Charlie Kenion, lounging deep in one of the solicitor's leather armchairs, said that he would take it.

At this period Mr. Prentice also received visits from the other suitor.

Marsden called several times, to talk about the terms of his partnership, and to urge the importance of not overdoing it with regard to the provision for Enid. These marriage settlements, he reminded the solicitor, are irrevocable things--what you put into them you can't get out of them. Nothing ever comes back to you. A woman in Mrs. Thompson's position should therefore exercise some caution. She is rich now, but she may not always be so rich; she must not give away more than she can spare; it is folly not to keep a reserve fund.

Then, when paying his last call before his departure for London, he slid very naturally from the subject of Enid's settlement to a vague question about a settlement in his own case. Was there any idea of making a permanent provision for him?

"Of course there is. You are to be a partner."

That of course was understood, but Marsden had some doubt as to whether there were other intentions.

"I am only asking," he said pleasantly. "I leave myself entirely in your hands--and I'd like to say that I've the utmost confidence in _you_."

"Thank you," said Mr. Prentice drily.

"These settlements seem the usual things in marriages--so I thought the rule would apply to my marriage."

"In _your_ marriage, Mr. Marsden, there is very little that is usual--but, nevertheless, I think the usual rules should apply."

"You do? You think some moderate settlement would be proper."

"Very proper indeed--if you have anything to settle. By giving you a half share in her business Mrs. Thompson is treating you with a generosity--a munificence--an unprecedented munificence--"

"Oh, I know she is."

"And if therefore you on your side can make a settlement--however moderate--in her favour, it will be a graceful and a natural act."

Marsden laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.

"That's very funny--very neatly put. But I see what you mean. You think I ought not to have made the suggestion."

"Oh, no," said Mr. Prentice, obviously meaning, "Oh, yes."

"I fancied that she herself might wish it; but I haven't said a word about it to her.... Don't mention it to her.... Good morning."

Meanwhile Enid was collecting garments, hats, frills, and feathers. She had been given unlimited scope; prices need not be scrutinized; the best London shops, as well as Thompson's, were open to her; and she went about her business in a commendably business-like fashion. She did not require Mrs. Thompson's advice--she knew exactly what she wanted.

When those few trickling tears had been dried and the bombsh.e.l.l-tidings of her mother's engagement had burst upon her with such appalling violence, she hardened and grew cold again. Nothing now would soften her.

She calmly announced that Charles had been lucky enough to find just the house they wished for--a farmhouse recently converted into a gentleman's residence, with some land and excellent stabling, eight miles from Mallingbridge, between Haggart's Cross and Chapel-Norton; but she did not invite Mrs. Thompson to inspect the premises, or even to examine the patterns of the new wallpapers.

She disgusted Mr. Prentice by her obstinate support of her future husband in his final contention that the life interest given to him under the settlement should be absolute and inalienable. Mr. Prentice naturally desired to protect her from obvious dangers; but, instead of strengthening his hands, she idiotically declared her wish to compliment Kenion by an exhibition of blind confidence.

"It must be as Enid wishes," said Mrs. Thompson; and Mr. Prentice was forced to give way.

The days were racing by. Mornings had a snap of frost in the air; autumn rains brought the yellow leaves tumbling from the churchyard elms, and autumn winds sent them spinning and eddying over the iron railings into St. Saviour's Court. Very soon now October would be here--and on the first day of October the church bells were to ring for Enid Thompson, spinster, of this parish.

Mrs. Thompson heard the banns read; but she could not hear the other banns in which the name of Thompson was again mumbled. Her emotion made the sound of the parson's voice inaudible to her.

One afternoon she saw Yates carrying up a large cardboard box to Enid's dressing-room, and the printed label on the box gave her a stab of pain. _Bence Brothers!_ Enid, pressed for time, or now careless of how often she wounded her mother's sensibilities, had gone across the road to buy her ultimate batch of fal-lals.

Then one morning--a dull, grey first of October--Enid offered her cheek to her mother's lips.

"I hope you'll be very happy, mother." These were her last words.

The rooks, startled by the clashing bells, flew up from the tops of the churchyard trees; the misty air vibrated as the organ rolled out its voluminous music; the keen, sharp-edged wind blew the dead leaves down the court and past the house;--and Enid was blown away with them, into her lover's arms and out of her mother's life, as it seemed, forever.

The days were swinging in a mad whirl; Mrs. Thompson had entered upon her feverish dream; and nothing outside herself seemed of any consequence to her now--except the man who was to be her husband.

He was in London, well supplied with cash for his immediate necessities, and he would not return until he came to lead her to the altar. Several times she ran up to London with Yates, bought trousseau all the morning, and then, casting off Yates, had luncheon with him at some smart restaurant.

A first glance told her that he was more splendid than any other man in the building, and then everything about and beyond him became vague and dim and unsubstantial. She could see nothing else. Light and sound mingled; past and present fused, to make a panoramic changing background in front of which he could stand out more solidly and brilliantly. She heard the wheels of the train that had brought her to him, and at the same time she heard the waltz played by this restaurant band; she was surrounded by meaningless figures, from the field of vision and the fog of memory; close to her sat fashionable people at little tables;--but among them and through them moved the people she had seen in the open street, at the dressmaker's, to-day, yesterday, or a year ago.

But there was nothing vague or uncertain about him: he was overpoweringly, gloriously distinct. She could see every thread in his lovely new clothes, every hair in his perfumed, carefully brushed moustache, each tiny speck of brown on the liquid amber of his eyes.

From those eyes, as she knew so well, he could shoot the darts of flame that lodged a burning distress in one's breast, as easily as he could send forth the gentle caressing beams that made one slowly melt in ecstasy.

His glance was always softly caressing now, soothing her, calming her, filling her with joy.

She could not eat. She could only look at him while he ate, with hearty youthful vigour, quite enough for two. She drank a gla.s.sful out of his bottle of wine, and found an incredible delight in watching him drink the remainder. The waiter put the programme of the day's music by her side; but it did not matter what the band played. Her music--the only significant music--was in her sweetheart's voice. He called her Janey, Little woman, My kind fairy; and each time that he spoke to her thus endearingly she thrilled with rapture.

"Well, Janey, what do you think of my new coat? I look all right, don't I? You are not ashamed to be seen with me--eh, little woman?... And how's Mallingbridge? What do they say of me down there?...

"Oh, by the way, I haven't thanked my kind fairy for the present she sent me yesterday. It's a dressing-case fit for a king;" and then he laughed gaily. "Janey, take care. You are trying to spoil me."

Sometimes for a moment he held her hand under the table-cloth, and pressed it lovingly.

When the luncheon was over she was glad to notice that he tipped the waiter liberally. It would have been irksome to her, as a prodigious tipper, to observe any economy--but Marsden gave almost as much as if she herself had taken the money out of the purse. She used to hand him her purse as they went into the restaurant, and he gave it back to her as they came out again.

Serving-girls at the fashionable London shops were inclined to smile while they waited upon Mrs. Thompson choosing her nuptial finery. She seemed to them so innocent--appealing to them with simple trustfulness, and begging them to show her not merely pretty things, but the things that gentlemen would think pretty.

In truth, all her business faculty had temporarily forsaken her; the strong will, the quick insight, the grit and the grip were gone; the experience of long years had been washed out: she was an inexperienced girl again, with all a girl's tremors, joyous hopes, and nameless fears for the future.

Her fingers shook as she smoothed and patted the wonderful underclothes offered by a famous lingerie establishment; and as old Yates, sitting by the side of her mistress, gave a casting vote for this or that daintily laced garment, the lingerie young woman was obliged to turn a slim back in order to conceal her mirth. Perhaps it would have made her cry if she could have understood. But no one could see the poignantly touching truth, that beneath the beaded mantle of this reddish, stoutish, middle-aged customer, a maiden's heart was fondly beating.

"You know, Yates, I'm not so stupid as to suppose that I shall always be able to keep him tied to my ap.r.o.n strings." This was in the train, when they were returning to Mallingbridge after an arduous day's shopping. They had the compartment to themselves, and they nearly filled it with their parcels. "Men must be allowed freedom and liberty."

"Yes, ma'am, _bachelor_ gentlemen. But I'm not so sure about too much liberty for _married_ gentlemen."

"They can't be continually cooped up in their home--however comfortable you make it for them. No, many happy marriages are upset by the wife's silliness--in thinking that a husband is forever to be dancing attendance on her. I shan't commit that error."

"No, ma'am. Of course it isn't as if it was your first time."

Truly, however, it was her first time. The recollection of the dead husband and the loveless marriage made her wince.

"A little tact," she said hurriedly. "A wife--especially in the early days--is called on for a little tact."

"Oh, ma'am, you'll manage him all right--with your knowledge of the world."