Mrs. Thompson: A Novel

by W. B. Maxwell

"And you jolly well remember that everything's to be done without interference to my business. It's in the contract—and don't you forget it. Start to finish—that was the bargain—business to be carried on as usual."

"Oh, we don't forget, Mist' Marsd—— No interferens. Bizniz muz go on zactly as usual."

But did it? Mears was appalled by the disturbance and confusion. Outside in the street a long line of builders' carts blocked the approach of carriage-folk; from beneath the windows, through the opened gratings, earth and gravel and lumps of broken concrete were being painfully hauled out; the pavement was covered with mud, obstructed with débris, so that foot-people could not pass in comfort, and the Borough Surveyor had sent three notices urgently requesting the abatement of what was a public as well as a private nuisance. Inside the shop one heard growling thunders from the depths below one's feet, and sudden explosions as if one were walking over a volcano, while from every entrance to the dark vaults there issued clouds of destructive lime dust. Sometimes a department was shut up for an hour while a steel girder was rolled along the floor by twenty perspiring men; processions of bucket-bearers emerged unexpectedly; and one saw in every mirror a grimy face or a plaster-stained back.

What was the use of asking ladies to step upstairs and view our Oriental novelties, when the nearest staircase was temporarily converted into a slide for roped planks?

Ladies said No, thank you; they would call again.

"This is going to hit us, sir," said Mr. Mears gloomily. "It is going to hit us hard if it continues much longer."

"But it won't continue," said Marsden irritably. "They're bound by contract to finish before the twentieth of next month. Besides, you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs."

There could be no doubt, thought Mears, as to the broken eggs; but the question was, Would Mr. Marsden's omelette ever come to table, or would it get tossed into the fire with so much else that seemed finding an end there?

Towards the completion of the contract time, Marsden more than once forced his wife to come through the door of communication, and have a look round the altered shop. She was admittedly convalescent now. She had not demurred when the master of the house gave Dr. Eldridge what he called "a straight tip" to cease paying professional visits. She had not protested when, in her presence, an almost straighter tip was given to Yates that the boring fuss about a malady of the imagination must cease. In fact she herself had said that there was nothing the matter with her.