers was a flat deliberate refusal, and nothing could ever modify it.
"Yes," he said sadly, "it's hopeless. I knew it all along, in my secret heart—quite hopeless."
But she told him that if he promised never to think of it again, she would allow him to remain in the shop.
"Frankly, I would much rather you should go—But that would be a pity. It might break your career—or at least throw you too much on your own resources at a critical point. Stay—at any rate until you get a suitable opening."
"Your word is my law."
"Now leave me. I do not wish anyone to see us walking together."
He obeyed her; and she walked on without an escort, through the dark tunnel and into the lamp-light of Frederick Street.
"You must 'a been a tremendous long walk," said Yates; "but you're looking all the better for it, ma'am—though you aren't brought back an appetite."
Mrs. Thompson was trifling with her supper—only pretending to eat. The electric light, shining on her hair, made the rounded coils and central mass bright, smooth, and glossy; the colour in her cheeks glowed vividly and faded quickly, and, as it came and went, the whole face seemed softened and yet unusually animated; the parted lips were slightly tremulous, and the eyes, with distended pupils, were darker and larger than they had been in the daylight. By a queer chance the old servant began to speak of her mistress's personal appearance.
"Yes," said Yates, "it's the fresh air you want.—Stands to reason you do, shut up in the shop all day. You look another woman to what you did when you went out;" and she studied Mrs. Thompson's face critically and admiringly.
Mrs. Thompson smiled, and her lips were quite tremulous.
"Another woman, Yates? What sort of woman do I look like now?"
"A very handsome one," said Yates affectionately. "And more like the girl Mr. Thompson led up the stairs such a long time ago—the first time I ever set eyes on her, and was thinking however she and I would get on together."
"We've got on well together, haven't we, Yates?"
"That we have," said Yates, with enthusiasm.
"Yates, don't stare so;" and Mrs. Thompson laughed. "You make me nervous. And I don't want you to flatterme.... But tell me, candidly, supposing you met me now as a stranger—how old would you guess I was?"
Yates, with her head slightly on one side, scrutinized her mistress very critically.
"Why, I don't believe that anyone seeing you as I do now would take you for more than forty-two—at the outside."
"Forty-two! Three years less than my real age. Thank you for nothing, Yates." Mrs. Thompson laughed, but with little merriment in her laugh. "You haven't joined my band of flatterers. You have given me an honest answer."
Perhaps, if some faint doubt was lingering in Mrs. Thompson's mind, Yates had provided an answer to that as well as to the direct question.
The mistress did not invite the servant to sit at table this evening and help her through the lonely meal. Her thoughts were sufficient company.
At night she could not sleep. The contact with the fierce strong male had completely upset her—never in all her life had she been so handled by a man. And the extent of the contact seemed mysteriously to have multiplied the effect of its local violences; the dreaded grip of the powerful arms, the resistless pressure of the forcing hands, and the cruel hot print of his kisses were the salient facts in her memory of the embrace; but it seemed that from every point of the surface of her body while compelled to touch him a nerve thrill had been sent vibrating in her brain, and the diffused nerve-messages, concentrating there, had produced overwhelmingly intense disturbance.
And memory gave her back these sensations—the wide thrilling wave from surface to brain, and the explosion of the central nerve-storm flashing its rapid recognition backto the outer boundaries. Lying in her dark room she lived through the experience again—was forced to suffer the embrace not once but again and again.
It was dreadful that a man, simply by reason of his sex, should have this power, dreadful that he should abuse his power in thus treating a woman,—and most dreadful that of all women in the world the woman should be herself.
And she thought of the late Mr. Thompson's timid and maladroit caresses—inspired, monotonous, stereotyped endearments, totally devoid of nervous excitation, dutifully borne by her, day after day, month after month, throughout the long years.
But memory, doing its faithful and accurate work, failed to restore to her that glow of angry protest, that recoil of outraged dignity which she had felt when the young man took her in his arms. She could feel his arms about her still, but the sense of shame had gone.
Here in the darkened room she could see him—she could not help seeing him. Hot tears filled her eyes, she writhed and twisted, she tossed and turned, as the mental pictures came and went; but nothing could drive him away. He had taken possession of her thoughts; and she wept because she understood that he had not achieved this tyrannous rule to-day, or yesterday, but a long time ago, a disgracefully long time ago. In imagination she was watching him among the china and glass, when Woolfrey and the others showed her plainly how dangerous he really was—and it had begun then. Why else should she have felt such a wrathful discontent at the idea of his courting all the silly girls? In imagination, she could see him among the carpets, trundling the great rolls, fascinating, enthralling the rude customer,—and it seemed to her that it had begun even then. She and the shrew were one in their weakness; bothhad been hypnotised together. Mears said all the women in the shop had submitted to the spell—but not the silliest, most feather-headed slut of them all had fallen into such idiotic depths as those in which their proud and stately chief lay weeping.
She dried her eyes, got out of bed and drank water, stood at the open window, turned on the light, turned off the light, lay down again and tried desperately to sleep.
In a moment her cheeks were burning.—She could feel the hot kisses; she could hear the hurried words. "A face made to be kissed—setting one's blood on fire.... You are a woman all through—you are ripe for love."
Ah, if only one could give way to such a dream of rapture; if one could believe that the lost years might be recovered, that all one has missed in life—its passionate sweetness and its satisfying fullness—might be won by a miraculous interposition of fate. Nothing less than a miracle can bring back the wasted past.
She did not sleep; but with the return of day she grew calmer. Thoughts of Enid helped her. A second marriage—even what the world would call a wise and fitting alliance—was utterly out of the question. It would be the death of her daughter's love; it would render the story of her own life meaningless; it would destroy all the results of twenty-two years' maternal devotion. Enid had been all in all to her: Enid must remain what she had always been. If on the mother's part there was a brave renunciation of self, it belonged to the dim past; it was over and done with—a solid fact, not to be modified, far less overturned.
Least of all by such a marriage as this—laughter mingling with the sound of bells, coarse jokes to be thrown after them instead of pretty confetti, even the sacred words of the priest at the altar echoed by derisive words of rabblein the porch! Enid would never forgive her—were she ever to forgive herself.
In the broad light of day, in the cold light of logic, she saw that it was impossible. Her emotions might be roused, unsuspected sexual instincts might be partially awakened, beneath the matronly time-worn outer case a virginal mechanism might be stirring; but the whole intellectual side of her nature was strong enough to reinforce the special functions of her will. Too late to snatch at lost joys! Reason rejected the impossibility.
She was too old. The chance had gone years ago. The young man, even if she could believe that he loved her now—much as a romantic subject might fancy that he loved his queen,—would soon grow weary. Familiarity would rob her of all queenly attributes; at the best nothing would be left except disappointment, and at the worst disgust. And then she would suffer intolerable torment. She saw it quite clearly—the martyrdom of a middle-aged wife who cannot retain her young husband's love.
None of that. She rose after the sleepless night with her decision fortified.