Part 21 (1/2)

But her knowledge of the world had gone, and she did not wish it back again. Each time that for a brief s.p.a.ce she thought logically and clearly, doubt and fear tortured her.

In the night fear used to come. Suddenly her rainbow-tinted dream disintegrated, fell into shreds and patches of cloud with wisps of coloured light that gyrated and faded; and then she lay staring at the blank wall of hard facts. This thing was monstrous--no valid hope of permanent happiness in it.

And she thought with dreadful clearness that she was either not young enough or not old enough for such a marriage. If she had been ten years older, it would not have mattered--it would be just a legalized companions.h.i.+p--an easier arrangement, but essentially the same thing as though she had adopted him as her son. But now it must be a _real_ marriage--or a most tragic failure. He had made her believe that the realm of pa.s.sion and love was not closed to her; that he would give her back what the years had taken from her; that she might drink at the fountain of his youth and so renew her own.

In the dark cold night when the dream vanished, fear ruled over her. The words of the marriage service--heard so lately--echoed in her ears.

Solemnization or sacrament--it is impious, blasphemous to enter G.o.d's house and ask for a blessing on the bond, unless the marriage falls within the limits of nature's laws. She remembered what the priest says about the causes for which matrimony was ordained; she remembered what the woman has to say about G.o.d's holy ordinance; and best of all she remembered what the man, taught by the priest, says when he slips the ring on the woman's finger.

”With my body I thee wors.h.i.+p!”... Could it be possible? ”Taught by the Priest”--yes, but the man should need no teaching. The words on his lips should be the light rippling murmur above the strong-flowing stream of his secret thoughts, and the stream must be fed by deep springs of perfectly normal love. Nothing less will satisfy, nothing less _can_ satisfy the hungry heart that is surrendering itself to his power.

Respect, esteem, steadfast affection--none of that will do. It must be love, or nothing.

Yet after each of these troubled nights the day brought back her dream.

Yates had promised to stand by her, and she faithfully kept the promise.

She gave homely, well-meant advice; occasionally administered a little dose of pain in what was intended for a sedative or stimulant; but was always ready with sympathy, even when she failed to supply consolation and encouragement. Apparently forgetting in the excitement of the hour that she herself was an old spinster, she spoke with extreme confidence of all the mysteries of the marriage state.

There was uneasiness about little secrets concerning Mrs. Thompson's toilet; but Yates made light of them.

”Oh, nonsense,” said Yates. ”It isn't as if you were like some of these meretris.h.i.+s ladies with nothing genuine about 'em. You're all genuine--and not a grey hair on your head.”

There was nothing very terrible in the secrets. The worst secret perhaps was the diminution in aspect, the shrinking of the coronet of hair, when the sustaining frame had been removed.

But Yates, the old spinster, speaking so wisely and confidently, said, ”Don't tell me, ma'am. If he's fond of you, a little thing like that isn't going to put him off.... Besides, you must fluff it out big--like I'm doing;” and Yates worked on with brush and comb. ”Now look at yourself.”

And Mrs. Thompson peered at her reflection in the gla.s.s. The frame lay on the dressing-table. Still she seemed to have a fine tawny mane of her own, fluffed wide from her brows, and falling in respectably big ma.s.ses.

”Show me, Yates, exactly how you get the effect.”

And under the watchful tuition of Yates, Mrs. Thompson toiled at her lesson.

”Is that right?”

”Yes, that's pretty near as well as I can work it out, myself.... Yes, that'll do very nice.... You know, it'll only be at first that you need take so much trouble.”

”Yates, I shall be nervous and clumsy--I shall forget, and make a mess of it.”

”Then take me with you,” said Yates earnestly. ”I can't think why you don't take me along with you.”

”Oh, I couldn't,” said Mrs. Thompson. ”I _couldn't_ have anyone with me--least of all, anyone who'd known me before.”

It had come to be the day before the day of days, and St. Saviour's Court lay wrapped in drab-hued fog, so that from the windows of the house she could not see as far as the churchyard on one side or the street on the other; and all day long, behind the curtain of fog, the chilly autumn rain was falling.

Throughout the day she remained indoors, reviewing and arranging her trousseau, watching Yates pack the new trunks and bags, and learning how and where she was to find things when she and some strange hotel chambermaid hastily did the unpacking. Now, late at night, her bedroom was still in confusion--empty cardboard boxes littering the floor, dressing-gowns trailing across the backs of chairs, irrepressible silk skirts bulging from beneath trunk lids.

At last Yates finished the task, prepared her mistress for bed, and left her.

”Good-night, ma'am--and mind you sleep sound. Don't get thinking about to-morrow, and wearing yourself out instead of taking your rest.”