CONNIE COLAM
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 decidedly _not_ to 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 for _The
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 the _Razzle Dazzle_ anyway."
Mary shuddered. In a way the _Razzle Dazzle_ was 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 the _Razzle Dazzle_ is 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. The _Wheezer_ is 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 the
_Razzle_ and 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 old
_Razzle_. 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?"