THE VICTIMS OF SOCIETY
The girl was still crying, softly but persistently. She caught hold of
Macheson's arm.
"If you please, I think I had better go back to Stephen," she said. "Do
you think I could find him?"
"I think you had much better not, Letty," he answered. "He ought not to
have let you miss your train. My friend here and I are going to look
after you."
"It's very kind of you," the girl said listlessly, "but it doesn't
matter much what becomes of me now. Mother will never forgive me--and
the others will all know--that I missed the train."
"We must think of some way of putting that all right," Macheson
declared. "I only wish that I had some relations in London. Can you
suggest anything, Dick?"
"I can take the young lady to some decent rooms," Holderness answered.
"The landlady's an old friend of mine. She'll be as right as rain
there."
The girl shook her head.
"I'd as soon walk about the streets," she said pathetically. "Mother'll
never listen to me--or the others. Some of them saw me with Stephen, and
they said things. I think I'll go to the station and wait till the five
o'clock train."
They were walking slowly up towards Piccadilly. A fine rain had begun to
fall, and already the pavements were shining. Neither of them had an
umbrella, and Letty's hat, with its cheap flowers and ribbon, showed
signs of collapse. Suddenly Macheson had an idea.
"Look here," he said, "supposing you spent the night at Miss
Thorpe-Hatton's house in Berkeley Square--no one could say anything
then, could they?"
The girl looked up with a sudden gleam of hope.
"No! I don't suppose they could," she admitted; "but I don't know where
it is, and I don't suppose they'd take me in anyway."
"I know where it is," Macheson declared, "and we'll see about their
taking you in. I believe Miss Thorpe-Hatton may be there herself. Stop
that fourwheeler, Dick."
They climbed into a passing cab, and Macheson directed the driver. The
girl was beginning to lose confidence again.
"The house is sure to be shut up," she said.
"There will be a caretaker." Macheson declared hopefully. "We'll manage
it, never fear. I believe Miss Thorpe-Hatton is there herself."
Letty was trembling with excitement and fear.
"I'm scared to death of her," she admitted. "She's so beautiful, and she
looks at you always as though you were something a long way off."
Macheson was suddenly silent. A rush of memories surged into his brain.
He had sworn to keep away! This was a different matter, an errand of
mercy. Nevertheless he would see her, if only for a moment. His heart
leaped like a boy's. He looked eagerly out of the window. Already they
were entering Berkeley Square. The cab stopped.
Macheson looked upwards. There were lights in many of the windows, and a
small electric brougham, with a tall footman by the side of the driver,
was waiting opposite the door.
"The house is open," he declared. "Don't be afraid, Letty."
The girl descended and clung to his arm as they crossed the pavement.
"I shall wait here for you," Holderness said. "Good luck to you, and
good night, young lady!"
Macheson rang the bell. The door was opened at once by a footman, who
eyed them in cold surprise.
"We wish to see Miss Thorpe-Hatton for two minutes," Macheson said,
producing his card. "It is really an important matter, or we would not
disturb her at such an hour. She is at home, is she not?"
The footman looked exceedingly dubious. He looked from the card to
Macheson, and from Macheson to the girl, and he didn't seem to like
either of them.
"Miss Thorpe-Hatton has just returned from the opera," he said, "and she
is going on to the Countess of Annesley's ball directly. Can't you come
again in the morning?"
"Quite impossible," Macheson declared briskly. "I am sure that Miss
Thorpe-Hatton will see me for a moment if you take that card up."
The footman studied Macheson again, and was forced to admit that he was
a gentleman. He led the way into a small morning-room.
"Miss Thorpe-Hatton shall have your card, sir," he said. "Kindly take a
seat."
He left the room. Macheson drew up a chair for Letty, but she refused
it, trembling.
"Oh! I daren't sit down, Mr. Macheson," she declared. "And please--don't
say that I was with Mr. Hurd. I know he wouldn't like it."
"Probably not," Macheson answered, "but what am I to say?"
"Anything--anything but that," she begged.
Macheson nodded his promise. Then the door opened, and his heart seemed
to stand still. She entered the room in all the glory of a wonderful
toilette; she wore her famous ropes of pearls, the spotless white of her
gown was the last word from the subtlest Parisian workshop of the day.
But it was not these things that counted. Had he been dreaming, he
wondered a moment later, or had that strange smile indeed curved her
lips, that marvellous light indeed flowed from her eyes? It was the lady
of his dreams who had entered--it was a very different woman who, with a
slight frown upon her smooth forehead, was looking at the girl who stood
trembling by Macheson's side.
"It is Mr. Macheson, is it not?" she said calmly, "the young man who
wanted to convert my villagers. And you--who are you?" she asked,
turning to the girl.
"Letty Foulton, if you please, ma'am," the girl answered.
"Foulton! Letty Foulton!" Wilhelmina repeated.
"Yes, ma'am! My brother has Onetree farm," the girl continued.
Wilhelmina inclined her head.
"Ah, yes!" she remarked, "I remember now. And what do you two want of me
at this hour of the night?" she asked frigidly.
"If you will allow me, I will explain," Macheson interrupted eagerly.
"Letty came up from Thorpe this morning on an excursion train which
returned at midnight."
Wilhelmina glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to one.
"Well?"
"She missed it," Macheson continued. "It was very careless and very
wrong, of course, but the fact remains that she missed it. I found her
in great distress. She had lost her friends, and there is no train back
to Thorpe till the morning. Her brother and mother are very strict, and
all her friends who came from Thorpe will, of course, know that--she
remained in London. The position, as you will doubtless realize, is a
serious one for her."
Wilhelmina made no sign. Nothing in her face answered in any way the
silent appeal in his.
"I happened to know," he continued, "that you were in London, so I
ventured to bring her at once to you. You are the mistress of Thorpe,
and in our recent conversation I remember you admitted a certain amount
of responsibility as regards your people there. If she passes the night
under your roof, no one can have a word to say. It will save her at once
from her parent's anger and the undesirable comments of her neighbours."
Wilhelmina glanced once more towards the clock.
"It seems to me," she remarked, "that a considerable portion of the
night has already passed."
Both Macheson and the girl were silent. Wilhelmina for the first time
addressed the latter.
"Where have you been spending the evening?" she asked.
"We had dinner and went to a place of entertainment," she faltered.
"Then we had supper, and I found out how late it was."
"Who is we?"
The girl's face was scarlet. She did not answer. Wilhelmina waited for a
moment and then shrugged her shoulders.
"You are to be congratulated," she said, with cold irony, "upon your
fortunate meeting with Mr. Macheson."
She had touched the bell, and a footman entered.
"Reynolds," she said, "show this young person into the housekeeper's
room, and ask Mrs. Brown to take charge of her for the night."
The girl moved forward impulsively, but something in Wilhelmina's
expression checked her little speech of gratitude. She followed the man
from the room without a word. Wilhelmina also turned towards the door.
"You will excuse me," she said coldly to Macheson. "I am already later
than I intended to be."
"I can only apologize for disturbing you at such an hour," he answered,
taking up his hat. "I could think of nothing else."
She looked at him coldly.
"The girl's parents," she said, "are respectable people, and I am
sheltering her for their sake. But I am bound to say that I consider her
story most unsatisfactory."
They were standing in the hall--she had paused on her way out to
conclude her sentence. Her maid, holding out a wonderful rose-lined
opera cloak, was standing a few yards away; a man-servant was waiting at
the door with the handle in his hand. She raised her eyes to his, and
Macheson felt the challenge which flashed out from them. She imagined,
then, that he had been the girl's companion; the cold disdain of her
manner was in itself an accusation.
His cheeks burned with a sort of shame. She had dared to think this of
him--and that afterwards he should have brought the girl to her to beg
for shelter! There were a dozen things which he ought to have said,
which came flashing from his brain to find themselves somehow imprisoned
behind his tightly locked lips. He said nothing. She passed slowly,
almost unwillingly, down the hall. The maid wrapped her coat around
her--still he stood like a statue. He watched her pass through the
opened door and enter the electric brougham. He watched it even glide
away. Then he, too, went and joined Holderness, who was waiting outside.
"Hail, succourer of damsels in distress!" Holderness called out,
producing his cigar-case. "Jolly glad you got rid of her! It would have
meant the waiting-room at St. Pancras and an all-night sitting. Smoke,
my son, and we will walk home--unless you mind this bit of rain. Was her
ladyship gracious?"
"She was not," Macheson answered grimly, "but she is keeping the girl.
I'd like to walk," he added, lighting a cigar.
"A very elegant lady," Holderness remarked, "but I thought she looked a
bit up in the air. Did you notice her pearls, Victor?"
Macheson nodded.
"Wonderful, weren't they?"
"Yes. She wears them round her neck, and these--these wear always their
shame," he added, pushing gently away a woman who clutched at his arm.
"Funny thing, isn't it? What are they worth? Ten thousand pounds, very
likely. A lot of money for gewgaws--to hang upon a woman's body. Shall
we ever have a revolution in London, do you think, Victor?"
"Who knows?" Macheson answered wearily. "Not a political one, perhaps,
but the other might come. The sewers underneath are pretty full."
They passed along in silence for a few minutes. Neither the drizzling
rain nor the lateness of the hour could keep away that weary procession
of sad, staring-eyed women, who seemed to come from every shadow, and
vanish Heaven knows where. Macheson gripped his companion by the arm.
"Holderness," he cried, "for God's sake let's get out of it. I shall
choke presently. We'll take a side street."
But Holderness held his arm in a grip of iron.
"No," he said, "these are the things which you must feel. I want you to
feel them. I mean you to."
"It's heart-breaking, Dick."
Holderness smiled faintly.
"I know how you feel," he declared. "I've gone through it myself. You
are a Christian, aren't you--almost an orthodox Christian?"
"I am not sure!"
"Don't waste your pity, then," Holderness declared. "God will look after
these. It's the women with the pearl necklaces and the scorn in their
eyes who're looking for hell. Your friend in the electric brougham, for
instance. Can't you see her close her eyes and draw away her skirts if
she should brush up against one of these?"
"It's hard to blame her," Macheson declared.
Holderness looked down at him pityingly.
"Man," he said, "you're a long way down in the valley. You'll have to
climb. Vice and virtue are little else save relative terms. They number
their adherents by accident rather than choice."
"You mean that it is all a matter of temptation?"
Holderness laughed. They had passed into the land of silent streets.
Their own rooms were close at hand.
"Wait a little time," he said. "Some day you'll understand."