Mrs. Thompson. W. B. Maxwell

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       W. B. Maxwell

      Mrs. Thompson

      A Novel

      Published by Good Press, 2021

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066128715

Table of Contents

       I

       II

       III

       IV

       V

       VI

       VII

       VIII

       IX

       X

       XI

       XII

       XIII

       XIV

       XV

       XVI

       XVII

       XVIII

       XIX

       XX

       XXI

       XXII

       XXIII

       XXIV

       XXV

       XXVI

       XXVII

       XXVIII

       XXIX

       XXX

       XXXI

       XXXII

       XXXIII

I

       Table of Contents

      It was early-closing day in the town of Mallingbridge; and the Thompson's, "established 1813," had begun to hide its wares from the sunlight of High Street. Outside its windows the iron shutters were rolling down; inside its doors male and female assistants, eager for the weekly half-holiday, were despatching the last dilatory customers, packing their shelves, spreading their dust-sheets, and generally tidying up with anxious speed.

      Mrs. Thompson, the sole proprietress, emerging from internal offices and passing through her prosperous realm, cast an attentive eye hither and thither; and, wherever she glanced, saw all things right, and nothing wrong. System, method, practised control visible in each department. Carpets, Bedding, Curtains, House Furnishings, all as they should be—no disturbing note, no hint of a dangerous element in the well-ordered working scheme of Thompson's.

      Managerial Mr. Mears, a big elderly man, took his hands from beneath the skirts of his frock-coat; smiled and bowed; and spoke to the proprietress confidentially on one or two important matters.

      "By the way," said Mr. Mears. "About Household Crockery—is it to be a promotion, or do you still think of getting someone in? Of course there's a lot of talk—must be while the appointment remains open. But you haven't made up your mind yet, have you?"

      "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Thompson, arranging her reticule, and not looking at Mr. Mears. "I shall appoint Mr. Marsden."

      "Young Marsden? Never!"

      "Yes," said Mrs. Thompson firmly.

      "You surprise me. I admit it."

      "You don't think," said Mrs. Thompson, "that he is old enough for the responsibility. But, Mr. Mears, he has brains and he likes work. Tell the others that the appointment is made."

      And big Mr. Mears did then what everyone in Thompson's always did—that is to say, he immediately obeyed orders; and before the last shutter was down, the news had flashed all through the restricted space of the old-fashioned shop.

      "Dicky Marsden! Oh, drop me off a roof.... Marsden up again! Well, I'm bust!" Thompson's young gentlemen murmuring their comments, expressed astonishment, and a certain amount of envy. "Marsden over all our heads! This is a rum go, if you like."

      "Fancy! What next! Would you believe it?" Thompson's young ladies, after being breathless, became shrill. "Why, on'y six months ago he was Number Three in the Carpets."

      "He'll be prouder than ever."

      "I shan't dare so much as speak to him."

      "He always treated one as dirt under his feet," said a dark-haired, anæmic young lady. "And now!"

      "With the increased screw," said a pert, blond young lady, "he'll be able to buy more smart clothes, and he'll look more fetching than ever. Yes, and you'll all be more in love with him than you are a'ready."

      "Speak for yourself."

      "Well, say I'm as bad as you. We're all a lot of fools together."

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