THE WALLS OF PRIDE
"Now I must get you to pay for the cab," Mary went on in the same gay
voice, "for I haven't the money, at least, not in my pocket. You will
find the place very small and mean, but it is not quite so bad as some
of the cottages on the Dashwood estate. If ever good fortune took me
back there as mistress I should do a great deal with the cottages on
the place. I begin to understand now how trying is the lot of the
poor. But I am dreaming again. Please come this way."
Grace Cameron lay on a couch in the window getting as much fresh air
as possible. Towards her Lady Dashwood looked with special interest,
for Mary had told Grace's story at some length. The girl flushed as
she noted the striking personality of her visitor. She essayed to rise
from the sofa.
"No, don't you move, my dear," Lady Dashwood said. "Quite by accident
I met Mary here, and she insisted upon bringing me to see you both. I
think she has told me everything about you. And it was quite natural
that I should like to see you. So this is Connie Colam. I think you
are a couple of very brave girls."
And Lady Dashwood proceeded to kiss them both in the most natural
manner. She found her way into their hearts at once.
"You are a darling," Connie said in her candid manner. "It is good of
you, Lady Dashwood. We were eating our hearts out with anxiety when
Mary came in. And Mary looks quite the conquering hero, I declare."
"Victory!" Mary cried, "my clever detective scheme has been quite
successful. I have brought all we need with me, and the rest will
follow on the despatch of a telegram. I have had a long interview with
Mrs. Speed, and so far as I can see----"
"I hope you gave her what she deserved," Connie cried.
"I'm ashamed to say I didn't," Mary confessed. "The poor woman
appeared to be in distress. She said that she had forgotten all about
us, and I believed her. It seems that she has a dissipated, selfish
son who has brought her to this pass--Lady Dashwood, what is the
matter?"
"The London heat always tries me like this," Lady Dashwood murmured
faintly, "I daresay I shall be quite myself when I have had a cup of
tea. Connie shall make it for me--Mary says that she has the real art
of tea-making. So this is the place where you work. You look as if a
good rest would do you good, Grace."
Grace Cameron smiled wearily. It was one of her bad days, and the heat
had affected her. Her mind was filled now with pictures of the sea
breaking cool over the rocks; she thought of deep woods where the
breeze played in the trees.
"I can't afford to rest," she said; "if I did not go on working I
should lose my reason. And I do hate London so. Still, I have a mother
more or less dependent upon me, and for her sake I have to go on. If I
could manage to get into the country for a few weeks I think I could
regain strength. Connie is an angel of goodness, but I can't let her
do my work for me much longer."
"That's sinful pride," Connie said with something between a laugh and
a sob. "What vexes her is that her substitute is so poor a workman.
Still, there is a deal in what Grace says, and if she could be in the
country, not too far away from London, where----"
Lady Dashwood glanced up and met Mary's pleading eyes. She understood
exactly what the girl meant without asking a single question. She
crossed over to the couch and took Grace's thin white hand tenderly in
her own.
"There is nothing easier," she said, "let me be the fairy godmother. I
am a very lonely old woman, since Mary made up her mind that she would
go out into the world and earn her own living. I was very sad about it
at the time, but I am not so sad now. Because the day is coming when
Mary will return to her old home, and be happier by far than she has
ever been before. Still, I am very lonely now, and I should welcome
some bright young face to gladden the whole home and make life more
tolerable to me. The dower house is a grand old place, and any artist
would soon fall in love with it. Bring your work down there, Gracie,
come and live in the open air and forget your anxiety for the future.
When I looked at Mary just now, her eyes asked me to do this thing.
But I am not doing it to please Mary so much as to please myself. It
is very selfish of me. I know----"
"Selfish!" Grace cried, "I could love you for what you say. The mere
thought of it makes my heart beat all the faster. But for the sake of
others----"
"Never mind the others," Connie cried, "go away and get well. I dare
not think what I should do if I had the same opportunity. Go away and
do your own work. How can you have the face to stay here and allow me
to do your drawings for you? It is the most selfish thing I ever heard
of in my life, and I decline to put up with it any longer. . . . Oh,
my dear, it is the very thing that I have been praying for. Don't
hesitate, Grace--think of your mother, of the grand future. If I loved
you less than I do----"
The smile faded from Connie's face, she had hard work to keep back the
tears. Lady Dashwood's smile, too, was watery and unsteady. She was
glad to find that Mary had fallen in with companions like these. She
could understand now why the girl had softened and improved. Hitherto
she had regarded Mary as perfect, but this was a chastened and
purified Mary of whom she had never dreamed. She could see the working
of Grace's mind in her face.
"You are very good to me," the girl said slowly, "everybody is good to
me. I never knew how much goodness there was in the world till my
health began to fail. It made me hard and bitter to see those
frivolous society people roll by in their carriages, and think that
the money they wasted on one abandoned toy would have sufficed to give
me back the strength I needed. Mary knows what I mean."
"I do, indeed," Mary said with a flush on her face, "but I had to pay
for my knowledge of my selfish folly by the loss of everything that I
held most dear. And now that I have learned my lesson, I have nothing
to put it into practice with. Still, the point does not refer to Lady
Dashwood, who is quite sincere in what she says. If you hesitate any
longer, Grace, I shall regard myself as a murderess. You will not
carry your pride so far as to endanger your life."
"No, no," Grace cried, "you are all right and I am wrong. I know
perfectly well that if I stay here like this I shall die. Therefore,
with the deepest gratitude, I have decided to accept Lady Dashwood's
offer. Oh, if you only knew how I long for the sight of a green
tree----"
"Then that is settled," Lady Dashwood said, "you are to come and take
Mary's place without delay. I will come up on Saturday and fetch you.
And I decline to hear a single word of thanks--it is a mutual
pleasure, Grace. Now, let us have the cup of tea, and then I must be
going. And I am very glad that Mary has made friends with you girls."
Lady Dashwood departed presently, and for a little time the girls were
silent. Grace lay there looking out of the window, her eyes filled
with happy tears. Already in her imagination she could hear the murmur
of the trees over her head.
"I can't help it," she said presently, "I feel as if a great doctor
had told me to live after another surgeon had passed the sentence of
death. An hour ago I did not seem to care what happened, now I can
feel the joy of life in my finger tips. My ambition is singing a tale
of hope in my ears. . . . But what about you both? What are you going
to do?"
"Yes, what are we going to do?" Connie said in tones of dismay, "we
have no money. Mary was too proud to ask her relation for any, which
was quite right. Unless, perhaps, Mary has recovered her purse, in
which case----"
"Well, I haven't," Mary explained, "I forgot all about it. Still, it
is only a matter of a day or so, and, meanwhile, I have something that
will do quite as well. I daresay Grace's landlady will find us a spare
bedroom."
"I believe there is such a thing in the house," Grace said dubiously,
"but my landlady is by no means a nice person, and she has done very
well lately. She is sure to ask to see your boxes, and if you tell her
the truth she will not believe you. Still, you must find quarters
somewhere for tonight, and it would do no harm to have the woman up
and see her."
The landlady came, hard of face and none too pleasant of manner. She
listened in grim disapproval. She did not wish to insinuate anything,
but she had suffered in the past. She attached a value to the
possession of personal belongings, she had little faith in lodgers who
came without them. To all this Mary listened with a heightened colour
and a rising temper.
"I suppose a week, or say a fortnight's rent in advance would do for
you?" she asked. "It seems the likeliest arrangement for a woman of
your stamp."
"Nothing better, miss," the woman retorted, "money talks. Pay a
sovereign on account, and I shall have no more to say. Pay me, and
I'll treat you well; on the other hand----"
"There is going to be no 'other hand,'" Mary replied with her head in
the air. "Perhaps you will be so good as to change me a five-pound
note?"
The woman gasped. She could not possibly do such a thing.
"Very well," Mary went on, serene in her victory, "you need not stay
any longer. I'll go out and get change, and let you have the sovereign
without delay."
The woman vanished with a respectful salutation. Mary crossed over to
her writing-case.
"My education is growing apace," she laughed, "my dearest Connie, will
you be so good as to tell me the way to the nearest pawnbroker's?"