Part 12 (1/2)
She was altogether unable to laugh as of old at the impudence of Bence.
She frowned and stamped her foot when, looking across the road, she first read the placard on the shuttered frontage of the ancient sadler and the bookseller. It was not in small print: you could read it from Thompson's without a telescope. ”These Premises,” said the poster, ”will shortly be opened as the new Furniture department of Bence Brothers, and a long-felt want will be supplied by an extensive stock of high-cla.s.s goods at reasonable prices.” And this, if you please, immediately facing the two windows that from immemorial time had exhibited Thompson's solid oak chairs and polished walnut tables! The gross, large-typed piece of impertinence annoyed her excessively.
She had always been extraordinarily good to old Thompson's relatives, who were common and troublesome. They all hung on to her, called her Cousin Jenny, boasted about their prosperous connection by marriage; they received benefits with scant thanks, grumbled when they fancied themselves neglected; and they were all extremely jealous and watchful of one another. Yet till now they had never exhausted her patience and magnanimity.
One of them, John Edward Thompson, a grocer in a small way of business at Haggart's Cross, had often drawn heavily upon her for financial aid.
He was a short, squat, bearded man; and he used to come into the shop unexpectedly, and meander about it aimlessly, to the trouble and confusion of the shop-walkers.
”What department, sir?”
He did not answer.
”What can I have the pleasure of showing you, sir?”
”Don't mind me, young man. Go on with your work. I'm just looking round to find my cousin.”
”May I be of a.s.sistance, sir? If you will be good enough to tell me your cousin's name?”
”My cousin's name,” said John Edward shortly, ”is _Mrs. Thompson_....
There. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
It nearly always happened that he found Mrs. Thompson with her back turned towards him. Then he would put two somewhat grubby hands on her shoulders, with cousinly playfulness pull her round the right way, and publicly kiss her. This was an act of affection, and a triumphant a.s.sertion of the relations.h.i.+p--something more for those foppish shopwalkers to put in their pipes and smoke.
”Cousin Jenny, how goes it?”
Then, after the kiss, he would look at her reproachfully, and begin to grumble.
”Cousin Jenny, you drove through Haggart's Cross last Thursday in your carriage and pair. _I_ saw you. But you didn't see _me_. No, you didn't think of stopping the horses for half a minute, and pa.s.sing the time of day to your cousin.”
Mrs. Thompson used smilingly to lead him into the counting-house, give him kind words, give him good money. He took the money grumblingly, as if it was the least that could be offered as atonement for the neglectfulness of last Thursday; but he went home very happy.
He had done all this scores of times, and Mrs. Thompson had borne it all with unflinching generosity. But now, on a broiling July day, he did it once too often. He got as far as the public salute, and no further.
She was upstairs, standing near a desk, with her back towards China and Gla.s.s. He came behind her, playfully laid hold of her, kissed her. She gave a cry, turned upon him in a white fury, and, seeing who he was, snapped his head off.
That day he did not go home happy.
Other cousins were old Mrs. Price and her two daughters, who would all three have been in the workhouse but for Mrs. Thompson. Thanks to her, they were living comfortably at Riverdale, with a pleasant rent-free cottage, garden, and orchard. The Miss Prices made jam and brought it as a present to Mrs. Thompson, keeping up a baseless tradition that she loved their preserve--and taking immense gifts in exchange for it. They visited their cousin twice in July, first to say they would soon make the jam, secondly to bring the jam; and each time they spent a long day at Mallingbridge, coming in and out of house and shop, cackling and giggling, and almost driving Mrs. Thompson mad.
Then there was Gordon Thompson, a farmer at Linkfield, who sometimes came into town on market day, and ate his mid-day meal with his rich cousin in St. Saviour's Court. He used to open the house door without ringing the bell, and whistle a few notes as a familiar signal. ”Cousin Jen-ny! Cousin Jen-ny.” He would shout this with an ascending intonation, and then come clambering up the steep staircase.
”Any dinner to-day for a poor relation?... Ah, my dear, you're not the sort to turn a hungry man away from your table. Garr--but I can tell you I'm sharp set.”
He was a hale and hearty-looking fellow, full of noisy jests, with a great affectation of joviality; but in his twinkling eyes and about his pursed lips there was the peasant's wariness, astuteness, and greed.
Truly he took all he could get from everybody, including his fortunate cousin. Enid said his hob-nailed boots were dirty as well as ugly, malodorous too; and she always fled at his approach, and did not reappear while Mrs. Thompson feasted him and made much of him.
Now, when Mrs. Thompson heard the well-known whistle in the hall, she followed her daughter's example; forsaking the luncheon-dishes, she fled back to the shop through the door of communication, and left Yates to entertain hungry Gordon.
Enid was at home, but she failed as a soothing and calming influence.
If her mother turned to her, endeavoured to lean upon her for support in an unexpected need, she found a blank void, a totally inadequate b.u.t.tress. Enid was self-absorbed, busy with her own little affairs, taking lessons from the new riding-master at Young's school, spending long hours away from the house. She seemed like a person who really has no intuitive sympathy to offer: a person locking up her life against intruders, keeping close guard over secret emotions, and neither willing to share her own hopes and fears nor to comprehend those of others.