THE LESSON OF ADVERSITY
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 to _that_."
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.
[Illustration: "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 the _Wheezer_ which are promised for
tomorrow. They were all finished and lying on my table when the
catastrophe happened. I must get them back today."