Mrs. Thompson Part 29

Her mistress was not in the least angry. She smiled at the sound of the rival's name;--and, of course, in this particular department there was no rivalry between the two shops.

Yates was particular that her interesting patient should enjoy a moderate amount of fresh air, and advised that in these cases gentle carriage exercise is distinctly beneficial.

Several times therefore a brougham was procured from Mr. Young's stables, and mistress and maid went for a quiet afternoon drive. Yates would have preferred to enjoy these airings earlier in the day, but she agreed with Mrs. Marsden that a morning drive might appear "conspicuous." As it was, Yates made the excursion quite sufficiently remarkable--hot-water bottle for the patient's feet, rugs for her legs, three or four shawls for her shoulders.

"And don't you drive too fast," said Yates sternly to Mr. Young's coachman. "Take us along quiet.... And if you meet any of those great engines on the road, just turn round and go the other way."

"I don't want you frightened," she told Mrs. Marsden, "if only for half a minute."

Mr. Young's horses, at an easy jog trot, took them along very, very quietly; some air, but not too much, blew in upon them pleasantly; and throughout the drive the two women talked unceasingly of the same engrossing subject.

"Which do you hope for, yourself, ma'am?"

"Yates, I scarcely know."

"Well, ma'am, I'll tell you candid, it's a girl _I_ am hoping for."

"But whichever it is--boy or girl--you'll love it just the same, won't you, Yates?"

"Indeed I shall, ma'am."

And they discussed christian names.

"If it is a boy, of course I shall wish him to have his father's name for one."

"Yes, I suppose so, ma'am."

"Richard for his first name; and, if Mr. Marsden approves, I shall call him Martin. I should like him to bear the name of Saint Martin--for a little romantic reason of my own. And I also like the name of Roderick--if that isn't too grand."

"I like the plain names best," said Yates. "If it's a girl, I do hope and trust you'll give her your own name, ma'am. You can never get a better name than Jane. Let her be Miss Jane."

They met no ugly traction engines to upset the horses, and disturb the patient's composure. They chose the level sheltered roads, and avoided the dangerous windy hills; and Mrs. Marsden looked through the half-shut window at the featureless landscape, and thought it almost beautiful, even at this dead time of the year. It was bare and nearly colourless,--all the hedgerows of a dull brown, the far-off woods a misty grey, and here and there, seen through the black field-gates, patches of snow faintly sparkling beneath the feeble light. The tardy spring as yet showed scarce a sign of nascent energy. But the winter had no terrors for her now. There was summer in her heart.

The date had pa.s.sed; and, pa.s.sing, had left apparent certainty.

Yates was wildly excited, irrepressibly jubilant.

"You'll tell him now, won't you, ma'am?"

"Yes, I can tell him now."

"Everybody may know it now, ma'am--And, oh, won't they be glad to hear the news in the shop."

But naturally Mr. Marsden must hear the news before anybody else; and unluckily Mr. Marsden was not in Mallingbridge to hear it. He had been expected home two days ago, but something was detaining him in London.

This final useless delay, after the long unavoidable delay, seemed more than Mrs. Marsden could support.

"Oh, why is he away? Oh, Yates, I want him--I want him with me. Oh, oh!"

She burst into a sobbing fit, and rung her hands piteously. "Yates, fetch him. Bring my husband back to me. Don't let him leave me now--of all times."

This was in the morning, before Mrs. Marsden had got up. After sobbing for a little while, she became suddenly faint and breathless, and sank back upon her pillow. Yates, scared by her faintness and whiteness, ran out of the room and despatched a hasty messenger.

She could not fetch the husband; so the good soul did the next best thing, and sent for the doctor.

When she returned to the bedroom Mrs. Marsden seemed all right again.

"Doctor Eldridge is coming to see you, ma'am."

"Is he?"

"It's only wise," said Yates authoritatively, "that he should take charge of the case now. It's full time we had him in. He knows your const.i.tution--and you can trust him, and feel quite safe to go on just as he advises you."

Dr. Eldridge was a long time alone with the patient. After Yates had been told to leave them, he talked gently and gravely to his old friend.

He confessed to being rather sceptical by habit of mind; in forming a diagnosis he was perhaps always disposed to err on the side of caution, and thus he often declined to accept what at first sight seemed an obvious inference until it had been corroborated by indisputable evidence;--but then again, all his experience had shown him how prudent, how necessary it is to prepare oneself for disappointment.... He thought that Mrs. Marsden should, if possible, prepare herself for disappointment.

Outside the room, he spoke to Yates with a severity that was only mitigated by contempt.

"What nonsense have you been stuffing her up with? It's too bad of you."

And then the professional contempt for amateur doctors sounded in the severe tone of his voice. "You ought to know better at your time of life."

He came again next day, and told Mrs. Marsden the bitter truth. The correct interpretation of the symptoms was far, very far different from that which she had imagined. And then he p.r.o.nounced the words of doom.

It was not the birth of hope, but the death of hope. Somewhat earlier than one would have predicted as likely, she had pa.s.sed the turning-point in the cyclic history of her existence.

A deadly, numbing apathy descended upon her. She was not ill; but in order to escape the infinitely oppressive duties of dressing, sitting at meals, walking up and down stairs, listening to voices and answering questions, she pretended illness; and, to cover the pretence, Dr.

Eldridge frequently visited her.

Day after day she lay upon her sofa, watching the feeble daylight turn to dusk, staring at the red glow of the coals or the golden flicker of burning wood--feeling too sad to reproach, too weak to curse the inexorable laws of destiny.

Her husband used to enter the room noisily and jovially, with a cigar in his mouth and a s.h.i.+ning silk hat on the back of his head.

"What the d.i.c.kens is the matter with you, Jane?"

He did not guess. He could never read her thoughts.

"I believe you ought to rouse yourself, old girl. I suppose old Eldridge sees a chance of running up a nice little bill--and Yates will have her bit out of it. Between them, they'll persuade you you're going to kick the bucket."

"I feel so tired, d.i.c.k."

"Then go on taking it easy," said Marsden genially. "But here's my tip--look out for another doctor, and another maid. I wouldn't bid twopence, if both of them were put up to auction."

Another time he said, "Jane, do you twig why I am wearing my topper?

That means _business_. Yes, I'm going to throw myself into my work now, heart and soul. Buck up as soon as you can, and come and see how I'm setting about me."

While he stood by the door, talking and smoking, she looked at him with dull but kind eyes.

Some of the glamour of that vanished hope still hung about him; and the sense of grat.i.tude, although now meaningless, lingered for a long while.