Connie refused to be drawn into further conversation for the present. She was very busy touching up certain sketches which she informed Mary were intended to illustrate the pages of a popular lady's novelette, the published price of which was a halfpenny. They were dreadful drawings, as Mary could see, grotesque exaggerations of the work of George Du Maurier, impossibly tall females, with regular doll-like features and long lashes, with men of the same type. Five drawings went to each novelette, and the price paid was thirty shillings.
"As a matter of fact they are not mine," Connie explained, as she put the finishing touches to the figure of a severely classical duchess; "they are the work of a friend. She has been very ill lately and her work has fallen off in consequence. This lot would have been rejected by the editor, only I happen to know his assistant, who suggested that I should take them back and patch them up before they came under the eagle eye of the proprietor. I can get the money for them this evening, and tell Grace that the editor asked me to bring it along."
"That does not seem quite--quite the right thing," Mary suggested.
"Oh yes it does," Connie said bluntly. "Grace Cameron is a lady, and a great friend of mine. This commission is all that she has to live on. I happen to know that last night she spent her last two shillings on the peculiar tonic medicine that is needful to her. Can't you imagine the poor girl's state of mind if those drawings had been returned? What wouldyoudo if you were the Recording Angel?"
Mary was silent. She had not looked at it in this light before. The delicacy and tactfulness of it, the fine self-abnegation, appealed to her strongly. With Connie, time was money, every hour she wasted represented the loss of some necessary of life. And here she was cheerfully spending her own golden minutes so that a poor invalid should not lack the peace of mind necessary to her recovery. This was a practical sermon for Mary, worked out to a womanly and logical conclusion. If Ralph Darnley could have looked into Mary's mind now he would have been pleased with the success of his experiment.
"Oh, how good of you," she cried, "how womanly and sweet! You are actually sacrificing yourself for the needs of others. I should never have thought of it."
"I shouldn't at one time," Connie admitted frankly, "but I was a spoilt child in those days, and gave no heed to anybody but myself. And when I came to London alone and penniless and friendless, it was Grace Cameron who first held out a hand to me. And Grace is capable of doing really good work. She is very different from me. If she could only get into the country for a time and regain her strength she would be heard of. But that is impossible!"
"Why?" Mary asked. She was deeply interested now. "Why can't she?"
"Because she helps to keep a widowed mother. One pound a week goes to the poor old mother who is so proud of her girl's success. It is one of the most pathetic and charming stories in the world. Mrs. Cameron is the widow of a clergyman who left her very badly off, and Grace came to London to gain a name with her brush. She did not succeed, but she never let her mother know, she has always sent her something. And that 'something' makes all the world to the dear old lady. You may call it a deception if you like, but I call it one of the grandest things I have ever heard of. And all the while Grace is hoping for the name that does not come, the name that will enable her to go into the country and turn her back upon those impossible duchesses for ever. The story is known to a few of us, and we take it in turn now that Grace is ill to do her work for her. I am going down to Grace's rooms after supper, and you can come along with me if you like."
"Oh, yes, yes," Mary cried, "I should love to go with you. You may think that I am very foolish and ignorant, but you are opening up a new world to me. Positively I did not know that there were such things as these; even you are a new type to me. And here am I, who have been living with my head in the clouds, regarding the universe as being made up of people like the Dashwoods and others, whose privilege and duty it is to serve them. How selfish!"
"Well, you are not selfish now," Connie said. "You had the pluck to turn out and get your own living rather than eat what you call the bread of charity."
"Pride," Mary exclaimed, "every bit of it pride. I was bitterly wounded with a trick that Fortune had played upon me; in my arrogance, I left home, though one kind heart bleeds for me. I only had my narrow point of view. And I hate this kind of thing, I could cry aloud at the sordidness of it. I can't endure it patiently as you do."
Connie laughed unsteadily. A mist crept into her eyes.
"It is because I have schooled myself," she said. "It is so weak to complain. But there are times when I should like to die and make an end of it all."
Again Mary had nothing to say. She was learning to plumb the depths of her own selfishness by comparison with others. She was beginning dumbly to understand what Ralph Darnley must think of her. And yet he had made no secret of his love and affection. She was strangely silent as she walked along with Connie in the darkness of the evening. They came at length to a mean little street leading off Tottenham Court Road, and before a fairly respectable house there, Connie stopped. Presently Mary found herself shaking hands with a tall, thin girl, who gave her the strange impression that her new acquaintance was made of some fragile china. Her clear skin was deadly pale, and the dark eyes seemed to burn in the face like sombre flames. The slender frame was racked now and then by distressing fits of coughing.
Yet there was a subtle strength and power about the girl that appealed to Mary. Here was a girl after her own heart, one who would struggle to the end, and if she had to die she would fall in her tracks without a murmur.
Yet everything was against her. She had no natural advantages like Mary. There was more shame for the latter. Hitherto she had lived entirely for herself; her bounties had been dispensed with a haughty hand.
She had never dreamed of a kingdom inhabited by such brave, pure souls as these. Despite the shabby little sitting-room it was impossible to mistake Grace Cameron for anything but a lady. She had a smile of sweet sympathy as Connie made the necessary introduction, and spoke of Mary as another of the elect who had come into the arena.
"You have my sympathy," the girl said with a pleasing smile, "I could wish a woman foe of mine no harder fate. Anybody can see that you have not been used to this kind of thing--you are too recently a commander to know the bitterness of being commanded by thecanaillewe frequently have to deal with. We cannot all meet our misfortunes as cheerfully as Connie does. But you will learn your lesson in time. Tell me, have you heard anything as to those last drawings of mine?"
"I have the money for them at any rate," Connie said without looking at the speaker. "Mr. Scudamore was very kind."
Grace Cameron drew a deep breath of relief, a wave of pink rose to her cheeks.
"They were dreadful," she whispered. "But I was so ill on Monday and Tuesday that I had to drag myself to the work. My hand shakes terribly still, and I have some kind of a commission that I must finish tomorrow. It is a design for the cover of a new penny weekly. I have the scheme sketched out, but I am afraid that I shall not be able to finish it. And I know that my mother is in great need of a few pounds. How hard it is to be like this."
The last few words rang out passionately. Connie patted the speaker's shoulder.
"Don't despair," she said, "give me the rough design and I will put in the colour. Take at least five hours! Well, what of that. Give us some supper presently--it matters little what time we get home in the morning. Mrs. Grundy has no terrors for the true and tried children of Bohemia."
Connie's cheerfulness seemed to be unflagging and unfailing. She had no great aptitude for the brush, but she had the great gift of patience. The hours wore on, supper came and went, and presently a clock somewhere struck the hour of two. Then at last Connie held up the coloured design in triumph.
"There," she cried, "I guess they will be satisfied with that. I wish I had some of your boldness and originality, Gracie. I think we've done it this time. What a shame it is that good stuff should go for so little money! And now I really must be off. Mary looks tired to death. I'll post this for you, if you like."
Mary was tired and worn out, but she was not thinking of herself as she dragged along by Connie's side. She had learned a great deal in the last four-and-twenty hours.
In a vague, disturbed way she felt ashamed of herself. She did not notice the little cry that broke from Connie as they stood before the house where their rooms were. The place was all in pitch darkness, a litter of straw lay before the door. As Connie applied her latchkey and pushed back the door the house sounded curiously hollow. Footfalls clanked on a bare floor. Connie struck a match and held it aloft.
"The house is empty!" she cried, "the people have gone. These things happen with the struggling poor when they are threatened over their rent. Let us go and see if they have packed our belongings in the confusion."
The little sitting-room was empty of everything, the bedroom the same; nothing was left.
"My writing-case!" Mary cried, "my purse, too, in my box. And in the case--my jewels. Connie, Connie, what will become of us?"
Connie was the first to recover herself. She knew far better than Mary how great the danger was, how great the need for coolness and judgment. And she had been in dire straits like this before. She held the flaring match above her head and looked round the deserted room. On the mantelpiece stood a fragment of candle stuck in the neck of a bottle, and this Connie proceeded to light.
"Now we can go over the house and see if they have placed our belongings anywhere," she said cheerfully. "I have been in one or two strange predicaments, but never anything quite so bad as this. Still, I am sure that Mrs. Speed is an honest woman. It is more than likely that she has placed our goods and chattels somewhere."
But though the house was searched from top to bottom, nothing could be found. Mary did not give way, though she was tired out and weary, and sinking for the need of food. She had not yet lost her robust country appetite; she had not brought herself down to exist on weak tea and bread and butter, as Connie did.
"It is downright cruel," she cried. "That woman knew that we should come back, that you are in the habit of entering the house with a latch key. And to go off with all our wardrobe like this; to take everything. What are we to do?"
"It must have been some terrible mistake," Connie said. As usual, she seemed loth to judge anybody harshly. "The poor woman could not pay her rent. No doubt the landlord had threatened to come in tomorrow and take everything. And Mrs. Speed has a young family. She probably went to the agent and asked for time----"
"Oh, I know she did," Mary cried, recollection suddenly coming back to her. "As it happens, I overheard the conversation. There was some man here, a man I know something about, though we need not go into that. And Mrs. Speed seemed to be terribly short of money. I heard her say what was going to happen. Oh, Connie, my head is so confused that I cannot think, I shall wake up presently and find myself at the dear old dower house again. I did not dream that there were things like this in the world; I did not think it possible."
"There are worse things," Connie said sadly. "It is very terrible--very indeed; but what can poor people do? And yet there are others who waste thousands on their dress and amusement and pleasures, little dreaming of the sort of hell that forms half the life of the poor. Mrs. Speed sees that her household is in danger--her furniture is the one thing that stands between herself and the workhouse. The poor creature is so distressed that she has no thought for anybody else--she forgets our existence. She finds another house to go to, and she hires a man to come late at night and remove the things. I understand that there is a contractor who holds himself ready for this kind of thing. He employs very rapid workmen, and he uses vans with no name on the cover. The thing is easily done in this stony-hearted town, where your next door neighbour is a matter of indifference to you.
"Mrs. Speed is in the new house waiting to receive her goods. In the haste and confusion everything is packed, sent away. I have no doubt we shall get our belongings back again."
"And meanwhile, we have lost everything," Mary protested. "We have exactly what we stand up in. And every penny of my money, to say nothing of my jewels, has gone. We ought to go straight to the police."
"No," Connie said firmly. "A year or two ago I should have done so without hesitation, but not now. Ah, my dear I know how the poor live, how fierce are their temptations. When the great Day of Judgment comes God will be tender to His poor."
The fierce flame of Mary's anger died away, and a feeling of shame succeeded it. She was forced to recognise the many ways in which her companion was the superior of herself. Should she ever grow soft and sympathetic like that? Would her misfortunes render her more lenient to the failings of others? And yet Connie had said that she had been at one time the child of hard selfishness.
"Perhaps you are right," Mary admitted. "But what are we going to do? Where are we going to sleep tonight? And have you any money?"
"Two shillings," Connie replied. "Two shillings in my pocket, more by accident than anything else. My bank has vanished with my tin box. We can't go back to Grace's lodgings at this time of night. But that is not the worst."
Mary's heart sank within her. Could there be any worse than this?
"It is that very question of lodgings," Connie explained. "Nobody will take us without belongings. They would regard us as a pair of swindlers."
"Swindlers!" Mary's face flamed at the new word. The late mistress of Dashwood Hall regarded by a common Cockney landlady as a swindler!
"It seems so cold, so hard-hearted," she protested. "And just now you were speaking of the virtues of the poor, their kindness to each other, and----"
"My dear Mary, there is no kindness like it in the world, because generally it is the very essence of self-sacrifice. But there is another side to the matter. Theyhaveto be careful, they are compelled to look coldly on outsiders, they--but why am I preaching social sermons to you at this time of night? We must make the best of it till morning and then try to find Mrs. Speed."
It seemed a hopeless kind of business to Mary. Something like looking for a needle in the proverbial truss of hay. But the girl's wits were sharpened now by this sudden contact with adversity. She began to see a way.
"It may be possible to find Mrs. Speed," she said. "It will be weary work, but the thing has to be done. The man I was speaking about, the man who was here yesterday--he is calling here tomorrow for a certain letter. I could force him to . . . but that shall be my business. The question is where shall we sleep? Not on these bare boards. And I shall drop if I don't have something to eat."
The dawn was breaking in through the shutterless windows now--the red dawn of the summer day that gives London an added touch of beauty. It would be broad daylight before long. The presence of the light gave Mary a new courage.
"It is useless to think of sleeping anywhere," Connie said. Her face was pale and downcast, all the colour had gone out of her eyes. Mary had not before seen her friend on the verge of despondency, and the knowledge spurred her to new efforts.
"Let us go for a walk before the place gets hot and stuffy and full of struggling humanity. A London crowd always makes me so sad--it is awful to think that every man and woman streaming past you is engaged in the struggle for bread."
"Come out of this," Mary said hoarsely. "Let us feel the sunshine. This is heart-breaking, nerve-destroying work, but I am not sorry that I came. Let us go and watch the sun rise, and if there is any place where we can get something to eat----"
There was, at the end of the Embankment, a coffee stall, the leaden-eyed proprietor of which regarded the girls without emotion. He had served all classes of customers in his time, and these well-dressed girls, with an unmistakable air of class about them, inspired him with no curiosity. He filled up the thick cups of muddy coffee and cut the stodgy bread and the debatable butter. It was hideous stuff altogether, but Mary was astonished to find with what zest she was devouring it. A flashy woman, terrible in her cheap finery, staggered up and demanded tea. A man, unmistakably a gentleman, with a well-cut suit of clothes, partook of cocoa and a slice of bread. His coat collar was turned up, and Mary surmised that this was to hide the absence of a shirt. The girl was learning her lesson with terrible swiftness. Another man, with a bag in his hand, hurried up and breathlessly asked for tea. His face was white and pink by turns, he looked about him a furtive kind of way. From behind the barrow a powerful figure shot out and grabbed at the shoulder of the man with the bag. The latter showed fight for a moment, then his white face broke into a profuse shower of moisture.
"Better come quietly," the powerful man said. "You can have a cab if you like, though it does not matter much at this time of day. You've given me a long chase."
The two vanished in the direction of the Strand, where now the houses and spires were all golden in the purple mists. Mary shuddered.
"What does that mean?" she asked. "Was--was he some criminal?"
"That is it," Connie explained quietly. "And the other man was a detective. Oh, it is a horrible place, this London, if you come to see it from the underside. I long for millions of money to turn this city into a paradise. You think I am always cheerful and careless, but my two years here have left a mark upon me that I will never get rid of. Let us walk along the Embankment as far as Westminster, and then strike West for the Park. I feel a perfect longing for flowers and green grass. We will go through Park Lane, and speculate as to what the millionaires there are dreaming about--the people who have a hundred times as much as they can spend, and are yet greedy for more. Oh, my dear, if you only knew how tired I am, so utterly worn out."
Connie sat down on a seat on the Embankment and burst into tears.
Hitherto Mary had been entirely dependent upon her newly-found friend. She had come up to London with the proud intention of making her own living, a Dashwood ready to defy Fate and overcome it from the first onset. On the contrary, she had been a living example of the weakness of the unemotional when confronted with the problem of existence. If it had not been for Connie, she shuddered to think of what might have become of her by this time. But there was stirring within her now those high attributes and noble qualities that Ralph Darnley had discovered behind the armour of selfishness and ice of pride. It behooved her to act now that Connie had failed.
That poor Connie's breakdown was only temporary made very little difference. Mary must become the head of the expedition now. She placed her arm around the other girl's waist and kissed her tenderly. Mary had never done such a thing in her life before. She would have found it physically impossible. And here it seemed the most natural thing in the world.
"You must not give way," she whispered. "Dear Connie, you can't tell how much I admire and respect you. We are going to be friends as long as we both live. You have taught me more in the last two days than I ever learned before."
"I shall be better presently," Connie sobbed. "I am so tired. Let me put my head on your shoulder and rest a little. Only don't let me go to sleep, as we shall have some horrid policeman making us move on, and I have not come quite tothat."
The weary head fell back on Mary's shoulder and the weary eyes closed. Five minutes later, and Connie had passed into the land of dreams. It was not much past three yet, and the Embankment was very quiet, save for the passing of the wretched wanderers, who seem to find nowhere rest for the soles of their feet. There were evil-looking creatures, both men and women, slouching along and hideous faces once human leered at Mary, but the daylight seemed to take all the audacity out of this. There were others, too, who had fairer faces, and who turned aside with proper respect as they saw the sleeping girl with her head on Mary's shoulder. A policeman came along like the head of the universe and paused before the seat.
"This isn't quite the thing," he said. "Hope there's nothing wrong, miss?"
The man was gruff, but utterly sympathetic. Mary took heart of grace. Fancy her the heiress of the Dashwoods, explaining the sordid situation to a London policeman!
"We have had a great misfortune," she said. "When we got back to our lodgings tonight our landlady had vanished, taking all her furniture along. And everything of ours had vanished also; we could do nothing till today. And my friend is so worn out that she has fallen asleep, as you see."
The red-faced policeman whistled. He needed nobody to tell him that he was face to face with a lady of the real West End type. He was a policeman of experience. That Mary was telling the truth he could see from the look in her eyes.
"Very sorry, miss," he said. "Don't disturb the other lady. I'll keep an eye on you till I go off my beat at seven o'clock."
The man touched his helmet and passed silently on. The incident touched Mary and brought the tears to her eyes. She was surprised to find how the once unwonted tears rose to her lids. She did not realise perhaps how steadily the ice was melting from around her heart. But she did realise what a great palpitating thing the life of the town was, its cruelties and its misfortunes, and the tender touches that spring from the impulses of a common humanity. Mary was learning her lesson.
She sat there till the sun glinted on the bosom of the Thames; she saw the barges gliding down with the tide; she watched the first rush of cabs from the stations. And ever and anon the cool vision of Dashwood rose up before her. If she were at home now she would be out in the garden gathering roses to decorate the huge bowls in the drawing-room. She wondered if the Blois was out under her window, and whether Clegg, the head gardener, had looked after the new phloxes properly.
She could see it all now as it would be in the dewy sunlight. Well, if the worst came to the worst, she could go back to the dower house again, but she would not go alone. Connie should accompany her and Grace Cameron. It would be a glorious thing to take the pallid, hollow-eyed painter down there, and send her back to her beloved work with an elastic step and the light of health glowing in her brown, ambitious eyes. Mary was beginning to understand what wealth could do and what glorious privileges it possessed. She began to understand what Ralph Darnley had been thinking about her. Well, the time would come when Ralph should learn his mistake. All these things, and more, Mary dreamed of as she sat patiently there with Connie's head on her shoulder. The latter stirred presently, and opened her eyes to the glory of the day. It was past seven now, and the greatest city in the world was awake to the struggle for existence. It was some little time before Connie's mind was clear enough to grasp the situation.
"I have been asleep for three hours," she exclaimed. "What an intolerable burden you must have found me. Why didn't you wake me?"
"Perhaps I have been dreaming myself," Mary smiled. "Anyway, I did not seem to notice. And there was a policeman who was very kind. I was watching the day break over the river, and it took me back to the old home. It seemed to me, Connie, that I had not been as frank with you as I might. Let me tell you why I left home. It will be a new experience for me to have a girl friend to love and confide in."
They sat for an hour longer, and Mary told her story. She was surprised at the ease and fluency with which the narrative came from her. And she was surprised, too, to find how much better she felt for the telling.
"Oh, well, nothing can deprive us of the pleasures of memory," Connie said. "I like to dream of the old home sometimes, though there is a deal of pain with the joy in it. And you have the consolation of knowing that you can go back when you like, and find a real loving welcome waiting you in the bargain."
"I shall never really go back under present conditions," Mary said. "But I see now that this is no reason why I should not visit my dear Lady sometimes. Wouldn't it be a glorious thing to have a nice holiday down there! To take you with me for a fortnight, to take Grace also, and leave her with Lady Dashwood till she was quite herself again. Now I know that you have been scheming and planning for a long time to get a real chance for Grace. If I told Lady Dashwood she would never hesitate for a moment--it would be as good as done. That is the plan I have in my mind."
Connie caught at Mary and, heedless of passers-by, kissed her affectionately.
"An angel unawares," she said with an unsteady laugh. "That is what you are. Oh, my dear, you must not put these temptations in my way, you must not try to make me discontented with my lot. For two years I have not seen a green field, or caught a sight of the sea. It is two years since I was so extravagant as to go to Hastings for the day. I took my lunch and passed the whole afternoon in the glen at Fairlight.
"I met a doctor there, he was just recovering from a dangerous illness--such a nice fellow! And it seemed the most natural thing in the world that we should tell our story to one another. I wonder if I shall see that young doctor again?"
"I wonder," Mary laughed. "But what are we going to do now?"
"Have a proper breakfast at a place I know of," Connie said. "Then we are going to sit on the grass in the Park, and you will have a sleep whilst I look after you. Grace does not get up till about mid-day, so we won't bother her just yet. Perhaps she will be able to find us another lodging. My dear Mary, your white face is quite a reproach to me. Let us go to breakfast at once."
The breakfast was plain, but good, and eaten in a clean room, which was something. Then the two wandered into the Park, given over at this hour to nursemaids and children, and under the shade of a tree Mary lay down and closed her weary eyes. The warmth was soothing. Mary found herself wondering what they would have done had it been a wet day. . . . Her mind began to wander now . . . she was back again in the garden at Dashwood, she was rambling the summer woods with the breeze in the old elms overhead. Then gradually the world seemed to grow dark, and she slept.
The sun was high overhead when she came to herself again. She felt fresh and vigorous now, ready for anything. Then the humorous side of the thing struck her and she laughed. The idea of a Dashwood sleeping out all night like a common tramp! And yet Mary did not quite realise how near the most prosperous of us is to the workhouse. A trick of Fate, misfortunes over money matters, a long illness, and the thing is done. There are thousands of such instances every year.
"Do you feel equal to moving yet?" Connie asked.
page272"Under the shade of a tree Mary laid down and closed her weary eyes." (Page 272.)
"My dear, I feel equal to anything." Mary cried. "My courage has come back to me. And now what do you propose to do next?"
"The next thing is to call on Grace and tell her of our misfortunes. We must not repeat last night's experiment if we can help it. Besides, there are those drawings for theWheezerwhich are promised for tomorrow. They were all finished and lying on my table when the catastrophe happened. I must get them back today."
Grace Cameron was making a pretence of breakfast when Mary and Connie arrived. Her pallid face was more flushed than usual, her cough very distressing. But she had no thought for herself directly the story came to be told.
"You poor dears!" she cried. "What a cruel misfortune! To have lost everything in this way is doubly terrible. Oh, if it were only possible for you to stay here! The house is almost full up, and my landlady is independent accordingly. I am expecting every day that she will ask me to go--the breakfast in bed and my late rising give a great deal of trouble. There seems to be nothing that I can do."
"Oh, yes, there is," Connie said cheerfully. "You can help us wonderfully. For the moment we are absolutely penniless. Our idea is to take a bed sitting-room together, for a few shillings a week, and restore confidence, in lieu of personal belongings, by paying the rent in advance. I want you to lend me a sovereign for about a week."
"But my dear, I haven't got it," Grace said in deep distress. "I only kept a few shillings out of the money you gave me yesterday, the rest I posted to my mother not an hour ago. If I had only known! And I suppose you can't possibly draw any more money from theWheezertill the end of the week!"
"I might have done so," Connie said. "I had the week's drawings finished. They must be in tomorrow or I shall certainly do no more work in that quarter. They were all lying ready on my table when I came round here last night."
"Oh, this is dreadful," Grace cried, with the tears in her eyes. "If you had not returned here then, this dreadful thing would never have happened. To think that your kindness and goodness to me should have produced a result like this! Oh, Connie, what are you going to do, what can you do?"
"Oh, please don't," Connie said unsteadily. "It was no fault of yours. I daresay we shall manage to muddle through some way or another. It is a great pity that so many of our circle are so hard up just at present."
"And Miss Dashwood is as badly off?" Grace asked.
"Please don't call me Miss Dashwood," Mary said. "It makes me feel as if I were not one of you. Yes, I am in the same boat. Still, I dare say----"
Mary's voice trailed off into a whisper. An idea had come to her. She was quite ready to humble her pride now; she no longer shrank from the idea with a pain that was almost physical. If the worst came to the worst, she could telegraph to Lady Dashwood and ask for a few pounds by wire. And yet that seemed a weak thing to do, seeing that she had left the dower house so short a time before, determined to make her way in the world. But that would have to be done before nightfall, unless----
Unless! There was yet another way out of it. The recollection of the dramatic scene between the so-called Sir Vincent Dashwood and Mrs. Speed came with vivid force to Mary. The man had come for some important letter. What the letter was and what it had to do with the Dashwood succession mattered nothing at that moment. At any rate the letter was needed, and Vincent Dashwood had promised to come back for it. And Mary did not fail to remember now what Mrs. Speed had had to say about the trouble she was in over her rent. That trouble had culminated with disastrous swiftness, and to save her furniture the woman had vanished in the night.
With a mind full of her own troubles, she had probably given no heed to Vincent Dashwood. But it was necessary to his success that he should find her.
No doubt he was hanging about now somewhere in the locality of Keppel Terrace waiting for a sign. And here was the desperate chance that Mary needed.
She, too, would spend the next few hours in the neighbourhood of Keppel Terrace. Her mind was made up and she resolved to act without delay. She rose to her feet with a smile and made her way towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Connie asked.
"I have a little idea of my own," Mary said. "I can't tell you everything, because it is in a way mixed up with my private affairs. But I think that I shall be able to get everything back before we sleep tonight. I am not going to be a helpless burden on you two poor dear things. I want you to feel that you have been entertaining the proverbial angel unawares. I may not be back till late, but you need not be anxious. After my experience of last night, I am not afraid of anything."
"Let her go," Grace said, as Connie would have detained the speaker. "She is anxious to do something, and I feel that she will succeed."
Mary went down stairs with a firm, steady tread. She was not in the least afraid now. Whatever she lacked, there was no question of her courage. And she was going off now on an errand of mercy and relief. The knowledge thrilled her, she was conscious of emotions and feelings now that she had never felt before. The warm hot blood was coursing through her veins; there was a gladness about her heart that made her feel strangely young and buoyant. She would have liked to meet Ralph Darnley now and tell him many things that had not occurred to her before. She was ashamed of the way that she had treated that man. And he was good enough for her; as Connie had said, he was good enough for any girl. What did birth matter, what did anything matter, so long as the man was good and true and the woman sweet and tender? It came to Mary with a crushing force that the Dashwood pride was a poor and feeble thing by comparison.
She was still turning these new sensations over in her mind when she arrived at Keppel Terrace. The empty house seemed to look at her with blank, mocking eyes. For a long time she walked up and down before the house. An hour, two hours, passed before Mary noted anything to attract her attention. Then she thrilled as she saw Vincent Dashwood come swaggering along the terrace. He paused at the step of No. 16, and looked up at the house. Mary could see his gesture of passion. As he stood there, evidently nonplussed by his discovery, a boy came up to him and handed him a card, which he read and then tore up.
Greatly daring, Mary came along the pathway. She pulled her veil down and pretended to ring the bell at No. 17. Her back was to Dashwood; she calculated that he would not notice her, that she would be the last person in the world he was likely to meet. But Mary was trembling from head to foot.
"All right," she heard Dashwood say. "I suppose the lady told you what I was like?"
"That's it sir," the boy said. "The lady knew as you would come. She gave me a shilling for this job. I've been hanging about here since dinner time."
"Well, here's another shilling for you," Dashwood said in great good humour. "Tell the lady that you delivered the card properly and that I'll call after dark. As it happens, I know the address on the card you gave me."
The boy went whistling off down the road and Dashwood swaggered away. Here was a piece of luck that Mary had not expected. She had made up her mind to loiter about the street till she saw Dashwood, provided that he had not come and gone already. But she knew perfectly well that Dashwood and early hours did not go together, and upon that fact she had acted. Her idea was to follow the man, knowing that sooner or later he was certain to look for Mrs. Speed. But here was a piece of real good fortune on which she had not reckoned at all. Dashwood had read the address, and then, with his usual carelessness, had torn up the card. Mary was off the doorstep as soon as it was safe, and the pieces of torn card were in her hand. She had only to put them together and the address was here.
This was splendid! Here was a way of proving to Connie and Grace Cameron that she was a friend to be relied upon. Mary's heart warmed at the idea of it. Her fingers trembled as she pieced the fragments of the card together and read the address. It was clearly set out in a neat handwriting.
No. 24 Hamerton Gardens, N.W.--surely the new house was some distance away. Mary had yet to learn that these midnight flittings necessitated a change of neighbourhood at a considerable distance as to locality. A friendly policeman directed Mary into the Strand, and another told her which 'bus to take. By the time the girl arrived at her destination she had fourpence in her possession.
But she did not care about that. She was on the right track now, and if luck were dead against her she could walk home. Here was Hamerton Gardens at length, and the litter of straw and refuse before the house testified to the fact that somebody had recently occupied the house or left it. With a courage that was all her own, Mary walked up the steps and rang the bell. As nobody responded to the summons, she opened the door and walked in. She had made no mistake, she recognised the umbrella stand at a glance. There was no linoleum down in the hall as yet and the stair carpets were rolled up on the floor.
Somebody crossed the hall and entered a little room on the right. Mary fairly gasped as she noted the tall figure in the grey silk. She wondered if she could credit her eyes. For the tall figure in the grey silk was Lady Dashwood!
Mary drew back a moment to see what was going to happen. She ought to have been utterly taken by surprise at her discovery, but she felt no emotion of that kind. She was past the feeling--life had been too full of thrilling incidents during the last few hours for that. It never occurred to the girl that she had made a mistake. In an instant her mind was made up. Very swiftly and silently she darted after Lady Dashwood, and followed her into a room at the back of the house. There was a grimy specimen of the London charwoman on the floor, scrubbing the dirty boards apparently in readiness for the laying of a roll of linoleum that stood in one corner. A bottle half filled with beer ornamented the mantelpiece, and from this the worker on the floor frequently refreshed herself, as her red face testified.
She looked up angrily as Lady Dashwood entered. The intruder had to ask her question twice before she drew a reply.
"Mrs. Speed isn't in," the woman said, "and if she was, she would not care to see any visitors as yet. We only moved in here last night, and not so much as an odd man to help for love nor money, and me fit to drop."
"I am sorry to hear that," Lady Dashwood said in her gentle manner, "I have come up from the country especially to see Mrs. Speed. Can you give me any idea what time she is likely to be back again?"
"No, I can't," was the surly reply, "not before tea-time anyway. If you like to wait in the dining-room, you can do so--you don't look the sort to go off with anything. And there's an armchair or two in there."
As Lady Dashwood turned she came face to face with Mary. She stood quite still, too utterly surprised to speak. Mary took her by the arm, and led the way to the dining-room. She pushed one of the chairs forward, and invited Lady Dashwood to sit down. Then Mary closed the door. She smiled at the helpless amazement of Lady Dashwood's face.
"Mary, my dear child, what are you doing here?" the elder lady gasped.
"I might ask you the same question," Mary said. "What you regard as a most strange coincidence has a very prosaic explanation. Oh, my dearest, if you only knew how glad I am to see you again! If you only knew how I have missed you. But I need not go into that now; there will be plenty of time presently. My dear, I have been learning things the last two days and have been making discoveries. You may not believe it, but I am glad that I came here, yes, glad, glad!"
"You are looking fairly well," Lady Dashwood observed. "A little pale and drawn, but there is something in your eyes that I never noticed before. A sort of new strength and tenderness combined, not so hard and proud. But you seem pale and tired."
Mary laughed. She had good reason to be pale and tired. She wondered what Lady Dashwood would say when she heard last night's adventure.
"I am utterly worn out," she said frankly, "and yet I am glad I came to London. You can't tell how much good it is doing me. Strange as it may seem, I am quite happy, and all the more so because I am fighting for the good of other people. Hitherto, I have never thought of anybody but myself. As you know, I came up to London with an idea of getting my own living. I was going to be very proud and independent. I had a vague idea that being a Dashwood would make the ground clear for me. I blush now to think of my ignorance and folly. But I am wandering from the point. You will recollect that Mr. Darnley offered to ask a friend of his in London to assist me.
"I refused the offer, of course, in my stupid way. But Connie Colam met me at Victoria. What I should have done without her, goodness knows. She was kindness itself to me. And in a very short time we became fast friends. Fancy me,me, giving my heart to a girl who lives in Bloomsbury, and gets her living by doing horrible drawings for a low-class paper!"
"It seems strange," Lady Dashwood murmured, "I hope that she is----"
"My dear, Connie is a lady. Oh, if you only knew how my eyes have been opened! And there is another girl, a lady, too, called Grace Cameron. But you are going to meet them and satisfy yourself that I am not degrading the great house of Dashwood. Grace Cameron is an invalid, and last night we stayed at her house very late finishing some work for her. We did not get home till past two in the morning. What do you think of that for a Dashwood?"
Lady Dashwood could not repress a smile. It seemed very dreadful and unconventional, but there was a glad, tender ring in Mary's voice that the elder lady liked.
"We walked home through the streets at that hour," Mary went on, "and when we reached our rooms the house was empty. Everything had gone! And that brings me to the cause of my presence here at this moment. Our landlady was Mrs. Speed, the woman who has just moved in here. She had got into trouble over her rent; she was afraid that her furniture was going to be sold up, and when we were out last night she had taken everything away. No doubt the poor woman was half distracted, but it was a cruel thing to do with us. She might have given us a hint. She might have left our belongings behind. But she didn't and there we were bereft of everything that we possessed in the world at two o'clock in the morning."
"Oh, my darling," Lady Dashwood cried, "what did you do then?"
"There was nothing to do. We had very little money and nowhere to go. So, as it was a fine night, we slept on the Thames Embankment and breakfasted at a coffee stall in the morning. Mary Dashwood sleeping in the streets! Fancy it! Today I discovered where Mrs. Speed had gone, and I am here to demand the return of our goods and chattels. But I can quite understand why you are here."
"What do you mean?" Lady Dashwood faltered.
"Well, I will tell you. When I went to Mrs. Speed's to share rooms with Connie I was struck by the appearance of the woman. It seemed to me that I had seen her before, and in some strange way she recalled my very early childhood. I seemed to recollect the creature years and years ago sitting in your boudoir and crying. She was wearing a black dress. It is one of the fragments of memory that cling to one long after the surrounding circumstances are forgotten. I could not get rid of the feeling, and I asked the woman about it. She said I must be mistaken, because she came from a place called Dashwood, near Dashwood Hall. I doubt if she knew my name. I had my own reasons for not betraying my identity as you can imagine, but when Mrs. Speed told me that I knew that I was not mistaken. And knowing that she came from the old place, I was not surprised to see you here after all."
Lady Dashwood's agitation deepened. Mary could see that she was greatly moved.
"The woman spoke the truth," the elder lady whispered, "her people lived on the estate for many generations. And for years I have lost sight of her. I can't tell you the story, Mary, because it is not all mine to tell. And this morning I received a telegram from Mrs. Speed at this address saying that she was in great trouble and asking for an interview. I did not send any answer to the telegram because I decided to come in person. When things are explained, they always become more simple."
"Not in this case," Mary said boldly. "My dear, I have found out something far more important than that Mrs. Speed comes from Dashwood. I was going to the kitchen to get a glass of milk yesterday morning when I heard what sounded like a quarrel in the dining-room between Mrs. Speed and some man. The man's voice sounded so familiar to me that I stopped to listen. He was after some letters, the name of Dashwood was mentioned--one letter was of the greatest importance. And then the man came out; he did not see me, but I recognised him. Can you guess who he was?"
Lady Dashwood made no reply for the moment. Her face had grown very pale and her long, slim hand shook so that the rings on her fingers shimmered in the light.
"You had better tell me," she ventured to say at length. "I fancy I can guess, though I had not expected treachery as black as this. The man was----"
"Sir Vincent Dashwood. Oh, there is no mistake about it. I saw him as plainly as I see you at this moment. He had called at Keppel Terrace to threaten and bully. It seems that he had had all Mrs. Speed's savings. And he told her that if he could have that particular letter he would let her have as much money as she needed. She spoke then of the danger in which she stood in regard to her rent. She was going to see the agent of the property the same day. Probably he would not wait any longer, and hence the sudden flitting in the night. What does it all mean, Lady Dashwood? Why should this Sir Vincent want that letter? And how much longer are we all going to remain under the tyranny of that man?"
Lady Dashwood made no reply. There was a sound of voices close by, and in one of them Mary recognised the querulous tones of Mrs. Speed.
"Go and see her," Mary said, "I will wait here. But please do not disclose my identity. And when you have finished, wait in the street for me. My business with Mrs. Speed will not take long. After that, I want you to come and see my new friends, I want you to know what manner of life I am living. There are other things that I shall want to know too, but they will keep for the present."