Arthur sprang himself upon her a little before Christmas. He was full of
a great project. It was that she and her father should spend Christmas
with his people at Birmingham. Her father thought he would like to see
his brother; they had not often met of late, and Birmingham would be
nearer for her than Liverpool.
Joan had no intention of being lured into the Birmingham parlour. She
thought she could see in it a scheme for her gradual entanglement.
Besides, she was highly displeased. She had intended asking her father
to come to Brighton with her. As a matter of fact, she had forgotten all
about Christmas; and the idea only came into her head while explaining to
Arthur how his impulsiveness had interfered with it. Arthur,
crestfallen, suggested telegrams. It would be quite easy to alter
everything; and of course her father would rather be with her, wherever
it was. But it seemed it was too late. She ought to have been
consulted. A sudden sense of proprietorship in her father came to her
assistance and added pathos to her indignation. Of course, now, she
would have to spend Christmas alone. She was far too busy to think of
Birmingham. She could have managed Brighton. Argument founded on the
length of journey to Birmingham as compared with the journey to Brighton
she refused to be drawn into. Her feelings had been too deeply wounded
to permit of descent into detail.
But the sinner, confessing his fault, is entitled to forgiveness, and,
having put him back into his proper place, she let him kiss her hand. She
even went further and let him ask her out to dinner. As the result of
her failure to reform Mrs. Phillips she was feeling dissatisfied with
herself. It was an unpleasant sensation and somewhat new to her
experience. An evening spent in Arthur's company might do her good. The
experiment proved successful. He really was quite a dear boy. Eyeing
him thoughtfully through the smoke of her cigarette, it occurred to her
how like he was to Guido's painting of St. Sebastian; those soft, dreamy
eyes and that beautiful, almost feminine, face! There always had been a
suspicion of the saint about him even as a boy: nothing one could lay
hold of: just that odd suggestion of a shadow intervening between him and
the world.
It seemed a favourable opportunity to inform him of that fixed
determination of hers: never--in all probability--to marry: but to devote
her life to her work. She was feeling very kindly towards him; and was
able to soften her decision with touches of gentle regret. He did not
appear in the least upset. But 'thought' that her duty might demand,
later on, that she should change her mind: that was if fate should offer
her some noble marriage, giving her wider opportunity.
She was a little piqued at his unexpected attitude of aloofness. What
did he mean by a "noble marriage"--to a Duke, or something of that sort?
He did not think the candidature need be confined to Dukes, though he had
no objection to a worthy Duke. He meant any really great man who would
help her and whom she could help.
She promised, somewhat shortly, to consider the matter, whenever the
Duke, or other class of nobleman, should propose to her. At present no
sign of him had appeared above the horizon. Her own idea was that, if
she lived long enough, she would become a spinster. Unless someone took
pity on her when she was old and decrepit and past her work.
There was a little humorous smile about his mouth. But his eyes were
serious and pleading.
"When shall I know that you are old and decrepit?" he asked.
She was not quite sure. She thought it would be when her hair was
grey--or rather white. She had been informed by experts that her
peculiar shade of hair went white, not grey.
"I shall ask you to marry me when your hair is white," he said. "May I?"
It did not suggest any overwhelming impatience. "Yes," she answered. "In
case you haven't married yourself, and forgotten all about me."
"I shall keep you to your promise," he said quite gravely.
She felt the time had come to speak seriously. "I want you to marry,"
she said, "and be happy. I shall be troubled if you don't."
He was looking at her with those shy, worshipping eyes of his that always
made her marvel at her own wonderfulness.
"It need not do that," he answered. "It would be beautiful to be with
you always so that I might serve you. But I am quite happy, loving you.
Let me see you now and then: touch you and hear your voice."
Behind her drawn-down lids, she offered up a little prayer that she might
always be worthy of his homage. She didn't know it would make no
difference to him.
She walked with him to Euston and saw him into the train. He had given
up his lodgings and was living with her father at The Pines. They were
busy on a plan for securing the co-operation of the workmen, and she
promised to run down and hear all about it. She would not change her
mind about Birmingham, but sent everyone her love.
She wished she had gone when it came to Christmas Day. This feeling of
loneliness was growing upon her. The Phillips had gone up north; and the
Greysons to some relations of theirs: swell country people in Hampshire.
Flossie was on a sea voyage with Sam and his mother, and even Madge had
been struck homesick. It happened to be a Sunday, too, of all days in
the week, and London in a drizzling rain was just about the limit. She
worked till late in the afternoon, but, sitting down to her solitary cup
of tea, she felt she wanted to howl. From the basement came faint sounds
of laughter. Her landlord and lady were entertaining guests. If they
had not been, she would have found some excuse for running down and
talking to them, if only for a few minutes.
Suddenly the vision of old Chelsea Church rose up before her with its
little motherly old pew-opener. She had so often been meaning to go and
see her again, but something had always interfered. She hunted through
her drawers and found a comparatively sober-coloured shawl, and tucked it
under her cloak. The service was just commencing when she reached the
church. Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently remembered
her. "I want to see you afterwards," she whispered; and Mary Stopperton
had smiled and nodded. The service, with its need for being continually
upon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it. And the
sermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxford
drawl, was uninteresting. She had half hoped that the wheezy old
clergyman, who had preached about Calvary on the evening she had first
visited the church, would be there again. She wondered what had become
of him, and if it were really a fact that she had known him when she was
a child, or only her fancy. It was strange how vividly her memory of him
seemed to pervade the little church. She had the feeling he was watching
her from the shadows. She waited for Mary in the vestibule, and gave her
the shawl, making her swear on the big key of the church door that she
would wear it herself and not give it away. The little old pew-opener's
pink and white face flushed with delight as she took it, and the thin,
work-worn hands fingered it admiringly. "But I may lend it?" she
pleaded.
They turned up Church Street. Joan confided to Mary what a rotten
Christmas she had had, all by herself, without a soul to speak to except
her landlady, who had brought her meals and had been in such haste to get
away.
"I don't know what made me think of you," she said. "I'm so glad I did."
She gave the little old lady a hug. Mary laughed. "Where are you going
now, dearie?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't mind so much now," answered Joan. "Now that I've seen a
friendly face, I shall go home and go to bed early."
They walked a little way in silence. Mary slipped her hand into Joan's.
"You wouldn't care to come home and have a bit of supper with me, would
you, dearie?" she asked.
"Oh, may I?" answered Joan.
Mary's hand gave Joan's a little squeeze. "You won't mind if anybody
drops in?" she said. "They do sometimes of a Sunday evening."
"You don't mean a party?" asked Joan.
"No, dear," answered Mary. "It's only one or two who have nowhere else
to go."
Joan laughed. She thought she would be a fit candidate.
"You see, it makes company for me," explained Mary.
Mary lived in a tiny house behind a strip of garden. It stood in a
narrow side street between two public-houses, and was covered with ivy.
It had two windows above and a window and a door below. The upstairs
rooms belonged to the churchwardens and were used as a storehouse for old
parish registers, deemed of little value. Mary Stopperton and her
bedridden husband lived in the two rooms below. Mary unlocked the door,
and Joan passed in and waited. Mary lit a candle that was standing on a
bracket and turned to lead the way.
"Shall I shut the door?" suggested Joan.
Mary blushed like a child that has been found out just as it was hoping
that it had not been noticed.
"It doesn't matter, dearie," she explained. "They know, if they find it
open, that I'm in."
The little room looked very cosy when Mary had made up the fire and
lighted the lamp. She seated Joan in the worn horsehair easy-chair; out
of which one had to be careful one did not slip on to the floor; and
spread her handsome shawl over the back of the dilapidated sofa.
"You won't mind my running away for a minute," she said. "I shall only
be in the next room."
Through the thin partition, Joan heard a constant shrill, complaining
voice. At times, it rose into an angry growl. Mary looked in at the
door.
"I'm just running round to the doctor's," she whispered. "His medicine
hasn't come. I shan't be long."
Joan offered to go in and sit with the invalid. But Mary feared the
exertion of talking might be too much for him. "He gets so excited," she
explained. She slipped out noiselessly.
It seemed, in spite of its open door, a very silent little house behind
its strip of garden. Joan had the feeling that it was listening.
Suddenly she heard a light step in the passage, and the room door opened.
A girl entered. She was wearing a large black hat and a black boa round
her neck. Between them her face shone unnaturally white. She carried a
small cloth bag. She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about to
retreat.
"Oh, please don't go," cried Joan. "Mrs. Stopperton has just gone round
to the doctor's. She won't be long. I'm a friend of hers."
The girl took stock of her and, apparently reassured, closed the door
behind her.
"What's he like to-night?" she asked, with a jerk of her head in the
direction of the next room. She placed her bag carefully upon the sofa,
and examined the new shawl as she did so.
"Well, I gather he's a little fretful," answered Joan with a smile.
"That's a bad sign," said the girl. "Means he's feeling better." She
seated herself on the sofa and fingered the shawl. "Did you give it
her?" she asked.
"Yes," admitted Joan. "I rather fancied her in it."
"She'll only pawn it," said the girl, "to buy him grapes and port wine."
"I felt a bit afraid of her," laughed Joan, "so I made her promise not to
part with it. Is he really very ill, her husband?"
"Oh, yes, there's no make-believe this time," answered the girl. "A bad
thing for her if he wasn't."
"Oh, it's only what's known all over the neighbourhood," continued the
girl. "She's had a pretty rough time with him. Twice I've found her
getting ready to go to sleep for the night by sitting on the bare floor
with her back against the wall. Had sold every stick in the place and
gone off. But she'd always some excuse for him. It was sure to be half
her fault and the other half he couldn't help. Now she's got her
'reward' according to her own account. Heard he was dying in a
doss-house, and must fetch him home and nurse him back to life. Seems
he's getting fonder of her every day. Now that he can't do anything
else."
"It doesn't seem to depress her spirits," mused Joan.
"Oh, she! She's all right," agreed the girl. "Having the time of her
life: someone to look after for twenty-four hours a day that can't help
themselves."
She examined Joan awhile in silence. "Are you on the stage?" she asked.
"No," answered Joan. "But my mother was. Are you?"
"Thought you looked a bit like it," said the girl. "I'm in the chorus.
It's better than being in service or in a shop: that's all you can say
for it."
"But you'll get out of that," suggested Joan. "You've got the actress
face."
The girl flushed with pleasure. It was a striking face, with intelligent
eyes and a mobile, sensitive mouth. "Oh, yes," she said, "I could act
all right. I feel it. But you don't get out of the chorus. Except at a
price."
Joan looked at her. "I thought that sort of thing was dying out," she
said.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Not in my shop," she answered.
"Anyhow, it was the only chance I ever had. Wish sometimes I'd taken it.
It was quite a good part."
"They must have felt sure you could act," said Joan. "Next time it will
be a clean offer."
The girl shook her head. "There's no next time," she said; "once you're
put down as one of the stand-offs. Plenty of others to take your place."
"Oh, I don't blame them," she added. "It isn't a thing to be dismissed
with a toss of your head. I thought it all out. Don't know now what
decided me. Something inside me, I suppose."
Joan found herself poking the fire. "Have you known Mary Stopperton
long?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," answered the girl. "Ever since I've been on my own."
"Did you talk it over with her?" asked Joan.
"No," answered the girl. "I may have just told her. She isn't the sort
that gives advice."
"I'm glad you didn't do it," said Joan: "that you put up a fight for all
women."
The girl gave a short laugh. "Afraid I wasn't thinking much about that,"
she said.
"No," said Joan. "But perhaps that's the way the best fights are
fought--without thinking."
Mary peeped round the door. She had been lucky enough to find the doctor
in. She disappeared again, and they talked about themselves. The girl
was a Miss Ensor. She lived by herself in a room in Lawrence Street.
"I'm not good at getting on with people," she explained.
Mary joined them, and went straight to Miss Ensor's bag and opened it.
She shook her head at the contents, which consisted of a small, flabby-
looking meat pie in a tin dish, and two pale, flat mince tarts.
"It doesn't nourish you, dearie," complained Mary. "You could have
bought yourself a nice bit of meat with the same money."
"And you would have had all the trouble of cooking it," answered the
girl. "That only wants warming up."
"But I like cooking, you know, dearie," grumbled Mary. "There's no
interest in warming things up."
The girl laughed. "You don't have to go far for your fun," she said.
"I'll bring a sole next time; and you shall do it _au gratin_."
Mary put the indigestible-looking pasties into the oven, and almost
banged the door. Miss Ensor proceeded to lay the table. "How many, do
you think?" she asked. Mary was doubtful. She hoped that, it being
Christmas Day, they would have somewhere better to go.
"I passed old 'Bubble and Squeak,' just now, spouting away to three men
and a dog outside the World's End. I expect he'll turn up," thought Miss
Ensor. She laid for four, leaving space for more if need be. "I call it
the 'Cadger's Arms,'" she explained, turning to Joan. "We bring our own
victuals, and Mary cooks them for us and waits on us; and the more of us
the merrier. You look forward to your Sunday evening parties, don't
you?" she asked of Mary.
Mary laughed. She was busy in a corner with basins and a saucepan. "Of
course I do, dearie," she answered. "I've always been fond of company."
There came another opening of the door. A little hairy man entered. He
wore spectacles and was dressed in black. He carried a paper parcel
which he laid upon the table. He looked a little doubtful at Joan. Mary
introduced them. His name was Julius Simson. He shook hands as if under
protest.
"As friends of Mary Stopperton," he said, "we meet on neutral ground. But
in all matters of moment I expect we are as far asunder as the poles. I
stand for the People."
"We ought to be comrades," answered Joan, with a smile. "I, too, am
trying to help the People."
"You and your class," said Mr. Simson, "are friends enough to the People,
so long as they remember that they are the People, and keep their proper
place--at the bottom. I am for putting the People at the top."
"Then they will be the Upper Classes," suggested Joan. "And I may still
have to go on fighting for the rights of the lower orders."
"In this world," explained Mr. Simson, "someone has got to be Master. The
only question is who."
Mary had unwrapped the paper parcel. It contained half a sheep's head.
"How would you like it done?" she whispered.
Mr. Simson considered. There came a softer look into his eyes. "How did
you do it last time?" he asked. "It came up brown, I remember, with
thick gravy."
"Braised," suggested Mary.
"That's the word," agreed Mr. Simson. "Braised." He watched while Mary
took things needful from the cupboard, and commenced to peel an onion.
"That's the sort that makes me despair of the People," said Mr. Simson.
Joan could not be sure whether he was addressing her individually or
imaginary thousands. "Likes working for nothing. Thinks she was born to
be everybody's servant." He seated himself beside Miss Ensor on the
antiquated sofa. It gave a complaining groan but held out.
"Did you have a good house?" the girl asked him. "Saw you from the
distance, waving your arms about. Hadn't time to stop."
"Not many," admitted Mr. Simson. "A Christmassy lot. You know. Sort of
crowd that interrupts you and tries to be funny. Dead to their own
interests. It's slow work."
"Why do you do it?" asked Miss Ensor.
"Damned if I know," answered Mr. Simson, with a burst of candour. "Can't
help it, I suppose. Lost me job again."
"The old story?" suggested Miss Ensor.
"The old story," sighed Mr. Simson. "One of the customers happened to be
passing last Wednesday when I was speaking on the Embankment. Heard my
opinion of the middle classes?"
"Well, you can't expect 'em to like it, can you?" submitted Miss Ensor.
"No," admitted Mr. Simson with generosity. "It's only natural. It's a
fight to the finish between me and the Bourgeois. I cover them with
ridicule and contempt and they hit back at me in the only way they know."
"Take care they don't get the best of you," Miss Ensor advised him.
"Oh, I'm not afraid," he answered. "I'll get another place all right:
give me time. The only thing I'm worried about is my young woman."
"Doesn't agree with you?" inquired Miss Ensor.
"Oh, it isn't that," he answered. "But she's frightened. You know. Says
life with me is going to be a bit too uncertain for her. Perhaps she's
right."
"Oh, why don't you chuck it," advised Miss Ensor, "give the Bourgeois a
rest."
Mr. Simson shook his head. "Somebody's got to tackle them," he said.
"Tell them the truth about themselves, to their faces."
"Yes, but it needn't be you," suggested Miss Ensor.
Mary was leaning over the table. Miss Ensor's four-penny veal and ham
pie was ready. Mary arranged it in front of her. "Eat it while it's
hot, dearie," she counselled. "It won't be so indigestible."
Miss Ensor turned to her. "Oh, you talk to him," she urged. "Here, he's
lost his job again, and is losing his girl: all because of his silly
politics. Tell him he's got to have sense and stop it."
Mary seemed troubled. Evidently, as Miss Ensor had stated, advice was
not her line. "Perhaps he's got to do it, dearie," she suggested.
"What do you mean by got to do it?" exclaimed Miss Ensor. "Who's making
him do it, except himself?"
Mary flushed. She seemed to want to get back to her cooking. "It's
something inside us, dearie," she thought: "that nobody hears but
ourselves."
"That tells him to talk all that twaddle?" demanded Miss Ensor. "Have
you heard him?"
"No, dearie," Mary admitted. "But I expect it's got its purpose. Or he
wouldn't have to do it."
Miss Ensor gave a gesture of despair and applied herself to her pie. The
hirsute face of Mr. Simson had lost the foolish aggressiveness that had
irritated Joan. He seemed to be pondering matters.
Mary hoped that Joan was hungry. Joan laughed and admitted that she was.
"It's the smell of all the nice things," she explained. Mary promised it
should soon be ready, and went back to her corner.
A short, dark, thick-set man entered and stood looking round the room.
The frame must once have been powerful, but now it was shrunken and
emaciated. The shabby, threadbare clothes hung loosely from the stooping
shoulders. Only the head seemed to have retained its vigour. The face,
from which the long black hair was brushed straight back, was ghastly
white. Out of it, deep set beneath great shaggy, overhanging brows,
blazed the fierce, restless eyes of a fanatic. The huge, thin-lipped
mouth seemed to have petrified itself into a savage snarl. He gave Joan
the idea, as he stood there glaring round him, of a hunted beast at bay.
Miss Ensor, whose bump of reverence was undeveloped, greeted him
cheerfully as Boanerges. Mr. Simson, more respectful, rose and offered
his small, grimy hand. Mary took his hat and cloak away from him and
closed the door behind him. She felt his hands, and put him into a chair
close to the fire. And then she introduced him to Joan.
Joan started on hearing his name. It was one well known.
"The Cyril Baptiste?" she asked. She had often wondered what he might be
like.
"The Cyril Baptiste," he answered, in a low, even, passionate voice, that
he flung at her almost like a blow. "The atheist, the gaol bird, the
pariah, the blasphemer, the anti-Christ. I've hoofs instead of feet.
Shall I take off my boots and show them to you? I tuck my tail inside my
coat. You can't see my horns. I've cut them off close to my head.
That's why I wear my hair long: to hide the stumps."
Mary had been searching in the pockets of his cloak. She had found a
paper bag. "You mustn't get excited," she said, laying her little work-
worn hand upon his shoulder; "or you'll bring on the bleeding."
"Aye," he answered, "I must be careful I don't die on Christmas Day. It
would make a fine text, that, for their sermons."
He lapsed into silence: his almost transparent hands stretched out
towards the fire.
Mr. Simson fidgeted. The quiet of the room, broken only by Mary's
ministering activities, evidently oppressed him.
"Paper going well, sir?" he asked. "I often read it myself."
"It still sells," answered the proprietor, and editor and publisher, and
entire staff of _The Rationalist_.
"I like the articles you are writing on the History of Superstition.
Quite illuminating," remarked Mr. Simson.
"It's many a year, I am afraid, to the final chapter," thought their
author.
"They afford much food for reflection," thought Mr. Simson, "though I
cannot myself go as far as you do in including Christianity under that
heading."
Mary frowned at him; but Mr. Simson, eager for argument or not noticing,
blundered on:--
"Whether we accept the miraculous explanation of Christ's birth,"
continued Mr. Simson, in his best street-corner voice, "or whether, with
the great French writer whose name for the moment escapes me, we regard
Him merely as a man inspired, we must, I think, admit that His teaching
has been of help: especially to the poor."
The fanatic turned upon him so fiercely that Mr. Simson's arm
involuntarily assumed the posture of defence.
"To the poor?" the old man almost shrieked. "To the poor that he has
robbed of all power of resistance to oppression by his vile, submissive
creed! that he has drugged into passive acceptance of every evil done to
them by his false promises that their sufferings here shall win for them
some wonderful reward when they are dead. What has been his teaching to
the poor? Bow your backs to the lash, kiss the rod that scars your
flesh. Be ye humble, oh, my people. Be ye poor in spirit. Let Wrong
rule triumphant through the world. Raise no hand against it, lest ye
suffer my eternal punishments. Learn from me to be meek and lowly. Learn
to be good slaves and give no trouble to your taskmasters. Let them turn
the world into a hell for you. The grave--the grave shall be your gate
to happiness.
"Helpful to the poor? Helpful to their rulers, to their owners. They
take good care that Christ shall be well taught. Their fat priests shall
bear his message to the poor. The rod may be broken, the prison door be
forced. It is Christ that shall bind the people in eternal fetters.
Christ, the lackey, the jackal of the rich."
Mr. Simson was visibly shocked. Evidently he was less familiar with the
opinions of _The Rationalist_ than he had thought.
"I really must protest," exclaimed Mr. Simson. "To whatever wrong uses
His words may have been twisted, Christ Himself I regard as divine, and
entitled to be spoken of with reverence. His whole life, His
sufferings--"
But the old fanatic's vigour had not yet exhausted itself.
"His sufferings!" he interrupted. "Does suffering entitle a man to be
regarded as divine? If so, so also am I a God. Look at me!" He
stretched out his long, thin arms with their claw-like hands, thrusting
forward his great savage head that the bony, wizened throat seemed hardly
strong enough to bear. "Wealth, honour, happiness: I had them once. I
had wife, children and a home. Now I creep an outcast, keeping to the
shadows, and the children in the street throw stones at me. Thirty years
I have starved that I might preach. They shut me in their prisons, they
hound me into garrets. They jibe at me and mock me, but they cannot
silence me. What of my life? Am I divine?"
Miss Ensor, having finished her supper, sat smoking.
"Why must you preach?" she asked. "It doesn't seem to pay you." There
was a curious smile about the girl's lips as she caught Joan's eye.
He turned to her with his last flicker of passion.
"Because to this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the
world, that I should bear witness unto the truth," he answered.
He sank back a huddled heap upon the chair. There was foam about his
mouth, great beads of sweat upon his forehead. Mary wiped them away with
a corner of her apron, and felt again his trembling hands. "Oh, please
don't talk to him any more," she pleaded, "not till he's had his supper."
She fetched her fine shawl, and pinned it round him. His eyes followed
her as she hovered about him. For the first time, since he had entered
the room, they looked human.
They gathered round the table. Mr. Baptiste was still pinned up in
Mary's bright shawl. It lent him a curious dignity. He might have been
some ancient prophet stepped from the pages of the Talmud. Miss Ensor
completed her supper with a cup of tea and some little cakes: "just to
keep us all company," as Mary had insisted.
The old fanatic's eyes passed from face to face. There was almost the
suggestion of a smile about the savage mouth.
"A strange supper-party," he said. "Cyril the Apostate; and Julius who
strove against the High Priests and the Pharisees; and Inez a dancer
before the people; and Joanna a daughter of the rulers, gathered together
in the house of one Mary a servant of the Lord."
"Are you, too, a Christian?" he asked of Joan.
"Not yet," answered Joan. "But I hope to be, one day." She spoke
without thinking, not quite knowing what she meant. But it came back to
her in after years.
The talk grew lighter under the influence of Mary's cooking. Mr.
Baptiste could be interesting when he got away from his fanaticism; and
even the apostolic Mr. Simson had sometimes noticed humour when it had
chanced his way.
A message came for Mary about ten o'clock, brought by a scared little
girl, who whispered it to her at the door. Mary apologized. She had to
go out. The party broke up. Mary disappeared into the next room and
returned in a shawl and bonnet, carrying a small brown paper parcel. Joan
walked with her as far as the King's Road.
"A little child is coming," she confided to Joan. She was quite excited
about it.
Joan thought. "It's curious," she said, "one so seldom hears of anybody
being born on Christmas Day."
They were passing a lamp. Joan had never seen a face look quite so happy
as Mary's looked, just then.
"It always seems to me Christ's birthday," she said, "whenever a child is
born."
They had reached the corner. Joan could see her bus in the distance.
She stooped and kissed the little withered face.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
Mary gave her a hug, and almost ran away. Joan watched the little child-
like figure growing smaller. It glided in and out among the people.