IN PERIL
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. They _have_ to 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.