_MRS. BEATON_
"Guided thus, O friend of mine,
Let us walk our little way;
Knowing by each beckoning sign
That we are not quite astray."
--WHITTIER.
It was difficult for Elsie, entering Soho Square for the first time, to
realise that it had been one of the most fashionable parts of London
till far into the last century. That touch of distinction which still
lingers about some of the former haunts of greatness has entirely
deserted this old square, and it requires an effort to picture the state
of the four ambassadors and the pomp of the nobility who once made it
their home. But the garden lacks not that charm of shadowy trees which
so often lends a grace to the nooks and corners of the great city, and
it is green enough to rest the eyes that are weary with watching the
endless march of life.
Elsie made inquiries at a shop in Charles Street, and was fortunate
enough to light upon a tradesman who knew something of Mrs. Penn. She
had left the neighbourhood, he believed, but he could tell the number of
the house she had occupied. It was close by, on the left hand as you
entered the square.
As Mrs. Tryon had said, the ground-floor was given up to business, but
the upper floors were still let to lodgers. A quiet-looking young widow
appeared in answer to Elsie's summons. "No, ma'am, I didn't know Mrs.
Penn," she said civilly. "She gave up this house nearly two years ago,
and I've only been here six months. It was my sister who took the house
after Mrs. Penn."
"Then there is no hope of getting the information I want," sighed Elsie;
"unless any of Mrs. Penn's lodgers are here still."
"No, ma'am," said the widow again; "they are all new-comers. I am sorry
that I can't help you."
There was a pause; Elsie was hesitating before she made a request.
"There is a room at the top of the house which I should like to see,"
she said with an effort.
"There are three rooms at the very top," the landlady answered. "Two are
small, but the front room is a good size."
"It is the largest room which I want to see," Elsie said.
The widow considered for a moment. "It's let to a gentleman who teaches
languages and translates foreign books into English," she remarked at
last. "He's out now, I think. Will you follow me, ma'am?"
Elsie's heart beat faster. As she ascended flight after flight of stairs
she told herself that there was nothing to be learnt by going into the
room which Meta had occupied, and yet she had a longing to be there.
They gained the top at last, and as they crossed the threshold of the
chamber a dash of rain beat suddenly against the windows. Elsie's hands
were clasped together tightly under her cloak. She was thinking of those
winter nights when Meta lay here shivering with Jamie by her side; she
thought of the lonely hours, when the house was still, and the weary
worker had sat up to mend the little garments which should keep the cold
from the boy. It was such a meagre tale which Meta had told. But Elsie,
with her woman's heart and quick intelligence, could fill in all the
details.
The sunshine followed the rain. While she stood musing in silence a
light broke through the clouds and shone right into the room. That light
brought with it a sudden feeling of Sabbath calm and peace. The
wonderful inner consciousness (which seems to be wanting in some
natures) received a message of quietness and comfort, and Elsie knew,
with quiet certainty, that Meta's sufferings were not worthy to be
compared with the bright rest which she had won.
They only stayed for a few minutes upstairs, and then went down in
silence. As Elsie, a little tired now, was passing out into the square
again the widow suddenly recalled her. "There's an old lady in Wardour
Street who used to know Mrs. Penn," she said; "a Mrs. Beaton. She keeps
her son's house. You'd find her at No. 127."
In a moment Elsie's weariness was forgotten. The sun was shining; it was
still early in the afternoon; her time was all her own. She thanked the
civil widow, and turned her steps at once towards Wardour Street.
If she had not been so deeply absorbed in her purpose she must have
paused, arrested by the quaint things which were displayed in Beaton's
window. It was not, perhaps, more fascinating than other windows in that
wonderful street, but it had a great store of delicate ivory carvings
and lovely mosaics. Yet Elsie merely gave a passing glance at these
treasures, and, passing swiftly into the dim interior of the shop, asked
if she could see Mrs. Beaton.
A sallow man, who was young without youthfulness, looked at her with an
expression of surprise. She began to explain the object of her visit. "I
am in search of a Mrs. Penn," she said frankly. "I have been to the
house in Soho Square which she used to occupy, and I was directed here."
"We knew Mrs. Penn," the man answered; "but my mother seldom sees
people. However, I'll ask if she can give you any information."
He disappeared, and a pale-faced lad stepped quickly into his place
behind the counter. After waiting for a few moments Elsie heard a door
close, and he came back. "My mother hasn't heard from Mrs. Penn since
she left Soho Square," he said. "She cannot tell you anything about
her."
An exclamation of disappointment broke from Elsie's lips; she moved
impatiently, turning her face towards the door. The man looked at her
keenly, with dark eyes shining through his spectacles.
"If you knew Mrs. Penn," she began, with a quiver of distress in her
voice, "you must have known a young lady who lived with her. Her name
was Meta."
"Yes, we knew her," he answered quietly. "Are you a relation of hers?"
"No." Elsie turned to him with a sudden lighting-up of her face. "But
she is a great deal to me! And you really knew her?"
"We knew her," he repeated, "while she lived. Her story was a sad one. I
thought you were related to her because you are like her."
"Like her?" Elsie echoed. "I must have grown like her through thinking
about her so much! But I never saw her in my life."
The man still looked at her, with a glance kind as well as penetrating.
"I daresay my mother will be ready to have a chat with you," he said,
after a moment's pause. "Excuse me; I will go and speak to her again."
She waited, looking out through the doorway, and feeling that she was
nearer the goal than she had ever been before. A strange joy and
excitement thrilled her as she heard the shopkeeper returning.
"My mother will be glad to see you, madam," he said.
As he spoke she caught the gleam of firelight in a room at the back of
the shop. It was a neat little parlour in which the old lady sat, and
she rose to receive her visitor with quiet courtesy. Elsie sat down in
an arm-chair, close to the window overlooking a little back-yard, and
Mrs. Beaton attentively studied her face as she spoke.
"My son tells me that you want to ask some questions about Mrs. Penn and
Miss Neale."
Elsie started slightly.
"Miss Neale?" she repeated. "Ah, that must be Meta."
"Did you not know her as Miss Neale?" the old lady asked.
"I only knew her as Meta. I found a manuscript of hers in the drawer of
an old table in my lodgings, and I have been seeking her ever since.
That search has brought me to you."
"A manuscript? Did it tell you her story fully? Was it long or short?
She had not time to write much, I think, in her last days."
"It was not long; only the outlines of her story were told. The
manuscript began with the words, 'If I only knew that some one would be
kind to Jamie,' and ever since I read them I have been longing to find
Jamie and be kind to him."
Mrs. Beaton had put on her spectacles, and was regarding the speaker
with an intent gaze.
"Do you know," she said, after a pause, "that you don't seem a stranger
to me? You are like Miss Neale--so much like her that you might pass for
her sister. Many a time she has sat where you are sitting now."
"It is as I thought," Elsie murmured. "I have been guided by a vanished
hand."
The old lady smiled.
"We are all guided," she said; "but sometimes the guidance is more
plainly manifested than usual, or it may be that our perceptions are
quickened. You will be disappointed when I tell you that I don't know
where Jamie is now. However, you must keep up your heart, and not be
discouraged."
"I will not be discouraged," Elsie answered resolutely. "Did Mrs. Penn
take the boy away with her?"
"She did. She went away more than a year ago, and she has not fulfilled
her promise of writing to me. If I had not been old and rheumatic I
would have kept the little fellow myself."
"I wish you had kept him," Elsie said earnestly. "But until he is safe
in my own keeping I shall not rest."
"That was spoken like Miss Neale," the old lady remarked. "You are
prettier than she was; I am an old woman, and you won't mind my plain
speaking. She was not as tall as you are, and her eyes were grey instead
of brown, as yours are; but she had your black lashes and eyebrows. She
always wore a very peaceful look, a look that comes to some people after
great suffering. Your face is more eager than hers."
"Mrs. Beaton," said Elsie, bending forward entreatingly, "I want to hear
Meta's story from one who knew her. She has said very little about
herself in her manuscript. Won't you begin at once, and tell me all that
you know?"
"Yes, my dear, I will tell you," Mrs. Beaton replied. "I have missed her
very much. She used to come and talk to me when she had a little time to
spare. Hers was a busy life, and it was a life lived for others. She was
always going about among the burden-bearers, and trying to lighten the
burdens. That was how it was that she met Mr. Waring."