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. She could not hear very well there, but it was the
cheapest place she could obtain, and economy was of some importance to
her. Besides, by craning her neck a little to avoid the hat of the
rather 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, and she leaned further forward in her chair when a
girl of about her own age, which was twenty-four, slowly advanced to
the centre of the stage.
She was a tall, well-made, brown-haired girl, with a quiet grace of
movement and a comely face, attired in a long trailing dress of a
shimmering corn-straw tint, but when she stood looking at the audience
Miss Rawlinson noticed a hint of tension in her expression. Agatha
Ismay had sung at unimportant concerts with marked success, but that
evening there was something very like shrinking in her eyes.
Then a crash of chords from the piano melted into a rippling prelude,
and Winifred breathed easier when her friend began to sing. Her voice
was sweet and excellently trained, and there was a deep stillness of
appreciation when the clear notes thrilled through the close-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 the look of tension was still in the singer's
face, and once more she grew uneasy, for she understood the cause for
it.
"The last bit of the second part's rather trying," said a young man
behind her. "There's an awkward jump of two full tones that was too
much for our soprano when we tried it at the choral union. Miss
Ismay's very true in intonation, but I don't suppose most of the rest
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 the sharp in question out. 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 she was making a strenuous effort.
Nobody else, however, seemed to notice it, for Winifred flung a swift
glance round, and then fixed her eyes upon the dominant figure in the
corn-straw dress that the glare of light fell shimmering on. The sweet
voice was still rising, and she longed that the accompanist would force
the tone to cover it a little, and put the loud pedal on. He, however,
was gazing at his music, and played on quietly until, with startling
suddenness, the climax came.
The voice sank a full tone, jarring horribly on the theme, 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, and there was a curious stirring among 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, and then,
turning swiftly, moved off the stage.
Then 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 and miry 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, while she was also quite aware that the scene she had
just witnessed would bring about a crisis in her and her friend's
affairs. For all that, she was unpleasantly conscious of the leak in
one rather 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 a couple of holes in it near where the
ribs ran into the ferrule, which she had not noticed before. She,
however, plodded on resolutely through the drizzle, until three
striplings 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 kerb flourished a little cane, and the third of them smiled at her
fatuously.
"Oh my!" he said. "Where's dear Jemima off 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 said. "There's a policeman at the next
turning."
"There really is," said one of them. "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 commencing, while Winifred, who had stepped into the gutter to
avoid the one with the cane, turned as a stalwart, blue-coated figure
moved towards her.
"Thank you, officer," she said; "they've gone."
The man merely raised a hand as if in comprehension, and plodded back
to his post. Perhaps he felt sorry for young women who have to earn
their living, for he had, at least, appeared promptly when he was
needed; and perhaps he attached no great importance to the matter.
There is a good deal that the policeman knows and accepts with
undisturbed equanimity, which if plainly expressed would, no doubt,
form a somewhat grim commentary on our complex civilisation.
In the meanwhile 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. It, however, contained a piano; and a little table on
which a typewriter stood amidst a litter of papers occupied the
opposite side of it. The girl sloughed off her waterproof, and rather
flung than hung it on a peg behind the door, after which she 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, 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, however, not the person to sit still very long, and in a
minute or two she rose and placed a little kettle on the fire, after
which 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 said.
She glanced at the table longingly: for she occasionally found it
necessary to place a certain check upon a healthy appetite. She was,
however, not singular in this respect, since the practice of such
self-denial is, unfortunately, not a very unusual thing in the case of
a good many young women in our cities who work remarkably hard. Then
she resolutely shook her head.
"I must wait for Agatha," she said, and crossing the room towards the
typewriter table stopped to glance at a little framed photograph that
stood upon the mantel. It was a portrait of Gregory Hawtrey taken some
years ago, and she apostrophied it with quiet scorn.
"Now you're wanted you're naturally away out yonder," she said.
"You're like the rest of them--despicable!"
This seemed to relieve her feelings, and she sat down before the
machine, which clicked and rattled for several minutes under her stubby
fingers. Then the clicking ceased with sudden abruptness, and she
prodded the mechanism viciously with a hairpin. As this appeared
unavailing she used her forefinger, and when at length the carriage
slid along the rod with a clash there was a smear of grimy oil upon her
cheek and her somewhat tilted nose. The machine, however, gave no
further trouble, and she endeavoured to make up some, at least, of the
time she had spent at the concert. It was necessary that it should be
made up, but she was also conscious that she was putting off an evil
moment.
At length the door opened, and Agatha Ismay, wrapped in a long cloak,
came in. She permitted Winifred to take it from her, and then sank
down into a chair. There was a strained look in her eyes, and her face
was very weary.
[Illustration: "At length the door opened, and Agatha Ismay, wrapped in
a long cloak, came in."]
"You're working late again?" she said.
Winifred nodded. "It's the men who loaf, my dear," she said. "When
you undertake the transcription of an author's scrawl at ninepence the
thousand words you have to work unusually 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 throwing words about, partly to conceal her anxiety, and partly
with the charitable purpose of giving her companion time to approach
the subject that must be mentioned as she thought best; but she rather
over-did it, and 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 said, "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 bundled the plates into a cupboard, and sat down
facing her.
"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."
There was a moment or two's tense silence after that, and then Agatha
made a dejected gesture. "He 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. He said I must go to Norway and give my
throat and chest a rest."
They looked at one another, 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 said, "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 if they're 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 with a trace of dryness, "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 she had, like
others of her kind, 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 also a certain respect, which she would not always admit, for her
companion's shrewdness. She meant to go, but she desired to ascertain
how a less interested person would regard the course she had decided on.
"I have known Gregory since I was a girl," she said.
Winifred pursed her lips up. "I understood you met him at the Grange,
and you were only there for a few weeks once a year. 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," said Agatha, "you have never seen Gregory."
"I haven't," said Winifred sourly; "I have, however, seen his picture,
and one must admit that he's reasonably good-looking. In fact, I've
seen quite an assortment of them, 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." Then 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. 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
everything's 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 whom
she had given her heart to 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 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 grew 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 out 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 said, "that gets over the one difficulty."
Winifred made a little whimsical gesture. "I'm not quite sure that it
does. The difficulty will probably begin when I arrive in Canada, but
I'm a rather capable person, and I believe they don't pay one ninepence
a thousand words in Winnipeg. Besides, I could keep the books at a
store or hotel, and at the very worst Gregory could, perhaps, find a
husband for me. Women, one understands, are after all held in some
estimation in that country. Perhaps there's a man out there who would
treat even a little, plain, vixenish-tempered person with a turned-up
nose decently."
Crossing the room again she banged the cover down on the typewriter,
and then turned to Agatha with a wide gesture and a suggestion of
haziness in her eyes.
"Anyway, I'm very tired of this one. It would all be intolerable when
you went away."
Agatha stretched out a hand and drew her down beside her. She, at
least, no longer feared adverse fortune and loneliness, and she was
filled with a gentle compassion, for she knew how hard a fight this
girl 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 in the
meanwhile.
"They want me to stay at the Grange for a few weeks," she said, 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
almost bewilderingly curious that both these letters should have come
to sweep my troubles away to-night?"
"No," said her companion; "it's distinctly natural--just what one would
have expected. You wrote 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."
Agatha stretched herself out in the low chair with a little sigh of
content. "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, and kneeling with one elbow resting on the arm
of her companion's chair gazed straight in front of her. They were
both of them very weary of the long grim struggle, and now a change was
close at hand.