Mrs. Thompson: A Novel

by W. B. Maxwell

Prentice was true as the magnet to the pole. For a long time he had asked her no questions, given her no advice; and she told him nothing of her affairs, either commercial or domestic. But he guessed that things were going from bad to worse. He knew that she was more and more frequently at the offices of Hyde & Collins. He saw her entering their front door almost as often as he saw Bence entering it; and he interpreted these visits as a certain indication that they were still raising money for her. She had probably sold the last of her stocks and shares, and now they were helping her to get rid of the small remainder of her possessions. He knew of two or three houses in River Street, and of a moderate mortgage on this property. Hyde & Collins might effect a second mortgage perhaps; and then the houses would be practically gone, as everything else had gone—into the bottomless pit. They would not care how quickly she beggared herself. When she was squeezed dry, they would just shut the door in her face. Insolent, unscrupulous brutes! And he thought with anger of how cavalierly they would treat her even now, before the end: breaking their appointments, telling her to call again, leaving her to wait in outer rooms while they kow-towed to their best client, their only prosperous client, the omnipotent Bence.

To the mind of loyal Prentice the utter downfall of Mrs. Marsden was abominable and intolerable. He could not bear it—this wreck of a life that had been so noble. His hope of saving something from the wreck was cruelly frustrated. He had tried again and again; but she would not listen, she would not be guided.

He thought sadly of the bright past, of her talent and genius; and, above all, of her tremendous intellectual strength. In those days, when he began to unfold a matter of business, she stopped him before he had completed half a dozen sentences. It was enough—she had grasped the whole position, sent beams from the search-light of her intelligence flashing all round it, shown him essential points that he had not seen himself. Difficulties never frightened her; she was subtle in defence, swift in attack. Give her but a hint of danger, and in a moment she was armed and ready. Before you knew what she would be at, she had sprung into decisive action; and before you could hurry up with your feeble reinforcements, the danger was over, the battle had been gained.

But now she was weak as water—helpless, yet refusing help, hopeless and making hope impossible, just drifting to her fate. At night Mr. Prentice sometimes could not sleep. He lay awake, thinking of what it would come to in the end—bankruptcy, her little hoard squandered, her last penny gone in the futile effort to satisfy her husband and sustain the shop.

And then? She was so proud that perhaps she might not allow Enid to supply her simplest daily needs. He tossed and turned restlessly as he thought of Enid's marriage settlement; and, remembering some of its ill-advised clauses, he felt stung by remorse. He had bungled the settlement. He ought to have stood firm, and not have permitted himself to be overruled by the idiotic whims of a love-sick girl who was being generous at another person's expense. He blamed himself bitterly now for the manner in which funds had been permanently secured to Enid's worthless husband. Of course the Divorce Court, exercising its statutory powers, might wipe out the entire blunder, and handsomely punish the offender by handsomely benefiting the wife; but he had small hope that this would happen. No, the rascal Charles Kenion, when disposed of, will still enjoy his life interest. The money that should come back now to the hand that gave it is gone. Enid will not have more than she wants for herself and her child.

He could not sleep. The thought of Mrs. Marsden's pride made him shiver. No prouder woman ever lived: famine and cold would not break her pride. He had thought of her in the workhouse, or an almshouse, finishing her days on the bread of charity. But no—great Heaven!—she would never consent to do that. She would rather sell matches in the street. And he imagined her appearance. An old woman in rags—creeping at dusk with bent back,—pausing on a country road to hold her side and cough,—lying down on the frozen ground beneath a haystack, and dying in the winter storm.

He knew—only too well—that these are the things that happen: the inexorable facts of the world. But never should they happen in this case—not while he had one sixpence to rub against another.

He could not go on thinking about it without doing something. So he woke up his invalid wife. That seemed the only thing he could do just then;—and he told Mrs. Prentice that she must be kind to Mrs. Marsden; she must begin being kind the first thing in the morning; she must write a letter, pay a call, do something to cheer and gladden his poor old friend.

Mrs. Prentice, an amiable nondescript woman, readily obeyed her husband; and after this nocturnal conversation she used frequently to wait upon Mrs. Marsden, often persuade her to go out for a drive, and now and then entice her to come and dine in a quiet friendly fashion without any fuss or ceremony. These pleasant evenings must have made bright and warm spots amidst the cold dark gloom that now surrounded Mrs. Marsden. At Mr. Prentice's comfortable private house she was treated with an honour to which she had been long unaccustomed; there was nothing here to remind her of her troubles; and she really appeared to forget them when chatting freely with her kind host and hostess.

"My dear Mrs. Prentice, it is too good of you to let me drop in on you like this."