ALONE
"'MY DEAR MISS ST. CLAIR,—You ought never to have left me. I can't
think why you have been worrying yourself over the poultry-woman. I
note what you say about my sister, Mrs. Harper. I have written to her
saying it is not convenient for me to receive her at present, but that
I hope to see her later on. If you had come back the first thing on
Wednesday morning, things would have been better. As it is, you have
been away three days, and now I cannot see my way to having you back.
Mrs. Hadley says if you return, she will leave me. I cannot lose the
Hadleys; they know my ways, and have been with me ten years. I should
be lost without them. It is very tiresome that you and Mrs. Hadley do
not get on together. I am a miserable old man, and realise more and
more that I am never meant to have a friend. Mrs. Hadley is improving
in her cooking again. She seems to manage for me better when you are
not here. She says you fuss her.
"'I do not think I owe you anything, for I paid you the morning you
left me. If there are a few shillings over from what I gave you for
your fare, you may keep them. I do not think it will be wise for you
to return here. Mrs. Hadley says you left nothing about your room, but
packed everything in your trunk, and took the keys with you. She was
hurt at your want of confidence in her, and said she would not touch a
hairpin of yours. But this makes it easy to send your trunk by rail to
you. I will leave you to pay the carriage of it at your end, as it is
always safer doing so. Hadley says he can ask the baker to take it in
his cart to the station to-day. I do seem unfortunate in having no one
of my own class to associate with, but I cannot lose the Hadleys. Why
do women always disagree?
"'Yours truly,
"'A. T. SPENCER.'"
This was the letter that awaited Hope one morning. She was
thunderstruck at its contents. Mr. Spencer's callousness and
selfishness did not vex her, for she had a great compassion for him.
But after thinking matters over, she went straight to Mrs. Harper and
read the letter aloud.
That lady lay back in her cushions, and laughed at it.
"It's simply delicious," she said. "I can see Alan writing it!"
"Ah! But it is no laughing matter. Those Hadleys are not faithful
servants. They are cheating him right and left, and he does not see it.
It is pitiful to me. He is lonely and miserable, and they want to keep
him so. I do not mind for myself at all. I am quite willing not to go
back, but I cannot bear to think of him. Mrs. Harper, could you not
go down and release him from his tyrants? You could replace them with
better servants. You are his sister, and you can do what I cannot do."
"But what thanks should I get for it? It would be a most difficult and
unpleasant business, and I always shirk unpleasant things. You see I
am as selfish in my way as Alan is in his. Why should I trouble myself
about him, and his rascally servants?"
Hope looked at her a little wistfully for a moment.
"I can't help thinking that your heart is kinder than your words," she
said, smiling.
Mrs. Harper shook her head.
"My heart is a mere mechanical engine for pumping blood into my
arteries. I always say exactly what I think. The only thing that would
make me go to him would be the fun of routing round that insolent old
woman, and making her wait on me. I do think my brother has treated you
rather shabbily. What are you going to do?"
"I shall stay where I am for the present and try to nurse Miss Rill
back to health and strength again."
"It seems your vocation to attend upon the poor and needy."
After a little further talk, Mrs. Harper declared she would go down and
take her brother by surprise.
"I shall find out how things are, and if I see the smallest inclination
upon my brother's part to be friends with me, I shall settle that
worthy couple of his in no time."
Hope went back to Miss Rill. She was too occupied in attending to
her, and in thinking about the poor unhappy Squire, to give her own
future much thought, but she did vaguely wonder if her money would be
sufficient for her needs, or if she might, like Miss Rill, lose her
little all in London. It was a distinct shock to receive her large
trunk the next day, and to realise that her connection with King's Dell
was severed for the present. That same afternoon she was told that a
gentleman wished to see her, and going into the sitting-room, found Mr.
Robert Manners awaiting her.
He met her with an embarrassed air.
"I—I thought I had better perhaps call. I had business that brought
me to town. I—I hope that Miss Rill is better. It was kind of you to
write. I—I suppose she would not like to see me?"
"Are you sleeping in town to-night?"
"Yes."
"Then I think she might be able to see you to-morrow. She is very weak
still. I'm afraid she has not much desire to live, and that tells
against her. You see, she has no friends, and she has been unfortunate
up here. Her savings have nearly melted away. Perhaps I ought not to
tell you this, but you are an old friend, and so you will treat it in
confidence."
To herself she mentally soliloquised:
"He shall not think she has anything to offer him; if he cares for her,
he will take her as she is."
Hope wisely said nothing of this visit to Miss Rill that night. She did
not want to excite her. But the next morning, she persuaded her to get
up a little earlier, and sit in an easy chair by the sitting-room fire.
And then, with a reckless regard for her scanty purse, Hope went out
and bought some violets and sweet-scented narcissus, which she brought
in to brighten up the dingy little room.
"Ah!" said poor Miss Rill, when she saw them. "I had violets behind the
water-butt. I wonder if Ro—Mr. Manners—has discovered them?"
"You must ask him," said Hope quietly. "He has come up to town on
business, and means to come and see you this morning, I think. Perhaps
he wants some advice about the garden."
A red flush appeared on Miss Rill's thin cheeks.
"Is he really coming to see me?" she asked. "My dear, am I tidy? Don't
you think perhaps my best cap—"
"You are looking awfully nice," said Hope, relieved that she took it so
calmly.
Mr. Manners arrived very shortly.
Hope longed to witness the meeting, but with her usual tact she
absented herself. Sitting in her bedroom, she prayed for their
happiness. There was nothing incongruous to her in the thought of their
courtship. The man might be bowed and bent with the weight of cares and
of time, the woman faded and weakened from her recent illness, but love
was a real thing to both of them, and she had no fears as to the result
of their meeting.
It seemed a long time before the door opened, but he came into the
passage at last. His eyes were bright, and he held himself like a man
awakened from sleep.
"Thank you for this," he said, turning to her with an old-fashioned
bow. "Please God, we will finish our lives together now. I tell her we
must have a quiet wedding up here, and go home next week. I will see
about it at once."
He paused, then said solemnly:
"Ah, Miss St. Clair, it's a pity a woman doesn't always know her own
mind. There's that dear little soul in there has nearly killed herself
in trying to undo a bit of her past. And I have been haunted night and
day by her presence ever since I took her house. She'll be pleased to
see her garden again!"
He turned abruptly away, but Hope saw him draw his coat-sleeve across
his eyes; and was not surprised to find Miss Rill in tears. She
stretched out her hands to Hope directly she saw her.
"Oh, my dear, it seems so wonderful. He wants me still—has always
wanted me, and I'm going back to King's Dell with him. Will people
think us very silly? We are both so old, but we shouldn't be younger if
we had married fifty years ago, should we? And there are lots of Darbys
and Joans in the world. I really do think I don't deserve such joy. I
told him I hadn't one penny, but he says he has enough for us both. We
shall not be rich, you know, but we shall be more comfortable doing our
own work together than lots of these grand folk in town. I feel as if
it must be a dream. Do you think it is?"
"I think it plain solid fact," said Hope. "And now it is time for our
dinner. I hope you have a good appetite."
She brought Miss Rill down to earth by her practical talk. A little
later they looked over her scanty wardrobe, and Hope went out shopping,
determined to spend a little on smartening up the poor bride. As soon
as it was possible, the ceremony was performed at St. Mark's.
And Hope said goodbye to bride and bridegroom at Paddington station
that same afternoon. She returned to her lodgings, feeling, for the
first time, lonely and depressed. Lancelot Dane had been filling her
thoughts; the sight of Miss Rill and her old lover together brought an
aching longing to her heart for the one who belonged to her. She had
written to the country post-office, asking them to forward her letters,
and now she was awaiting her Indian mail.
As she sat over her tea, her outlook was not inspiriting.
"My money seems melting away. I suppose I shall hear something soon. If
Mrs. Dane comes back, it will be all right, but if she does not—oh, I
hope I shall not be a repetition of poor Miss Rill!"
In the ensuing days, she practised the strictest economy, often going
without a midday meal, and making the excuse to her landlady that she
would be out at that time. She was glad that the spring weather made
it possible to go without a fire, but often she would be so cold and
hungry that she would go to bed at eight o'clock. In spite of all her
care, her little store decreased rapidly, and if it had not been for
her unswerving faith in God, she would have lost heart. As it was, she
went about with gay words on her lips and a smile for every one.
She applied to various registries, hoping that perhaps she might find
some temporary engagement. But she realised that the competition,
without interest, was too great for her to be likely to succeed. Her
landlady could not make her out. Her weekly accounts were settled
promptly, and Hope's cheerfulness deceived her.
"You do eat next to nothing, miss; I can't make out how you live!"
"I'm very strong, Mrs. Edgar, and plain food suits me. I am not rolling
in riches, you know!"
"Yet how much you did for that poor dear lady: nothing seemed too good
for her, and I know for certain that she couldn't pay for all them
dainties you gave her when she was sick."
"But, you see, I had to get her well to be married," said Hope
laughing. "I take credit to myself for getting her well so quickly."
"Well, I hopes you won't starve yourself," said Mrs. Edgar gloomily.
"There's a lot of that amongst gentlefolks in London. We sees a deal of
it in these kind of streets. Mrs. Smith next door had a lady—"
But Hope cut Mrs. Edgar's reminiscences short.
"I don't want to be frightened," she said, and she went out of doors
for a walk.
That was her sole relaxation—a brisk walk across the parks, and the
spring flowers and sunshine cheered her.
"It must be all right," she would say to herself. "I shall not be left
forsaken."
And she would repeat to herself her favourite verse:
"'Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?
Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.'"
She got to know a good many of the inhabitants of her quiet street
through just giving them a cheerful greeting as she passed along. The
children soon began to smile at her, and looked for a bright word,
though they knew it would not be followed by pennies. And Hope began
to feel less lonely as she knew more of her neighbours' affairs. Mrs.
Edgar was always willing to give her any information, and though it
was generally tempered a little with gloomy philosophy, Hope learnt to
extract the sweet out of the bitter, and help with her cheery talk if
not with her purse.
It had been a new experience to her to have no one to look after. She
had not been so situated since she had left her aunt in London, and
hardly knew whether she liked such an experience or not.
One morning she felt unusually depressed. Sitting in her room after
breakfast, she did not know what to do with her day.
"I think I must look up my friends. I wonder if, in these times, it
would be improper to ask Jim Horrocks to come and see me? He would tell
me if the Fosberrys are in town again, and where the Chesneys are."
She walked out an hour later, and then, strangely enough, met Jim in
the street.
He was, of course, delighted.
"Fancy your being up in town. This is luck! Where are you staying? I've
been away for the last month in Scotland."
"In lodgings by myself. I can't explain all in a minute. Are you busy?"
"Of course I am, but I shall be busy with you to-day. Walk along with
me to the nearest post-office, so that I can send a wire to somebody."
"No, Jim. Don't break an engagement. I am not going to run away."
"You look more like dying away!" retorted Jim. "What on earth have you
been doing with yourself? You're a wraith! This comes of forsaking your
best friends, and turning yourself into a domestic servant! Now look
here, we'll enjoy ourselves; we'll lunch and dine at the 'Criterion,'
and I'll take you for a motor spin this afternoon, and we'll do a
theatre to-night. You needn't be prudish. Young women don't need
chaperons nowadays. Besides, you are your own mistress."
Hope shook her head.
[Illustration: "WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU BEEN DOING WITH YOURSELF? YOU'RE
A WRAITH!"]
"You're very kind, Jim, but that kind of thing isn't my style now. I
doubt if in the old days I would have done it. If you can spare me an
hour, I shall be delighted to have a chat. But this afternoon will suit
me quite as well."
"No time like the present. It's a nice day; wait till I have sent my
wire, and then we'll go across the park."
Hope acquiesced. She was soon telling Jim of the change in her
circumstances, but though she made very light of her perplexities, Jim
read between the lines and understood.
"It's enough to raise your aunt's ghost!" he said. "But you're
altogether too quixotic to be wise. Now what news have I to tell you?
Minnie Chesney is getting married. Have you not received an invitation?
They're in your part of the world."
"It may have gone to King's Dell, and not been forwarded. But in any
case, I would not have gone."
"The Fosberrys are still abroad. I fancy they mean to cure Lady May's
infatuation for slumming. The Murrays are in town, and the Sclaters,
and Barrys, and the Ismore-Jones—and the De Waldrons and—"
"Oh, spare me!" cried Hope. "I don't want to see one of them."
"Are you a vegetarian?" Jim demanded suddenly.
Hope laughed.
"It isn't bad fare, but I'm not one by principle."
"But by practice. Hope, you shall, for old acquaintance' sake, come
and have a rattling good lunch with me. And I know where we will go.
I have an old aunt; I believe you met her once. She is staying at
the Grosvenor—Mrs. Dalby-Popples—sounds like a character in Dickens,
doesn't it? She's delighted if I look her up; you and I will lunch with
her, and we'll go there now. Hansom!"
He had hailed one, and Hope found herself in it, driving away to the
Grosvenor Hotel, before she could remonstrate.
"What will she say, Jim?"
"You wait and see."
"I hope you won't tell her you found me starving in the street; your
insinuations are rather that way?"
"Ah! There's a spark of the old Hope left! I began to think your
circumstances had crushed the spirit out of you! I shall tell her what
I like, and you are not to be cantankerous!"
"I believe I do remember your aunt. Her name is quite familiar. Didn't
you bring her to the Academy one day when we were there?"
"Yes; she comes up to town about once in seven years. Here we are!"
Hope was soon shaking hands with Mrs. Dalby-Popples, who was a stout
old lady with a placid smile and great simplicity of nature. "This is
Miss St. Clair, an old friend of yours, aunt—at least, she ought to be
if she's not, for she and I have been chums for over twenty years. You
know Mrs. Daubeney. She was Hope's aunt."
"Really? Very glad to see you, Miss St. Clair. You must stay to
luncheon. I always lunch in my private sitting-room, and it will be
delightful to have visitors. I know very few people in town, and I
suppose I am not attractive in myself. I don't entertain, and I'm not
very rich; I assure you I spend a month here, and see perhaps six
people. I don't count Jim. He comes and goes as he likes. Are you a
special friend of his, my dear?"
She asked this so meaningly that the colour rose in Hope's cheeks. Jim
looked at her and laughed.
"Oh, we ought to have been married long ago," he said. "And even now
the wheel of fate may turn in my favour. But another man is the lucky
chap at present."
"We have only met each other by chance to-day in the street," said
Hope, regaining her composure. "Jim brought me straight here."
"You look rather delicate, my dear. I wonder if you ever take Parish's
Food; I have given it to several of my young friends with most marked
success. Are you engaged to be married? I wonder if I know the young
fellow?"
Hope gave Lancelot's name, and Mrs. Dalby-Poppies chatted pleasantly
on, till lunch was ready. Hope enjoyed every moment of that visit.
She seemed to shake off a little of her tiredness and gravity, and
determining to live in the present only, she proved a very cheerful and
entertaining visitor to the old lady.
When she left her, it was with the promise that she would come and see
her again. Jim escorted her to her lodgings, and frowned disapproval at
her street.
"It's respectable, but sordid," he said. "How long do you mean to stay
here?"
"It suits my purse," said Hope. "I am thinking of getting some
employment, Jim. What do you think I could do?"
"Pretty nearly anything you turned your hand to," responded Jim.
"Hasn't that always been the case with you? You were always good at
games, I remember, beat me hollow at tennis more than once; golf,
hockey, whatever it was, you always shone in it!"
"Thank you. But I want to earn money, so games would do me no good.
Will you come in?"
"You know you don't want me to!"
"Well, I must thank you for introducing me to your aunt, and for a very
pleasant day."
"It is only 'au revoir,'" said Jim, as he shook hands with her.
Hope went upstairs to her room to find two letters awaiting her; one
from Kitty, the other was her Indian mail.