BEATEN
"Hast thou o'er the clear heaven of thy soul
Seen tempests roll?
Hast thou watched all the hopes thou wouldst have won
Fade one by one?
Wait till the clouds are past, then raise thine eyes
To bluer skies!
"Hast thou gone sadly through a dreary night,
And found no light,
No guide, no star, to cheer thee through the plain,
No friend, save pain?
Wait, and thy soul shall see, when most forlorn,
Rise a new morn."
A. PROCTOR.
IN a few minutes, Honor returned, followed by Mrs. Montmorency herself.
"I have come to see you," that lady announced, with great good humour,
"because I like to know Miss Broughton's friends. You come from her
part of the world, I hear."
Mrs. Montmorency was a stout, handsome-looking woman, whose one object
in life was to preserve her good looks and have a good time. She was
very lavish over her personal expenditure, but very economical with
her staff of servants, and had dismissed her maid soon after Honor's
arrival, when she found that Honor could dress her hair and use her
needle as well as that expensive individual. Honor did not know how to
stand up for herself. She meekly acquiesced in every extra burden laid
upon her shoulders, though in private, she chafed against it.
Audrey replied pleasantly; she was anxious to obtain friends, and hoped
that Mrs. Montmorency might do something for her.
"Well, you must spend the evening, I suppose, with your friend. I shall
be in about eleven. Are you staying in London long?"
"Only till I find some work," said Audrey, taking the bull by the
horns. "If you hear of any of your friends wanting a companion, Mrs.
Montmorency, will you kindly remember me? I should be very grateful for
a recommendation from you."
"But I know nothing of you," said Mrs. Montmorency, eyeing her with a
certain amount of interest. "You look ladylike, and perhaps capable."
"I am sure I am both," said Audrey, with a flickering smile.
"Audrey is really very clever," said Honor eagerly, "much cleverer than
I am—"
"That does not say much," said Mrs. Montmorency, with a smile that
seemed to wither Honor up at once. "I must be going. Good-night, Miss
Hume. I shall not see you again. You must amuse yourself whilst Miss
Broughton is attending to me."
She disappeared. Honor came over to Audrey and kissed her in a
warm-hearted fashion.
"She likes you. I can see she does. Every one does. What a delightful
evening we shall have together!"
"I don't think she is a bad sort," said Audrey, looking at Honor
reflectively; "only why do you grovel to her so? No lady should do it!"
"Do I grovel?" The pink colour came into Honor Broughton's cheeks. "I
am sometimes afraid I do. I am losing my self-respect, and that's a
fact, Audrey. I am in an anomalous position. I am not a servant, but I
am treated like one. And they even look upon me with contempt. I hate
the butler. I feel I should like to crush him under my feet for his
quiet insolence. You are quite right. I can't stand up for myself. When
you're unhappy, you can't; it doesn't seem worth while."
"But, Honor, why should you be unhappy? And I should not sink to the
level of a servant if I were you. She gives you a handsome salary, and
yet makes you her maid. I can't understand it. She must be a mass of
contradictions."
"So she is. She was constantly changing her maids, and then Mrs.
Bulwer suggested to her to get a companion. She made her give me £100
a year. She told her I was worth it, and Mrs. Montmorency soon found
I was not, so she is determined to get as much as she can out of me.
I hate the life, Audrey! I hate London! I hate being treated like an
inferior being because I work for my living. Mrs. Montmorency dislikes
everything that I like, and likes everything that I despise. She hates
children and old people, and animals and the country; and she loves
rich, vulgar people and a show, and everything with push and brag."
"She looks good-natured."
"So she is, unless her will is crossed, but I think her vain and
childish. I suppose I have no tolerance with people of her sort. There
is her bell going! I must run. I never expected to be happy, you know,
so I am not disappointed."
Honor disappeared. Audrey shook her head as she left the room.
"Honor is not fit to fight her own battles; she goes to the wall at
once of her own accord. It's a great pity. But I'm afraid I should not
like being a paid companion any better than she does."
A little later, the two girls were sitting down to a comfortable little
dinner together. Audrey never enjoyed a meal so much in her whole life
as she did that one. She was really hungry, for she was gradually
reducing her amount of food day by day, and to enjoy nicely cooked food
and plenty of it, without having to pay for it, was a great luxury.
After it was over, Honor took her into the drawing-room, and, drawing
up two easy-chairs before a blazing fire, they prepared to enjoy
themselves.
"The comforts of life are something," said Audrey thoughtfully. "At
present, I feel I would change shoes with you with the greatest
pleasure."
"I would rather beg my meal in the streets or sweep a crossing," said
Honor hotly, "than be dependent on another person's whims and fancies
for a livelihood!"
"Ah! You would have to try a beggar's life first," said Audrey with
feeling. "You never know what it is to be hungry or cold, or disgusted
with sordid surroundings."
"Why, you ridiculous girl, you talk as if you do!"
"I am getting a taste of it," said Audrey. "Only what I say to you must
be kept to yourself. I am determined to stay in London till I can find
work to do, and I am beginning to be afraid of the consequences of this
determination."
Honor looked at her wonderingly.
"Is it really so necessary, Audrey? Oh, I'm sorry, very sorry for you.
You won't bear the yoke as easily as I can."
"The yoke! Stuff and nonsense! I glory in my independence. If I was
earning money now, I should be in the seventh heaven of delight!
But I'd no idea there was such competition in every branch of trade
or profession. You don't know what I've tried! The shops will have
none of me; they are all provided for. I've thought of laundries,
hairdressers and libraries, and all kinds of professions. I drew a line
at hospitals; I can't bear sickness. I'm not a proper woman at all.
But the long and short of it is that London won't employ me, and I'm
determined that it shall. Do you think I shall win?"
"I wish I could help you," said Honor wistfully. Then she leant forward
with flushed cheeks and bright eyes:
"Would you like to take my place? I believe Mrs. Montmorency would
welcome any change. I'm sure she is getting tired of me already. I'm
not amusing. I'm a dull, commonplace, ugly girl, and my heart is with
my darlings. I can't live without them, Audrey, and that's a fact. I
shall never marry; I shall never have children of my own. But they fill
up the blank, and are my joy in life. If you think you would like my
billet, I can easily throw it up and go home."
"Ah, no!" cried Audrey. "Don't be a failure. I won't encourage you
to be that. Rouse yourself, Honor, and put more heart into your
duties. Don't go through your days like an automatic figure. Make Mrs.
Montmorency like you. Have more ambition. Don't you like anything in
your life?"
"I dare say it will be different when we go up to Scotland," said Honor
dolefully. "It may be better than this, but I don't feel it will be. We
are going next week."
"Are you, indeed? You must keep me in mind, and if you hear of any
companion or help of any sort being wanted, think of me—"
"But, Audrey—forgive me for seeming curious—you are not really in dire
need of earning something, are you? I must tell you. I heard from one
of the Miss Blunts the other day. It rather surprised me, as we are not
correspondents."
"Do tell me what she said. I am sure it was to discover my whereabouts,
was it not?"
"I will get you the letter. I don't see why you shouldn't see it."
Honor left the room, and returning with the letter, handed it to Audrey.
It was as follows:—
"DEAR HONOR,
"We shall be so interested to hear from you when you have time to
write to us. Our quiet village seems to be going through a great many
changes. You will have heard of Amabel Osborne's engagement. She is
very happy, of course, but the sudden death of dear Mr. Hume has
saddened us all. I wonder if you have seen anything of Audrey? We
believe that she is in London. She left us to go to an old friend of
her father's, who, 'entre nous,' was going to do something for her. I
am afraid she is left very badly off. But my brother does not doubt
that something has been arranged with this rich friend, only we have
heard nothing definite as yet. Do give her our love if you see her,
and if she is in any difficulty, my brother will only be too glad to
help her. We hope that you are happy and comfortable in your new home.
Your stepmother is much more active now than she has been. She and her
friend go about a great deal together.
"With love from us all,
"Yours very sincerely,
"GRACE BLUNT."
Audrey gave a little sniff as she finished reading.
"No, Honor; I will not apply to Mr. Blunt for help. My father's friend
has been a dead failure, and I will not go home and let those good
ladies' tongues clack over my misfortunes. I will die first!"
"How I wish I could help you! But you would never stand a life like
mine, I know."
"Oh, I shall find work soon," Audrey said trying to speak cheerfully,
"but I had no idea it was so difficult. You must have education, and
certificates, or interest, I find. And I have neither. I feel my
westerly gales are giving me rather a buffeting at present!"
"Ah!" said Honor. "But a life with gales and sunshine alternately, is
better than a dead biting east wind for ever blowing full in your face.
I knew, as far as happiness went, that I should not make an exchange
for the better when I left home. I am fated to have people dead against
me all my life. I suppose there is something in me that disgusts and
irritates them."
"I think you always take too gloomy views of things," said Audrey
reflectively; "you want to cultivate gladness. That was Pauline's
advice to me once. And I started to do it. I won't say I've done it
ever since. And take my advice and don't make yourself too cheap. It
doesn't pay!"
So they talked on over the fire. Audrey was loath to go away from the
luxuries around her, but left Honor in a more cheerful mood, and in
seeking to cheer another, she had cheered herself.
A few days after this, Audrey had a summons to Mrs. Hart's registry.
She started full of hope. It was a rainy morning, and not wishing to
spend any money she walked, with the result that she became wet through.
"It is a lady who wishes to take someone to travel with herself and
daughter. She wants someone capable and reliable, and well bred. She
is going to call here very shortly to see you. I told her how you were
situated. Your duties would be to look after their comforts on the
journey, make all travelling arrangements, and relieve them of all
responsibility."
"I'm not afraid of a post like that," said Audrey brightly. Her heart
beat fast in hopeful anticipation of the interview.
But alas, when the lady arrived, one of the first questions she asked
Audrey was whether she was a good French and German scholar. And when
Audrey confessed that she was not, she would have nothing further to
say to her.
"I ought to have told Mrs. Hart that that was essential. I want an
experienced traveller and a thoroughly good linguist."
Audrey had had some miserable moments since she had been in London, but
she had never had quite such a bad time as she had that morning when
she dragged herself back to her lodgings in wet clothes, feeling that
hope was killed within her.
"I believe God has forsaken me," she said to herself. "I shall give up
praying. It is all a farce. Pauline was wrong when she told me she knew
that I should be helped."
She shivered as she sat down in her dreary little room and surveyed her
dinner—some boiled rice and onions, a piece of bread, and a glass of
water.
Audrey had become a vegetarian some time ago; she found it much
cheaper. She tried to dry her feet in front of her small oil-stove,
then, having disposed of her unappetising meal, she pulled out her
purse and looked at its contents.
"Five shillings for my rent to-morrow, and two shillings and ninepence
halfpenny over. Well, I can't sink much lower. I shall be able to buy
no more oil, and so good-bye to any more cooking. One day more will see
me literally at my last penny. Now the question is, what am I going to
do? My pride has had a disastrous fall. I must write to Mr. Blunt for
more money. His sister-in-law has paid me a month's rent in advance,
so he has that in the bank. I must have it at once. No, Audrey Hume,
you had a very good opinion of your abilities, and thought you would
be able to go great things in London by your own unaided efforts; now
you will soon be creeping home to your native place, failure stamped on
every feature! Oh, dear! I wish I didn't feel so seedy; it's the cold
and damp. I'll get right into bed. Of course, I ought to have got into
dry clothes long ago. I'll write to Mr. Blunt to-morrow. That will be
quite time enough."
But when the next day came, Audrey was so poorly that she could not get
out of bed, and for a week, her little landlady nursed and fed her with
the warm-hearted generosity of her class. Audrey had taken a violent
chill, and when she at last began to get about again, she was so weak
that tears would come into her eyes at the least thing.
She was sitting at her table one afternoon trying to write to Mr.
Blunt, when Mrs. Dutton came hurriedly into the room.
"A gentleman has called to see you, miss. He will give no name. I took
the liberty of asking him into my back parlour. There's the shop bell!
I must go." She disappeared.
Audrey stood up and felt her legs trembling beneath her.
"It is Mr. Blunt! Come to spy out my poverty, and take back to his
sisters a detailed account of my position."
A red spot burned in either cheek. But she gave herself no time for
thought. She swept down the stairs and into the little back parlour
behind the greengrocer's shop, with the air of a tragedy queen.
And then she stopped short, for her visitor was not Mr. Blunt, but—Dr.
Vernon.
Her first instinct was to leave the room instantly, but something in
his demeanour made her hesitate.
He held out his hand.
"I have come to ask your forgiveness," he said, and the smile that lit
up his face was a singularly sweet one.
Audrey steeled her heart immediately. She was intensely angry that he
should have dared to discover her retreat, and follow her. Yet she
could not but put out her hand in response to his overture.
"I can't forgive or forget," she said shortly.
"I hope you will try. But I have a quick temper, I am ashamed to say,
and I treated you abominably."
There was silence for a moment. The smile faded from his face, leaving
him grave and quiet.
"I have been a long time finding you out," he continued, "but now I am
successful, I hope I may be able to retrieve the past."
Then Audrey flashed out:
"I never want to see you or speak to you again! I resent this intrusion
extremely!"
"I do not doubt that, but you are your father's daughter, and I mean,
with your permission, to take you back with me to Horsborough this
afternoon. Please, don't let me keep you standing. Your landlady tells
me that you have been ill; and you look so now."
Audrey was so overcome with his surprising audacity that she was glad
enough to seat herself in the chair he drew forward. She wondered
if she were dreaming. Twice she tried to speak, but, to her extreme
mortification, she felt the tears again rising to her eyes. At last she
gulped out:
"I will never pass a night underneath your roof. It is an insult to ask
me."
"Let me explain. Do you know—I suppose you do—that Horsborough College
is a large private school for boys? I have two or three houses in
connection with it in the grounds. One of these is for quite small
boys. I have several whose parents are in India and who want a woman's
care. So, for the last fifteen years, a widow lady and her daughter
have managed this house for me. There are about fourteen children in
it. Their ages are from six to nine. It is, in fact, a preparatory
school for the others.
"Now, two months ago, Miss Bonar got married. Her mother is such an old
friend of mine that I want her to stay on, only she is getting old,
and needs a younger woman with her. That young woman I hope will be
you. Stop—let me speak. You do not have to teach, only help the little
fellows prepare their lessons in the afternoon. A very rudimentary
knowledge of Latin, arithmetic, and French will suffice for this. I
think, by the way, there are three youngsters who do not yet know
how to read. If so, they would fall to your share. You would have to
undertake the housekeeping, and do more or less a matron's duties. Now
wouldn't a billet of this sort suit you? Or have you already found
employment?"
Audrey's head was in a whirl.
Was this an answer to all her fervent prayers for help? She put her
hand up to her head.
"I am not very well," she said, trying to speak with dignity, "so I
think I hardly take in what you say. You don't think I would wish to
come to 'you' for employment, do you?"
"Now, look here, Miss Hume; listen to me. The other day we both very
unnecessarily lost our tempers, and said hard things to one another. We
were both placed in a very awkward position, but we'll wipe that away
as if it had never been. Your father has left me one of his executors.
He was a very old and valued friend of mine. Did you ever hear the
particulars of my obligation to him? May I tell you?"
Audrey murmured an assent.
"I was a very young fellow at the time, and had lost my billet out in
India through ill-health. I was not only down on my luck, but I was
desperate, and would have been destroyed body and soul if your father
had not stepped in, gripped me by the hand, and taken me right into his
house and home. He treated me like a son. Your mother—who was a saint
on earth—nursed me back to health, and was the means of bringing back
my lost ideals, and faith in God above. Your father got me a temporary
billet till I had cleared off my debts, and was able to hold up my
head again. Then I came home, for my widowed mother died and I had to
provide a home for my sister. Eventually, money came to us. I went
to college, entered the Church, and now am trying to be a trainer as
well as a schoolmaster. I want every boy to leave me with sounder and
more robust principles than I had myself at his age. I want to save
them from an experience like mine. Can you wonder that I revere your
father's memory, and am sorry that I failed in receiving his daughter
with the courtesy she deserved?"
Audrey was moved by his recital, yet her hot pride rose at once at the
thought of assenting to Dr. Vernon's proposition.
"I don't wish to be dependent upon 'you' for a living," she said
shortly.
"There is no question of dependence, but of mutual obligation, in such
a proposal as I have made," said Dr. Vernon. "It would be affectation
if I were to pretend I did not know the state of your finances. But
our need of a lady like yourself is quite as great as your need of the
salary our school committee will give. We won't waste any more time in
talking. You can but give it a trial. If you do not like the post, you
are free to give it up. Do you think you could pack your things and be
ready to come off with me in an hour's time? Then we shall catch the
six o'clock train from Victoria."
Audrey gave a little gasp. This man took her breath away. And yet his
magnetic personality seemed to dominate her.
"I cannot possibly rush away in such a fashion," she said. "I have had
no time to think over your proposal."
"But that is just what I do not want you to do," said Dr. Vernon,
smiling again. "Miss Hume, you must let me treat you in somewhat the
same fashion as your father treated me. I don't mean to say that your
experience is a bit what mine was, but—"
"But?" interrupted Audrey, with flashing eyes. "You mean to take me in
out of charity and befriend me, in order to pay the debt you consider
you owed to my father. I am afraid I cannot bring myself to agree to
that."
"That is an ungenerous way of stating things."
"It is a true one."
Audrey had risen from her chair and was facing him somewhat defiantly.
Her nerves were on edge. She felt terribly afraid of losing her
self-control and bursting into tears.
And Dr. Vernon, who was a keen student of human nature, saw and
understood.
"Come, Miss Hume," he said, "you are a reasonable, sensible girl. Don't
act hysterically, but take my offer as it stands. I don't mean to leave
this house until you have promised to come with me. If we miss that six
o'clock train, there is not another till ten o'clock. I shall lose my
dinner, and my sister will be anxious. You see, I'm determined to have
my way in this matter—determined that you shall test the vacancy I want
you to fill before you refuse it. Come as my guest."
"Never!" snapped Audrey.
"Well, we will leave that. I don't care how you come, as long as you
accompany me to-night. Mrs. Bonar or my sister will look after you, and
make you comfortable."
Then Audrey experienced a peculiar sensation, as if the room were
rising up to meet her. There was a buzzing in her ears, and she
remembered no more.