"Oh, she's told me everything," said the mother, dolefully shaking her head. "Everything."
"There was nothing to tell," said Mr. Prentice; "beyond the fact that she has behaved in a very stupid manner. Where is she?"
The mother indicated a door behind her. "Poor dear, she's so exhausted, I've been trying to persuade her to eat a morsel of something."
Mr. Prentice lifted a latch, opened the inner door, and disclosed the humble home-picture—Susan, with her mouth full of bacon and bread, stretching a hearty hand towards the metal tea-pot.
"Ah, thank goodness," said the mother, "she'asbin able to pick a bit. Don't be afraid, Susan—you're 'ome now, along of your own mother and father;" and she addressed Mrs. Marsden. "'Er father 'as 'eard everything, too."
Mr. Prentice was laughing gaily.
"Well done, Susan. Don't be afraid of another slice of bacon. Don't be afraid of a fourth cup of tea."
"No, sir," said Susan shyly.
"Whereisher father?" asked Mr. Prentice. "I'd like to have a few words with him."
But father, having heard his daughter's tale, had started on a long journey with an empty waggon. He would return with it full of manure any time this afternoon. And going, and loading, and returning, he would be thinking over everything, and deciding what he and Susan should next do.
Mr. Prentice, considering that even a hired motor-car ought to be able to overtake a manure waggon though empty, started in pursuit of father; and Mrs. Marsden was left to conduct the pacific negotiations at the cottage.
It was a long and weary day, full of small difficulties—father, when recovered, not a free man, unable to talk, compelled to attend to his master's business; mother unable to express any opinion without previous discussion with father; empty fruitless hours slowly dragging away; meals at a public-house; a walk with Susan;—then darkness, and father talking to Mr. Prentice in the parlour; and, finally, mother and Mrs. Marsden summoned from the kitchen to assist at ratification of peace proposals.
It was late at night when Mrs. Marsden got back to St. Saviour's Court. Her husband had not been out all day. He was sitting by the dining-room fire, with his slippered feet on the fender, and a nearly emptied whisky bottle on the corner of the table near his elbow.
"Well?" He looked round anxiously and apprehensively.
"It is over. There will be no trouble—not even a scandal."
She was blue with cold; her hands were numbed, and hung limply at her sides; her voice had become husky.
"Bravo! Well done!" He stood up, and stretched and straightened himself, as if throwing off the heavy load that had kept him crouched and bent in the armchair. "Excellent! I knew you'd do it all right;" and he drew a deep breath, and then began to chuckle. "And, by Jove, old girl, I'm grateful to you.... Look here. Have you had your grub? Don't you want some supper?"
"No."
"Well, understand—my best thanks;" and really he seemed to feel some little gratitude as well as great satisfaction. "Jane, you're a brick. You never show malice. You've a large heart."
"No," she said huskily; and with a curious slow gesture, she raised her numbed hands and pressed them against herbreast. "I had a large heart once; but it has grown smaller and smaller, and harder and harder—till now it is a lump of stone."
"No, no. Rot."
"Yes. And that's lucky—or before this you would have broken it."
He stood staring at the door when it had closed behind her. Then he shrugged his shoulders, turned to the table, and replenished his glass with whisky.
It was immediately after this fatiguing episode that Mr. Prentice made his last urgent prayer to Mrs. Marsden. Complying with his request for an interview, she had come again to the panelled room in Hill Street. But on this occasion she chose a different chair, and sat with her back to the windows and her face in shadow.
"You see for yourself," said Mr. Prentice, with culminating plainness: "he is an unmitigated blackguard. Get rid of him."
"I can't."
"You can. Yates is still game—I mean, Yates has not forgotten anything. Yates will swear to everything that she remembers.... So far as Yates goes, her evidence may be all the better for the delay. It will be all the more difficult to shake it after the lapse of time.... Of course we shall be asked, 'Why have you sat down on your wrongs for so long?' But we have our answer now. This is the answer. You put up with his ill-usage and infidelities until he befouled your home. A disgraceful affair with a servant girl under your own roof! That was the last straw—and it has driven you to the Court, to ask for the relief to which you have been entitled for years."
"Oh, no—impossible."
"I pledge you my word, we shan't fail. We shall pull it off to a certainty."
"No, I can't do it. And even if we succeeded, it would be only a half relief. Divorce wouldn't end the business partnership."
"No. But when once your marriage is dissolved, we shall be able to make terms with him. Wipe him out as your husband, and he loses the tremendous hold he has on you. Get rid of your incubus. Think what it would mean to you. He would be gone—you would be alone again; able to pull things together, work up the business, nurse it back to life. On my honour, I think you are capable of restoring your fortunes even at this late day."
But Mrs. Marsden only shook her head, while Mr. Prentice continued to entreat her to act on his advice.
"Suppose you always have to go on paying him half of all you can make by your industry? Never mind. What does it matter? You'll pay it to him at a distance—you'll never have to see him—you will have swept him out of your life. My dear, the years will roll off your back; you'll be able to breathe, tolive—you'll feel that you are your own self again."
"No—impossible."
"Yes. Leave it to me. I answer for everything, before and afterwards. I'll manage my fine gentleman—I'll cut his claws so that he'll be a very quiet sort of partner in the years to come. I'll work at it till I drop—but I swear I'll put you on safe ground, if only you'll trust me and let me tackle the job."
And Mr. Prentice, leaning forward in his chair, took her hand and pressed it imploringly.
"You are what you have always been to me, Mr. Prentice,—the best, the kindest of friends." She allowed him to retain her hand for a few moments, and then gently withdrew it. "But it is difficult for me to explain—so that you would understand me."
"I shall understand any explanation."
"I took him for better for worse. And once I promised him that I would hold to him until he set me free." Shepaused, as if carefully putting her thought into appropriate words. "It may come to it.... Yes, it is what I hope for—that he himself may give me back my freedom."
"But how?"
"He might consent to a separation—without scandal, without publicity."
"Why should he do that? While you've a shot in the locker, he'll stick to you."
Mr. Prentice's voice conveyed his sense of despair. She would not be convinced. He got up, sat down again, and vigorously resumed his appeal.
"Can't you see now the force of what I have told you so often? He will not only disgrace you, he will eat you up. It is what he is doing—has almost done. And when you have let him squander your last farthing, he'll desert you—but he won't desert you till then."
But Mrs. Marsden again shook her head, and once more fell back upon the vagueness that baffles argument if it cannot refute it.
"No—dear Mr. Prentice, I feel that I couldn't make any move now. Life is so complicated—there are difficulties on all sides—my hands are tied.... Perhaps I will ask you for your aid—but not now—and not for a divorce."
"But if you wait, no one will be able to aid you. The hour for aid will have passed forever." And Mr. Prentice brought out all his eloquence in vain. "Try to recover your old attitude of mind. Consider the thing as a business woman. Tear away sentiment and feminine fancies. Make this effort of mind—you would have been strong enough to do it a little while ago,—and consider yourself and him as if you were different people. Now—from the business point of view—and no sentiment! He is an undeserving blackguard."
"No. I can't do anything now.... Ihaveconsidered it as a business woman. I have looked at it from every point of view. Believe me, I must go my own way."
This was the final appeal of Mr. Prentice. He said no more on the subject then, or afterwards. He had shot his bolt.
Early in the new year Marsden had a serious illness. He caught a chill on a suburban racecourse, came home to shiver and groan and curse, and two days afterwards was down with double pneumonia.
He kept the hospital nurses, his wife, and the doctor busy for three weeks; and throughout this time there was no point at which it could be said that he was not in imminent danger of death.
Then the shop assistants heard, with properly concealed feelings of exultation, that a devoted wife, a clever doctor, and two skilled nurses had saved the governor's life. The governor had pulled through. Dr. Eldridge, as the shop understood, was able to make the gratifying pronouncement that the patient possessed a naturally magnificent frame and constitution, which had been but partially weakened or impaired by carelessness and imprudence. They need not entertain any further fear. The dear governor will last for a splendidly long time yet.
But his convalescence was slow; and after the recovery of normal health he passed swiftly into a third phase. He showed no inclination to rush about; his mental indolence had become so great that the mere notion of a train-journey fatigued him; he did his betting locally, and spent his days with the red-haired barmaid in the Dolphin bar.
At the Dolphin Hotel he had slid down a descending scale of importance which emblematized, with a strange accurateness, his descent in the town of Mallingbridge and in theworld generally. Once he used to come swaggering into the noble coffee room, and be flattered by the landlord and fawned on by the manager while he gave his orders for sumptuous luncheons and dinners à la carte, with champagne of the choicest brands, and the oldest and costliest of liqueurs. After that, a period arrived when the restaurant and a table-d'hôte repast, washed down with any cheap but strong wine, were good enough for him. Then he was seen only in the billiard room; or in the small grill-room, where he would sit drinking for hours while relays of commercial travellers and minor tradesmen bolted their chops and steaks. Now he had descended to what was called the saloon bar; and here, since he had lost his club, he made himself quite at ease, and was listened to with some semblance of respect by the shabby frequenters, and always smiled upon by the barmaid—who was an old, and of late a very intimate friend. He could not drop any lower at the Dolphin, unless he went out to the stable yard and sat with ostlers and fly-drivers in the taproom beneath the arch.
At mid-day there were eatables of a light sort on the saloon counter; but, rejecting such scratchy fare, Mr. Marsden regularly came home for his solid luncheon. After lunching heavily he went back to the saloon, stayed there through the tea hour, and returned to St. Saviour's Court for dinner. He was regular in his attendance at meals, but except for meal-time the house never saw him. In fact he was settling down into stereotyped habits. When dinner was over he retired again—to take his grog in the saloon, to help the barmaid close the saloon, and to escort her thence to her modest little dwelling-house.
Mrs. Marsden knew all about this barmaid, with her fascinating smiles and her Venetian red hair—and indeed about her dwelling-house also. It was common knowledge that a few years ago she had been a parlourmaid in AdelaideCrescent; had somehow got into trouble; and somehow getting out of it, had risen to the surface as a saloon siren, and proved herself attractive to more persons than one. As to her place of residence, an illuminating letter had reached Marsden & Thompson and been duly opened behind the glass—"re No. 16 New Bridge Road. We beg to remind you that your firm have guaranteed Miss Ingram's rent, and the same being now nearly a quarter in arrear, we beg, etc., etc...."
Then it was to Number Sixteen that Mr. Marsden walked every evening, wet or fine. No one knew when he returned home again. But he was always ready for his late breakfast in his own bed.
Thanks to the regularity of these habits, Enid could now come and see her mother without risk of encountering her stepfather. That cruel threat of his had been often repeated, but never converted into an explicit order; he disapproved of Mrs. Kenion's visits, and if they were brought to his notice he would certainly prohibit them. But now the house was safe ground between luncheon and dinner; and there were few Thursday afternoons on which Enid did not come with her child to share Mrs. Marsden's weekly half holiday.
Little Jane was old enough to do without the constant vigilance of a nurse; and almost old enough, it sometimes seemed, to understand that she was her mother's only joy and consolation.
"You must always be a good little girl," Mrs. Marsden used to say, "and make mummy happy, and very proud of you."
And the child, looking at granny with such wise eyes, said she was always good, and never disturbed mummy in her room, or asked to be read to when mummy was crying. Really, as she said this sort of thing, she seemed tocomprehend as clearly as her grandmother that there was misery, deepening misery, in the ivy-clad farmhouse.
"Mummy mustn't cry," said Mrs. Marsden tenderly. "Mummy must remember that while she has you, she has everything.... Enid, don't give way."
For mummy was there and then beginning to do just what she mustn't do.
"Mother, I can't help it;" and Enid wiped her eyes. "I'm not brave like you. And I feel now and then that I can't go on with it."
Enid's barrier had fallen; she, too, abandoned the defence of an impossible position. Often she showed a disposition to plunge into open confidence, and tell the long tale of her trials and sorrows; but Mrs. Marsden did not encourage a confidential outbreak, indeed checked all tendencies in this direction.
She used to take the child on her lap; and, after a little fondling and whispering, Jane always fell asleep. Then, with the small flaxen head nestled against her bosom, she talked quietly to her daughter, endeavouring to put forward cheerful optimistic views, and providing the philosophic generalities from which in troublous hours one should derive stimulation and support.
"She's tired from the journey. How pretty she is growing, Enid. She will be extraordinarily pretty when she is grown-up. She will be exactly what you were."
"No one ever thought me pretty, except you, mother."
"Nonsense, dear. Everyone admired you. You were enormously admired."
"Then there was something wanting," said Enid bitterly. "I hadn't the charms that have lasting power."
But Mrs. Marsden would not allow the conversation to take an awkward turn.
"And Jane looks so well," she went on cheerfully."Such limbs—and such aweight! She is a glorious child. She does you credit, dear. You have every reason to be proud of her—and you will be prouder and prouder, in the time to come."
"I hope so—I pray so. I shall have nothing else to be proud of."
Once or twice, while the child was sleeping, Enid glided from obvious hints to a bald statement, in spite of all Mrs. Marsden's endeavours to restrain her.
"Mother, my life is insupportable;" and tears began to flow. "Mother dear, can't you help me?"
"My darling, how can I? I have told you of my difficulties—but you don't dream, you would never guess what they are."
"It isn't money now," sobbed Enid. "I'd never again ask you for money—and money, if you had thousands to give, would do me no good.... Oh, I'm so wretched—so utterly wretched."
"My dearest girl," and Mrs. Marsden, in the agitation caused by this statement, moved uneasily and woke the little girl. "You tear me to pieces when you ask me to help you. My own Enid, I can't help you. I can't help you now. You must be brave, and carry your burdens by yourself.... You say I am brave. Then be like me. I'm in the midst of perils and fears—my hands are tied; yet I go on fighting. I swear to you I am fighting hard. I've not given up hope. No, no. Don't think that I'm not wanting to help you—longing to help you—meaningto help you, when the chance comes."
Jane had extricated herself from the arms that held her; and, sliding to the floor, she went to her mother's side. The energy of granny's voice frightened her.
"I'll do my best," said Enid. "I'll try to bear things submissively, as you do."
"And don't lose hope in the future," said Mrs. Marsden, dropping her voice, and summoning every cheerful generality she could remember. "Be patient. Wait—and clouds will pass. You are young—with more than half your life before you. You have your sweet child. Go on hoping for happy days. The clouds will pass. The sun will shine again."
But before any gleam of sunshine appeared, the sombre clouds that lowered over Enid's head burst into a heavy storm.
One morning Mrs. Marsden was engaged with Mears on what had become a painful duty. They were stock-taking in the silk department; and, as the empty shelves sadly confronted them, Mears looked at her with dull eyes, opened and shut his mouth, but could not speak. He thought of what this particular department had once been, and of his own delight in especially fostering and tending it; of how it had improved under his care; of how he and Mr. Ridgway had built up quite a respectable little wholesale trade, as adjunct to the ordinary retail business, supplying the smaller shops and steadily extending the connection. When he thought of these things, it was no wonder that he could not speak.
"Never mind, Mr. Mears," said Mrs. Marsden, in a whisper. Intuitively she knew what was passing in his mind. "It's no good looking backwards. We must look ahead."
"Yes, no doubt," said Mears blankly.
"I see what you mean. But we'll get an order through—before very long. Meanwhile, you must do some more of your clever dressing."
And it was just then—before Mr. Mears could promise to dress the empty shelves—that the house servant appeared,and told her mistress of the unexpected arrival of Mrs. Kenion.
It was not a Thursday; and Enid came only on Thursdays, and never before luncheon. Mrs. Marsden knew at once that something remarkable had occurred.
"Is Miss Jane with her?"
"Yes, ma'am. They're waiting for you upstairs in the drawing-room."
Mrs. Marsden hurried up to the first floor, and rushed through the door of communication.
"Enid, my dearest child."
"Oh, mother, mother! It's all over."
Enid was in a pitiable state of distress; the red circles round her eyes were absolutely disfiguring; she wrung her hands, and contorted her whole body.
"Enid dear—tell me. Don't keep me in suspense."
"He has gone—went to London this morning."
"Who went? Charles? Do you mean Charles?"
"Yes—and I don't believe he will ever come back to me."
"Wait a moment, my love," said Mrs. Marsden. "Jane shall have a treat. Jane, you shall come and play in the pantry. Won't that be nice?"
And she took her grandchild by the hand, and led her from the room. Outside in the passage she smiled at the little girl, patted her cheek, stooped to hug and kiss her. Then she gave her over to the charge of the housemaid—an elderly woman with an ugly face and an austere manner—and walked briskly back to the dining-room.
"Eliza will amuse Jane," she said cheerfully. "Eliza is kind, although she seems so forbidding.... And now, my dear, you can tell me all about this news—this great news—thisastonishingnews of yours."
Enid told her tale confusedly. She was too muchdistressed to record events in their logical sequence. She worked backwards and forwards, breaking the thread with ejaculations, laments, and sad reflections, mixing yesterday with days that belonged to last year and the year before last year. But Mrs. Marsden soon grasped the import of the tale.
Mr. Kenion was the lover as well as the pilot of that rich hunting lady. Enid had suspected the truth for a long time, had been certain of the truth and suffered under the certainty for another long time—all that, however, belonged to the past days and was quite unimportant. Yesterday was the important day.
Yesterday there had been a lawn meet—whether at Widmore Towers or somewhere else, Mrs. Marsden did not gather. Mrs. Bulford's horse was there; but as yet Mrs. Bulford had not shown herself. Charles was there, dismounted for the moment, walking about among the gentlemen in front of the house, taking nips of cherry brandy and nibbling biscuits offered by the footmen with the trays. All was jollity and animation—promise of fine sport; dull sky, gentle westerly breeze, dew-sprinkled earth; kindly nature seemed to proclaim a good scenting day.
And somebody, who has proved a very dull-nosed hound, is on the scent at last. Here comes stiff-legged Major Bulford, armed with a hunting crop although he only hunts on wheels, hobbling over the lawn among the gentlemen.
Hullo! What's up? Look! Bulford is wanging into Charlie, calling him names as he slashes him across the face with stick and thong, using a fist now,—hobbling after Charlie when Charlie has had enough, trying with his uninjured leg to kick behind Charlie's back,—and tumbling at full length on the damp grass.
Mr. Kenion took his bleeding face home to be patched;and early this morning he had gone to London—where Mrs. Bulford was waiting for him.
"And, mother, he as good as said that I should never see him again. He confessed that he and Mamie had been very imprudent—and Major Bulford has discovered everything."
"But, my darling, why do you cry? Why aren't you rejoicing—singing your song of joy?"
"Mother!"
"All this is splendid good news—not bad news."
"Mother, don't say it."
"But I do say it. I say, Thank God—if this is going to give my girl release from her slavery." Mrs. Marsden had spoken in a tone of exaltation; but now her brows contracted, and her voice became grave. "Enid, we mustn't run on so fast. To me it seems almost too good to be true."
"To me it seems dreadful."
"Yes, at the moment. But later, you will know it is emancipation,life. Only, let us keep calm. This man—Bulford—may not intend to divorce her."
"Oh, hewill."
"You think he will wish to cast her off?"
"Yes. Charlie as good as said so."
"But tell me this—You say they are very rich. Which of them has the money—the husband or the wife?"
"Oh, it is all Mrs. Bulford's—her very own."
"Ah! The man may not divorce her—but if he does, there is one thing of which you can be absolutely certain. Kenion will stick to her, and give you your freedom."
It was nearly one o'clock. Mrs. Marsden, glancing at the mantlepiece, started. Her husband would soon return for his substantial mid-day meal.
"Enid dear, I must take you and Jane out to lunch. I know you won't care to meet Richard. Come! I shan't be a minute putting on my bonnet;" and she hurried fromthe room. "Eliza! If Mr. Marsden asks for me, tell him I shall not be in to luncheon.... That is all that you need say."
To avoid the chance of being seen by her husband in High Street, she led Enid and the little girl up the court instead of down it, round the church-yard, and through devious ways to Gordon's, the confectioner's. Here, at a small table in the back room, she gave them a comfortable and sufficient repast—chicken for Enid, and nice soup and milk pudding for Jane. She herself was unable to eat: excitement had banished all appetite. She cut up toast for the soup, carved the chicken, dusted the pudding with sugar; and smilingly watched over her guests.
But every now and then she frowned, and became lost in deep thought. Once, after a frowning pause, she leaned across the table and clutched Enid's arm.
"Enid," she whispered, with intense anxiety, "is this Bulford really an upright honourable man who will do the right thing, and cast her off; or is he a mean-spirited cur who will support his disgrace for the sake of the cash?"
They remained at the confectioner's until Mrs. Marsden could feel no doubt that her husband was now safe in his saloon; and then she took them back to the house.
She sent Mears a message to say that he and the shop must do without her this afternoon, and she sat for a couple of quiet hours hearing the remainder of Enid's grievous tale. Plainly it did Enid good to talk about her troubles; the longer she talked the calmer she grew; and while stage by stage she traced the history of her unhappy married life, Mrs. Marsden thought very often of her own experiences.
Jane, contented and replete, had fallen asleep upon granny's lap; and Mrs. Marsden softly rocked her to and fro, to make the sleep sweeter and easier.
Unhappy Enid! She recited all her pains and pangs and torments. She had loved the man, had thought him a fine gentleman, and had found him a cruel beast. She had dreamed and awakened. She had tried to reconstitute the dream, to shut her eyes to realities, and live in the dream that she knew to be unreal. But he would not let her. She had forgiven misdeeds, and even forgotten them; he had hurt her again and again and again; and each time she had healed her wounds, and presented herself to him whole and loyal once more.
While Mrs. Marsden listened, she was thinking, "Yes, that is the keynote, the apology, and the explanation. Love dies so slowly."
Now Enid had come to the end of her tale.
"Mother," she was saying, "I know I shall never see him any more;" and, saying it, she began to cry again. "He spoke to me so kindly when he was going from me.... And I looked at his poor face, all striped with the sticking-plaster, and I thought of what he had been to me. It all came back to me in a rush—the old feelings, mother,—and I begged him not to go. And I asked him at least to kiss me—and he did it—and I knew that he was sorry."
Very quietly and carefully Mrs. Marsden got up, and placed the sleeping child on her mother's lap.
"Enid, take what is left to you. Put your arms round her, and hold her against your heart. Hold her safe, and hold her close—for you are holding all the world."
Then, in great agitation, she walked up and down the room; and when she stopped, and stood by Enid's chair, her eyes were streaming.
"Never mind, my darling." An extraordinary exaltation sounded in her voice; and, as she struggled to moderate its tone, there came a queer vibration and huskiness. It seemed that but for dread of waking the little girl, she would haveshouted her words. "Never mind. You have your child. Think of that. Nothing else matters.Ihave suffered;youhave suffered—never mind. Perhaps we women were intended to suffer—and we have to bear some things so cruel that they must be borne in silence. If we spoke of them, they might kill. But it is all nothing compared withthis;" and she stooped to kiss Enid's forehead, and very gently and softly stroked the child's hair. "You and I have both made our link in the wonderful chain of life. We have given what God gave us. We carried the torch, and it has not been struck out of our hands and extinguished.... We will rear your child; and I shall see you in her; and she will grow tall and strong; and she will love—you most—the mother,—but me too, when she understands that you came to her from me.... And the sun shall shine again, and you shall be happy again—for God is kind, and God isjust.... And then there will be no more tears—and a touch of your child's lips will destroy the memory of tears."
Another year had slowly dragged by.
Enid was still living with her child at the farmhouse; but all the personal property of the child's father, all those numerous signs of too engrossing amusements, had disappeared. Horses and grooms, brushes and boots, spurs and bridles—all were gone. In the suit of Bulford vs. Bulford and Kenion, the petitioner obtained a decree nisi; and soon the decree will be made absolute. Another undefended suit—that of Kenion vs. Kenion—is down for hearing. Very soon now Enid will be free.
Meanwhile the big looking-glasses on the stairs and at department entrances of Thompson & Marsden's shop had been growing tarnished, dull, and spotted. They showed nothing new in their misty depths—emptiness and desolation; unused space so great that it was not necessary to multiply it by reflection; and a grey-haired black-robed woman passing and repassing through the faint bluish fog, with shadowy, ghostly lines of such sad figures marching and wheeling at her side.
But there was no space for fog in the establishment across the road. During these twelve slow months the visible, unmistakable prosperity of Bence had been stupendous.
He had bought out Mr. Bennett, the butcher. He would buy the whole street. He had enlarged his popular market, adding Flowers to Fruit and Vegetables. The old auctioneer had retired, in order to make room for this addition; and where for a half a century there had been no objects more interesting than sale bills and house registers anddangling bunches of keys, beautiful unseasonable blossoms now shed their fragrance throughout the year. Plainly there was nothing too old, or too hard, or too large for Bence to swallow.
And the reputation of Bence's, as well as its mere success, had steadily been rising. It seemed as if the remorseless and triumphant Archibald had not only stolen the entire trade of his principal rival, but had also borrowed all the methods that in the old time built up the trade. In his best departments the goods were now as solid and as real as those which had made the glory of Thompson's at its zenith. But beyond this laudable improvement of stock—a matter that no one could complain of,—Bence betrayed a cruel persistence in imitating subsidiary characteristics of Mrs. Thompson's tactical campaign.
Gradually Bence had won the town. It was Bence who now feasted and flattered the municipal authorities, exactly as Mrs. Thompson had done years ago. Dinners to aldermen and councillors; soirées and receptions for their wives; compliments, largesse, confidential attention flowing out in a generous stream for the benefit of all—high and low—who could possibly assist or hinder the welfare of Bence! Last Christmas—by way of inaugurating his twentieth grand annual bazaar—he gave a ball to four hundred people, with a military band and a champagne sit-down supper.
The ancient aldermen were nearly all gone; the council nowadays professed themselves to be advocates of modern ideas; they said the conditions of life are always changing; and they were ready to admit the new style of trade as fundamentally correct. Then, making speeches after snug Bence-provided banquets, they said that their host represented in himself and his career the Spirit of the Age. They raised their glasses in a toast which all would honour. "Mr.Archibald Bence, you are a credit to the town of Mallingbridge; and speaking for the town, I say the town is proud of you, sir.... Now, gentlemen, give him a chorus—'For he's a jolly good fellow'"....
Bence never stopped their music. He sat at the head of the table, twirling his waxed moustache, fingering his jewelled studs, and smiling enigmatically—as if he considered the adulation of his guests quite natural and proper, or as if he felt amused by vulgar praise and a homage which could be purchased with a little meat and drink.
"Gentlemen," said Bence, rising to return thanks, and addressing the assemblage in the usual tone of mock modesty, "I am overwhelmed by your good-nature. I lay no claim to merit. The most I ever say of myself is that I do work hard, and try my best. But I have been very lucky. Anybody could have done what I have done, if they had been given the same opportunity—and the same support."
"No, no," cried the noisy guests. "Not one in a million. No one but yourself, Mr. Bence. That's why we're so proud of you."
And just as the town had turned towards Bence in his prosperity, so it had turned away from Mrs. Marsden in her adversity. These people worshipped success, and nothing else. The old shop was dying fast; its legend was already dead. The ancient triumph of the brave young widow was thus in a few years almost totally forgotten. It was a fabled greatness that faded before her present insignificance. There were of course some who still remembered; but they did not trouble to sustain or revive her name and fame.
Did she know how they spoke of her—these few who remembered?
A pitiful story: a poor wretch who posed for a little while as a good woman of business, and got absurd kudos for what was sheer luck. Just clever enough to make a little money in propitious times; but without staying power,unable to adapt herself to new methods—astupidwoman, really! That was the kindest talk. Others, who should have been grateful and did not care to pay their debts, spoke of her as a criminal. "I never forgave her that disgraceful marriage. I endeavoured to prevent it, and warned her what would be the consequence of her—say her folly; but I think one would be justified in using a stronger word. Well, she has made her bed; and she must lie upon it."
On a cold winter evening, when she had walked to the railway station with Enid and was finding her a seat in the local train, a porter officiously pointed out Bence.
"There! That's Mr. Bence, ma'am. Mr. Bence—the small gentleman!"
The local train was on one side of the platform, and on the other stood the London express. And Bence, in fur coat and glossy topper, surrounded with sycophantic inspectors and ticket-collectors, was approaching the Pullman car. He was off to London, to buy fresh cargos of Leghorn hats or whole warehouses of mauve blouses.
The local train, with Enid in it, rolled away; and Mrs. Marsden, a shabby insignificant black figure, remained motionless, waving a pocket handkerchief and staring wistfully at the receding train. Then, as Bence came bustling from the Pullman door to the book-stall at the end of the platform, he and Mrs. Marsden met face to face.
It was a strange encounter. Intelligent onlookers, if there had been any on the platform, might have found food for much thought in studying this chance meeting between the Spirit of the age and the Ghost of the past.
There was nothing of the conqueror's exultant air in Bence's low bow. He uncovered his bald head and bowed deeply, with ostentatious humbleness and almost excessive respect—as if magnanimously determined to show that greatness though fallen was still greatness to him.
And there was nothing of the conquered in Mrs. Marsden's dignified acknowledgment of the passing courtesy. Bowing, she looked at Bence and through Bence; and her face seemed calm, cold, dispassionate: as absolutely devoid of trouble or resentment as if one of the ticket-collectors whom she used to tip had touched his hat to her.
None of these greedy ruffians did salute her. In all the station, through which she used to pass as a queen, only little Bence showed her a sign of respect to-night.
In her deserted shop there were still faithful hearts; outside the shop, in all Mallingbridge, it seemed as if she could not count more than one true friend.
Prentice was true as the magnet to the pole. For a long time he had asked her no questions, given her no advice; and she told him nothing of her affairs, either commercial or domestic. But he guessed that things were going from bad to worse. He knew that she was more and more frequently at the offices of Hyde & Collins. He saw her entering their front door almost as often as he saw Bence entering it; and he interpreted these visits as a certain indication that they were still raising money for her. She had probably sold the last of her stocks and shares, and now they were helping her to get rid of the small remainder of her possessions. He knew of two or three houses in River Street, and of a moderate mortgage on this property. Hyde & Collins might effect a second mortgage perhaps; and then the houses would be practically gone, as everything else had gone—into the bottomless pit. They would not care how quickly she beggared herself. When she was squeezed dry, they would just shut the door in her face. Insolent, unscrupulous brutes! And he thought with anger of how cavalierly they would treat her even now, before the end: breaking their appointments, telling her to call again,leaving her to wait in outer rooms while they kow-towed to their best client, their only prosperous client, the omnipotent Bence.
To the mind of loyal Prentice the utter downfall of Mrs. Marsden was abominable and intolerable. He could not bear it—this wreck of a life that had been so noble. His hope of saving something from the wreck was cruelly frustrated. He had tried again and again; but she would not listen, she would not be guided.
He thought sadly of the bright past, of her talent and genius; and, above all, of her tremendous intellectual strength. In those days, when he began to unfold a matter of business, she stopped him before he had completed half a dozen sentences. It was enough—she had grasped the whole position, sent beams from the search-light of her intelligence flashing all round it, shown him essential points that he had not seen himself. Difficulties never frightened her; she was subtle in defence, swift in attack. Give her but a hint of danger, and in a moment she was armed and ready. Before you knew what she would be at, she had sprung into decisive action; and before you could hurry up with your feeble reinforcements, the danger was over, the battle had been gained.
But now she was weak as water—helpless, yet refusing help, hopeless and making hope impossible, just drifting to her fate. At night Mr. Prentice sometimes could not sleep. He lay awake, thinking of what it would come to in the end—bankruptcy, her little hoard squandered, her last penny gone in the futile effort to satisfy her husband and sustain the shop.
And then? She was so proud that perhaps she might not allow Enid to supply her simplest daily needs. He tossed and turned restlessly as he thought of Enid's marriage settlement; and, remembering some of its ill-advised clauses,he felt stung by remorse. He had bungled the settlement. He ought to have stood firm, and not have permitted himself to be overruled by the idiotic whims of a love-sick girl who was being generous at another person's expense. He blamed himself bitterly now for the manner in which funds had been permanently secured to Enid's worthless husband. Of course the Divorce Court, exercising its statutory powers, might wipe out the entire blunder, and handsomely punish the offender by handsomely benefiting the wife; but he had small hope that this would happen. No, the rascal Charles Kenion, when disposed of, will still enjoy his life interest. The money that should come back now to the hand that gave it is gone. Enid will not have more than she wants for herself and her child.
He could not sleep. The thought of Mrs. Marsden's pride made him shiver. No prouder woman ever lived: famine and cold would not break her pride. He had thought of her in the workhouse, or an almshouse, finishing her days on the bread of charity. But no—great Heaven!—she would never consent to do that. She would rather sell matches in the street. And he imagined her appearance. An old woman in rags—creeping at dusk with bent back,—pausing on a country road to hold her side and cough,—lying down on the frozen ground beneath a haystack, and dying in the winter storm.
He knew—only too well—that these are the things that happen: the inexorable facts of the world. But never should they happen in this case—not while he had one sixpence to rub against another.
He could not go on thinking about it without doing something. So he woke up his invalid wife. That seemed the only thing he could do just then;—and he told Mrs. Prentice that she must be kind to Mrs. Marsden; she must begin being kind the first thing in the morning; she mustwrite a letter, pay a call, dosomethingto cheer and gladden his poor old friend.
Mrs. Prentice, an amiable nondescript woman, readily obeyed her husband; and after this nocturnal conversation she used frequently to wait upon Mrs. Marsden, often persuade her to go out for a drive, and now and then entice her to come and dine in a quiet friendly fashion without any fuss or ceremony. These pleasant evenings must have made bright and warm spots amidst the cold dark gloom that now surrounded Mrs. Marsden. At Mr. Prentice's comfortable private house she was treated with an honour to which she had been long unaccustomed; there was nothing here to remind her of her troubles; and she really appeared to forget them when chatting freely with her kind host and hostess.
"My dear Mrs. Prentice, it is too good of you to let me drop in on you like this."
"No, it is so good of you," said Mrs. Prentice, "to give us the pleasure of your company."
"It is a great pleasure tome," said Mrs. Marsden; "and I always thoroughly enjoy myself."
Mrs. Prentice liked her better in her adversity than in her prosperity. She found it easy to join her husband in his admiration of the fortitude and dignity of Mrs. Marsden as an ill-used wife and a broken-down shopkeeper—now that the fable of her colossal brain-power was finally shattered. Perhaps Mrs. Prentice's naturally kind heart had never opened to Mrs. Marsden till the day when Mr. Prentice said that his idol was acting like a fool.
Their guest used to eat sparingly, although the hostess pressed her to taste of every dish; and she scarcely drank more than half a glass of wine, although the host had brought out his most highly prized vintage; but she talked so cheerfully, so calmly, and so wisely, that her society was as charming as it was welcome. Mr. Prentice, beaming onher and listening with deference to her lightest words, was especially delighted each time that he recognized something like a flash of the old light.
Once they were discussing a rumour that had just reached Mallingbridge. It was said that the War Office had purchased a tract of land on the downs, and proposed to establish a large permanent camp up there.
"Half a dozen regiments, with all their followers—an invasion!"
"It will be dreadful for the town," said Mrs. Prentice. "Utterly destroy its character."
"That's what I think," said Mr. Prentice. "Do no good to anybody."
"Do you know," said Mrs. Marsden, "I am inclined to disagree. Since the soldiers came to Ellerford, trade—I am told—has picked up wonderfully."
"Ah, yes," said Prentice. "But that's a trifling affair—a very small camp, compared with what this would be."
"But, Mr. Prentice," and Mrs. Marsden smiled; "if a small camp does a little good, why shouldn't a large camp do a lot of good?"
It sounded quite simple, and yet only she would have said it. Mr. Prentice laughed. It reminded him of the old way she had of going straight to the point, and flooring you by a question that seemed childishly naïve until all at once you found you could not answer it.
Mrs. Prentice continued to lament the many degradations that Mallingbridge had already undergone.
"The Theatre Royal turned into a music hall! The Royal! That is the last blow.Threemusic halls in the place, and not one theatre where you can go and see a real play.... I used to love the Royal. It seemed apartof Mallingbridge."
"My dear Mrs. Prentice," said the guest, calmly andphilosophically, "the town that you and I loved has gone. It was inevitable—one can't put back the clock. Time won't stand still for us."
"No, but they're making the new town so ugly, so vulgar. Whenever they pull down one of the dear old houses, they do build such gimcrack monstrosities."
"I fancy," said Mrs. Marsden, "that the distance from London decided our destiny. It was just far enough off to reproduce and copy the metropolis. Nowadays, the little places that remain unchanged are all close to the suburban boundary."
When she talked in this style, Prentice thought how effectually she gave the lie to people who said of her, that she had failed because she lacked the faculty of appreciating altered conditions.
"Did you happen," she asked him, "to read the report of the general meeting of the railway company?"
"No—I don't think I did."
"The chairman mentioned Mallingbridge."
"What did he say about it?"
"He said that they might before long have to consider the propriety of building a new station, and putting it on another site."
"Why should they do that?"
"Why?" And again Mrs. Marsden smiled. "Why indeed? It set me thinking—and I read the speech carefully. Later on, the chairman spoke of the scheme for moving their carriage and engine works out of the London area. Well, I put those two hints together; and this is what I made of them. I believe that the company intend at last to develop all that land of theirs—the fields by the river,—and I prophesy that within three years they'll have built the new carriage works there."
She said this exactly as she used to say those luminouslyclever things that he remembered in the past. He listened wonderingly and admiringly.
But when the ladies left him alone to smoke his cigar or finish the wine that the guest had neglected, he sighed. She could give these flashes of the old logic and insight; she could talk so wisely about matters that in no way concerned her; but in the one great matter of her own life, where common sense was most desperately required, she had behaved like a lunatic.
He let his cigar go out, and he could not drink any more wine. Rain was pattering on the windows, and the wind moaned round the house—a sad dark night. He rang the bell, and told the servant to order a fly for Mrs. Marsden at a quarter to ten.
The fly took her home comfortably; and when she alighted at the bottom of St. Saviour's Court and offered the driver something more than his fare, he refused it.
"Mr. Prentice paid me, ma'am."
"Oh!... Then you must accept this shilling for yourself."
"No, ma'am. Mr. Prentice tipped me. Good-night, ma'am."
Enid was free. The farmhouse stood empty, with the ivy hanging in festoons and long streamers about the windows, the grass growing rank and strong over the carriage drive, and a board at the gate offering this eligible modernised residence to be let on lease. Its sometime mistress had gone with her little daughter to the seaside for eight or ten months. After her stay at Eastbourne she would return to Mallingbridge, and take furnished apartments—or perhaps rent one of the tiny new villas on the Linkfield Road. She wished to be near her mother, and she apologized now for leaving Mrs. Marsden quite alone during so many months; but, as she explained, Jane needed sea air.
"Never mind about me," said Mrs. Marsden. "Only the child matters. Build up her health. Make her strong. I shall do very well—though of course I shall miss you both."
She was getting accustomed to solitude and silence. Truly she had never been so entirely isolated and lonely as now. In the far-off days when Enid used by her absence to produce a wide-spreading sense of loss, there had been the work and bustle of the thriving shop to counteract the void and quiet of the house. And there had been Yates. Now there was nobody but the plain-faced grim-mannered Eliza, who had become the one general-servant of the broken home.
Mr. Marsden still lunched and dined at the house, but he was never there for breakfast. He did not go upstairs to his bedroom and dressing-room once in a week. Sometimes for a fortnight he and his wife did not meet at meals. Hisvoracious appetite manifested itself intermittently; there were days on which he gorged like a boa-constrictor, and others on which he felt disinclined to eat at all. Then he required Eliza to tempt him with savoury highly-spiced food, or to devise some dainty surprise which would stimulate his jaded fancy and woo him to a condescending patronage. He would toy with a bird—or a couple of dozen oysters—or a bit of pickled mackerel. Now and then, after he had been drinking more heavily than usual, he would himself inspire Eliza.
"Eliza, I can't touch all that muck;" and he pointed with a slightly tremulous hand at the dinner table. "But I believe I could do with just a simple hunk of bread and cheese, and a quart of stout. Run out and get some stout—get two or three bottles, with the screw tops. You know, the large bottles."
Then perhaps he would find eventually that this queer dinner-menu was a false inspiration. The bread and cheese were more than he could grapple with—and he asked for something else to assist the stout.
In a word, he was rather troublesome about his meals; and Mrs. Marsden fell into the habit of taking her scanty refreshment at irregular hours. He did not upbraid her for keeping out of his way. Eliza looked after him in a satisfactory manner; and he never upset or frightened Eliza. Grim Eliza ran no risk of receiving undesired attentions.
Everybody knew that Mr. Marsden often drank too much. One night when he failed to appear at dinner time, he was found—not by Eliza but by the Borough constabulary—in a state of total intoxication on the pavement outside the Dolphin.
After this regrettable incident the Dolphin dismissed him and his barmaid together. The attendance at the saloon had been dropping off. A siren cannot draw custom, whenyou have a great hulking bully who sits in the corner and threatens to punch the head of every inoffensive moderate-sized gentleman upon whom the siren begins to exert her spell. The Dolphin was very glad to see the backs of Miss Ingram and her friend.
Miss Ingram secured an engagement at the bar of the Red Cow, and Mr. Marsden faithfully followed her thither. The Red Cow was the disreputable betting public-house of which the town council were so much ashamed; people went there to bet, and it was likely to lose its license; but Marsden was content to make it his temporary club, and indeed seemed to settle down there comfortably enough.
He still occasionally came to the shop. All eyes were averted when he swung one of the street doors and slouched in. He seemed to know and almost to admit that he was a disgrace and an eyesore, and though he scowled at the shop-walker swiftly dodging away and diving into the next department, he did not bellow a reprimand. He hurried up the shop; and it was only when he got behind the glass that he attempted to display anything like the old swagger and bluster.
"Well, Mears, what's the best news with you?... You all look as if you were starting for a funeral—as black as a lot of mutes. How's business?" And he began to whistle, or to rattle the bunch of duplicate shop-keys that he carried in his trousers pocket. "I say, Mears, old pal—I'm run dry. Can't you and the missus do an advance—something on account—however small—to keep me going?"
A few shillings were generally produced, and the advance was solemnly entered in the books, to the governor's name.
Then he nearly always announced that he had come to the shop for the purpose of keeping a business appointment.
"Look here. I'm expecting a gentleman. Show him straight in."
These gentlemen were more dreadful to look at than the governor himself. He gave appointments to most terrific blacklegs—the unwashed rabble of the Red Cow, book-makers and their clerks, race-course touts,—inviting them to the shop in order to establish his credit, and prove to these seedy wretches that he was veritably the Marsden of Thompson & Marsden's.
For such interviews he used to turn his wife out of the room. At a word she meekly left the American desk and walked out.
"That you, Rooney? Come into my office. Here I am, you see. Sit down."
The Red Cow gentlemen were overcome by the grandeur of Mr. Marsden in his own office; the size and magnificence of the establishment filled them with awe and envy; it surpassed belief.
"Blow me, but it's true," they said afterwards. "Every word what he told us is the Gospel truth. He's the boss of the whole show. I witnessed it with my own eyes."
Yet if his visitors had possessed real business acumen, the shop would have impressed them with anything but confidence.
To a trade expert one glance would have sufficed. The forlorn aspect of the ruined shop told the gloomy facts with unmistakable clearness. So few assistants, so pitiably few customers, such a beggarly array of goods! Those shelves have all been dressed with dummies; those rolls of rich silk are composed of a wooden block, some paper, and half a yard of soiled material; within those huge presses you will find only darkness. Emptiness, desolation, death!
And what could not be seen could readily be guessed. Behind the glass only two people—a man laboriouslymuddling with unfilled ledgers, a girl at a type-writing machine—only one type-writer, a sadly feeble clicking in the midst of vast unoccupied space; not a sound in the covered yard; no horses, no carts; no purchased goods to be handled in the immense packing rooms; no stock, no cash, no credit, no nothing!
When a customer appeared, the shop seemed to stir uneasily in the sleep that was so like death; a faint vibration disturbed the heavy atmosphere; shop-walkers flitted to and fro; assistants yawned and stretched themselves. What is it? Yes, itisanother customer.
"What can we show madam?"
"Well, I wanted—but really I think I've made a mistake—" and the stranger looked about her, and seemed perplexed. "My friends said it was in High Street—but I see this isn't it. Yes, I've made a mistake. Good morning."
"Goodmorning, madam."
The bright spring sunshine pouring in at the windows lit up the threadbare, colourless matting, showed the dust that danced above the parquet after each footfall; but it could not reach the great mirror on the stairs. The mirrors were growing dimmer and dimmer. As the black figure passed and repassed, the first reflected Mrs. Marsden was scarcely less vague and unsubstantial than the line of Mrs. Marsdens walking by her side.
Mr. Mears and Miss Woolfrey, disconsolately pacing the lower and the upper floor, seemed like captains of a ship becalmed—like honest captains of a water-logged ship, feeling it tremble and shiver as it settled down beneath their feet, knowing that it was soon to sink, and thinking that they were ready to go down with it. When they paused in their rounds of inspection, it was because really there was nothing to inspect. They turned their heads and looked, from behind the dusty piles of carpets or the trays of fly-blown china,at the establishment over the way—looked from death to life; and for a few minutes watched the jostling crowd and the brilliant range of colours on the other side of the road.
No dust there. Here, it was impossible to prevent the dust. The dust-sheets were in tatters; the brooms and sprinklers were worn out; there were not enough hands to sweep and rub. Mears himself looked dusty.
And when the sunlight fell upon him, he looked very old, very grey, and rather shaky. He never blew out his cheeks or swished his coat-tails now. The voluminous frock-coat seemed several sizes too large for him; it was greasy at the elbows, and frayed at the cuffs. The salary of Mears was hopelessly in arrear. For a long time Mears, like the governor, had found himself obliged to crave for something on account—just to keep going with.
One sunny April day Marsden entered the shop about noon, went into the office; and, not discovering his wife there, ordered the type-writing girl to fetch her immediately.
"What is it, Richard?" said Mrs. Marsden, presently appearing.
"Oh, there you are—at last. You never seem to be in your right place when you're wanted. I've been waiting here five minutes—and not a soul on the lookout to receive people."
"I am sorry."
"Anybody could walk in from the street and march slap into this room, without being asked who he was and what his business was. And a nice idea it would give a stranger of our management."
"I am sorry. But was that all you had to say to me?"
"No. Look here," he went on grumblingly. "Bence, if you please, has asked me for an appointment."
"Will you see him?"
"Yes—I think so."
"Very good."
"Yes, I've told the little bounder I'll see him."
"Do you wish me to be present at the interview?"
"No—better not."
A quarter of an hour afterwards Mr. Archibald Bence was coming up the empty shop. It was years since he had crossed the threshold; and certainly his eyes were expert enough to see now, if he cared to look about him, the dire results of his implacable rivalry. But he showed nothing in his face: smugly self-possessed, smilingly imperturbable, he followed the shop-walker straight to the counting-house.
The shop-walker announced him at the door of the inner room, and he marched in. He bowed low, as Mrs. Marsden, with a slight inclination of the head, passed out. Then Marsden shut the door.
But upstairs and downstairs the dull air vibrated as if electric discharges were passing through it in all directions; the whole shop stirred and throbbed; the whispering assistants quivered. "Did you see him?" "I couldn't get a peep at him." "I just saw the top of his hat." Bence had come to call upon the governor. Bence was in the shop. That great man was behind their glass.
Soon they heard sounds of the noisy interview—at least, Marsden was making a lot of noise. The minutes seemed long; but there were only five or six of them before the counting-house doors opened and Bence reappeared. He was perfectly calm, talking quietly and politely, though the governor bellowed.
"All right, Mr. Marsden, don't excite yourself. I only asked a question."
"Yes, a blasted impertinent one."
"Well, no bones broken, anyhow," and Bence smiled.
"If you should ever change your mind—come over the road, and let me know."
"I'll see you damned first."
Nothing, however, could ruffle Bence.
"Just so. But, as I was saying, if you evershouldcare to do business—well, I'm not far off. Good morning to you."
Mrs. Marsden, when she returned to the inner room, found her husband standing near the desk, sullenly scowling at the floor.
"I was a fool to swear at him. I ought to have kicked him down the shop.... Can you guess what he came about?"
"I'm not clever at guessing. I'll wait till you tell me."
"He wanted us to close more than half the shop, and sublet it to him for the remainder of the lease." And Marsden sullenly and growlingly described the details of this impudent proposal. Bence suggested that the yard and the new packing rooms could be used by him as a warehouse; that all departments to the west of the silk counter might be transferred to the eastern side; that he would build a party wall at his own expense, and use all this western block "for one thing or another." Bence's question in plain words therefore was, Would they now confess to the universe that their premises were about four times too big for their trade?
"Not to be thought of," said Mrs. Marsden.
"No. I suppose not;" and Marsden glanced at her furtively, and then rattled the keys in his pocket. "We won't think of it."