"By Jove, you _are_ on the high rope to-night."
"Now, about this money?" And she wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
"You"ve proved to me that you must have it. You"ve shown that you wouldn"t shrink from any--from any ordeal in order to get it."
He looked round with reawakened interest.
"I do want it most d.a.m.nably, or of course I wouldn"t have asked you for it."
"Then for this once I suppose I must give it to you."
"Jane! Do you really mean it?"
"Yes. I"ll give it you, if you"ll tell me that you understand--if you"ll promise that this shall be the very last time.... But with or without the promise, it will be useless to apply to me again."
"There"s my hand on it."
He promised freely and readily.
XVIII
Next day she was too tired to get up for the morning service, but she went to St. Saviour"s church in the evening.
More and more she loved the quiet hours spent in church. Here, and only here, she was safely shut up in the world of her own thoughts, and could feel certain that the thread of ideas would not be snapped by a rough voice, or her nerves be shaken by the unantic.i.p.ated violence of some fresh misfortune. And St. Saviour"s was even more restful at night than in the daytime.
She listened automatically to the beautiful opening prayer; and then she retired deep into herself.
Except for the chancel, the building was dimly lighted. The roof and the empty galleries were almost hidden by shadows; lamps reflected themselves feebly from the dark wood-work; and the people, sitting wide apart from one another in the spa.r.s.ely occupied pews, seemed vague black figures and not strong living men and women.
Each time that she rose, she looked from the semi-darkness towards the brilliant light of the chancel--at the white surplices and the shining faces of the choir, the golden tubes of the organ, and the soft radiance that flashed from the bra.s.s of the altar rails. But all the while, whether she sat down or stood up, her thoughts were struggling in darkness and vainly seeking for the faintest glimmer of light.
She thought of her husband and of the shop. He was holding her, would hold her as a tied and gagged prisoner surrounded with the dark chaos that he had caused. How could she save herself--or him? He concealed facts from her; he told her lies; he never let her hear of a difficulty until it was too late to find any means of escape.
And she thought of the destruction of her whole lifework. She saw it certainly approaching--the only possible end to such a partnership. All that she had laboriously constructed was to be stupidly beaten down.
The splendid old business would infallibly be ruined. No business, however firmly established, can withstand the double attack of gross mismanagement and reckless depletion of its funds. As she thought of it, those words of her inveterately active rival echoed and re-echoed. A leak, and no chance of stopping the leak--disaster foreseen, but not to be averted. The leak was too great. All hands at the pumps would not save the ship.
A new and if possible more poignant bitterness filled her mind. It was another long-drawn agony that lay before her; and it seemed to her, looking back at the older pain, that this was almost worse. Confusion, entanglement, darkness--no light, no hope, no chance of opening the track that leads from chaos to security. Bitter, oh, most bitter--to taste the failure one has not deserved, to work wisely and be frustrated by folly, to watch pa.s.sively while all that one has created and believed to be permanent is slowly demolished and obliterated.
Quite automatically, she had stood up again, and was looking towards the brightly illuminated choir. They were singing the appointed psalms now; and, as half consciously she listened to each chanted verse, the words wove themselves into the burden of her thoughts....
... "They have compa.s.sed me about also
... and fought against me without cause."
Altogether without cause. There was the pity of it. If only he would curb his insensate greed, put some check or limit to his excesses, the business would soon recover from the shaking he had given it; and then there would be enough to maintain him in idleness for the rest of his days. She would work for him, if he would but let her.
... "For the love that I had unto them, lo, they take now my contrary part."
Yes, in all things he would frustrate her efforts.
... "Thus have they rewarded me evil for good; and hatred for my good will."
The good will! How much value had he knocked off the good will already?
If they tried to turn themselves into a company to-morrow, what price could they put down for it? Soon there would be no good will left.
"Set thou an unG.o.dly man to be ruler over him; and let Satan stand at his right hand."
Ah! There spoke the implacable voice of the Hebrew king. No mercy for the unG.o.dly.
"When sentence is given upon him, let him be condemned, and let his prayer be turned into sin."
Ah! There again.
"Let his days be few; and let another take his office."
She listened now fully, as the verses of condemnation followed one another in a dreadful sequence. That was the spirit of the Old Testament. The G.o.d of those days was anthropomorphic, a G.o.d of battles, a leader, a fighter: the friend of our friends, but the foe to our foes.
He taught one to fight against the most desperate odds--and not to forgive enemies, but to punish them.
And to-night the spirit in her own breast responded to the ancient barbarity of creed. That softer doctrine of the Gospel, with its soothingly mystical miracles of forgiveness, was not substantial enough for the stern facts of life. She felt too sore and too sick for the aid that comes veiled with inscrutable symbolism, and seems to martyrize when it seeks to save. All that faith was beautiful but dim, like the unsubstantiality of these church columns ascending through the shadows to the darkness that hid the roof. The reality was before her eyes, where in the strong light those men stood firmly on their own feet, and, singing the grand old psalm, craved swift retribution for the unG.o.dly.
These harder thoughts soon faded. As always happened, the hour in church did her good. Self-pity, except as the most transient emotion, was well nigh impossible to her. Courage was always renewing itself, and she could not long r.e.t.a.r.d the heightening glow that succeeded each fit of depression.
After all, she was in no worse a fix than when her first husband threw a ruined business on her hands. While there"s life there"s hope.
To her surprise she found Mr. Prentice waiting for her outside the church porch.
"Good evening, Mr. Prentice;" and she looked at him anxiously. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"No, no," said Mr. Prentice jovially. "The fact is, my wife is on the sick list again; and as I"m at a loose end, I"ve come round to ask if you could give me a bit of supper."
The real fact was that earlier in the day he had seen Mr. Marsden driving to the railway station with a valise and dressing-case on the box of the fly. He knew that this gentleman was by now safe in London, and he had grasped an opportunity of seeing his old friend alone. He desired, and intended if possible, to cheer her up and put new heart into her.
"Come along then." She was obviously pleased to accept his company. "But I"m afraid there won"t be much supper--because Richard is away to-night."
"I"m not hungry. I over-ate myself at dinner--I always over-eat on Sundays. Bread and cheese will do me grandly."
"We"ll try to produce something better than that"; and Mrs. Marsden bustled up the stairs, calling loudly for Yates.
Yates produced some cold meat; and Mr. Prentice said he thought it delicious. Yates herself waited upon them. The cupboard that contained the master"s strong drink was of course locked; but there was a supply of good soda water accessible, and Yates ran out and bought some doubtful whisky. Mr. Prentice, however, declared that the whisky was excellent. His kind face beamed; he chaffed Yates, and made her toss her head and giggle as she filled his gla.s.s; he chatted gaily and easily with his hostess;--he was so friendly, so genial, so thoroughly welcome, that this was the happiest supper seen in St. Saviour"s Court for a very long time.
No fire had been lighted in the drawing-room, so when their meal was done they sat together by the dining-room fire.
"What pleasant hours," said Mr. Prentice, looking round at the familiar walls, "what pleasant, pleasant hours I"ve spent in this room. Those autumn dinners--with Mears and the rest! How I used to enjoy them!"
"You helped us to enjoy them."