"Our life is spent in little things,
In little cares our hearts are drowned;
We move with heavy laden wings
In the same narrow round."
For the first week in her new post Joan was kept very busy putting
things--as Miss Bacon described it--to rights. She had also, she
discovered, to run errands for Miss Bacon several times during the
course of a day; to buy paper for the typewriters, to fetch Miss
Bacon's lunch, on one occasion to buy some cooling lotion for Miss
Bacon's bruise. Of the other pupils she saw no sign, and even the girl
who had admitted her on the first night did not put in an appearance,
but this Miss Bacon explained by saying that Edith was delicate and
often forced to stay away through ill health.
Joan refrained from asking questions; she realized herself that she had
stumbled on to something that was nearly a tragedy. The hunted look in
Miss Bacon's face, the signs of poverty, the absolute lack of work told
their own tale. As a running business 2, Baker Street, was an evident
failure, but there was no reason why, with a little application, she
should not make it serve her purpose as a school. The lack of tuition
was its one great drawback; there seemed no signs whatsoever of the
promised shorthand lessons. Finally Joan plucked up her courage one
morning in the second week, and invaded Miss Bacon's private office.
"What about my shorthand?" she inquired from just within the doorway;
"when shall I begin?"
Miss Bacon had changed her shoes for a pair of bedroom slippers and was
occupying the arm-chair, immersed in the newspaper. She started at
Joan's abrupt question, the movement jerking the glasses from off her
nose. She picked them up nervously and blinked at Joan.
"What did you say?--shorthand? Oh, yes, of course! It is really Edith's
duty to take you in that; still, as she is not here, I propose to
dictate to you myself after lunch. My first duty in the mornings is to
master the newspaper; there might be some openings advertised." She
turned again to her news-sheet. "Why not employ yourself practising on
the typewriter?" she suggested.
Joan would have liked to reply that she was tired of practising
sentences on the typewriter and hungry for some real work to do, but she
had not the heart to be unkind to the poor little woman. She spent a
disconsolate morning and stayed out for lunch longer than usual. On her
return Miss Bacon was waiting for her on the top of the stairs.
"My dear," she said in an excited voice, "some work has come in. A man
has just brought it, and he must have it by to-morrow morning. I hope
you will be able to get it done, for I have promised, and a lot may
depend on it."
So much depended on it that she herself decided to help Joan with the
work. She was not, it appeared, even as experienced as Joan, and by 6.30
the two of them had only completed about half the typing. Joan's back
ached and her fingers tingled, but Miss Bacon's eyes behind the glasses
were strained to the verge of tears, two hectic spots of colour burned
in her cheeks and her fingers stumbled and faltered over the keys.
As the clock struck seven Joan straightened herself with a sigh of
relief.
"It is no use," she said, "we cannot get it done; he will have to wait
for his silly old papers."
The blood died suddenly out of Miss Bacon's face, her mouth trembled.
"It must be done," she answered; "you do not understand. It is the first
work that has been brought to us for weeks. The man is a stranger; if it
is well done and up to time he will give us some more; besides he will
pay"--for a second she lifted her eyes and looked at Joan--"I must have
the money," she said.
Her face, working under the stress of some strong emotion, was painful
to see. She was so weak, so useless, so driven. Joan looked away hastily
and went on with her work. From time to time, though, she stole a glance
at Miss Bacon. It was dreadful to know that the poor old woman was
crying; quietly, hopelessly, great drops that splashed on to her fingers
as they stumbled over the keys.
At last Joan could bear it no longer, she rose quickly and crossed over
to Miss Bacon, putting her hands over the useless fingers.
"Don't you bother with it any more, Miss Bacon," she said. "I am nearly
through with my share now and I can come early to-morrow and get it all
done before breakfast. It is silly to work away at it now when we are
both tired out."
Miss Bacon gulped down her tears and looked up nervously. "You think you
can," she asked; "you have realized how important it is?"
"Yes," Joan told her, "and I know I can. I won't disappoint you, really
I won't. Let us go across the road and get some tea before we go home,"
she suggested.
Miss Bacon looked away again hastily. "You go," she muttered, "I don't
need tea, I----"
"You are going to come and have tea with me," Joan interrupted. It had
flashed on her that Miss Bacon had not even the money for that.
Over the hot buttered toast and the tea Miss Bacon poured out her
troubles to Joan. They came, once she had started, in an unquenchable
flood of reminiscences. The little woman had reached the last inch of
endurance; the kindly sympathy, the touch of Joan's hands broke down all
barriers of reserve or caution. She had been a governess, it appeared,
and during all her years of service she had laid by enough money to buy
the business at Baker Street.
"I got it cheap," she owned. "I can see now that the other people must
have failed too, and I have no head for business. I am absolutely at the
end of things now; if I died to-morrow it would be a pauper's funeral. I
often think of that when I see a gorgeous hearse and procession passing
through the street."
Her words were ridiculous, but real tragedy looked out of her eyes.
"Ruin stares me in the face," she went on, "from every paper I read,
from every person I meet. I have no money, not even enough to buy food,
as you have guessed. Ruin! and I have not the courage to get out of it
all. I have never been very brave."
"But I think you have been brave," Joan tried to reassure her. "You
have held on for so long alone. And I expect we have turned a corner
now, things will be better to-morrow."
Miss Bacon stared at her teacup with hopeless eyes. "That is what I used
to think at first," she said, "to-morrow will be better than to-day--it
never has been yet."
She rose to go, and Joan, prompted by a sudden quick desire to help,
leant forward and caught hold of her coat. The tragedy of the withered
figure, the stupid, aimless face, struck her as the cruellest thing she
had yet seen in life. What were her own troubles compared to this
other's dull facing of loneliness, failure and death.
"You must cheer up, you really must," she begged; "and as for the money
part, let me pay down the rest of my fee now. I have got three pounds
out with me; do take it, please do, you see it really is yours."
Taking the money seemed to add an extra gloom to Miss Bacon's outlook;
none the less she did not require very much persuading, and Joan,
pressing it into her hand, piloted her across the road and saw her into
the Underground station.
It was the last glimpse she was to have of the quaint figure which had
crossed her life for so short a time, but that she did not realize. She
only knew that her heart ached because she had been able to do so little
to help, and because Miss Bacon's story had brought suddenly to her mind
a knowledge of how terribly hard life can be to those who are not strong
enough to stand against it.
True to her word, she arrived at Baker Street very early the next
morning and the momentous piece of typewriting was finished before Miss
Bacon's usual hour of arrival. Joan put it on the table with the old
lady's paper and went out to get some breakfast, as she had had to leave
Shamrock House before seven.
She was greeted on her return by the girl who had let her in on the
first night. There was a man with her who had taken possession of Miss
Bacon's chair and who was reading the paper morosely, both elbows on the
table.
He glanced up at Joan as she entered. "Is this Miss Bacon, by any
chance?" he asked, bringing out the words with a certain grim defiance.
Edith interrupted Joan's disclaimer by a shrill laugh. "Lor' bless you,
no, she is one of the pupils, same as me." She turned to Joan. "Did you
pay anything to join?" she asked. Joan resented the familiarity of her
tone. "Would have liked to have warned you the other night, but Bacon
was too nippy."
Joan flushed slightly. Disregarding the interruption she spoke quickly,
answering the man's question:
"Miss Bacon must be ill, I am afraid," she said; "it is so very late for
her, she is nearly always here by ten. She will probably be here
to-morrow if you care to come again."
Again Edith giggled and the man frowned heavily.
"Well, she probably won't," he answered. "She has done a bunk, that's
the long and short of it, and there is not a blasted penny of what she
owes me paid. Damn the woman with her whining, wheezing letters, 'Do
give me time--I'll pay in time.' Might have known it would end in her
bunking."
"I don't think you ought to speak of her like that," Joan attempted;
"after all, it is only that she does not happen to be here this morning.
She would have let me know if she had not been coming back."
"Oh, would she?" growled the man; "well, I don't care a blasted hell
what you think. I don't need to be taught my business by the likes of
you."
From the passage to which she had retired Edith attracted Joan's
attention by violent signs. "There is no use arguing with him," she
announced in an audible whisper, "he's fair mad; this is about the tenth
time he's missed her. Come out here a minute, I want to talk to you."
Joan went reluctantly. She disliked the girl instinctively, she
disliked the dirty white blouse from which the red neck rose, ornamented
by a string of cheap pearls, and the greasy black ribbon which bound up
Edith's head of curls.
"Are you being a fool?" the girl asked, "or are you trying to kid that
man? Haven't you cottoned to old Bacon's game yet?"
"I am sorry for Miss Bacon, if that is what you mean," Joan answered
stiffly.
"Sorry!" Edith's face was expressive of vast contempt. "That won't save
you from much in this world. I tell you one thing, if you lent the old
hag any money yesterday you won't see her again this side of the grave,
so there isn't any use your hanging about here waiting for that."
Joan favoured her with a little collected stare. "Thank you," she said,
"it is very thoughtful of you to think of warning me." She left her and
walked back deliberately into the room where the man was sitting. "There
were some typed sheets lying on the top of the paper," she said; "do you
mind letting me have them back."
"Yes I do," he answered briefly; "man called in for them a little while
back and that is five shillings towards what the old hag owes me,
anyhow."
It was in its way rather humorous that she should have worked so hard to
put five shillings into such an objectionable pocket. Joan felt strongly
tempted to argue the matter with him, but discretion proving wiser than
valour, she left him to his spoils and retired into the other room. She
would not leave the place, she decided, in case Miss Bacon did turn up;
it would be very disagreeable for her to have to face such a man by
herself.
By lunch time the man stalked away full of threats as to what he would
do, and Edith went with him. Joan stayed on till six, and there was
still no sign of Miss Bacon. It was strange that she should neither have
telephoned nor written.
Over dinner at Shamrock House that night she told Rose Brent the story
of her fortnight's adventure, ending up with the rash impulse which had
led her to pay up the four guineas because Miss Bacon had seemed in such
bitter need. The girl met her tale with abrupt laughter.
"I am afraid what your unpleasant acquaintance of this morning told you
is probably true," she said. "After all, if you went and handed out four
guineas it was a direct temptation to the poor old woman to get away
on."
"I don't believe she would take it just for that," Joan tried to argue.
"I know she wanted it awfully badly, but it was to help her pull through
and things were going to run better afterwards. I don't believe she
would just take it and slip away without saying a word to me."
"Faith in human nature is all very well," the other answered, "but it is
awfully apt to let you down, especially in the working world."
"I shall go on believing for a bit," Joan said; "she was looking so
awfully ill yesterday, it may just be that she could not come up to
office to-day."
"May be," Rose agreed. "When you are tired of waiting for the return of
the prodigal let me know and I will see if I cannot get you in
somewhere. I ought to be able to help. And look here, my child, never
you pay another penny for tuition on those lines; you could get all the
learning you need at the County Council Night Schools, and it is a good
deal cheaper."
Joan put in two days at No. 2, Baker Street, waiting for the return of
Miss Bacon or for some message which might explain her absence, but
nothing and no one came. On the morning of the third day she found that
the stout and bad-tempered man had carried out his vague threats. The
place had been taken possession of, already they were removing the
typewriters and tables under the direction of a bailiff. Even the plate
bearing Miss Bacon's name had vanished, and boards announcing the top
flat to let flaunted themselves from the area railings.
After that Joan gave up the hope. Sometimes she wondered if after all
Miss Bacon had found the necessary courage to be done with it all, and
if her silence betokened death. It was more likely though that the poor
old lady had merely sunk one rung lower on the ladder of self-esteem and
was dragging out a miserable existence somewhere in the outside purlieus
of London.