HOMELESS
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 would _you_ do 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 the _canaille_ we
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?"