HOMELESS
"For the way is often dreary,
And the feet are often weary,
And the heart is very sad.
There is heavy burden bearing,
When it seems that none are caring,
And we half forget that ever we were glad."
IT was a year later. Spring was on its way; but in London, fog reigned
supreme, blotting out all light and sunshine, and filling people's
lungs with its stinging, choking fumes.
In a dingy private hotel in Bloomsbury, a little face was pressed
against the panes of the shabby drawing-room window eagerly watching
for someone. At last, with a joyful cry, the child sprang from her post
and flung herself into the arms of the woman who entered.
"Oh, mummie, I thought you was lost. Do you think it's the Judgment Day
coming? I'm getting so frightened."
"No, darling, it's only a London fog."
Honor sat down heavily on a chair and Fay crept to her side.
"I'm sorry you're so tired. I don't like London. Where are we going to
live?"
Honor gave a little bitter laugh.
"'How' are we going to live is the question, Fay. I heard from your
father this morning; he did not send the money he promised. He can't do
it at present."
"But, mummie, you said weeks ago we were going into the country when
father's letter came. Aren't we going?"
"Don't worry me, child! I must write a letter."
Then, ashamed of her momentary petulance, Honor caught the child to her.
"Oh, Fay, darling, I don't want to be cross, but I'm feeling ill, and
very, 'very' anxious about you!"
Poor Honor! Step by step of her way had been clouded and bestrewn with
thorns. Perhaps the happiest time had been on the big liner, when her
husband was cheery and optimistic, and the little home they would
eventually have together was discussed and planned.
When they landed at New York and he was met by several old friends, she
discovered that her husband had a side to his character with which she
was not acquainted. He established her and Fay in a boarding-house, and
gradually was more and more away from them. Honor took his absence very
quietly. She never expected that she would have sufficient attraction
in herself to keep a man perpetually by her side. All she wanted was to
be useful and helpful to him. And Fay was her daily and hourly delight.
She mended and made her clothes, she taught her and she played with
her, and she was happy and content.
Then Alick took them both with him for a trip to the West Indies, where
he had a share in a sugar plantation. And Honor had a few happy months
there. The strange, new scenes in which she found herself drew out all
her powers. She grew more self-assured, and lost her shy shrinking
manner. Alick and she, if not a demonstrative couple, were content with
each other's society. And if he found it unnecessary to give much,
Honor gave abundantly, and required very little from him. But when they
again accompanied him back to the States, Alick grew a little restive.
His money seemed to be failing him; he told Honor she must economise
and live in a cheaper way. And when she found a couple of rooms in a
poor part of Philadelphia, he told her he must take a trip down to
Chili to look after a bit of property he had there.
"I can't take a woman and child with me," he said; "you'll stay here
like a good little woman till I return, and then we'll think about
going back to England and settling down."
He left her with a little money, and from time to time sent her
additional small sums. But if Honor had not bestirred herself, and
managed to earn something by plain needlework, she and Fay would have
fared badly. As it was, her straitened means brought an anxious pucker
to her brows and hollows under her eyes. They were always hoping,
always expecting, the wanderer's return. And at last, one day he
came—but only to tell Honor that she had better return to England with
Fay.
"You will do better in your own country, near your own people, get
some quiet country lodgings somewhere. I have been offered a post with
a surveying party going up towards Alaska, and I shall be gone some
months. I'll manage to scrape up enough money for your return passage,
and will send you what I can. You're such a clever little woman in
making both ends meet that I'm sure you will help me. I am in low water
at present, but the tide is bound to turn."
"I cannot go to my own people," said Honor quietly, a heavy weight
descending on her spirits at the prospect before her and of her coming
motherhood. "Alick, are you regretting your marriage?"
"Never," he assented emphatically. "Look how you have relieved me of
the care of Fay. Cheer up! We shall have happy days yet when my ship
comes in. And I dare say, I shall make a good deal by this trip. We are
going to be in touch with the goldfields, and who knows what may befall
us there? You had better take the steamer the end of this week, wait in
London till you get my next remittance, and then settle yourself in a
quiet country cottage somewhere."
So Honor had acquiesced. She had waited in London for three weeks for
the expected remittance, and had now received the following letter from
her husband:
"MY DEAREST HONOR,
"I'm afraid I can't send you anything this mail. In fact, until I get
my quarter's salary from this railway company, I have hardly a shilling
to call my own. You had better go to your people. Surely, as you have
a home, they will be delighted to receive you. If you can't do this,
you could try my sister, if you like. She lives near Exeter. I enclose
address. I wouldn't leave Fay alone to her tender mercies, but with
you, it is a different matter. Margaret is comfortably off, but is a
hard nut to crack. Still, I think you and Fay would be equal to it. My
love to my darling. You are so sensible and clever that you will get
along all right, I feel sure. And I will send you money as soon as ever
I can.
"Your affectionate husband,
"ALICK."
As Honor read this letter and thought of the one five-pound note left
in her purse, and most of that due for their rooms, a wave of despair
seemed to overwhelm her. It was true she had even in London found a
woman who could supply her with needlework, but it was not sufficient
to support her. She knew how impossible it would be for her to go to
her stepmother with an empty purse and an anxious time in front of her.
So she steadily put her feelings into the background and sat down to
write to Miss Selkirk. Presently, she tossed her pen away.
"Fay, I can't do it! I can't stay here waiting for an answer to my
letter which may never come. We'll go down to Exeter to-morrow."
Fay clapped her hands.
"To the country, out of this black London? And, mummie, we'll picnic
in the woods. You know there's so much to eat in the country without
paying—nuts and blackberries and mushrooms. We'll begin to be happy
again, won't we?"
"My darling, I ought to be able to make you happy now. I'm afraid I'm
getting grumpy."
Her mind once made up, Honor lost no time in action. She settled
accounts with her landlady, and early the next morning had started
from Waterloo for the west country. Looking out at the English country
again, Honor felt strangely stirred. The lambs in the meadows, the
hedges of white hawthorn, and the early primroses in the sheltered
nooks and dells, all spoke to her of peace and rest. She lifted her
heart up in passionate prayer that she and the child by her side might
find favour in the sight of her husband's sister. Her pride rebelled
against the step she was taking. She felt that it was unfair upon any
single woman to appear in such a manner without any previous warning.
And yet she felt she could plead her own cause better by word of mouth
than by letter.
It was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon when they reached
Exeter, and then upon inquiry Honor found she would have a drive of
about three miles to Miss Selkirk's house. She hired a cab at the
station, and as they jogged along through the lower part of the town
and then up a steep hill into the fresh, green country Honor felt a
sudden panic seize her.
"How little I thought that I would be reduced to begging from a
stranger! If it wasn't for Fay, nothing would drag me here. And if she
won't have anything to say to us, I shall have to go to the workhouse
infirmary."
With such thoughts as these, she gazed out of the window, whilst Fay
was ecstatic at all she saw. The road wound downhill again, passing
a little hamlet of cottages and then a stretch of fir plantation on
rising ground. Presently they passed two small cottages, and then drew
up at a pretty-looking rustic lodge and a big iron gate. A tidy-looking
woman opened it for them, the drive wound uphill with sloping
pasture-land on either side, then they took a sharp turn and came in
sight of a low, quaint, yellow-washed house, overshadowed by a group of
old elms.
In another moment, they were at the hall door, and Honor felt sick and
faint with dread of the coming interview.
The door was opened by an old-fashioned, elderly maid.
"Is Miss Selkirk at home?"
Honor's white lips framed the words with difficulty.
"Yes, ma'am. What name, please?"
"Mrs. Alick Selkirk."
Well trained as she was, the maid gave a furtive glance at Honor, then
opened the drawing-room door. It was a quaint, prettily furnished room,
the open fireplace with its iron basket of blazing logs gave a look of
cosy warmth, on a low window-sill were pots of hyacinths and freesias.
And Honor sank into an old-fashioned chintz chair with a feeling of
envy towards the owner.
Then the door opened, and a tall, angular woman entered, dressed in a
severely made black gown with a gold watch chain hanging from a large
pebble brooch. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, was parted in the
middle and drawn down smoothly on each side of her face. She had rather
fine brown eyes, but a wide and grimly set mouth gave an expression
of great severity to her rugged face. She stood gazing at Honor for a
moment in silence. Then as she shook hands in a limp fashion, she said,
abruptly:
"I was told that Alick's wife was dead."
"I married him about eighteen months ago," said Honor quietly, and with
a certain amount of dignity.
"Unfortunate young woman!"
The tone of pity, almost contempt, brought the blood with a rush into
Honor's cheeks.
But she could not contradict the statement, under her circumstances.
She drew Fay forward.
"This is his little girl."
Then, glancing into the garden, which was lying bathed in the yellow
afternoon sunshine, she said:
"May she run out into the garden whilst I tell you why I have come to
see you?"
Fay had advanced, putting up her face to be kissed, but Miss Selkirk
did not kiss her.
"I'll be most dreffully good," she assured her, "but I'd like to smell
the little daisies coming up on the grass."
She was dismissed.
And then Honor plucked up courage, and Miss Selkirk sat down on a chair
opposite her on the other side of the fireplace.
"My husband has been obliged to go to Alaska for some months. We have
been out in America a good deal, and he has sent us home till he can
come to us."
"Well?"
The word was uttered sternly.
For a moment Honor paused, then she moistened her dry lips and
continued:
"We have been waiting in London for money, which he hoped to send us,
but he is unfortunately unable to send it yet. He suggested my coming
down to you. I thought of getting some cheap lodging in the country,
if—if you could advise—or recommend me one."
There was dead silence. Then Miss Selkirk said: "And what money have
you to pay for it?"
Honor drew out her purse impulsively and placed it in Miss Selkirk's
hand.
"I am too desperate to be anything else but truthful," she said. "You
will find I have exactly nine shillings and fivepence there. The cab
here was more than I thought it would be."
"Have you sent it away?"
"Yes. If you cannot help us, I shall walk back to Exeter."
"Go on with Alick's plans for you. You were to come here and ask me to
get you lodgings, knowing that the expense of it must fall upon me.
What else?"
Honor's eyes filled with tears, but she made a brave effort to hide
them.
"Miss Selkirk," she said, "I know how it must look to you, but Alick
will send money later—he must, he is bound to do so. I would repay you
every penny you lend me. Or if you knew any farmhouse where they would
take us in and trust us for a month, I think I should be able to earn
some money. I have done so in London. I came across such a nice woman
keeping a baby-linen shop—I am good at plain sewing, and before I came
away, she told me she thought she could supply me with some by post. I
don't come to you as an unprincipled beggar—"
"It's a pity you did not stay in London if you could get work there."
"I should have done so, but the rooms were so expensive, and Fay is
never well in town."
"You look like a lady and speak like one," said Miss Selkirk in the
dry, severe tone she was adopting. "If you are an Englishwoman by
birth, I conclude you have some relations of your own. They are the
ones who should receive and advise you—not I."
"Oh! I know how it must seem. I don't know what to do. May I tell you
about myself?"
Miss Selkirk gave a stiff little bow, and Honor slowly began.
"My father is Rector of a small country living. I have two young
brothers, a stepmother, and three little stepsisters. I left home
partly to help them by my salary, partly because my stepmother and I do
not hit it off together. But it was not my wish to leave. I loved the
parish and my father and all the children. I went to be a companion to
a Mrs. Montmorency, and we were staying in Scotland—"
For the first time, a flicker of light flashed into Miss Selkirk's
sombre brown eyes.
"Kate Montmorency—I have not heard of her for years. Then you were
staying close to Knockaburn?"
"Yes," said Honor softly, as she recalled what Mrs. Montmorency had
told her about Margaret Selkirk; "and Alick came up to see his old
nurse. He wanted her to take charge of Fay; but she was dead, and—"
"Oh, I can guess the rest," said Miss Selkirk grimly; "he came across
you, and thought you would answer his purpose instead."
"He was lonely and bitter and miserable," said Honor in her calm, even
voice, "and he asked me to take pity on him and his child. And I felt I
could be a help and comfort to them, and so we married and went over to
the States."
"And now he finds you a greater incubus than he bargained for, and
ships you and the child off to me. Oh, I know Alick well; he has not
altered with time!"
"He wanted me to go to my people, but I cannot. My stepmother would
never receive me, and my poor old father would be ill with the worry
of it. I mean to be independent. It is only just now—just for a short
time—that I hoped you might see your way to advance me a little for
lodgings."
"You would rather beg from a stranger than from your own father."
Despair filled Honor's heart. She was past resenting Miss Selkirk's
tone. Wearily, she rose from her seat.
"I am sorry," she said. "I thought I could but try to see you; I know I
have no claim upon you. Thank you for listening to me. We will go back
to Exeter."
"And what will you do there?" demanded Miss Selkirk indignantly.
"Disgrace our name by begging from some other strangers?"
A little flash of spirit shot into Honor's tired eyes.
"No," she said; "what my husband's sister has refused to lend me, I
will take from no one else."
The two women stood facing each other, and then the critical situation
was interrupted by the drawing-room door opening and Fay's rosy face
appearing.
"Please, mummie, may I speak to my Aunt Marget?" Then, catching hold of
Miss Selkirk's dress, Fay lifted an excited little face to her.
"Do you know, it's a most 'strordinally thing? Out there, under a tree,
is an old blind mole, quite dead, poor thing! And by his side is a
little dead mouse. Do you fink they was friends? And which died of the
broken heart last? Do you fink the mole did? I wish you'd come and see
them, Aunt Marget. Or do you really fink it would be from fighting each
other that they died? I do wish daddy was here to tell me."
Not a muscle moved in the rigid, determined face looking down upon the
eager child. But drawing her gown out of the little clasp, she turned
to Honor:
"Sit down, Mrs.—Mrs. Selkirk. I have not doubted your story; this child
is too like her father for that. I will come back in a few minutes."
She left the room.
Honor took Fay's hand in hers.
"Fay, we must walk back into Exeter. My head feels so tired that I am
not sure what we shall do when we get there. But perhaps, after all, I
must write or wire to my father. I don't know how he'll manage, but he
may be able to send me something—I must do something—I wish I did not
feel so faint. It is this room—the warmth—I shall be better in the open
air."
She leant back against the cushion behind her, and turned so white that
Fay looked frightened. But she had seen Honor faint more than once
lately, and was strangely old in some ways.
"Never mind, mummie, you'll be better soon; I'll fan you with this
newspaper. It's becorse you made me eat all your sandwiches! There!
Don't you feel better? Shall I get some water?"
Honor pulled herself together with considerable effort.
"I think I shall be better in a minute, darling. Don't fan quite so
quickly. You make me giddy."
"It's a most lovely garden, mummie. And there's a big room the other
side of a yard, and I looked inside, and it was full of boxes of straw,
and then there's a door in a wall, and if you peep frough the crack,
you see a most beautiful big garden with great walls all round it."
She stopped short, for Miss Selkirk had returned.
"Look here, Mrs. Selkirk. I have been talking with my old servant. I
live here in a very quiet way, and at present have no visitors coming
to stay with me. I have quite made up my mind that I will not lend you
any money. That I would never do on principle, but for the present, I
will take you in as a guest, you and the child."
Honor could hardly believe her ears. "But do you realise," she said,
"what a burden I may be? I never—believe me, thought that you would—"
Again, a deadly faintness seized her.
Fay sprang forward.
"Sit down, mummie dear. I'm sure it's your sandwiches which I ate. You
always do die away when you won't eat!"
Honor reseated herself and looked appealingly up at Miss Selkirk.
"I realise everything," that lady said a little bitterly, "more than
you do yourself, I expect. Christine is lighting the fire in the spare
room, and I think you had better come straight away to bed. There is a
little dressing-room where the child can sleep. Have you no luggage?"
"I left it all in the cloakroom at the station," said poor Honor,
feeling hardly sure whether this was a dream or not.
"I will send my groom for it. Come this way. The child had better stay
here."
"Or in the garden?" suggested Fay cheerfully. "I'm so 'strordinally
int'ested in that little mole and mouse. May I bury them? And I promise
you I won't make a noise about it, or beat a drum for the 'Dead March'
like daddy and me does sometimes when I bury blackbeetles."
"You can run out into the garden for the present," said Miss Selkirk,
leading the way upstairs.
"I am only a little tired," said Honor apologetically.
But Miss Selkirk made no reply, only ushered her into a comfortable
room with a fire beginning to burn, and Christine busy putting clean
sheets into a big four-post bed.
She left her there.
And when Honor turned to the old servant, saying, "I'm afraid I am
giving you a lot of trouble," Christine suddenly turned and stood very
upright before her.
"I kenned Mr. Alick, mem, when he were a boy. I'm proud to wait on his
lady. And if bairns' voices ring about this hoos, it'll be a glad day
for the mistress and us a'."
A sob came into Honor's voice.
"Oh, it is good of you!"
She could say no more. She was worn out by the strain of the last
twenty-four hours. A short time after, she was lying between the
lavender-scented sheets, and Christine was holding a basin of strong
soup upon a tray before her. Miss Selkirk did not do things by halves,
and she had seen with her keen eyes that Honor's exhaustion was chiefly
owing to lack of food as well as fatigue.
As Honor lay sipping her soup, she felt new strength and life come back
to her. The flickering of the fire, the cooing of some wood-pigeons
outside, and the distant bleating of young lambs in the meadows soothed
and comforted her. She felt no anxiety about Fay, because she knew she
would win her way with anyone, and soon, tired and almost happy, she
fell asleep.