Perhaps he had.
"You're my first experience of an applicant for a secretaryship who hasn't learnt shorthand or type-writing," he said in an injured tone. "Of course, if you don't know either, you'd be no good at all—not a bit."
"Then," she said, "why did you ask me to send you half a crown?"
Before he could spare time to enlighten her as to his reason for this line of action, they were interrupted by an urchin who deposited an armful of letters on the table. The gentleman seemed pleased to see them, and she came away wondering how many of the women who Messrs. Furnival "judged would suit their client" enclosed postal-orders to pay the "fee."
Quite ineffectually she visited some legitimate agencies, and once she walked to Battersea in time to learn that the berth that was the object of her journey had just been filled. Even when one walks to Battersea, and dines for twopence, however, the staying-powers of two-and-ninepence are very limited; and the dawning of the dreaded date for the bill found her capital exhausted.
Among her scanty possessions, the only article that she could suggest converting into money was a silver watch that she wore attached to a guard. It had belonged to her as a girl; she had worn it as a nurse; it had travelled with her on tour during her life with Carew. What a pawnbroker would lend her on it she did not know, but she supposed a sovereign. Had she been better off, she would have supposed two sovereigns, for she was as ignorant of its value as of the method of pledging it; but being destitute, a pound looked to her a very substantial amount. She made her way heavily into the street. She felt that her errand was printed on her face, and when she reached and paused beneath the sign of the three balls, all the passers-by seemed to be watching her.
The window offered a pretext for hesitation. She stood inspecting the collection behind the glass; perhaps anyone who saw her go in might imagine it was with the intention of buying something! She was nerving herself to the necessary pitch when, giving a final glance over her shoulder, she saw a bystander looking at her steadily. Her courage took flight, and she sauntered on, deciding to explore for a shop in a more secluded position.
Though she was ashamed of her retreat, the respite was a relief to her. It was not until she came to three more balls that she perceived that the longer she delayed, the worse she would feel. She went hurriedly in. There was a row of narrow doors extending down a passage, and, pulling one open, she found the tiny compartment occupied by a woman and a bundle. Starting back, she adventured the next partition, which proved to be vacant; and standing away from the counter, lest her profile should be detected by her neighbour in distress, she waited for someone to come to her.
Nobody taking any notice, she rapped to attract attention. A young man lounged along, and she put the watch down.
"How much?" he said.
"A pound."
He caught it up and withdrew, conveying the impression that he thought very little of it. She thought very little of it herself directly it was in his hand. His hand was a masterpiece of expression, whereas his voice never wavered from two notes.
"Ten shillings," he said, reappearing.
"Ten shillings is very little," she murmured. "Surely it's worth more than that?"
"Going to take it?"
He slid the watch across to her.
"Thank you," she said; "yes."
A doubt whether it would be sufficient crept over her the instant she had agreed, and she wished she had declined the offer. To call him back, however, was beyond her; and when he returned it was with the ticket.
"Name and address?"
New to the requirements of a pawnbroker, she stammered the true one, convinced that the woman with the bundle would overhear and remember. Even then she was dismayed to find the transaction wasn't concluded; he asked her for a halfpenny, and, with the blood in her face, she signified that she had no change. At last though, she was free to depart, with a handful of silver and coppers; and guiltily transferring the money to her purse when the shop was well behind, she reverted to routine.
It was striking five when she mounted to the attic, and she saw that Mrs. Shuttleworth, with the punctuality peculiar to cheap landladies when the lodger is out, had already brought up the tray. On the plate was her bill; she snatched at it anxiously, and was relieved to find it ran thus:
s.d.Bred12Butter....10Milk31/2Tea6Oil2Shuger....21/2To room til next Wensday5082
So far, then, she had been equal to emergencies, and another week's shelter was assured. The garret began to assume almost an air of comfort, refined by her terror of losing it. When she reflected that the week divided her from actual starvation, she cried that she must find something to do—she must! Then she realised that she could find it no more easily because it was a case of "must" than if it had been simply expedient, and the futility of the feminine "must," when she was already doing all she could do, served to accentuate her helplessness. She prayed passionately, without being able to feel much confidence in the efficacy of prayer, and told herself that she did not deserve that God should listen to her, because she was guilty, and sinful, and bad. She did not seek consolation in repeating that it was always darkest before dawn, nor strive to fortify herself with any other of the aphorisms belonging to the vocabulary of sorrow for other people. The position being her own, she looked it straight in the eyes, and admitted that the chances were in favour of her being very shortly without a bed to lie on.
Each night she came a few pence nearer to the end; each night now she sat staring from the window, imagining the sensations of wandering homeless. And at last the day broke—a sunless and chilly day—when she rose and went out possessed of one penny, without any means of adding to it. This penny might be reserved to diminish the hunger that would seize her presently, or she might give herself a final chance among the newspapers. Having breakfasted, she decided on the final chance.
As she turned the pages her hands trembled, and for a second the paragraphs swam together. The next instant, standing out clearly from the sea of print, she saw an advertisement like the smile of a friend:
"Useful Companion wanted to elderly lady; one with some experience of invalids preferred. Apply personally, between 3 and 5, 'Trebartha,' N. Finchley."
If it had been framed for her, it could hardly have suited her better. The wish for personal application was itself an advantage, for in conversation, she felt, the obstacle of having no references could be surmounted with far less trouble than by letter. A string of frank allusions to the difficulty, a dozen easy phrases, leapt into her mind, so that, in fancy, the interview was already in progress, and terminating with pleasant words in the haven of engagement.
She searched no further, and it was not till she was leaving that she remembered the miles that she would have to walk. To start so early, however, would be useless, so on second thoughts she determined to pass the morning where she was.
She was surprised to discover that she was not singular in this decision, and she wondered if all; the clients that stayed so long had anywhere else to go. Many of them never turned a leaf, but sat at the table dreamily eyeing a journal; as if they had forgotten that it was there. She; watched the people coming in, noting the unanimity with which they made for the advertisement-sheets first, and speculating as to the nature of the work they sought.
There was a woman garbed in black, downcast and precise; she was a governess, manifestly. Once, when she had been young, and insolent with the courage of youth, she would have mocked a portrait looking as she looked now; there was little enough mockery left in her this morning. She quitted the "dailies" unrewarded, and proceeded to the table, her thin-lipped mouth set a trifle harder than before. A girl with magenta feathers in her hat bounced in, tracing her way down the columns with a heavy fore-finger, and departing nonchalantly with a blotted list. This was a domestic servant, Mary understood. A shabby man of sinister expression covered an area of possibilities: a broken-down tutor perhaps, a professional man gone to the bad. He looked like Mephistopheles in the prompter's clothes, she thought, contemplating him with languid curiosity. The reflections flitted across the central idea while she sat nervously waiting for the hours to pass, and when she considered it was time at last, she asked the newsagent in which direction Finchley lay. She omitted to mention that she had to walk there, but she obtained sufficient information about a tram-route to guide her up to Hampstead Heath, where of course she could inquire again.
The sun gave no promise of shining, and a bleak wind, tossing the rubbish of the gutters into little whirlpools, made pedestrianism exceedingly unpleasant. She was dismayed to find on how long a journey she was bound; she arrived at the tram-terminus already tired, and then learnt that she was not half-way to Finchley. It was nothing but a name to her, and steadily trudging along a road that extended itself before her eternally she began to fear that she would never reach her goal at all. To add to the discomfort, it was snowing slightly now, and she grew less sanguine with every hundred yards. The vision of the smiling lady, the buoyancy of her own glib sentences, faded from her, and the thought of the utter abjectness that would come of refusal made the salvation of acceptance appear much too wonderful to occur.
When she reached it, "Trebartha" proved to be a stunted villa in red brick. It was one of a row, each of the other stunted villas being similarly endowed with a name befitting, a domain; and suspense catching discouragement from the most extraneous details, Mary's heart sank as the housemaid disclosed the badly-lighted passage.
She was ushered into the sitting-room; and the woman who entered presently had been suggested by it. She seemed the natural complement of the haggard prints, of the four cumbersome chairs in a line against the wall, of the family Bible on the crochet tablecover. She wore silk, dark and short—plain, except for three narrow bands of velvet at the hem. She wore a gold watch-chain hanging round her neck, garlanded over her portly bosom. She said she was the invalid lady's married daughter, and her tone implied a consciousness of that higher merit which the woman whose father has left her comfortably off feels over the woman whose father hasn't.
"You've called about my mother's advertisement for a companion?" she said.
"Yes; I've had a long experience of nursing. I think I should be able to do all you require."
"Have you ever lived as companion?"
"No," said Mary, "I have never done that, but—but I think I'm companionable; I don't think I'm difficult to get on with."
"What was your—won't you sit down?—what was your last place?"
Mary moistened her lips.
"I am," she said, "rather awkwardly situated. I may as well tell you at once that I am a stranger here, and—do you know—I find that's a great bar in the way of my getting employment? Not being known, I've, of course, no friends I can refer people to, and—well, people always seem to think the fact of being a stranger in a city is rather a discreditable thing. I have found that! They do." She looked for a gleam of response in the stolid countenance, but it was as void of expression as the furniture. "As I say, I have had a lengthy experience of nursing; I—it sounds conceited—but I should be exceedingly useful. It's just the thing I am fitted for."
The married daughter asked: "You have been a nurse, you say? But not here?"
"Not here," said Mary, "no. Of course, that doesn't detract from——"
"Oh, quite so. We've had several young women here already to-day. Do I understand you to mean there is nobody at all you can give as a reference?"
"Yes, that unfortunately is so. I do hope you don't consider it an insuperable difficulty? You know you take servants without 'characters' sometimes when——"
"Inevertake a servant without a 'character.' I have never done such a thing in my life."
"I did not mean you personally," said Mary, with hasty deprecation; "I was speaking——"
"I'm most particular on the point; my mother is most particular, too."
"Generally speaking. I meant people do take servants without 'characters' occasionally when they are hard pushed."
"Our own servants are only too wishful to remain with us. My mother has had her present cook eight years, and the last one was only induced to leave because a young man—a young man in quite a fair way of business—made her an offer of marriage. She had been here even longer than eight years—twelve I think it was, or thirteen. It was believed at the time that what first attracted the young man's attention to her was the many years that my mother had retained her in our household. I'm sure there are no circumstances under which my mother 'd consent to receive a young person who could give no proof of her trustworthiness and good conduct."
"Do you mean that you can't engage me? It—it's a matter of life and death to me," exclaimed Mary; "pray let me see the lady!"
"Your manner," said the married daughter, "is strange. Quite authoritative for your position!" She rose. "You'll find it helpful to be less haughty when you speak, less opinionated; your manner is very much against you. Oh, my word! no violence, if you please, miss!"
"Violence?" gasped Mary; "I'm not violent. It was my last hope, that's all, and it's over. I wish you good-day."
So much had happened in a few minutes—inside and out—that the roads were whitening rapidly and the flutter of snow had developed into a steady fall. At first she was scarcely sensible of it; the anger in her heart kept the cold out, and carried her along in a semi-rush. Words broke from her breathlessly. She felt that she had fallen from a high estate; that the independence of her life with Carew had been a period of dignity and power; that erstwhile she could have awed the dull-witted philistine who had humbled her. "The hateful woman! Oh, the wretch! To have to sue to a creature like that!" Well, she would starve now, she supposed, her excitement spending itself. She would die of starvation, like characters in fiction, or the people one read of in the newspapers; the newspapers called it "exposure," but it was the same thing; "exposure" sounded less offensive to the other people who read about it, that was all. The force of education is so strong that, much as she insisted on such a death, and close as she had approached to it, she was unable to realise its happening to her. She told herself that it must; the world was of a sudden horribly wide and empty; but for Mary Brettan actually to die like that had an air of exaggeration about it still. Pushing forward, she pondered on it, and the fact came close; the sensation of the world's widening about her grew stronger. She felt alone in the midst of illimitable space. There seemed nothing around her, nothing tangible, nothing to catch at. O God! how tired she was! she couldn't go on much further.
The snow whirled against her in gusts, clinging to her hair, and filling her eyes and nostrils. Exhaustion was overpowering her. And still how many miles? Each of the benches that she passed was a fresh temptation; and at last she dropped on one, too tired to stand, wet and shivering, and shielding her face from the storm.
She dropped on it like any tramp or stray. Having held out to the uttermost, she did not know whether she would ever get up again—did not think about it, and did not care. Her limbs ached for relief, and she seized it on the high-road because relief on the high-road was the only kind attainable.
And it was while she cowered there that another figure appeared in the twilight, the figure of a tall old man carrying a black bag. He came smartly down a footpath, gazing to right and left as for something that should be waiting for him. Not seeing it, he whistled, and Mary looked up. A trap was backed from the corner of the road. Then the man with the bag stared at her, and after an instant of hesitation, he spoke.
"It's a dirty nicht," he said, "for ye tae be sittin' there. I'm thinking ye're no' weel?"
"Not very," she said.
He inspected her undecidedly.
"An' ye'll tak' your death o' cold if ye dinna get up, it's verra certain. Hoots! ye're shakin' wi' it noo! Bide a wee, an' I'll put some warmth intae ye, young leddy."
Without any more ado, he deposited the bag at her side and opened it. And, astonishing to relate, the black bag was fitted with a number of little bottles, one of which he extracted, with a glass.
"Is it medicine?" she asked wonderingly.
"Medicine?" he echoed; "nae, it's nae medicine; it's 'Four Diamonds S.O.P.' I'm gi'en ye. It's a braw sample o' Pilcher's S.O.P., ma lassie; nothin' finer in the trade, on the honour o' Macpheerson! Noo ye drink that doon; it's speerit, an' it'll dae ye guid."
She took his advice, gulping the spirit while he watched her approvingly. Its strength diffused itself through her in ripples of heat, raising her courage, and yet, oddly enough, making her want to cry.
Mr. Macpherson contemplated the little bottle solemnly, shaking his head at it with something that sounded like a sigh.
"An' whaur may ye be goin'?" he queried, replacing the cork.
"I am going to town," she answered. "I was walking home, only the storm——"
"Tae toon? Will ye no' ha'e a lift along o' me an' the lad? I'll drive ye intae toon."
"Have you to go there?" she asked, over-joyed.
"There'd be th' de'il tae pay if I stayed awa'. Ay, I ha'e tae gang there, and as fast as the mare can trot. Will ye let me help ye in?"
"Yes," she said; "thank you very much."
He hoisted her up. And she and her strange companion, accompanied by an urchin who never uttered a word, made a brisk start.
"I am so much obliged to you," she murmured, rejoicing; "you don't know!"
"There's nae call for ony obleegation; it's verra welcome ye are. I'm thinkin' the sample did ye a lot o' guid, eh?"
"It did indeed; it has made me feel a different woman."
"Eh, but it's a gran' speerit!" said the old gentleman with reviving ardour. "There's nae need to speak for it, an' that's a fact; your ain tongue sings its perfection to ye as ye sup it doon. Ye may get ither houses to serve ye cheaper, I'm no' denyin' that; but tae them that can place the rale article there's nae house like Pilcher's. And Pilcher's best canna be beaten in the trade. I ha'e nae interest tae lie tae ye, ye ken; nor could I tak' ye in wi' the wines and speerits had I the mind. There's the advantage wi' the wines and speerits; ye canna deceive! Ye ha'e the sample, an' ye ha'e the figure—will I book the order or will I no'?"
"It's your business then, Mr.——?"
"Will ye no' tak' my card?" he said, producing a large one; "there, put it awa'. Should ye ever be in need, ma lassie, a line to Macpheerson, care o' the firm——"
"How kind of you!" she exclaimed.
"No' a bit," he said; "ye never can tell what may happen, and whether it's for yoursel' ye need it, or a recommendation, ye'll ken ye're buying at the wholesale price."
She glanced at him with surprise, and looked away again. And they drove for several minutes in silence.
"Maybe ye ken some family whaur I'd be likely tae book an order noo?" remarked Mr. Macpherson incidentally. "Sherry? dae ye no' ken o' a family requirin' sherry? I can dae them sherry at a figure that'll tak' th' breath frae them. Ye canna suspect the profit—th' weecked ineequitous profit—that sherry's retailed at; wi' three quotations tae the brand often eno', an' a made-up wine at that! Noo, I could supply your frien's wi' 'Crossbones'—the finest in the trade, on the honour of Macpheerson—if ye happen tae ha'e ony who——"
"I don't," she said, "happen to have any."
"There's the family whaur ye're workin', we'll say; a large family maybe, wi' a cellar. For a large family tae be supplied at the wholesale figure——"
"I am sorry, but I don't work."
"Ye don't work, an' ye ha'e no frien's?" He peered at her curiously. "Then, ma dear young leddy, ye'll no' think me impertinent if I ax ye how th' de'il ye live?"
The wild idea shot into her brain that perhaps he might be able to put her into the way of something—somewhere—somehow!
"I'm a stranger in London," she answered, "looking for employment—quite alone."
"Eh," said Mr. Macpherson, "that's bad, that's verra bad!"
He whipped up the horse, and after the momentary comment lapsed into reverie. She called herself a fool for her pains, and stared dumbly across the melancholy fields.
"Whauraboots are ye stayin'?" he demanded, after they had passed the Swiss Cottage.
She told him. "Please don't let me take you out of your way," she added.
"Ye're no' verra far frae ma ain house," he declared. "Ye had best come in an' warm before ye gang on hame. Ye are in nae hurry, I suppose?"
"No, but——"
"Oh, the mistress will nae mind it. Ye just come in wi' me!"
Their conversation progressed by fits and starts till his domicile was reached. Leaving the trap to the care of the boy, who might have been a mute for any indication he had given to the contrary, Mr. Macpherson led her into a parlour, where a kettle steamed invitingly on the hob.
He was greeted by a little woman, evidently the wife referred to; and a rosy offspring, addressed as Charlotte, brought her progenitor a pair of slippers. His introduction of Mary to his family circle was brief.
"'Tis a young leddy," he said, "I gave a lift to. But I dinna ken your name?"
"My name is Brettan," she replied. Then, turning to the woman: "Your husband was kind enough to save me from walking home from Finchley, and now he has made me come in with him."
"It was a braw nicht for a walk," opined Macpherson.
"I'm sure I'm glad to see you, miss," responded the woman in cheery Cockney. "Come to the fire and dry yourself a bit, do!"
The initial awkwardness was very slight, for Mary's experiences in bohemia were serviceable here. The people were well-intentioned, too, and, meeting with no embarrassment to hamper their heartiness, they grew speedily at ease. It reminded the guest of some of her arrivals on tour; of one in particular, when the previous week's company had not left and she and Tony had traversed half Oldham in search of rooms, finally sitting down with their preserver to bread-and-cheese in her kitchen! It was loathsome how Tony kept recurring to her, and always in episodes when he had been jolly and affectionate!
"Your husband tells me he is in the wine business," she observed at the tea-table.
"He is, miss; and never you marry a man who travels in that line," returned the woman, "or the best part of your life you won't know for rights if you're married or not!"
"He's away a good deal, you mean?"
"Away? He's just home about two months in the year—a fortnight at the time, that's what he is! All the rest of it traipsing about from place to place like a wandering gipsy. Charlotte says time and again, 'Ma, have I got a pa, or 'aven't I?'—don't yer, Charlotte?"
"Pa's awful!" said Charlotte, with her mouth full of bread-and-marmalade. "Never mind, pa, you can't help it!"
"Eh, it's a sad pursuit!" rejoined her father gloomily. In the glow of his own fireside Mary perceived with surprise that his enthusiasm for "his wines and speerits" had vanished. "Awa' frae your wife an' bairn, pandering tae th' veecious courses that ruin the immortal soul! Every heart kens its ain bitterness, young leddy; and Providence in its mysteerious wisdom never meant me for the wine-and-speerit trade."
"Oh lor," said Charlotte, "ma's done it!"
"It was na your mither," said Mr. Macpherson; "it's ma ain conscience, as well ye ken! Dae I no' see the travellers themselves succumb tae th' cussed sippin' and tastin' frae mornin' till nicht? There was Burbage, I mind weel, and there was Broun; guid men both—no better men on th' road! Whaur's Burbage noo—whaur's Broun?"
"Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul!" interpolated Charlotte.
"Gone!" continued Mr. Macpherson, responding to his own inquiry with morbid unction. "Deed! The Lord be praised, I ha'e the guid sense tae withstand th' infeernal tipplin' masel'. Mony's the time, when I'm talkin' tae a mon in the way o' business, ye ken, I turn the damned glass upside down when he is na lookin'. But there's the folk I sell tae, an' the ithers; what o' them? It's ma trade to praise the evil—tae tak' it into the world, spreadin' it broadcast for the destruction o' monkind. Eh, ma responsibeelity is awfu' tae contemplate."
"I'm sure, James, you mean first class," said the little woman weakly. "Come, light your pipe comfortable, now, and don't worrit, there's a good man!"
The traveller waved the pipe aside.
"There's a still sma' voice," he said, "ye canna silence wi' 'bacca; ye canna silence it wi' herbs nor wi' fine linen. It's wi' me noo, axin' queestions. It says: 'Macpheerson, how dae ye justeefy thy wilfu' conduct? Why dae ye gloreefy the profeets o' th' airth above thy speeritual salvation, mon? Dae ye no ken that orphans are goin' dinnerless through thy eloquence, an' widows are prodigal wi' curses on a' thy samples an' thy ways?' I canna answer. There are nichts when the voice will na let me sleep, ye're weel aware; there are nichts——"
"There are nights when you're most trying, James, I know."
"Woman, it's the warnin' voice that comes tae a sinner in his transgreession! Are there no' viseetations eno' about me, an' dae I no' turn ma een frae them; hardenin' ma heart, and pursuin' ma praise o' Pilcher's wi' a siller tongue? There was a mon are day at the Peacock—a mon in ma ain inseedious line—an' he swilled his bottle o' sherry, an' he called for his whusky-an'-watter, and he got up on his feet speechify in', after the commercial dinner. 'The Queen, gentlemen!' he cries, liftin' his glass; an' wi' that he dropped deed, wi' the name o' the royal leddy on his lips! He was a large red mon—he would ha' made twa o' me."
He seemed to regard the circumference of the deceased as additionally ominous. His arms were extended in representation of it, and he waved them aloft as if to intimate that Charlotte might detect Nemesis in the vicinity preparing for a swoop.
"You take the thing too seriously," said Mary. "Nine people out of ten have to be what they can, you know; it is only the tenth who can be what he likes."
The little woman inquired what her own calling was.
"I am very sorry to say I haven't any," she answered. "I'm doing nothing."
There was a moment's constraint.
"Unfortunately I know nobody here," she went on; "it's very hard to get anything when there's no one to speak for you."
"It must be! But, lor! you must bear up. It's a long lane that has no turning, as they say."
"Only there is no telling where the turning may lead; a lane is better than a bog."
"Wouldn't she do for Pattenden's?" suggested the woman musingly.
"For whom?" exclaimed Mary. "Do you think I can get something? Who are they?"
"James?"
"Pattenden's?" he repeated. "An' what; would she dae at Pattenden's?"
"Why, be agent, to be sure—same as you were!"
Mary glanced from one to the other with; anxiety.
"Weel, noo, that isn't at a' a bad idea," said Mr. Macpherson meditatively; "dae ye fancy ye could sell books, young leddy, on commeession—a hauf-sovereign, say, for every order ye took? I'm thinkin' a young woman micht dae a verra fair trade at it."
"Oh yes," she replied; "I'm sure I could. Half a sovereign each one? Where do I go? Will they take me?"
"I dinna anteecipate ye'll fin' much deefficulty aboot them takin' ye: they dinna risk onythin' by that! I'll gi'e ye the address. They are publishers, and ye just ax for their Mr. Collins when ye go there; tell him ye're wishful tae represent them wi' ane o' their publeecations. If ye like I'll write your name on ane o' ma ain cards; an' ye can send it in tae him."
"Oh, do!" she said.
"Ye must na imagine it's a fortune ye'll be makin'," he observed; "it's different tae ma ain position wi' the wines an' speerits, ye ken: wi' Pilcher's it's a fixed salary, an' Pilcher's pay ma expenses."
"Pilcher's payourexpenses!" affirmed Charlotte the thoughtful.
"They dae," acquiesced the traveller; "there's a sicht o' saving oot o' sax-and-twenty shillin's a day tae an economical parent. But wi' Pattenden's it's precarious; are week guid, an' anither week bad."
"I am not afraid," said Mary boldly; "whatever I do, it is better than nothing! I'll go there to-morrow, the first thing. Very many thanks; and to you too, Mrs. Macpherson, for thinking of it."
"I'm sure I'm glad I did; there's no saying but what you may be doing first-rate after a bit. It's a beginning for you, any way."
"That it is! But why can't the publishers pay a salary, the same as your husband's firm?"
"Ah! they don't; anyhow, not at the beginning. Besides, James has been with Pilcher's ten years now; he wasn't earning so much when he started with them."
"'Spect one reason is because such a heap more people buy spirits than books!" said Charlotte. "Pa!"
"Eh, ma lassie?"
"The lady's going to be an agent——"
"Weel?"
"Then, pa," said Charlotte, "won't we all drink to the lady's luck in a sample?"
"Ye veecious midget," ejaculated her father wrathfully, "are ye no' ashamed tae mak' sic a proposeetion? Ye'll no' drink a sample, will ye, young leddy?"
"I will not indeed!" answered Mary.
"No' but what ye're welcome."
"Thanks," she said; "I will not, really."
"Eh, but ye will, then," he exclaimed; "a sma' sample, ye an' Mrs. Macpheerson! Whaur's ma bag?"
In spite of her protestations he drew a bottle out, and the hostess produced a couple of glasses from the cupboard.
"Port!" he said. "The de'il's liquors a' o' them; but, if there's a disteenction, maybe a wee drappie o' the 'Four Grape Balance' deserves mon's condemnation least." His conflicting emotions delayed the toast for some time. "The de'il's liquors!" he groaned again, fingering the bottle irresolutely. "Eh, but it's the 'Four Grape Balance,'" he murmured with reluctant admiration, eyeing the sample against the light. "There! Ye may baith o' ye drink it doon! But masel', I wouldna touch a drap. An' as for ye, ye wee Cockney bairn, if I catch ye tastin' onything stronger a than tea in a' your days, or knowin' the flavour o' the perneecious stuff it's your affleected father's duty tae lure the unsuspeecious minds wi'—temptin' the frail tae their eternal ruin, an' servin' the de'il when his sicht is on the Lord—I'll leather ye!"
Charlotte giggled nervously—Figaro-wise, that she might not be obliged to weep; and Mrs. Macpherson, raising the glass to her lips, said "Luck!"
"Luck!" they all echoed.
And Mary, conscious that the career would be no heroic one, was also conscious she was not a heroine. "I am," she said to herself, "just a real unhappy woman, in very desperate straits. So let me do whatever turns up, and be profoundly grateful that anything can be done at all."
The wealth of Messrs. Pattenden and Sons, which was considerable, was not indicated by the arrangement of their London branch. A flight of narrow stairs, none too clean, led to a pair of doors respectively painted "Warehouse" and "Private"; and having performed the superfluous ceremony of knocking at the former, Mary found herself in front of a rough counter, behind which two or three young men were busily engaged in stacking books. There were books in profusion, books in virginity, books tempting and delightful to behold. Volume upon volume, crisp in cover and shiny of edge, they were piled on the table and heaped on the floor; and the young men handled them with as little concern as if they had been grocery. Such is the force of custom.
In response to her inquiry, her name and the card were despatched to Mr. Collins by a miniature boy endowed with a gape that threatened to lift his head off, and, pending the interview, she attempted to subdue her nervousness.
A man with a satchel bustled in, and made hurried reference to "Vol. two of theDic." and "The fourth of theEncy." Against the window an accountant with a fresh complexion and melancholy mien totted up columns.
Seeing that everybody—the melancholy accountant not excepted—favoured her with a gratified stare, she concluded that women were infrequently employed here, and she trembled with the fear that her application might be refused. She assured herself that the Scotsman would never have spoken so confidently of a favourable issue if it had not been reasonable to expect it, but the doubt having entered her head, it was difficult to dispel. It occurred to her that she could astonish the accountant by telling him that she was on the brink of destitution. The perspiring young packers, sure of their dinners by-and-by, looked to her individuals to be felicitated on their prosperity, and, luckless as they were, it is a fact that a person's lot is seldom so poor but that another person worse off can be found to envy it. The book-keeper who has grown haggard in the firm's employ at a couple of pounds a week is the envy of the clerk who lives on eighteen shillings, and the wight who sweeps the office daily thinks how happy he would be in the place of the clerk. The urchin who hawks matches in the rain envies the sheltered office-boy, and the waif without coppers to invest envies the match-seller. The grades of misery are so infinite, and the instinct of envy is so ingrained, that when two vagrants crouched under a bridge have tightened their belts to still the gnawings of their hunger, one of the pair will find something to be envious of in the rags of the outcast suffering at his side.
Messrs. Pattenden's youngster reappeared, and, with a yawn so tremendous that it eclipsed his previous effort, said:
"Miss Brettan!"
Mr. Collins was seated in a compartment just large enough to contain a desk and two chairs. He signed Mary to the vacant one, and gave her a steady glance of appreciation. A man who had risen to the position of conducting the travelling department of a firm that published on the subscription plan, he was something of a reader of temperament; a man who had risen to the position by easy stages while yet young, he was kindly and had not lost his generosity on the way.
"Good-morning," he said; "what can I do for you?"
"I want to represent you with one of your publications," she answered. "Mr. Macpherson was good enough to offer me the introduction, and he thought you would be able to arrange with me." The nervousness was scarcely visible. She had entered well, and spoke without hesitancy, in a musical voice. All these things Mr. Collins noted. Before she had explained her desire he had wished that she might have it. The book-agent is of many types, and skilful advertisements hinting at noble earnings, without being explicit about the nature of the pursuit, had brought penurious professional men and reduced gentlewomen on to that chair time and again. But these applicants had generally cooled visibly when the requirements of the vocation were insinuated; and here was one, as refined as any of them, who came comprehending that she would have to canvass, and prepared to do it! Mr. Collins nearly rubbed his hands.
"What experience have you had?"
"In—as an agent? None. But I suppose with a fair amount of intelligence that doesn't matter very much?"
"Not at all." For once he was almost at a loss. As a rule it was he who advocated the attempt, and the novice on the chair who grew reluctant.
"I take it," said Miss Brettan, concealing rapture, "that the art of the business is to sell books to people who don't want to buy them?"
"Just so; tact, and the ability to talk about your specimen is what is wanted. Always watch the face of the person you are showing it to and don't look at the specimen itself. You must know that by heart."
"Oh!"
"Suppose you're showing an encyclopedia! As you turn over the plates, you should be able to tell by his eyes when you have come to one that illustrates a subject that he is interested in. Then talk about that subject—how fully it is dealt with. See?"
"I see."
"If you think he looks like a married man and is old enough to have a family, say how useful an encyclopedia is for general reference in a household—how valuable it is for children when they are writing essays and things."
"Are you going to engage me for an encyclopedia?"
He smiled.
"You're in a hurry, Miss——"
"Brettan. Am I in too much of a hurry?"
"Well, you have to be patient, you know, with possible subscribers. Ifyourush,theywill, too, and the easiest reply to give in a hurry is 'No.' I'm not sure about sending you out with theEncy.; after a while, perhaps! How would you like trying a new work that has never been canvassed, for a beginning?"
"Would it be better?"
"Yes; there's less in it to learn, and you needn't be afraid of hearing, 'Oh, I have one already!'"
"I didn't think of that. What is it, Mr. Collins?"
He touched a bell, and told the boy to bring in a specimen of theAlbum.
"Four half-volumes at twelve and sixpence each," he said, turning to her, "The Album of Inventions. It gives the history of all the principal inventions, with a brief biography of the inventors. You want to know who invented the watch—look it up under W; the telephone—turn to T. It's a history of the progress of science and civilisation. 'The origin of the inventions, and the voids they fill,' that's the idea. Ah, here it is! Now look at that, and tell me if you think you could do any good with it."
She took a slim crimson-bound book from its case, and glanced through it.
"Oh, I certainly think I could," she said; "I should like to try, anyhow."
"Very well, you shall be the first agent to canvass theAlbumfor us."
"And how about terms?" she questioned.
"The terms, Miss Brettan, ought to be to you in a very little while about five or six pounds a week. You may do more; we have travellers with us who are making their twenty. But for a start say five or six."
"You mean that that would be my commencing salary?" she asked calmly.
"No, not as salary," he said, carelessly too. "I mean your commissions would amount to that." By his tone one might have supposed that formality obliged him to distinguish between these sources of income, but that it was practically a distinction without a difference. "On every order you bring us for the Album we allow you half a guinea. Saturdays you needn't go out—it's a bad day, especially to catch professional men. But saying you make twelve calls five days a week, and out of every dozen calls you book two orders, there is your five guineas a week for you as regular as clockwork! I'll tell you what I'll do: just give me a receipt for the specimen, and go home this morning and study it. To-morrow come in to me again at ten o'clock. And every day I'll make out a short list for you of people who've already been subscribers of ours for some work or another—I can pick out addresses that lie close together; and then you'll have the advantage of knowing you're waiting on buyers, and not wasting your time."
"Thank you very much," she said.
"Here's the order-book. You see they have to fill up a form. Every one you bring filled-in means half a guinea to you. You have no further trouble—a deliverer takes the volumes round and collects the money. Just get the order signed, and your responsibility is over. Is that all right?"
"That's all right."
He rose and shook hands with her.
"At ten o'clock," he repeated. "So long!"
She descended the dirty stairs excitedly. The aspect of the world had changed for her in a quarter of an hour. And to think, she would never have dreamt of trying Pattenden's—never have heard of the occupation—if she had not met Mr. Macpherson, had not gone to Finchley, had not been so tired that, having parted with her last penny at the news-room——
The remembrance of her present penury rushed back to her. With five guineas a week coming in directly, she had no money to go on with in the meanwhile. To walk about the streets all day, without even a biscuit between the scanty meals at home, would be impossible. She questioned desperately what there remained to her to pawn—what she was to do. Gaining her room, she eyed her little bag of linen forlornly; she did not think she could borrow anything on articles like these, neither could she spare any of them, nor summon the courage to put them on a counter. Suddenly the inspiration came to her that there was the bag itself. And at dusk she went out with it. This time the pawnbroker omitted to inquire if she had a halfpenny; he deducted the cost of the ticket from the amount of the loan. Taking the bull by the horns, she next sought the landlady, and said that she would be unable to pay the impending bill when it came up, but that she would pay that and the next one together.
"I've found work," she said, feeling like a housemaid. "If you wouldn't mind letting it stand over——"
Mrs. Shuttleworth dried her fingers on her apron, and agreed with less hesitation than her lodger had feared.
Convinced that her specimen was mastered—she had rehearsed two or three little gusts of eulogy which she thought would sound spontaneous—Mary now considered calling on the Macphersons to inform them of the result of their suggestion. Reluctant to intrude, she had half decided to write, but with her limited means, the stamp was an object, and besides, she was uncertain of the number. She determined on the visit.
The door was opened by Charlotte, and hastily explaining the motive for the call, Mary followed her inside. She found the parlour in a state of confusion, and gathered from the trio in a breath that destiny, in the form of Pilcher's, had ordered that Mr. Macpherson should be torn from his family a week earlier than the severance had been anticipated.
"He's going to Leeds to-morrow," exclaimed the little woman distractedly, oppressed by an armful of shirts that fell from her one by one as she moved; "and it wasn't till this afternoon we heard a word about it. Oh dear! oh dear! how many's that, James?"
"'Tis thirty-three," said the traveller, "an', as ye weel ken, it should be thirty-sax! I canna see the use o' a body havin' thirty-sax shirts if they can never be found."
"I'm afraid I'm in the way," murmured Mary; "I just looked in to say it's all satisfactory, and to tell you how much obliged I am. I won't stop."
"You're not in the way at all. You've got one on, James: that's thirty-four! My dear, would you mind counting these shirts for me? I declare my head's going round!"
She held the bundle out to Mary feebly, and, dropping on to the traveller's box, watched her with harassed eyes.
"Pa has three dozen of 'em," said Charlotte with pride, "'cos of the trouble of getting 'em washed when he goes about so much. I think, though, you lose 'em on the road, pa."
"It's a silly thought that's like ye," returned her parent shortly. "Young leddy, what dae ye mak' it?".
"There are only thirty-three here," replied Mary, struggling with a laugh, "and—-and one is thirty-four!"
"Thirty-three," exclaimed Mr. Macpherson, "and are is thirty-four! Twa shirts missin', twa shirts at five and saxpence apiece wasted—lost through repreheensible carelessness!" He sat down on the box by his wife's side, and contemplated her severely. "Aweel," he said at last, sociable under difficulties, "an' Collins was agreeable, ye tell me?"
"He was very nice indeed."
"Hoh!" he sighed, "ye will na mak' a penny by it. But the pursuit may serve tae occupy ye!"
"Not make a penny by it?" she ejaculated.
"Don't you mind him," said his partner; "he's got the 'ump, that's what's the matter with him!"
"It may serve tae occupy your mind," repeated Mr. Macpherson funereally; "'tis pleasant walkin' in the fine weather. Now mind ye, 'oman, I dinna leave withoot ma twa shirts. I canna banish them frae ma memory."
"Bless and save us, James, haven't I rummaged every drawer in the place?"
"I am for ever replenishing that thirty-sax, an' it is for ever short," he complained; "will ye no' look in the keetchen?"
She was absent some time on the quest, and Charlotte questioned Mary about the details of her interview at Messrs. Pattenden's. She said she knew that "Pa had been with them for several years," so the business could not be so unprofitable as he had just pretended. Appealed to for support, however, her pa sighed again, and it was obvious that he was impelled towards an unusually pessimistic view of everything that night. A brief reference to a "sink o' ineequity" was accepted as a comment upon the "wine-and-speerit" trade, but he had nothing cheerful to say of books, either; and, recognising the futility of attempting a graceful retreat, the visitor got up abruptly and wished them good-bye. Mrs. Macpherson joined her in the passage, without the shirts.
"Good-night, miss," she murmured; "don't be down in the mouth. Have plenty of cheek, and you'll get along like a house afire! As for me, I'm going back to the kitchen and mean to stop there."
At Mary's third step she called to her to come back.
"Never," she added, "go and settle down with a traveller. You're likely to fetch 'em, but don't do it!" She jerked her head towards the parlour. "A good man, my dear, but his shirts were my cross from our wedding-day!"
Mary assured her that the warning should be borne in mind, and left the little person wiping her brow. The remark about marrying, idle as it was, distressed her. Last night too there had been a mention of the possibility, and, knowing that she could never be any man's wife, the suggestion shook her painfully. How she had wrecked her life, she reflected, and for a man who had cared nothing for her!
The assertion that he cared nothing for her was bitterer to her soul than the knowledge that she had wrecked her life. To have a love despised is always a keener torture to a woman than to a man; for a woman surrenders herself less easily, thinks the more of what she is bestowing, and counts the treasures at her disposal over and over—ultimately for the sake of delighting in the knowledge of how much she is going to give. If one of the pearls that she has laid so reverently at her master's feet is left to lie there, she exonerates him and accuses herself. But his caresses never quite fill the unsuspected wound. If it happens that he neglects them all, then the woman, beggared and unthanked, wonders why the sun shines, and how people can laugh. Some women can take back a misdirected love, erase the superscription, and address it over again. Others cannot. Mary could not. She had lain in Seaton's arms and kissed him; pride bade her be ashamed of the memory; her heart found food in it. It was all over, all terrible, all a thing that she ought to shiver and revolt at. But the depth of her devotion had been demonstrated by the magnitude of her sin, and she was not able, because the sacrifice had been misprized, to say, "Therefore, in everything except my misery, it shall be as if I had never made it."
She could not, continually as she put its fever from her, wrench the tenderness out of her being, recall her guilt and forget its motive. The sin of her life had been caused by her love, and, come weal, come woe, come gratitude or callousness, a love that had been responsible for such a thing as that was not a sentiment to be plucked out and destroyed at the dictates of common-sense. It was not a thing that Carew could kill with baseness. She could have looked him in the face and sworn she hated him; she felt that, though that might not be quite true, she could never touch his hand nor sit in a room with him again. But neither her contempt for him nor for her own weakness could blot out the recollection of the hours of passion, the years of communion, when if one of them had said, "I should like," the other had replied, "Sayweshould!"
It was well for her that the exigencies of her situation were supplying anxieties which to a great extent penned her thoughts within more wholesome bounds. On the morrow her chief idea was to distinguish herself on her preliminary expedition. Mr. Collins, true to his promise, had prepared a list for her. The houses were all in the neighbourhood of the Abbey, and mostly, he informed her, the offices of civil engineers. He said civil engineers were a "likely class," the principal objection to them being that they were "so beastly irregular in their movements." When she had "worked Westminster," he added, he would start her among barristers and clergy-men.
"Come in, when you've done, and tell me how you've got on," he said pleasantly. "I suppose you haven't a pocket large enough to hold your specimen? Never mind! Keep it out of sight as much as you can when you ask for people; and ask for them as if you were going to give them a commission to build a bridge."
She smiled confidently; and, allaying the qualms of peddlery with the balm of prospective riches, on which she could advertise for other employment should this prove very uncongenial, she proceeded to the office marked "1."
It was in Victoria Street, and the name of the gentleman upon whom she was to intrude was painted, among a string of others, on a black board at the entrance. She paused and inspected this board longer than was necessary, so long that a porter in livery asked her whom she wanted? She told him, "Mr. Gregory Hatch"; to which he replied, "Third floor," evidently with the supposition that she would make use of the lift. She profited by this supposition of his, and felt an impostor to begin with. The name of "Gregory Hatch," with initials after it which conveyed no meaning to her, confronted her on a door as the lift stopped; and with a further decrease of ardour, she walked quickly in.
There were several consequential young men acting as clerks behind a stretch of mahogany, and, perceiving her, one of these lordly beings lounged forward, and descended from his high estate sufficiently to inquire, "What can I do for yer?" His bored and haughty glance took in the specimen.
"Is Mr. Hatch in?"
"I'll see," drawled the youth; he looked suspiciously at the specimen now, and it began to be cumbersome.
"Er, what name?"
"Miss Brettan."
He strolled into the apartment marked "Private," and a sickening certainty that, if she were admitted to it, the youth would be summoned directly afterwards to eject her, made her yearn to take flight before he reappeared. She was debating what excuse for a hurried departure she could offer, when the door was re-opened and he requested her to "step in, please."
An old gentleman of preoccupied aspect was busy at a desk; he and she were alone in the room.
"Miss—Brettan?" he said interrogatively. "Take a chair, madam."
He put his papers down, and waited, she was convinced, for his commission for a bridge. She took the seat that he had indicated, because she was too much embarrassed to decline it, and she immediately felt that this was going to be regarded as an additional piece of impertinence.
"I have called," she stammered—in her rehearsals she had never practised an introductory speech, and she abominated herself for the omission—"I have called, Mr.——" his name had suddenly sailed away from her—"with regard to a book I've been asked to show you by Messrs. Pattenden. If you'll allow me——"
She drew the specimen from the case and put it on the desk before him.
She was relieved to find him much less astonished than she had anticipated. He even fingered the thing tentatively, and she began to collect her wits. To take it into her hands, however, and expatiate on its merits leaf by leaf, was beyond her. She soothed her conscience by remarking it was a very nice book, really.
"It seems so," said the old gentleman. "The Album of Inventions, dear me! A new work?"
"Oh yes," she said, "new. It's quite new, it's quite a new work." She felt idiotic to keep repeating how new it was, but she could not think of anything else to say.
"Dear me!" said the old gentleman again. He appeared to be growing interested by the examination, and it looked within the regions of possibility that he might give an order. Up to that moment all her ambition had been to find herself in the street again without having been abused.
"The beauty of the work is," she said, "er—that it is so pithy. One so often wants to know something that one has forgotten about something: who thought of it, and how the other people managed before he did. I'm sure, Mr. Pattenden, that if you——"
"Hatch, madam—my name is Hatch!"
"I beg your pardon," she said—"I meant to say 'Mr. Hatch.' I was going to say that, if you care to take a copy of it, it is very cheap."
"And what may the price be?" he asked.
"It is in four volumes at twelve and sixpence," said Mary melodiously.
"The four?"
"Oh no—each! Thick volumes they are; do you think it's dear?"
"No," he said; "oh no!—a very valuable book, I've no doubt."
"Then perhaps you will give me an order for it?" she inquired, scarcely able to contain her elation.
"No," he said, still perusing an article, "I will not give an order for it; I have so many books."
She stared at him in blank disappointment while he read placidly to the end of a page.
"There," he said benevolently; "a capital work! It deserves to sell largely; the publishers should be hopeful of it. The plates are bold, and the matter seems to me of a high degree of excellence. The fault I usually condemn in such illustrations is the mistake of making 'pictures' of them, to the detriment of their usefulness; clearness is always the grand desideratum in an illustration of a mechanical contrivance. With this, the customary blunder has been avoided; in looking through the specimen I've scarcely detected one instance where I would suggest an alteration. And, though I wouldn't promise"—he laughed good-humouredly—"but what on a more careful inspection I might be forced to temper praise with blame, I'm inclined, on the whole, to give the book my hearty commendation."
"But will you buy it?" demanded Miss Brettan.
"No," said the old gentleman, "thank you; I never buy books—I have so many. No trouble at all; I am very pleased to have seen it. Allow me!"
He bowed her out with genial ceremony, and seemed to be under the impression that he had conferred a favour.
The next gentleman that she wanted to see was dead. Number 3 had gone on a trial-trip; and two other gentlemen were out of town. Number 6, on reference to her paper, proved to be a "Mr. Crespigny." His outer office much resembled that of Mr. Hatch, and more supercilious young men were busy behind a counter.
She waited while her name was taken in to him. On Mr. Collins's theory, this, the sixth venture, ought to result in half a guinea to her. She had by now arranged a little overture, and was ready to introduce herself in coherent phrases. Instead of her being admitted to the inner room, however, Mr. Crespigny came out, in the wake of his clerk, and it devolved upon her to explain her business publicly. He was a tall man with a pointed beard, and he advanced towards her in interrogative silence, flicking a cigarette. Her heart was thudding.
"Good-morning," she said; "Messrs. Pattenden, the publishers, have asked me to wait upon you with a specimen of a new work that——"
Mr. Crespigny deliberately turned his back, and walked to the threshold of the private office without a word. Regaining it, he spoke to the hapless clerk.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "don't you know a book-agent yet when you see one?"
He slammed the door behind him, and, with a sensation akin to having been slapped in the face, she hurried away. Her cheeks were hot; no retort occurred to her even when she stood on the pavement. Shewasa book-agent, a pest whose intrusion was always liable to be ridiculed or resented according to the bent of the person importuned. Oh, how hateful it was to be poor—"poor" in the fullest meaning of the term; to be compelled to cringe to cads, and swallow insults, and call it "wisdom" that one showed no spirit! An hour passed before she could nerve herself to make another attempt; Mr. Crespigny had taken all the pluck out of her. And when she repaired to Pattenden's her report was a chronicle of failures.
The exact answers obtained she had in many cases forgotten, and Mr. Collins advised her to jot down brief memoranda of the interviews in future, that he might be able to point out to her where her line of conduct had been at fault.
"Now, that set speech of yours was a mistake," he said. "What you want to do at the start is to get the man's attention—to surprise him into listening. Perhaps he has had half a dozen travellers bothering him already, all trying for an order for something or another, and all beginning the same way. Go in brightly. Don't let him know your business till you've got the specimen open under his nose. Cry, 'Well, Mr. So-and-So, here it is, out at last!' Say anything that comes into your head, but startle him at the beginning. He may think you're mad, but he'll listen from astonishment, and when you've woke him up you can show him that you're not."
"It's so awful," she said dejectedly.
"Awful?" exclaimed Mr. Collins. "Do you know the great Napoleon was a book-agent? Do you know that when he was a lieutenant without a red cent he travelled with a work calledL'Histoire de la Révolution? My dear young lady, if you go to Paris you can see his canvasser's outfit under a glass case in the Louvre, and the list of orders he succeeded in collaring!"
"I don't suppose he liked it."
"He liked the money it brought in; and you'll like yours directly. You don't imagine I expected you to do any good right off? I should have been much surprised if you'd come in with any different account this afternoon, I can tell you! No, no, you mustn't be disheartened because you aren't lucky at the start; and as to that Victoria Street fellow who was in a bad temper, what of him? He has to make his living, and you have to make yours; remember you're just as much in your rights as the man you're talking to when you make a call anywhere."
"Very good," said Mary; "if you are satisfied,Iam. I don't pretend my services are being clamoured for. You may be sure I want to do well with the thing. If, by putting my pride in my pocket, I can put an income there too, I'm ready to do it."
It became a regular feature of her afternoon visit at the publishers' for Mr. Collins to encourage her with prophecies of good fortune; and her anxiety was frequently assuaged by his consideration. On the first few occasions when she returned with her notes of "Out; Out; Doesn't need it; Never reads; Too busy to look," etc., she dreaded the additional chagrin of being rebuked for incompetence; but Mr. Collins was always complaisant, and perpetually assured her that she was enduring only the disappointments inevitable to a beginner. In his own mind he began to doubt her fitness for the occupation, but he liked her, and knowing that, in the trade phrase, some orders "booked themselves," he was willing to afford her the chance of making a trifle as long as she desired to avail herself of it. They were terrible days to Mary Brettan, wearing away without result, while her pitiful store of cash grew less and less; and since each day was so drearily long, it was amazing that a week passed so quickly. This is an anomaly especially conspicuous to lodgers, and when her bill was due again she beheld her landlady with despair.
"Mrs. Shuttle worth," she said, "I have done nothing; I hoped to pay you, and I can't. I'm not a cheat, though it looks like it; I am agent for a firm of publishers, and I haven't earned a single commission." Mrs. Shuttleworth scrutinised her grimly, and she held her breath. She might be commanded to leave, and as omnibus fares were an item of her expenditure now, no more than a shilling remained of the sum raised on the handbag. "What do you say?" she faltered.
"Well," said the other, "it's like this: I'm not 'ard and I don't say as I'd care to go and turn a respectable girl into the streets, for I know what I'd be doing. But I can't afford to lay out for your breakfas' and your tea with never a farthing coming back for it. Keep the room a bit, and the rent can wait; but I must ask you to get all your meals outside till we're straight again."
A lodger on sufferance; left with nothing to pawn, and possessed of a shilling to sustain life till she gained an order forThe Album of Inventions, Mary toiled up staircases with the specimen. To economise on remaining pounds may be managed with refinement; to be frugal of the last silver is possible with decency; but to be reduced to the depths of pence means a devilish hunger whose cravings cannot be stilled for more than an hour at a time, and a weakness that mounts from limbs to brain till the throat contracts, and the eyeballs ache from exhaustion. However fatigued her fruitless expeditions might have made her now, she went back to the publishing-house enduringly afoot, grudging every halfpenny, husbanding the meagre sum with the tenacity of deadly fear. The windows of the foreign restaurants with viands temptingly displayed and tastefully garnished, the windows of the English cook-shops, into which the meats were thrown, enchanted her eye as she would never have believed that food could have the power to do. She understood what starvation was; began to understand how people could be brought to thieve by it, and exculpated them for doing so. Without her clothes becoming abruptly shabby, the aspect of the woman deteriorated from her internal consciousness. She carried herself less confidently; she lost the indefinable air that distinguishes the freight from the flotsam on the sea of life. Little things sent the fact home to her. Drivers ceased to lift an inquiring fore-finger when she passed a cab-rank, and once, when an address on her list proved to be a private house, the servant asked her "Who from?" instead of "What name?"
Inch by inch she fought for the ground that was slipping under her, affecting cheerfulness when the specimen was exhibited, and hiding desperation when she restored it, a failure, to its case. The sight of Victoria Street and its neighbourhood came to be loathsome to her. Often her instructions took her on to different floors of the same building day after day; and, fancying that the hall-porters divined why she reappeared so often, she entered with the misgiving that they might forbid her to ascend.
It was no shock to her at last to issue from the lodging beggared. She had felt so long that the situation was inevitable that she accepted its coming almost apathetically. She faced the usual day, mounting the flights of stairs, and drooping down them, a shade the weaker for the absence of the pitiful breakfast. It was not until one o'clock that the hopelessness of routine was admitted. Then, the prospect of the journey to reach her room again was intimidating enough; she did not even return to Pattenden's; she went slowly back and lay down on the bed, managing to forget her hunger intermittently in snatches of sleep.
Towards evening the pangs faded altogether. But incidents of years ago recurred to her without any effort of the will, impelling her to cry feebly at the recollection of some unkind answer that she had once given, at a hurt expression that she saw again on her father's face. During the night her troubles were reflected in her dreams, and at morning she woke hollow-eyed.
It was labour to her to dress. But she did not feel hungry, she felt only dazed. She drank a glassful of water from the bottle on the wash-hand-stand, and, driven to exertion by necessity, took her way to the publishers', moving among the crowd torpidly, not acutely conscious of her surroundings.
Mr. Collins exclaimed at her appearance and strongly advised her to go home and rest.
"You don't look the thing at all," he said with genuine concern. "Stay indoors to-day; you won't do any good if you're not well."
She smiled wistfully at his idea that staying indoors would improve matters.
"I shan't be any better for not going out," she said. "Yes, give me the list. Only don't expect me to come in and report; I shan't feel much like doing that."
He wrote a few names for her.
"I shan't give you many to-day," he said. "Here are half a dozen; try these!"
"Thank you," said Mary; "I'll try these." She went down, and out into the street once more. The rattle of the traffic roared in her ears; the jam and jostle of the pavements confused her. She felt like a child buffeted by giants, and could have lifted her arms, wailing to God to let the end be now—to let her die quickly and quietly, and without much pain.