"EYES CLEARER GROWN--"
"I'm glad she's gone," Connie exclaimed as the cab drove away and the
last flutter of Grace's handkerchief had vanished. "Let us hope she
will have a happy time with Lady Dashwood. But why didn't your dear
relative fetch her as arranged? Why that telegram? I hope there is
nothing wrong at the dower house?"
"Of course there is nothing wrong," Mary laughed. "It is not like you
to imagine things. What is the matter with you this morning, Connie?"
Connie remarked tearfully that she did not know. For once in a way she
was on the verge of tears. Perhaps she missed Grace, for her manner
had changed, directly the cab was gone.
"Now I am going to know all about it," said Mary. "You are the dearest
friend I have ever made as yet, and it hurts me for you to keep a
secret from me."
"What a change!" Connie said, a smile flashing through her tears.
"What has become of the cold, reserved girl that I met some days ago
at Victoria Station? Well, I'll tell you what is the matter. You know
that I lost those sketches the night Mrs. Speed went away and left us
in the lurch. They were badly needed, and I could not supply them.
They had to fake up some old blocks and it caused no end of trouble.
The long and short of it is that last night I had a curt intimation
that I need not expect to get any more work for the _Wheezer_. It
means that my poor little weekly income has vanished for the present.
It's very hard just at a time when----"
"Oh, my dear," Mary cried, "how dreadful! And this is why you kept up
before----"
"Before Grace. I could not possibly tell her, it would have been
hateful to spoil her pleasure like that. But it has been hard work,
Mary. Two or three times today I have had to struggle to keep from
positive blubbering. I hate to snivel, but I suppose we are all prone
to that at times. What to do I don't know."
Mary looked up from the packs of postcards she was engaged upon.
"Please don't worry," she said, "it isn't as if we were penniless. I
am certain that you will get something to do before long."
"My dear girl, don't forget that the rent and the bread and butter go
on just the same. And don't forget either that whilst the grass grows
the steed starves."
"Not when the other steed has plenty of oats to spare," Mary laughed.
"What do you think of that for an epigram? If painting fails, I shall
take to literature. I'm quite sure that I shall be as good an author
as an artist. Don't think me hard or unsympathetic, Connie. I know how
good you are, I know that you would cheerfully share your last
shilling with me, little as I deserve it. And I am going to do the
same by you. I have some three pounds left of the money I borrowed
from that convenient relative at the pawnshop, and I calculate that I
can raise quite two hundred pounds altogether. Within a short time you
will find fresh work to do."
Connie's tears were falling freely now. The burst of grief seemed to
do her good, for the sunny April smile flashed out again.
"You shall do as you like, dearest," she said. "Pride is a very sinful
luxury for people in my position. And I had forgotten all about that
Pandora's box of yours. It is just possible that on the strength of my
_Wheezer_ work I may get a commission from the _Honeysuckle Weekly_. I
believe they pay a slightly better price than the other papers. Let us
have an early lunch, and then I can go the round of the offices. Don't
worry if I am back late. And you can have a good long afternoon at the
postcards."
Mary had a long afternoon at the postcards indeed, for tea had been a
thing of the past for some time, and as yet Connie had not returned.
Her head was aching now and her hands were stiff with the toil. How
hot and stifling it was, how different to the coolness of the dower
house. And Grace was there by this time, doubtless.
Mary's day-dreams vanished suddenly at the sound of a cab outside.
Connie stepped out of the cab, followed by a tall, manly figure in a
frock coat. From his quiet air and manner Mary put the stranger down
at once as a doctor. She had little time to speculate as to that, for
she saw to her distress that Connie's hat was off and that her head
was bandaged up with a handkerchief. She staggered as she reached the
pavement, and would have fallen but for the man by her side. Mary flew
to the door with words of quick sympathy on her lips. She could see a
curious tender smile on Connie's lips; her face was red; her eyes were
shining with some great happiness.
"Not much the matter," she said. "I got jumbled up in the Strand, and
the side-slipping of a motor threw me under a dray. The wheels did not
go over me, and I have not come home to die or anything of that kind.
I got a blow on the head, and I suppose I fainted. When I came to
myself I was in Charing Cross Hospital. Dr. Newcome was very kind to
me, and insisted on seeing me home in a cab. Strange as it may seem,
Dr. Newcome is an old acquaintance of mine, Mary. This is Miss
Dashwood."
"I am very happy to see you," the doctor said in a pleasant voice. "I
am also glad to say that there is very little the matter with Miss
Colam. I am almost glad of the accident because it has brought Miss
Colam and myself in contact once more. I met her two years ago at
Hastings, when I was getting over a bad illness."
"Then Dr. Newcome is your doctor, Connie," Mary cried.
Connie flushed to her eyes. The stranger dropped his _Evening
Standard_ on the table and affected to fold it neatly.
"I wish I could think so," he said. "We only met for a day. Dreadfully
unconventional, was it not? But I was very lonely at that time and
very ill. My outlook was rather gloomy, too. But I wanted to see Miss
Colam again, and when I got back to London I called at her rooms only
to find her gone. I hope she will believe me when I say that I have
been looking for her ever since."
"The fortune of war," Connie said with a red face. "Nomads like
ourselves are always changing quarters. And here I am just as poor as
I was that day at Fairlight. I hope you can say more for your
prospects, Dr. Newcome?"
"I have been very fortunate," Newcome said gravely. "A distant
relative died and left me some money. The money arrived just in time
to enable me to buy an exceedingly good practice. I was calling on a
house surgeon friend of mine at Charing Cross, when Miss Colam came
in. And I do hope she won't change her lodgings again without letting
me know."
There was no mistaking the significance of the last few words. Clearly
Connie had found the haven of rest for which her tired soul at times
longed for. Mary remembered what she had said as to the man to cling
to for protection in the hour of need, and what a blessed thing the
man's love was for the lonely and depressed. In her mind's eye Mary
could see herself alone in those dingy lodgings, painting her
postcards and waiting for, what? It was, perhaps natural that the
figure of Ralph Darnley should rise before her now.
"I won't," Connie promised. "You will come and see me again, Dr.
Newcome?"
Newcome promised eagerly. He would be in town again in a day or two.
Would the girls dine with him, and go to the theatre afterwards? He
had an aunt in London, who he was sure would join the party. He would
ask her to call on Connie.
"So this is an end of _your_ trouble," Mary laughed, when Newcome had
departed. "It is quite plain to me that you will very soon have the
share of that practice at your disposal, dear. And if the happy
expression of your face means anything, it tells me that you are not
going to refuse the offer."
Connie hid her blushing face and laughed. She remarked that Dr.
Newcome had left his paper behind him. With some show of interest, she
turned over the paper. Then she stopped, and a little cry broke from
her.
"Oh, Mary, listen to this!" she exclaimed. "'Mysterious outrage in
Dashwood Park. Only this morning the body of a well dressed man was
found lying in the avenue of Dashwood Park, the residence of Sir
Vincent Dashwood. Robbery appears to have been the motive, for the
pockets of the unfortunate man had been turned out, and his watch and
chain were gone. As the sufferer was in evening dress, and had every
appearance of being a gentleman, inquiries were made, with the result
that the gentleman has been identified as Ralph Darnley. He is at
present lying at the dower house in a precarious condition!'"
With a broken cry Mary rose to her feet. Her face was white as death
and her hands were convulsively locked together. In a faint voice she
asked for a time table; she wanted to know what time the next train
went.
"You are going down to Dashwood?" Connie asked.
"Oh, of course I am," Mary wept. "I could not stay away. I must be
near him so that I may know how he is progressing. I must help to
nurse him back to life again. I owe him everything--my very existence,
my new self, my womanhood that has come as such a precious thing to
me. And to think that once I was fool enough to prefer pride to the
affection of a man like that, who----"
"Mary, Mary, you love him. You love Ralph Darnley like that!"
Mary's eyes shone with a strange light. She flung her hands above her
head despairingly.
"I know it now," she said, "now that it is perhaps too late. Yes, ever
since I first met Ralph I have loved him with my whole heart and
soul."