_TAKING COUNSEL_
"But round me, like a silver bell
Rung down the listening sky to tell
Of holy help, a sweet voice fell."
--WHITTIER.
"I shall consult Miss Saxon," said Elsie to herself. Sunshine was
streaming in through the Venetian shutters of her bedroom, and the
street was waking up to its busy morning life. The light rested in soft
yellow bars upon the wall, and lit up the pretty frilled toilet-cover
which Miss Saxon's hands had made. To those hands belonged that good
gift of womanly skill which is a blessing to any household. Already
Elsie had learnt to rely upon their owner, and believe in her sagacity.
If any one could help her in her perplexity, it was surely Miss Saxon.
A spirit of peace seemed to brood over her little sitting-room when she
sat down to breakfast. Perhaps the scene of a spiritual victory is
destined, ever afterwards, to know an atmosphere of repose.
Out of doors there was the clear blue of the spring sky, the whiteness
of snowy clouds floating out of the reach of the smoke, the cheerful
light warming the red tiles whereon the pigeons were taking their
morning exercise. Altogether the world seemed to wear an encouraging
aspect that day.
Miss Saxon had that gentleness of expression and manner which is often
sweetest when youth has fled. When Elsie, with her black dress and sad
face, had come to the house, she was cheered by a hundred little tokens
of thoughtful kindness. The good fairy who had made the frilled
toilet-cover was always at work, and her goodwill was manifested in
pretty little flounces and furbelows, which gave a sort of old-fashioned
grace to the rooms.
A little later Elsie was pouring out the story of her discovery of the
manuscript, and Miss Saxon was listening in her quiet fashion. But her
first words gave Elsie a chill of disappointment.
"At present I don't see how I can help you, Miss Kilner," she said.
"That old table came into the house a few days before you arrived. I
happened to see it outside a broker's shop, and thought it would be the
very thing I wanted to fill up that corner."
"And the shop--is it near here?" Elsie asked anxiously.
"Very near; but I don't know much about the shopkeepers. The man seemed
rather rough, but the woman was decent and civil. We will go and make
inquiries."
"I thought that Meta had lived here," Elsie said in a disappointed
voice.
"No. Your rooms were occupied for six years by a single gentleman. He
had something to do in the City, and seemed to be a confirmed bachelor.
But he married at last, and the rooms were vacant till you came to
them."
"If Meta had ever lived in this street you would have known something
about her, would you not?" Elsie asked.
"I might have known. We have lived here for many years, and have seen
many changes. But there is no reason to suppose that she was ever here.
We have first to learn where the table came from before we can get any
clue that can be followed."
So those two, Miss Saxon and her eager lodger, went out together while
the morning was still fresh and bright.
Looking back on that morning afterwards, Elsie remembered that everybody
seemed to be seeking something. People were hastening along; women were
going to the churches where there were daily services; sisters, in their
white caps and black draperies, marshalled a troop of little girls in
red cloaks, and seemed to have a world of business on their hands; men
stepped on briskly with a preoccupied air. In all there was the great
expectant human nature ever urging onward. In all there was the
universal life-quest. Many, if they had known what manner of quest it
was which had called Elsie forth, would have laughed her to scorn;
others would have wondered; some might have wished her God-speed.
Leaving the two churches behind, Miss Saxon led the way into another
street in which a perpetual market was held. Here there were hungry
faces, sottish faces, sickly faces, and an endless pushing and jostling
around the costermongers' barrows. It was a touching thing to see the
poor bargaining for flowers--ay, and a hopeful thing, too, to those who
can interpret signs aright.
They came at length to an old horse-hair sofa, an iron bedstead, a bath,
and two or three hearth-rugs; and behind these articles there was a
narrow door, which Elsie entered with some reluctance.
If you are fastidious or superstitious, a broker's shop in a low
neighbourhood is hardly the place that you will choose to visit. One
does not know what unwholesome associations may be clinging to the
chairs and carpets and pillows which hem you in on every side; or one
naturally recalls wild stories of haunted banjoes and tambourines, and
tables which are said to slide about in an uncanny fashion of their own
accord.
Elsie was no weaker-minded than most women, but it must be confessed
that she followed her guide through that dark doorway after a moment's
hesitation.
There was, however, nothing weird about the aspect of the woman who came
forward, with a baby in her arms, to greet Miss Saxon. She was still
young and pretty, with that delicate London prettiness which meets one
in these crowded thoroughfares at every turn. The baby had a shawl drawn
over its bald head, and peered out from its shelter with eyes just
beginning to observe the sundry and manifold changes of its little
world.
"It is rather more than a fortnight ago since I bought a table here,"
Miss Saxon began. "It was a very old-fashioned table with brass handles
and claw feet. Do you remember it?"
"Yes, ma'am, I do," replied the woman, after a moment's consideration.
"Here is a lady who wishes to know where that table came from. She
fancies it belonged to some one in whom she takes an interest,"
continued Miss Saxon in her quiet voice. "We have come to know if you
can tell us anything about it?"
Elsie's heart throbbed fast in the pause that followed. The baby looked
at her and gave a faint chuckle, as if it triumphed in the thought that
even grown-up people cannot find out all the puzzles of life.
"It came from a house in Dashwood Street," the woman said at last. "They
had a regular turn-out of old furniture, and my husband bought a good
many things. I'll go and ask him the number of the house."
She disappeared into a gloomy region at the back of the shop, and was
lost to sight for a minute or two.
"He says 'twas 132," she said, emerging from the gloom, baby and all.
"We're very much obliged to you," returned Miss Saxon.
"Not at all, ma'am. Glad to have been of use to you."
Elsie came away gaily from the broker's door, in the belief that she was
going to walk straight to the goal. But Miss Saxon was less sanguine.
Moreover, she had no great faith in the manuscript, and seemed disposed
to think that it was written by some one who wanted to make a story.
"It might have been intended for a magazine," she suggested, "and the
writer broke off short. We have no proof at all that Meta was a real
person."
"I own I have no proof," Elsie admitted frankly. "But I have a feeling
that I must seek out Jamie."
"But perhaps Meta is living and taking care of him still, Miss Kilner.
People don't always die when they think their end is near. As a matter
of fact, the more they think they are going the longer they stay."
"I know she is dead--I feel it," rejoined Elsie, with unshaken
conviction. "I am guided by intuition. It seems like a blind leap into
the dark, but I must search for Jamie."
Miss Saxon looked kindly into the dark eyes which met hers with such an
earnest gaze.
"Something may come of it," she said after a pause. "Well, Miss Kilner,
I promised to help you, and I will."
Elsie clasped her hands suddenly. "I can't do without your help," she
cried. "Dear Miss Saxon, you are one of the born helpers--some are born
hinderers, you know. Oh, how glad I am that I am come to you!"
"I'm glad too," Miss Saxon answered, with quiet warmth. And then they
walked away together in silence, across Portland Place and on to
Dashwood Street.
No. 132 was a house which looked as if it could never have contained
anything so old-fashioned as Elsie's table. It had been smartened up
till it looked more like a doll's house than a human habitation. In the
windows there were yellow muslin curtains tied with pink sashes, and
amber flower-pots holding sham plants of the most verdant hue. The maid
who opened the door exactly matched the house. She was like a cheap
doll, very smart, very pert, and capped and aproned in the latest style.
In answer to Miss Saxon's question she gave a curt reply.
"No; nobody of the name of Penn had ever lived in that house. Mrs. Dodge
was the mistress. She didn't know anything about the name of Penn. Mrs.
Dodge took the house about two months ago."
"Please take my card to Mrs. Dodge," said Elsie, in a manner which
instantly took effect.
They were invited to walk into a hall which smelt of new oil-cloth, and
were solemnly ushered into the room with the green linen plants and
yellow blinds. Presently Mrs. Dodge, dressed in harmony with her house,
came in with a rustle and a flourish. She was a big woman, with hair so
yellow and cheeks so rosy, that she seemed the very person to preside
over this gaily-coloured establishment.
At a sign from Miss Saxon, Elsie took the questioning into her own
hands. She described the table to begin with.
Mrs. Dodge was bland and civil. She had taken the house of her aunt, an
old lady who was getting too infirm to attend to lodgers. It was filled
from top to bottom with the most hideous old things, and she had put
them all into the broker's hands. She fancied she remembered the table,
but could not be certain; there were a good many queer old tables.
No; she had never heard the name of Penn. But she had a young sister who
knew all her aunt's friends better than she did. She should be called.
The sister was called, and proved to be a young and smiling copy of Mrs.
Dodge. She remembered that she had once seen Mrs. Penn, about two years
ago. Mrs. Penn was a small spare woman about fifty. Yes; Mrs. Penn had
let lodgings somewhere--she didn't know where--and her aunt had bought
some of her furniture. There was an old table with claw-feet, among
other things.
"Was the aunt living now?" Elsie asked.
"Oh, yes; she was living at Winchfield," the girl answered. But she was
deaf and rather cross, and it was a hard matter to make her understand
anything. "Mrs. Tryon, Stone Cottage, Winchfield, near the railway
station."
Elsie wrote the address in her note-book, and left Dashwood Street with
hope renewed.
"We are getting nearer to the goal," she said brightly. "You see now
that Mrs. Penn is a real person."
"And if Mrs. Penn is real, then Meta and Harold and Jamie are real
also," Miss Saxon replied. "Yes, I think you have proved that they are
not mere phantoms."
"And that is proving a good deal in a world which is full of
uncertainties," Elsie cried. "Don't laugh at me, Miss Saxon; I hear a
voice calling me to go on! You cannot hear it, I know, but you must
trust to my ears."
"I will trust you," Miss Saxon answered, with an admiring glance at the
slight erect figure by her side. Elsie was a little above middle height,
and she walked with the step of a woman who has been accustomed to an
out-of-door life, as naturally graceful as the swaying of the grasses on
a hillside.
All Saints' Street was still warm with the morning sunshine when they
came back to their door, and Elsie ran upstairs to her rooms with a
light step. Difficulties and trials were to come, but she had made a
beginning.