Mrs. Thompson: A Novel

by W. B. Maxwell

To-night Yates had done no fluffing-out of her hair. It was tightly screwed against her head, in the metal curling-clips that were to give it a pretty wave when pulled over the frame to-morrow; but it had a bald aspect now, with its queer little rolled excrescences protruding above the scalp, and two mean pigtails hanging limply behind the ears, and hiding their ends in the lace of the night-dress collar.

The electric light was shining full into the cheval glass as she came and stood before it, with the smile of pleasure still on her lips. Then she saw herself in the glass, and began to tremble.

Through the diaphanous veil the strong light seemed to show her a grotesque and lamentable figure: heavy fullness instead of shapely slenderness, exaggerated curves, distorted outlines,—the pitiless ravages wrought by time.

With a sob of terror, she ran to the door, and again to the dressing-table, switching off the light, desperately seeking the kindly darkness. Her hands were shaking, she felt sick and faint, while she tore the nightgown from her shoulders and kicked it from her on the floor. Then she covered herself with a woollen dressing-gown and crept, sobbing, into bed.

The firelight flickered on the ceiling, but no heat was thrown by the yellow flames or the red coals; a deadly chill seemed to have issued from the polished surface of the big glass, striking at her heart, reaching and gripping her bones. She lay shivering and weeping.

Outside the windows the cruel autumn rain pattered on the stone flags, the cruel autumn wind sighed and moaned and echoed from the cold brick walls. The year was dying; the fertile joyous months were dead; soon the barren hopeless winter would be here. And she felt that her own life was dead; warmth, colour, beauty, had gone from it; only ugliness, disfigurement, decay, were left. And she wept for her wasted youth, her vanished grace, for all that makes the summer in a woman's life.

But next day she woke in sunlight. White clouds raced across a blue sky; the air was warm and genial; and, as she walked up St. Saviour's Court, leaning on the kind arm of Mr. Prentice, she was a girl again.

There were many people in the church, but their curious glances did not trouble her. Sunbeams streaming through painted glass made a rainbow radiance on the chancel steps; and here she stood by her lover's side, feeling happy and at ease in the radiant heart of the glorious dream. Sweet music, sacred words—and then the sound of his voice, the pressure of his fingers. Nothing could touch her now—she was safe in the dream, beyond the reach of ridicule, high above the range of pity.

Solemnization or sacrament—now at the last it did not matter which; for she had brought to the rites all that priests can demand: pure and unselfish thoughts, guileless faith, and innocent hope.