A CRISIS
While Wyllard made arrangements for his journey, and Sally Creighton
went very quietly about her work on the lonely prairie farm, it happened
one evening that Miss Winifred Rawlinson sat uneasily expectant far back
under the gallery of a concert-hall in an English manufacturing town. In
her back seat Miss Rawlinson could not hear very well, but it was the
cheapest place she could obtain, and economy was of some little
importance to her. Besides, by craning her neck a little to avoid the
hat of the strikingly dressed young woman in front of her, she could, at
least, see the stage. The programme which she held in one hand announced
that Miss Agatha Ismay would sing a certain aria from a great composer's
oratorio. Miss Rawlinson leaned further forward in her chair when a girl
of about her own age, which was twenty-four, slowly advanced to the
center of the stage.
The girl on the stage was a tall, well-made, brown-haired girl, with a
quiet grace of movement and a comely face. She was attired in a long
trailing dress of a shimmering corn-straw tint. Agatha Ismay had sung at
unimportant concerts with marked success, but that evening there was
something very like shrinking in her eyes.
A crash of chords from the piano melted into a rippling prelude, and
Winifred breathed easier when her friend began to sing. The voice was
sweet and excellently trained, and there was a deep stillness of
appreciation when the clear notes thrilled through the closely-packed
hall. No one could doubt that the first part of the aria was a success,
for half-subdued applause broke out when the voice sank into silence,
and for a few moments the piano rippled on alone; but it seemed to
Winifred that there was a look of tension in the singer's face, and she
grew uneasy, for she understood the cause for it.
"The last bit of the second part's rather trying," remarked a young man
behind her. "There's an awkward jump at two full tones that was too much
for our soprano when we tried it at the choral union. Miss Ismay's voice
is very true in intonation, but I don't suppose most of the audience
would notice it if she shirked a little and left that high sharp out."
Winifred had little knowledge of music, but she was sufficiently
acquainted with her friend's character to be certain that Agatha would
not attempt to leave out the sharp in question. This was one reason why
she sat rigidly still when the clear voice rang out again. It rose from
note to note, full and even, but she could see the singer's face, and
there was no doubt whatever that Agatha was making a strenuous effort.
Nobody else, however, seemed to notice it, for Winifred flung a swift
glance around, and then fixed her eyes upon the dominant figure in the
corn-straw dress. The sweet voice was still rising and the interested
listener hoped that the accompanist would force the tone to cover it a
little, and put on the loud pedal. The pianist, however, was gazing at
his music, and played on until, with startling suddenness, the climax
came.
The voice sank a full tone, rose, and hoarsely trailed off into silence
again. Then the accompanist glanced over his shoulder, and struck a
ringing chord while he waited for a sign. There was a curious stirring
in the audience. The girl in the shimmering dress stood quite still for
a moment with a spot of crimson in her cheek and a half-dazed look in
her eyes. Then, turning swiftly, she moved off the stage.
Winifred rose with a gasp, and turned upon the young man next her, who
looked up inquiringly.
"Yes," she said sharply; "can't you let me pass? I'm going out."
It was about half-past nine when she reached the wet street. A fine rain
drove into her face, and she had rather more than a mile to walk without
an escort, but that was a matter which caused her no concern. She was a
self-reliant young woman, and accustomed to going about unattended. She
was quite aware that the scene she had just witnessed would bring about
a crisis in her own and her friend's affairs. For all that, she was
unpleasantly conscious of the leak in one shabby boot when she stepped
down from the sidewalk to cross the street, and when she opened her
umbrella beneath a gas lamp she pursed up her mouth. There were holes in
the umbrella near where the ribs ran into the ferrule; she had not
noticed them before. She, however, resolutely plodded on through the
drizzle, until three young fellows who came with linked arms down the
pavement of a quieter street barred her way. One wore his hat on one
side, the one nearest the curb flourished a little cane, and the third
smiled at her fatuously.
"Oh my!" he jeered. "Where's dear Jemima off to in such a hurry?"
Winifred drew herself up. She was little and determined, and, it must be
admitted, not quite unaccustomed to that kind of thing.
"Will you let me pass?" she asked angrily. "There's a policeman at the
next turning."
"There really is," said one of the youths. "The Dook has another
engagement. Dream of me, Olivia!"
A beat of heavy feet drew nearer, and the three roysterers disappeared
in the direction of a flaming music-hall, where the second "house" was
probably beginning. Winifred, who had stepped into the gutter to avoid
the roysterer with the cane, turned as a stalwart, blue-coated figure
moved towards her.
"Thank you, officer," she said, "they've gone."
The policeman merely raised a hand as if in comprehension, and plodded
back to his post. Winifred went on until she let herself into a house in
a quiet street, and ascending to the second floor entered a simply
furnished room, which, however, contained a piano, and a table on which
a typewriter stood amid a litter of papers. The girl took off her
water-proof and sat down in a low chair beside the little fire. She was
not a handsome girl, and it was evident that she did not trouble herself
greatly about her attire. Her face was too thin and her figure too
slight and spare, but there was usually, even when she was anxious, as
she certainly was that night, a shrewdly whimsical twinkle in her eyes,
and though her lips were set, her expression was compassionate.
She was not the person to sit still very long, and in a minute or two
she rose to place a little kettle on the fire. She took a few scones, a
coffee-pot, and a tin of condensed milk from a cupboard. When she had
spread them out upon a table she discovered that there was some of the
condensed milk upon her fingers, and it must be admitted that she sucked
them. They were little, stubby fingers, which somehow looked capable.
"It must have been four o'clock when I had that bun and a cup of tea,"
she remarked, half aloud.
She glanced at the table longingly, for she occasionally found it
necessary to place a certain check upon a healthy appetite. The practice
of such self-denial is unfortunately, not a very unusual thing in the
case of many young women who work hard in the great cities.
"I must wait for Agatha," she said, with a resolute shake of the head.
Crossing the room toward the typewriter table she stopped to glance at a
little framed photograph that stood upon the mantel. It was a portrait
of Gregory Hawtrey taken years before, and she apostrophized it with
quiet scorn.
"Now you're wanted you're naturally away out yonder," she declared
accusingly. "You're like the rest of them--despicable!"
This seemed to relieve her feelings, and she sat down before the
typewriter, which clicked and rattled for several minutes under her
stubby fingers. The clicking ceased with sudden abruptness, and she
prodded the carriage of the machine viciously with a hairpin. As this
appeared unavailing, she used her forefinger, and when at length it slid
along the rod with a clash there was a smear of grimy oil upon her cheek
and her nose. The machine gave no further trouble, and she endeavored to
make up some of the time that she had spent at the concert. It was
necessary that it should be made up, but she was conscious that she was
putting off an evil moment.
At last the door opened, and Agatha Ismay, wrapped in a long cloak, came
in. She permitted Winifred to take her wrap from her, and then sank down
into a chair. There was a strained look in her eyes, and her face was
very weary.
"You're working late again," she observed.
Winifred nodded. "It's the men who loaf, my dear," she replied. "When
you undertake the transcription of an author's scrawl at ninepence the
thousand words you have to work hard, especially when, as it is in this
case, the thing's practically unreadable. Besides, the woman in it makes
me lose my temper. If I'd had a man of the kind described to deal with
I'd have thrashed him."
She was talking at random, partly to conceal her anxiety, and partly
with the charitable purpose of giving her companion time to approach the
subject that must be mentioned; but she rather overdid her effort to
appear at ease. Agatha looked at her sharply.
"Winny," she said, "you know. You've been there."
Winifred turned towards her quietly, for she could face a crisis.
"Yes," she confessed, "I have, but you're not going to talk about it
until you have had supper. Don't move until I make the coffee."
She was genuinely hungry, but while she satisfied her own appetite she
took care that her companion, who did not seem inclined to eat, made a
simple meal. Then she put the plates into a cupboard and sat down facing
Agatha.
"Well," she said, "you have broken down exactly as that throat
specialist said you would. The first question is, how long it will be
before you can go on again?"
Agatha laughed, a little harsh laugh. "I didn't tell you everything at
the time: I've broken down for good," she answered.
There was a moment of tense silence, and then Agatha made a dejected
gesture. "The specialist warned me that this might happen if I went on
singing, but what could I do? I couldn't cancel my engagements without
telling people why. The physician said I must go to Norway and give my
throat and chest a rest."
They looked at each other, and there was in their eyes the half-bitter,
half-weary smile of those to whom the cure prescribed is ludicrously
impossible. It was Winifred who spoke first.
"Then," she commented, "we have to face the situation, and it's not an
encouraging one. Our joint earnings just keep us here in decency--we
won't say comfort--and they're evidently to be subject to a big
reduction. It strikes me as a rather curious coincidence that a letter
from that man in Canada and one from your prosperous friends in the
country arrived just before you went out."
She saw the look in Agatha's eyes, and spread her hands out.
"Yes," she admitted; "I hid them. It seemed to me that you had quite
enough upon your mind this evening. I don't know whether the letters are
likely to throw any fresh light upon the question what we're going to
do."
She produced the letters from a drawer in her table, and Agatha
straightened herself suddenly in her chair when she had opened the first
of them.
"Oh," she cried, "he wants me to go out to him!"
Winifred's face set hard for a moment, but it relaxed again, and she
contrived to hide her dismay.
"Then," she suggested, "I suppose you'll certainly go. After all, he's
probably not worse to live with than most of them."
Miss Rawlinson was occasionally a little bitter, but, like others of her
kind, she had been compelled to compete in an overcrowded market with
hard-driven men. She was, however, sincerely attached to her friend, and
she smiled when she saw the flash in Agatha's eyes.
"Oh," she added, "you needn't try to wither me with your indignation. No
doubt he's precisely what he ought to be, and I dare say it will ease
your feelings if you talk about him again; at least it will help you to
formulate your reasons for going out to him. I'll listen patiently, and
try not to be uncharitable."
Agatha fell in with the suggestion. It was a relief to talk, and she had
a certain respect, which she would not always admit, for her friend's
shrewdness. She meant to go, but she desired to ascertain how a less
interested person would regard the course that she had decided on.
"I have known Gregory since I was a girl," she said.
Winifred pursed up her lips. "I understood you met him at the Grange,
and you were only there for a few weeks once a year," she replied.
"After all, that isn't a very great deal. It seems he fell in love with
you, which is, perhaps, comprehensible. What I don't quite know the
reason for is why you fell in love with him."
"Ah," responded Agatha, "you have never seen Gregory."
"I haven't," admitted Winifred sourly; "I have, however, seen his
picture. One must admit that he's reasonably good-looking. In fact, I've
seen quite an assortment of photographs, but it's, perhaps, significant
that the last was taken some years ago."
Agatha smiled. "Can a photograph show the clean, sanguine temperament of
a man, his impulsive generosity, and cheerful optimism?"
Miss Rawlinson rose, and critically surveyed the photograph on the
mantel.
"I don't want to be discouraging, but after studying that one I'm
compelled to admit that it can't. No doubt it's the artist's fault, but
I'm willing to admit that a young girl would be rather apt to credit a
man with a face like that with qualities he didn't possess." She sat
down again with a thoughtful expression. "The fact is, you set him up on
a pedestal and burned incense to him when you were not old enough to
know any better, and when he came home for a few weeks four years ago
you promised to marry him. Now it seems he's ready at last, and wants
you to go out to the new country. Perhaps it doesn't affect the
question, but if I'd promised to marry a man in Canada he'd certainly
have to come for me. Isn't there a certain risk in the thing?"
"A risk?"
Winifred nodded. "Yes," she said, "rather a serious one. Four years is a
long time, and the man may have changed. In a new country where life is
so different, it must be a thing they're rather apt to do."
A faint, half-compassionate, half-tolerant smile crept into Agatha's
eyes. The mere idea that the sunny-tempered, brilliant young man to whom
she had given her heart could have changed or degenerated in any way
seemed absurd to her. Winifred, however, went on again.
"There's another point," she said. "If he's still the same, which isn't
likely, there has certainly been a change in you. You have learned to
see things more clearly, and have acquired a different standard from the
one you had then. One can't help growing, and as one grows one looks for
more. One is no longer pleased with the same things; it's inevitable."
She broke off for a moment, and her voice became gentler.
"Well," she added, "I've done my duty in trying to point this out to
you, and now there's only another thing to say: since you're clearly
bent on going, I'm going with you."
Agatha looked astonished, but there was a suggestion of relief in her
expression, for the two had been firm friends and had faced a good deal
together.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "that gets over the one difficulty!"
Winifred made a little whimsical gesture.
"I'm not quite sure that it does. The difficulty will probably be when I
arrive in Canada, but I'm a rather capable person, and I believe they
don't pay ninepence a thousand words in Winnipeg. Besides, I could keep
the books at a store or a hotel, and at the very worst Gregory could,
perhaps, find a husband for me. Women, I hear, are held in some
estimation in that country. Perhaps there's a man out there who would
treat decently even a little, plain, vixenish-tempered person with a
turned-up nose."
Crossing the room again she banged the cover down on the typewriter, and
then turned to Agatha with a suggestion of haziness in her eyes.
"Anyway, I'm very tired of this country. It would be intolerable when
you went away."
Agatha stretched out a hand and drew the girl down beside her. She no
longer feared adverse fortune and loneliness, and she was filled with a
gentle compassion, for she knew how hard a fight Winifred had made, and
part at least of what she had borne.
"My dear," she said, "we will go together."
Then she opened the second letter, which she had forgotten while they
talked.
"They want me to stay at the Grange for a few weeks," she announced, and
smiled. "An hour ago I felt crushed and beaten--and now, though my voice
has probably gone for good, I don't seem to mind. Isn't it curious that
both these letters should have come to sweep my troubles away to-night?"
"No," answered Winifred, "it's distinctly natural--just what one would
have expected. You wrote to the man in Canada soon after you'd seen the
specialist, and his answer was bound to arrive in the next few days."
"But I certainly didn't write the folks at the Grange."
Winifred's eyes twinkled. "As it happens, I did, two days ago. I
ventured to point out their duty to them, and they were rather nice
about it in another letter."
With a little sigh of contentment Agatha stretched herself out in the
low chair. "Well," she said, "it probably wouldn't have the least effect
if I scolded you. I believe I'm horribly worn out, Winny, and it will be
a relief unspeakable to get away. If I can arrange to give up those
pupils I'll go to-morrow."
Winifred made no answer. Kneeling with one elbow resting on the arm of
Agatha's chair, she gazed straight in front of her. Both of the girls
were very weary of the long, grim struggle, and now a change was close
at hand.