Part 51 (2/2)
A few s.h.i.+llings 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 surpa.s.sed 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 ac.u.men, 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 a.s.sistants, 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 gla.s.s only two people--a man laboriously muddling with unfilled ledgers, a girl at a type-writing machine--only one type-writer, a sadly feeble clicking in the midst of vast unoccupied s.p.a.ce; 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; a.s.sistants yawned and stretched themselves. What is it? Yes, it _is_ another 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.”
”_Good_ morning, madam.”
The bright spring suns.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed, 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 s.h.i.+p becalmed--like honest captains of a water-logged s.h.i.+p, feeling it tremble and s.h.i.+ver 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.”
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