It was all working out now exactly as Ralph had hoped and wished for. Never had he admired Mary quite so much as he did at that moment. And yet his heart smote him as he realised that after all there was something akin to harshness in his action. Still, the case would have been very much the same had he declared his identity and proclaimed the fact that he was the proper owner of Dashwood Hall.
Mary would in that case have remained in much the same position, though the situation would have perhaps lacked its present dramatic features. Mary stood there with a proud look on her face; she was ready to meet the world and conquer it single-handed. How many bright strong young lives had set forth with the same cheerfulness and failed! Still, it was a step in the right direction, Ralph thought.
"Had you not better give the thing further consideration?" he said. "In the ways of the world you are little better than a child. Of your courage and resolution there is no doubt. But there are other qualities needed to make a living today. You must have a good knowledge of some business or profession."
"I can paint," Mary said. "Many people have told me that I should have made an artist if I had had to earn my own living."
Ralph nodded grimly. He had seen several of the girl's drawings. There was no necessity to point out the vast difference between the best efforts of the amateur and the finished work of the professional, tricks of the trade learned frequently after years of bitter struggling.
It seemed a pity to discourage Mary at the outset of her career. And Ralph was not anxious for the girl's success. He turned the situation over rapidly in his mind.
"You can try," he said. "There is a friend of mine, the daughter of a once famous general officer who gets her living by working for the cheap illustrated papers. She has no great talent, but she manages to get a living. If you like, I will write to her and ask her to----"
"It will be too late," Mary cried, "I am going tonight. I could not stay here a day longer after what has happened. The mere sight of the old house brings the tears to my eyes and makes me feel weak and irresolute. I have something like thirty pounds in money and a little jewellery. And my maid has given me the address of a respectable woman who lets lodgings.
"Oh, I shall be happy enough when I am away from here and have plenty of hard work to do. Only the other day I was reading a story about a girl, like myself, who went to London and began to work for the magazines. It made a different creature of her; for the first time in her life she was really happy."
"She made a large income from the start," Ralph smiled, "and presently she had a great hit with an Academy picture. Subsequently she married the editor--proprietor of a popular paper--and he bought the old home for her?"
"You have read the story?" Mary asked.
"Indeed I haven't," Ralph replied. "There are so many stories like that that I had no difficulty in imagining the plot. Oh, if you only knew how different the real is from the ideal! Still, I would not dissuade you from your ambition for a moment. It will do you all the good in the world. But you shall not go alone."
Mary glanced haughtily at the speaker. There was an air of command, a suggestion of possession, about the speech that the girl resented. Who was Ralph Darnley that he should adopt this tone towards her? And at the same time Mary knew that he was the one friend she had, if she did not count Lady Dashwood.
It was a melancholy confession, but Mary had made no friends. For the most part members of her own sex did not like her, she was too cold and self-contained for them. She did not enter into their sentiments and pleasures. It had not been the girl's own fault so much as the fault of her environment.
And now she was going out into the world alone with a few pounds in her possession, and with not a soul to give her a helping hand. There was something very pathetic about it, Ralph thought. She knew so very little as to what lay before her.
"I wish you would wait till tomorrow," he murmured.
"No," Mary said with a proud toss of her head. "It is not the slightest use trying to break my resolution. I tell you I could not remain here, I could not stay even with Lady Dashwood, knowing that my father was sponging on the good nature of the man at the Hall. It seems a dreadful thing to me----"
"That is a most improper observation to make," Dashwood said peevishly. "A most impertinent remark to address to a father."
"I am very sorry," Mary said penitently, "it seemed the only word to use. And it does hurt me so dreadfully to see how coolly you have cast your pride aside. If you will come with me, father, I will work for both. We should at any rate have the consolation of knowing that we have done nothing to sully the name of Dashwood."
The girl spoke pleadingly, with a yearning tenderness in her voice that Ralph had never heard before. He was rejoiced to see the lesson of adversity working so soon. For his own part, he could not have resisted that seductive invitation.
"Certainly not," Dashwood replied. "Nothing of the kind. I have no desire to make the acquaintance of what people call apartments. I went to see a poor friend of mine in apartments once. I saw his dinner. Good heavens! what a repulsive mess it was. Served up by a red-headed maid-of-all-work, with a black smudge on her face. No, no, I prefer the graceful hospitality of my friend--er--Sir Vincent Dashwood."
Mary turned in the direction of the door as if the discussion were closed.
"I am disappointed," she said. "But there is nothing to be gained by standing here talking over my determination. I am going as far as the Hall to say goodbye to some of the old servants, and hope to catch the 7.05 train to London. As I said before, I know where to go when I reach my journey's end."
Mary passed out into the peaceful sunshine of the garden. Lady Dashwood looked imploringly at Ralph, who smiled in reply. From the bottom of his heart, he was feeling for the girl, but he did not falter in his purpose. It was very brave of Mary, but at the same time very pathetic. Ralph stole after the lonely figure; he found her standing by the old sundial in the garden. Her fingers were tracing idly over the quaint inscription on the stone. Ralph could see that her eyes were filled with tears.
"Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not," Mary whispered. "And you are the only friend I have, besides Lady Dashwood. I have not the art of making friends: I never had sympathy with the pastimes and pleasures of the ordinary girl of my class; I did not feel lonely here, because it was so lovely a place. Dashwood Hall was always sufficient for me. And now when I come to leave it, it breaks my heart to go. You will laugh at me perhaps, but I have a strange feeling as if I had the whole world to myself and that there was nobody else in it. It is as if everybody had turned away from me. There was even something that hurt me today in the way that Mr. Mayfield let me know that I was free as far as he was concerned. I dread the thought of living by myself in London, the idea makes me tremble. I, who have been so cold and proud, will have to approach people and ask favours at their hands. I hope you understand me; it is dreadful when nobody understands me."
Ralph made no reply for a moment, he was afraid to trust his own voice.
"You are a very woman," he said at length. "With your pride and your coldness there are the same impulses and passions common to yourself and the meanest of us. As to this pride of yours, I regard it as a hateful thing. What is a Dashwood living on a fortune that none of you have ever earned, compared with the man or woman who has risen superior to circumstances and made an honoured name in the world? The girl who goes out and gets her own living, or to support a widowed mother, is far superior to you. But I say these things loving you with my whole heart and soul and being, and hope that some day I shall call you my wife. I want to see all that harshness and coldness of yours cast to the wind, I want to see your face sweet in sympathy with poor humanity. But you are not going the lonely way as you seem to imagine. I am going to look after you; I will not be far away. For the present my work is finished here, and there are powerful calls that take me to London also in a day or two. You will let me see you, Mary; you will let me bring you and my young artist friend together?"
"I shall be glad indeed to see you," Mary cried, holding out her hand with an impulse that she would have found it hard to account for. "Oh, I am not so strong and self-reliant that I need nobody to confide in. The more my mind dwells on the future, the more I seem to dread it. And you have been so good and kind to me, I owe so much to you. I begin to see that there are gentlemen in the world, though they boast of no pedigree, and----"
"Well, that is a good lesson learned," Ralph smiled. "Let me walk with you as far as the Hall, for I have a telegram to send from the village. And then, if you will allow me, I will return to the dower house with you. There are one or two things that I have to say before you go."
Mary smiled through her tears; for a second her soul seemed to show in her eyes.
It was a long telegram that Ralph despatched from the village, for he only received a few pence out of the half-sovereign that he placed on the counter. The operator sighed at the prodigious task before him. Then Ralph went off in the direction of the Hall to wait for Mary in the park. It was some time before she came; the children of the villagers passed on their way from school, and presently Slight came along, with something like a frown on his rosy, wrinkled little face. He eyed Ralph with marked disfavour.
"What's this about Miss Mary, Sir Ralph?" he asked. "Perhaps I shouldn't have called you by that name. But Miss Mary has been up to the Hall to say goodbye. She says she is going to London for good, and that she is not coming back again. Going to try to get her own living, or some such foolishness."
"Your manner is not respectful, Slight," Ralph said coldly.
"I can't help it, sir," Slight replied. "Really, I can't. I love Miss Mary as if she had been a child of my own. I taught her to ride, I taught her--but there! If you only knew what a heart of gold she has! And now to go and soil those pretty hands with work. And you could prevent it by holding up your little finger. Thank God, there is no occasion for me to stay at the Hall, for I've saved enough for my old age, though I don't deny that it will be a wrench. And tomorrow the whole lot of us are going to hand in our resignation in a body."
"Indeed, you are not going to do anything of the sort," Ralph said sternly. "Don't let me hear any more of this folly. If youdogo, you will not come back again when this present head of the family has gone his way, which will be only a matter of a few months at the outside. I look to you to stop the silly action, Slight. I have given you my word before that this thing is not likely to be permanent. And when you come to know everything, you will see how wisely I have acted in the matter."
Slight's indignation cooled as quickly as it had heated. He scratched his white head in some perplexity. And the look he turned upon Ralph was one of fatherly affection.
"How like your father you do speak, sir," he said. "I suppose you must have your own way as he used to. And if I hadn't been a wicked old rascal these things would never have happened at all. My sin has found me out sorely."
"I am getting tired of this," Ralph said impatiently. "What sin are you alluding to? And Lady Dashwood is always harping on the same string. What wickedness were you two up to in the old days? What does it mean?"
"So her ladyship has not told you, sir?" Slight asked in a whisper. "She never told you about the old Squire and your father's first wife Maria Edgerton? She was the daughter of a farmer across the valley. The most beautiful creature that I ever set eyes on. Well, well, to think that you didn't know."
"I don't know," Ralph said. "My father never spoke of his first wife. And yet I always felt that his love for her was the passion of his life. He was a good husband to my mother, but still--and now you are going to tell me that story, Slight."
"Begging your pardon, sir, I'm not going to do anything of the kind," Slight said shortly. "I couldn't dream of doing anything of the kind without her ladyship's permission. You ask her, and she will tell you everything; indeed you have the right to know. And don't you worry about the servants at the Hall, because they will do exactly as I tell them. Make it as soon as you can, sir, for the old place doesn't seem the same without the lovely face and the blue eyes of Miss Mary looking after us. I'm an old man, and for over fifty years I've served the Dashwoods faithfully, and it does seem rather hard to think that I shall have to go on fawning and cringing to an impostor like the man who calls himself Sir Vincent Dashwood. There won't be much of the fine old cellar left if he stays here any time, I can tell you."
"Patience, Slight," Ralph replied. "It is only a matter of months. Here is Miss Mary coming down the avenue. I shall look after her, I would not have one hair of her head injured. And some day perhaps, Slight, if the fates are good to me, you will be serving me as you served my grandfather, with Miss Mary as mistress of Dashwood by my side. That is my desire. Slight, that is the one great ambition of my life. And you can keep that secret with the rest."
Ralph turned away and joined Mary as she came down the avenue. She tried to smile, but her lips were white and unsteady.
"That is finished," she said, with a brave attempt at cheerfulness. "It is awful to think that I shall never see the dear old place again. But I am not going to give way, I am going to show the world how a Dashwood can behave when trouble comes."
The girl drew up her head with an air of pride, she never seemed quite to forget what the family required of her. It was in moments like these that Ralph loved her least. It was this very foolish self-consciousness that he desired to conquer.
"It does not require a Dashwood to do that," he said. "Thousands of people make these noble sacrifices every day, and take no credit to themselves for it. When you get out into the world you will see another kind of pride and courage and devotion that will put your fetish to shame. If I were to say that this is the best thing that could happen to you, you would laugh the idea to scorn. Nevertheless, it is absolutely true. What money have you?"
"Perhaps thirty pounds," Mary explained; "and certain articles of jewelry. But I am not going to part with them like the girl in the story did."
Ralph felt by no means so sure of that, but he said nothing. He was very silent till the dower house was reached, silent and a little guilty too, for he it was who had brought this about. He was sending Mary into the world to battle for her life alone. On the whole, he was not sorry that the girl had refused Lady Dashwood's offer of a home;thatwas a specimen of the right kind of pride at any rate. And yet, now that the hour of Mary's departure drew near, he dreaded the parting. After all, the experiment was a cruel one, it was not yet too late to save the situation.
Lady Dashwood was crying now; the dogcart stood by the great stone porch; Dashwood fidgeted about in a half-shamed kind of way, yet frowning disapproval of the whole business.
"Really, we are making a deal of fuss about nothing," he said. "Anybody would think that Mary was being led away to instant execution, instead of behaving in a way that makes me thoroughly ashamed of her. It is my clear duty to exercise my parental authority. As it is I am not going to do anything of the kind. Mary shall have her lesson. She will very soon get tired of playing the part of the unattached female. She will be back in a week."
And this was Mary's farewell greeting as she drove away from the dower house. She kept her face steady, and looked neither right nor left, not that she could see anything, for her eyes were blinded with tears. Behind the tears, one vision stood out bright and clear--the strong, reliant face of Ralph Darnley, the warm pressure of whose grip still tingled on Mary's fingers. It was good to know that she had one true friend.
The station was reached at last, and Mary was alone. She dismissed the dogcart; she did not want the groom to see that she was going to travel third class. It was rather a snobbish idea, and Mary despised herself for it accordingly. The porter and the ticket officer looked astonished as Mary asked the third-class fare to Victoria. How little things seemed to remind her of what had been!
"I am going third," she said firmly. "Will you please to see that my two baskets are placed in the luggage van, Gibbons?"
Gibbons touched his cap respectfully. It was the last outward recognition of her social station that Mary was destined to receive for some time to come. She had a vague idea of a carriage to herself, where she could have an hour or so to regain her composure. She had never had any difficulty in this way when travelling before. But first-class passengers, liberal towards the guard, and third-class trippers, are different things, as Mary speedily discovered. The train was very full, so full that Mary was content at last to find herself packed with nine other people in a stuffy compartment, including a crying child and a surly workman, who smoked a foul pipe and spat liberally on the floor. One window was closed for the benefit of the fretting infant and the poisonous atmosphere of the place caused Mary to turn faint and giddy. Long before she reached Victoria her head was aching, her temples throbbing horribly.
Noblesse oblige!It was by no means a promising start, but Mary was not going to take her hand from the plough yet. And that dreadful journey could not last for ever. Victoria was reached at length, and it was possible to breathe a little comparatively fresh air again. Mary saw her two dress baskets placed on the platform and looked at them in a helpless kind of manner. Hitherto a maid or a footman had done all this kind of thing for her. An impatient porter wanted to know whether the boxes were to go on a cab or whether they were to be left in the cloak room.
"Make up your mind, miss," he said rudely. "I can't stand here all day."
"A four-wheeler," Mary gasped. "I--I'm sorry, but my head aches so dreadfully that I can't even think properly. Will you call a cab for me?"
The porter summoned a cab gruffly and the baskets were placed on top. Mary's proffered coppers purchased a certain amount of civility so that the porter asked the address. Mary gasped and stared in a blank kind of way. She had absolutely forgotten the address. She recollected now that she had left the card on the hall table at the dower house. How she longed from the bottom of her heart to be back there again in that cool shadow. But the grimy face of the cabman recalled her to her senses.
"I have stupidly left the address behind me," she said. "I remember the street, and I daresay you can inquire when you get there. I am very sorry----"
"Miss Dashwood, I think," a cool, firm voice, with a subtle suggestion of laughter in it, smote on Mary's ears. "So you have forgotten the address. Not that it matters in the least, for you are coming with me. You haven't taken your room?"
"No," Mary stammered. She was utterly taken off her dignity by the easy manner of the stranger. "I had the address given me, the address of a respectable woman near the British Museum who had apartments to let. Unfortunately, I left the paper behind me. But you will excuse me if I say that I have not the pleasure----"
"Oh, that is all right," the stranger said. "I'm a friend of Ralph Darnley's. He sent me a very long telegram today to a certain extent explaining the position of affairs, and asking me to meet you and place my services at your disposal. Perhaps you have heard Ralph speak of me, Connie Colam."
"Only today," Mary said; "and then he did not allude to you by name. Still, it is very kind of you to take all this trouble, especially for a stranger like myself. How did you recognise me?"
"There were what the Americans call 'pointers' in the telegram," Miss Colam laughed. "But please get in or we shall have the cabman abusive, and that is a consummation decidedlynotto be wished. Please drive to 16, Keppel Terrace."
The rickety vehicle got under way at length to Mary's great relief. She laid her aching head back against the dirty cushions, wondering if in the whole weary world there was another girl as miserable and heartsick as she was. She raised her hot lids presently to the face of her companion. The critical edge was already dulled, but in no circumstances could Mary have disapproved of her companion. A very dainty and refined face was Connie Colam's, with a pleasant frank expression and a sensitive mouth. At the same time she did not lack in certain suggestions of courage and resolution.
"I hope you approve of me," she said demurely.
"I like your face, if that is what you mean," Mary replied. "I shall be able to thank you presently for all your spontaneous kindness. Meanwhile, I have the most dreadful headache. After we have found my rooms----"
"Oh, your rooms are found already. For the present you are going to stay with me. We are going to join forces. My late chum has gone to Paris for a year, and you are going to occupy her bedroom. That is all arranged."
Mary murmured something that was intended for gratitude. She had always professed a profound contempt for the helpless type of girl who lets things drift, but she was letting herself drift now with her eyes wide open. And though she was not prepared to admit it, she was almost hysterically glad of the companionship and sympathy of the stranger. As she stood on the platform a little time before, the horrible sense of desolation had gripped her, the awful feeling of loneliness that comes to the friendless in London.
Yes, she was passionately glad of this companion. She did not even desire to know whether Connie came of a good family or not, her one idea now was to lie down and get rid of a wretched wearing headache. Where was her pride of race and station now? Where were the force and courage that rose above circumstances and fought physical weakness under? Mary was content to leave everything to her companion--the paying of the cabman, the arranging of her boxes, the setting out of her various treasures.
"Now you are going to lie down at once," Connie said. "I'll bathe your head with Eau de Cologne, and as soon as I have settled you comfortably, I'll make you a cup of tea. It is one of my great accomplishments. I make my own tea from my own private supply. You lie there and think of nothing."
Mary closed her aching eyes; the touch of those deft kindly hands was very soothing. The air was full of the faint scent, and gradually Mary dropped into a sleep. It was an hour later before she opened her eyes again; the stinging pain had gone. Connie stood by the side of the bed with a cup of tea in her hand.
"You are better," she cried. "I can see that in your eyes. And what beautiful blue eyes they are. A little cold, perhaps, but they won't be so cold when they have looked at the world through our spectacles. Now drink your tea, and when you feel up to it you can come and look at the sitting-room."
Mary was almost herself again when she entered the sitting-room. It was a fairly large room, with a dining-table in the centre and a large table, littered with brushes and paints and panels, which stood in the window looking on to the street. A score of sketches in black and white faced Mary. So far as she could see, it was clever work, but not the kind that appealed to her. The sketches partook of the light and frivolous kind, some of them had more or less feeble jokes attached.
"Are these yours?" Mary asked. "Are they studies of some kind?"
"Not at all," Connie said cheerfully. "They are translations from the Yankees. The originals are very clear, but a little too trans-Atlantic for our stolid English taste. So I more or less copy them and my editor adapts the jokes. I do six of them every week forThe Wheezer, which is a very useful commission for me."
"But that sounds like piracy almost," Mary exclaimed.
"Perhaps it is," Connie said in the same cheerful way. "It is pretty easy work, and I get six shillings a drawing. That is an average of thirty-six shillings a week. I know artists who have exhibited in the Academy who are glad to accept such a commission. It is better than working for theRazzle Dazzleanyway."
Mary shuddered. In a way theRazzle Dazzlewas familiar to her. She had once caught one of the stable boys deep in that appalling mass of bad printing and worse literature.
"So you have actually worked for that paper?" she managed to say.
"Oh, yes. Two shillings a drawing, and pay once a month. Do you know that theRazzle Dazzleis a property worth £10,000 a year? Their serials are imported from America, and dressed up by hacks, who get two shillings a column for their work. TheWheezeris far better than that. Besides, it is practice. Some day I hope to drop this kind of thing and get regular commissions for the better-class weekly papers. The illustrating of stories in the sixpenny magazines is the goal of my ambition."
All this was so frank and open that Mary could not resent the tone of the speaker. And yet she paled at the degradation of the class of labour.
"It must be very trying work for a lady," she said. "I mean for a lady born."
"Perhaps it is," Connie said thoughtfully. "But it is not so trying as your landlady in the room demanding her back rent, coupled with a threat that if it is not paid tomorrow she will put your boxes into the street. And that has happened to me more than once, though my father was a general officer and my mother the daughter of an archdeacon. I was quite alone in the world then; I will never forget it. Try to fancy what it means for a young friendless girl to be turned into the streets of London! I dream of it at night sometimes. . . . That afternoon I walked into the office of theRazzleand told one of the assistant editors how I stood. It was like dragging the words from me. And he gave me some work to do, and I sat up all night over it. Soon after that I was carrying just one solitary sovereign. But what a lot that little coin meant to me! And that is why I have a tender spot in my heart for that unspeakable oldRazzle. But I don't know why I am worrying you with all these sordid details."
"Go on," Mary said in a hushed, awed voice. "You are opening up a new world to me. You are making me feel ashamed of what I had hitherto regarded as an exemplary life."
"We'll go into that presently," Connie said. "I've got to go and see a friend of mine who is ill. We take her work and try to sell it. If it sells, well and good. If not, we say that it has gone, and make up the money amongst us. It sounds wrong, but it is meant in the proper spirit. I shan't be long. Ring the bell and ask the landlady to clear away."
Connie vanished from the room, apparently taking all the sunshine with her, and Mary proceeded to ring the bell. She wondered vaguely how many years it was since she had entered that house. She did not hear the landlady address her at first.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said. "Yes, I am going to stay here for the present with Miss Colam. You are Mrs. Speed. . . . Where have I seen you before? Your face is so very familiar to me. It brings back recollections of my early childhood. You make me feel as if all this has happened before."
"I know the feeling, miss," the landlady said. "But I don't suppose you have ever seen me. My very early days were spent on the estate of Sir Ralph Dashwood, of Dashwood Hall. Maybe you have heard of it, miss?"
Just for a moment Mary felt inclined to disclose her identity. It warmed her heart and brought tears to her eyes to hear this kind of voice from the past. The wound of separation was too recent for Mary not to feel it keenly. The woman's face was so familiar, too; it reminded the girl oddly of somebody else, somebody that she did not like, but to whom for the moment she could not give a name.
Then Mary's pride came back to her and the natural impulse to confide in the woman was crushed down.
"I suppose I made a mistake," she said. "After all, it is not an uncommon thing to find chance likenesses to your friends in other people. You must find London a great change after being brought up in the country."
The woman sighed deeply and a look of pain came into her eyes. It was evident that she had felt the change far more cruelly than Mary had imagined. The girl longed to ask further questions, but she restrained her curiosity. Nor could Connie Colam throw any light on the subject after she returned. She knew very little about Mrs. Speed, except that she was a widow with a grown-up son, who had been a great trouble to her. The son appeared occasionally, and Mrs. Speed always seemed to be in deep distress afterwards. Mary was still debating the matter in her mind at bedtime. After breakfast the following morning there were more important matters to occupy her attention.
"Now you are going to show me what you can do," Connie said cheerfully. "I take it that you have come up here with a view to getting your own living. If you have any money----"
"You may get that idea out of your mind altogether," Mary smiled. "I have a very few pounds to keep me going for the present, and a little jewellery to fall back upon. I have not been used to this kind of life, and I shall probably find it trying at first. But I am going to succeed. We have lost our position socially and financially, and I would not be beholden to those who have taken our place. I need not say more than that."
"That is just as you please," Connie said somewhat coldly. "I see you are terribly proud and reserved, but you will grow out of that. And I like your face. But please don't make up your mind that it is a very easy thing for a girl to get her living in London. When you come to know the inside of a pawnshop, and share the last sixpence with a friend, you will be all the sweeter and better for it. Now show me your work."
Not without some pardonable pride, Mary displayed her drawings. There were pretty landscapes in water colours, studies of groups of flowers in oils, and the like, all the conventional kind of stuff that girls produce at finishing schools under the eye of some discreet and clever master. But they did not seem to impress Connie, who handled them with some contempt. Mary's sensitive face flushed.
"You do not seem to care for them," she said with a challenge in her voice.
"Oh, it isn't that," Connie replied. "It's the uselessness of the things. I daresay that a good many of your friends have seriously advised you take up art as a career."
"Two or three people," Mary protested, "who are in a position to judge."
"Oh, I know all about that," Connie said without ceremony. "It was just the same with me in the happy days. My dear Mary, that pretty, pretty stuff of yours is all very well to bring you in flattery from bazaar managers, but the milk-stool school of art is no good when you get into the market. Painters, real painters, mind, not daubers like us, find colour work dreadfully hard to sell. There isn't a dealer who would give you five shillings for what you have there. Could you do work like mine, for instance?"
"I'm afraid that I should not care to attempt it," Mary said coldly.
"There you go! Too vulgar for you, of course! You would never get the price of your lodgings out of your class of work, believe me. I know, because I tried it myself. But you will need to have your lesson like the rest of us, and I will give you the names of a few of the most likely dealers in London. You start off directly after breakfast and go the round of them. I shan't be back to luncheon because I've got an hour or two on one of the evening papers getting out sketches of a fashion plate for a lady's page."
Mary grasped eagerly at the suggestion. She wanted to prove that Connie was wrong. With her head high and heart full of hope, she set off presently.
On the whole, it was a morning to be remembered. It was hot and stuffy, and Mary was not accustomed to the blistering, trying heat of London pavements. She was tired and worn out and her head ached terribly by the time she got back. Nor was there any difference in the weight and contents of her portfolio.
Alas, for the blood of the Dashwoods! It was all the same to those flinty-hearted dealers. Mary might have been the meanest beggar in London for all the reception she met with. Struck by her distinguished appearance and haughty beauty, a cringing shop assistant or proprietor would probably ask her business, but what a change when the portfolio was produced! It was the same in one shop after another, contemptuous inspection, rude denial, a suggestion that the shopkeeper had more rubbish already than he knew what to do with. The tears were at the back of Mary's eyes now; unconsciously her voice grew soft and pleading. One dealer, a little kinder than the rest, did suffer the drawings to be laid out before him.
"No use, my dear," he said with a sympathetic familiarity that, strange to say, Mary could not bring herself to resent. "Bless your soul, cheap lithographs and German reproductions have driven them out of the market. If you offered me the lot at half-a-crown each I couldn't take them. It'll save you a lot of trouble and disappointment if you put the whole batch on the fire. Why should I buy that group of flowers for five shillings when I can sell you a photogravure of Watts's for half the money? Your work has been out of date since the mid-Victorian period."
It was the same everywhere, not so kindly expressed. At one o'clock Mary returned to her lodgings utterly tired out and ready to cry in the bitterness of her disappointment. How hard people were to one another, she thought. It never occurred to her that this hardness had been her own great besetting sin in the past. She was even inclined to quarrel with Connie because the latter's prophecy had come so cruelly true.
But Connie was not in yet, and therefore Mary had to fight out her trouble alone. Still, she had learned already a deeper and more important lesson than she was aware of. She began to see that there was a world beyond the narrow limit of the Dashwood horizon. There were other men and women living in the world quite as worthy of respect. Mary took her sketches and dropped them one by one slowly into the empty grate. Then she put a match to them and watched them burn away to ashes. It was a full and complete confession of failure, and Mary felt all the better for it. She rang the bell for a glass of milk to drink with her frugal meal that was already set out on the table.
Nobody came in reply to her ring. Mary was not aware that it was an understood thing in a general way that nobody rang the bell except at stated times such as just after breakfast and the like. In houses of that class the lodgers were expected to be away all day more or less. Otherwise, they were really obliged to look after themselves. After the third ring Mary went downstairs to investigate.
So far as she could judge the house was deserted. The dingy first floor smelt horribly of cheap, stale, cigar smoke. The sordidness of the whole thing struck Mary with peculiar and unpleasant force. It was all so totally different to what she had been accustomed to. She wondered where Mrs. Speed was to be found.
Then voices came from the dining-room, voices raised in anger. A man and a woman there were quarrelling violently. It seemed to Mary that the man's voice was familiar to her, but she could not be quite certain as yet.
She made up her mind to go down into the basement--the dark, warm basement that seemed to reek with the ghastly smells of bygone meals. Mary wondered how people could live in an atmosphere like that. She was standing in doubt at the head of the kitchen stairs when from the dining-room she heard her own name.
There was no mistaking the allusion to Dashwood. Quite naturally Mary stood to listen. It was the man in the dining-room who was speaking.
"I tell you I must have it," he said. "What reason have you got to be fond of the name of Dashwood? It never brought us any good. If Ralph Dashwood had not been a fool, and you had played your cards right, you might be living at the dower house now, with a handsome income and a staff of servants to wait upon you."
The woman made some kind of reply that Mary could not quite catch, though she knew by the choke in the voice that she was sobbing. The man resumed.
"I tell you I must have it," he said. "No use to tell me that you haven't got the letters; for I have seen them in your possession. It's a letter sent from Lady Dashwood to her son and the date is 9th September, 1884. Now you make a note of that, please. If I don't have it, I shall find myself in serious trouble. What game am I playing? I'm playing for more money than you ever dreamed of."
"Money!" the woman said bitterly, "that is always your cry. But it has not prevented you from taking all mine. And I owe three quarters' rent, which has to be paid tomorrow. If it isn't paid tomorrow, I shall be sold up and turned into the street."
No reason to tell Mary now that it was Mrs. Speed who was speaking. She recognised the tired, faded voice by this time. But the other voice was still more familiar.
"That's bad," the man was saying, "why didn't you let me know that things had got to this pass? I daresay I could have helped you."
"No, you would have promised to," Mrs. Speed cried, "and disappointed me at the last moment. All my savings have gone into your pocket; you have wheedled everything out of me till I haven't so much as a penny left. And now you come here for more of those letters! That you are up to no good I feel certain. I know by your dress and style that you have had the command of money. What are you doing there?"
"Never you mind," the man said sulkily, "you'll know all in good time. I'm playing for a big stake, and for once in a way it has turned up trumps. Only; I want that particular letter. When I get the letter I can answer certain questions. Give me the letter, and I'll pledge my word that within a week you shall have all the money you require. Only you are to ask no questions, and you are not to move away from here, mind that!"
"Oh, if I could get away from here!" Mrs. Speed sobbed. "Give me a chance of earning my living, and that is all I ask for. I'll ask the agent to give me another week, though I am afraid he won't do it. I've put him off too often."
It was perhaps wrong of Mary to stand listening, but some fascination held her to the spot. She had a strong desire to see who the man with the familiar voice was.
"Then you are going to let me have the letter?" he said.
"I suppose so," came the weary response. "Never a thing yet that you made up your mind to have that you didn't coax out of me. But the letters are hidden in a box at the top of the house, and they will take some finding. Come again tomorrow at the same time, and I'll see what I can do for you. But if I consulted my own inclination I should go and see Lady Dashwood and tell her everything. I am sick of this intrigue and mystery."
The man said something in a soothing kind of voice, and then followed a sound like a kiss. Then a match was struck, and the heavy, dense atmosphere became impregnated with the smell of fresh tobacco, after which the dining-room door opened and the man came into the hall.
Mary walked swiftly back to the foot of the stairs. Without being noticed now, she had a good view of the man's face. She started, but managed to check the exclamation that rose to her lips. No wonder that the voice had been familiar to her. For she was gazing at the dark, sinister features of Sir Vincent Dashwood!
It was only for a moment, and then the front door opened and the man swaggered out. Without troubling any further about her milk, Mary crept up the stairs again. She had plenty now to occupy her thoughts. What was that man doing here, and what letter was it that he was so anxious to obtain? And why had he so powerful an influence over Mrs. Speed? It was open to Mary to ask the question, but she decided to do nothing of the kind.
After all, questions of this sort would be worse than useless. They would only arouse the suspicion and perhaps incur the curiosity of Mrs. Speed. Still, the whole thing was a most extraordinary coincidence--not quite so much of a coincidence perhaps if Mary had looked into the mind of Ralph Darnley?
But as the girl could not do so, she had to figure out the problem as best she could. She recalled vividly to mind now the strange suggestions made by Lady Dashwood as to a great sin in the past with which she was intimately connected. And here, according to Mrs. Speed, the latter was an accomplice either before or after the fact. And why did the man who came here in such urgent need of a certain letter require that document, seeing that he had been accepted all around as Sir Vincent Dashwood?
Mary was still pondering the problem when Connie came back. The latter was her own bright and cheerful self again, she had done a good morning's work, and she had been paid for it to the extent of nearly a sovereign. She was inclined to take a light view of life. She made no allusion to the portfolio, for which Mary was grateful.
"I am very hungry," she said. "How nice this pressed beef is, and the lettuce, too! I have had better, but as things go in London they are very good."
Mary was silent. The beef was stringy and a little dry, the lettuce wilted and yellow. In her mind's eye the girl could see the luncheon table of the dower house at this particular moment; she could see the dusky, cool room, with the breeze coming off the flowers in the garden. She could see the snowy cloth and the crystal and the salad, cool and refreshing in the great silver bowl. There would be nectarines and peaches too from the ripe south walls of the garden. The whole atmosphere of it flooded Mary's soul and brought the tears to her eyes.
"You are homesick," Connie said softly; "I used to be the same at one time. And, of course, this luncheon is not at all nice, only I like to pretend that it is. But you shall tell me all about yourself when you come to know me better. And you shall also tell me what luck you had with the portfolio this morning."
"I had no luck at all," Mary said presently, "nothing but slights and insults, rebuffs and bitter humiliations. I might have been a servant girl for all the civility I received. And even one man, who seemed to have a heart in his breast, told me to come home and burn the lot."
"Wherefore you bounced out of the shop indignantly," Connie laughed.
"Indeed I didn't, I was too utterly crushed and sorrowful for that. I crept here and made a bonfire of my precious drawings, and I am ready to ask your pardon for the cold way in which I accepted your good advice this morning. There!"
It was a great deal for Mary to say, a confession that she had failed, that she was utterly wrong, the like of which she had never made before. Her face was flushed now and her lips were all trembling. Connie looked at her with undisguised admiration.
"You have won a greater victory than you know," she said quietly. "It is very hard for anyone brought up as you have been to admit a failure. I had a letter from Mr. Darnley this morning in which he told me a good deal about you. I hope the day will come when you will learn to appreciate Ralph Darnley properly."
"I think I do," Mary said, with the red mounting to her cheeks. "He is a good man, and I owe him a great deal--my life itself on two occasions. But he--he did not quite understand."
"Didn't he?" Connie asked, her eyes dancing with mischief, "he is an audacious man. He thinks that he is good enough for any girl. And so he is, bless him! Oh, you will learn your lesson in time, my dear. And when you do, you will be one of the luckiest girls in the world. To be the wife of a man like that, ah!"
"You think so highly of him as that?" Mary asked.
"Ay, I do, indeed. Oh, how I could love that man if only he cared for me! I could open my heart to him tomorrow, and thank God fasting for a good man's love. Fancy the sweet rest and peacefulness of it all, fancy laying down the weary struggle, the fearful dread of the needs of the morrow with the assurance that you had that man to protect you! But your eyes will be opened in time, you will come to see that love is the best of all things."
Connie had dropped her voice almost to a whisper and her dark eyes were moist. Then she seemed to wipe away the tears with a smile and was her sunny self again.
"Please don't laugh at my sentimental manner," she said. "Let us talk about you and your affairs. We may take it for granted that you have abandoned all idea of making a fortune out of the milk-stool order of art. You feel quite sure that you could make nothing of my kind of work."
"I should absolutely hate it," Mary shuddered. "Please don't be offended."
"Oh, I am not in the least offended. I felt just like you at first. Did you ever try your hand at designing? One or two girls I know do well at that."
Mary didn't know; as a matter of fact, she had never tried her hand at anything of the kind; but she was perfectly willing to try. A horrible feeling of helplessness was growing upon her; she wondered what she would have done if Fate and Ralph Darnley had not thrown Connie and her together. For the next hour or two she tried her hand at designs of various kinds, only to feel that she made but a poor hand at the business. By tea-time her head was aching terribly and she dropped into the armchair with a sigh of misery.
"They are pretty bad," Connie said in her candid way; "we shall have to wait a little longer before we find your proper vocation. For the present you will have to fall back upon colouring cards--Christmas cards, and post cards, and the like. That pretty chocolate-box type of work of yours will do admirably for that class of thing. You shall do a few specimen cards tomorrow, and I'll give you the address of a man who will commission more. Only it is terribly hard, you will get paid at the rate of half-a-crown a hundred."
Mary's heart sank within her. Half-a-crown a hundred! At that rate it would be impossible for her to make more than fifteen shillings a week. She pointed out the fact to Connie, who agreed with a cheerful nod.
"You have worked it out pretty accurately," she said. "There are hundreds of girls who do it, and the worst of the thing is that so many girls can earn pocket-money that way who have no need to do anything at all. It is the same with typewriting, the same with everything. And, after all, it is quite possible to live on fifteen shillings a week."