CHAPTER XXIII.
A NEW DEPARTURE.
Joan reached town in safety. Willie Hood called for her box as he had promised, and conveyed it to the station before anybody at the inn was up, whither she followed after breakfast. It gave Joan a new and strange sensation to sit opposite her aunt, who took the opportunity of a têteàtête to scold and grumble at her from one end of the meal to the other, and to reflect that they were about to separate, for aught she knew, never to meet again. She could not pretend any affection for Mrs. Gillingwater, and yet the thought moved her, for after all she belonged to the familiar round of daily life from which Joan was about to cut herself adrift. Still more did it move her, yes, even to silent tears, when for the last time she looked upon the ancient room that had been hers, and in which she had nursed Henry back to health. Here every chair and picture was an old friend, and, what is more, connected with his presence, the presence which to-day she finally refused.
In turning her back upon that room she forsook all hope of seeing him again, and not till she had closed its door behind her did she learn how bitter was this renunciation.
Finding her luggage at the station, she saw it labelled, and took her seat in the train. Just as it was about to start Willie Hood sauntered up.
“Oh! there you are, Joan Haste,” he said. “I thought that you would be following your box, so I’ve just dropped round to say good-bye to you. Good-bye, Joan: I hope that you will have a pleasant time up in London. Let me know your address, and I shouldn’t wonder if I looked you up there one day, for somehow I don’t feel as though there were room for another smart young man in Bradmouth, and the old place won’t seem the same without you. Perhaps, as you ain’t going to marry him after all,” and Willie jerked his red head in the direction of Rosham, “if you’ll have the patience to wait a year or two, we might set up together yonder in the grocery line.”
“You impudent young monkey!” said Joan, laughing in spite of herself; and then the train steamed off, leaving Master Willie on the platform, kissing his hand in the direction of her carriage.
On arriving at Liverpool Street, Joan took a cab and directed the man to Kent Street, Paddington, whither she came after a drive that seemed interminable.
Kent Street, Paddington, was a shabby little place in the neighbourhood of the Edgware Road. The street itself ended in a cul-de-sac, a recommendation to the lover of quiet, as of course no traffic could pass through it; but, probably on this account, it was the happy hunting ground of hundreds of dirty children, whose shrill voices echoed through it from dawn to dark, as they played and fought and screamed. The houses were tall, and covered with a dingy stucco, that here and there had peeled away in flakes, exposing patches of yellow brick; the doors were much in need of paint, some of the area railings were broken, and the window curtains for the most part presented the appearance of having been dried in a coal cellar. Indeed, the general squalor and the stuffy odours of the place filled Joan’s heart with dismay, for she had never before visited the poorer quarters of a large town.
“Are you sure that this is Kent Street, Paddington?” she asked feebly of the driver.
“If you don’t believe me, miss, look for yourself,” he answered gruffly, pointing to the corner of a house upon which the name was painted. “No. 13, you said, didn’t you? Well, here it is, and here’s your box,” he added, bumping her luggage down upon the steps; “and my fare is three-and-six, please.”
Joan paid the three-and-sixpence, and the sulky cabman drove off, yelling at the children in front to get out of the way of his horse, and lashing with his whip at those who clung behind.
Left to herself, Joan pulled the bell and waited. Nobody came, so she pulled it again, and yet a third time; after which she discovered that it was broken, and there being no knocker, was reduced to rapping on the door with the handle of her umbrella. Presently it was opened with great violence, and a sour-faced slattern with a red nose asked shrilly,—
“Who the dickens are you, that you come a-banging of the door to bits? This ain’t the Al’ambra, my fine miss. Don’t you make no mistake.”
“My name is Haste,” said Joan humbly, “and I have come here to lodge.”
“Then you’d better haste out of this, for you won’t lodge here.” And the vixen prepared to slam the door.
“Does not Mrs. Thomas live here?” asked Joan desperately.
“No, she don’t. Mrs. Thomas was sold up three days ago, and you’ll find her in the Marylebone Workhouse, I believe. I am the caretaker. Now take that box off those steps, and cut it sharp, or I’ll send for the policeman.” And before Joan could say another word the door was shut in her face.
She turned round in despair. Where was she to go, and what could she do in this horrible place? By now a crowd had collected about her, composed largely of dirty children and dreadful blear-eyed men in very wide-skirted tattered coats, who made audible remarks about her personal appearance.
“Now then,” screamed the vixen from the area, “will you take thim things off the steps?”
Thus adjured, Joan made a desperate effort to lift the box, but she was weak with agitation and could not stir it.
“Carry yer things for yer, miss?” said one creature in a raucous whisper. “Don’t you mind him, miss,” put in another; “he’s a blooming area sneak, he is. You give ’em me.” “Hullo, Molly, does your mother know you’re out?” asked a painted-faced slut, who evidently had taken more to drink than was good for her; and so forth.
For a few moments Joan bore it. Then she sank down upon the box and began to weep—a sight that touched the better feelings of some of the men, for one of them offered to punch the “blooming ’ead” of anybody who annoyed her.
It was at this juncture that Joan, chancing to look up, saw a little pale-faced, straw-coloured woman, who was neatly dressed in black, pushing her way through the crowd towards her.
“What is the matter, my dear?” said the little woman, in a small and gentle voice.
“I have come from the country here to lodge,” answered Joan, choking back her tears; “and there’s nobody in the house except that dreadful person, and I don’t know where to go.”
The little woman shook her head doubtfully; and at that moment once more the fiend in the area yelled aloud, “If you won’t get off thim steps, I’ll come and put you off. I’m caretaker here, and I’ll show you.”
“Oh! what shall I do?” said Joan, wringing her hands.
The sight of her distress seemed to overcome the scruples of the little woman; at any rate she bade one of the loafers lift the box and bring it across the street.
“Now, my dear, take your bag and your umbrella, and follow me.”
Joan obeyed with joy: just then she would have followed her worst enemy anywhere, also her new friend’s face inspired her with confidence. On the other side of the street the little woman opened the door of a house—it was No. 8—with a latchkey, and Joan noticed that on it was a brass plate inscribed “Mrs. Bird, Dressmaker.”
“Go in,” she said. “No, I will settle with the man; he will cheat you.”
She went in, and found herself in a tiny passage of spotless cleanliness; and, her baggage having been set down beside her, the door was closed, and the crowd which had accompanied them across the street melted away.
“Oh! thank you,” said Joan. “What do I owe you?”
“Threepence, my dear; it is a penny too much, but I would not stop to argue with the man.”
Joan fumbled in her pocket and found the threepence.
“Thank you, my dear. I am glad to see that you pay your debts so readily. It is a good sign, but, alas! appearances are often deceptive;” and her hostess led the way into a small parlour, beautifully neat and well kept. “Sit down,” said the little woman, lifting a dress that she was in process of making from a chair which she offered to Joan, “and take a cup of tea. I was just going to have some myself. Bobby, will you be quiet?” This last remark was addressed to a canary, which was singing at the top of its voice in a cage that hung in the window. “I am afraid that you find him rather shrill,” she went on, nodding towards the canary, “but I have so much to do with silence that I don’t mind the noise.”
“Not at all: I like birds,” said Joan.
“I am glad of that, my dear, for my name is Bird. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?—not but what coincidences are deceptive things. And now, here is your tea.”
Joan took the tea and drank it thankfully, while Mrs. Bird watched her.
“My dear, you are very handsome,” she said at length, “if you will forgive me for making a personal remark— dreadfully handsome. I am sure that, being so handsome, you cannot be happy, since God does not give us everything; and I only hope that you are good. You look good, or I should not have come to help you just now; but it is impossible to put any trust in appearances.”
“I am afraid that I am neither very happy nor very good,” answered Joan, “but I am most grateful to you. I have come up from the country to look for work, and I want to find a decent lodging. Perhaps you can help me, for I have never been in London before, and do not know where to go. My name is Joan Haste.”
“Perhaps I can, and perhaps I can’t,” said Mrs. Bird. “It depends. Yours is a very strange story, and I am not sure that I believe it. It is not usual for beautiful young women like you to wander to London in this kind of way—that is, if they are respectable. How am I to know that you are respectable? That you look respectable does not prove you to be so. Do your friends know that you have come here, or have you perhaps run away from home?”
“I hope that I am respectable,” answered Joan meekly; “and some of my friends know about my coming.”
“Then they should have made better arrangements for you. That house to which you were going was not respectable; it is a mercy that it was shut up.”
“Not respectable!” said Joan. “Surely Mr. Levinger could never have been so wicked,” she added to herself.
“No: it used to be a while ago—then there were none but very decent people there; but recently the woman, Mrs. Thomas, took to drink, and that was why she was sold up.”
“Indeed,” said Joan; “I suppose that my friend did not know. I fancy it is some years since he was acquainted with the house.”
“Your friend! What sort of friend?” said Mrs. Bird suspiciously.
“Well, he is a kind of guardian of mine.”
“Then he ought to have known better than to have sent you to a house without making further inquiries. This world is a changeable place, but nothing changes in it more quickly than lodging-houses, at any rate in Kent Street.”
“So it seems,” answered Joan sadly; “but now, what am I to do?”
“I don’t know, Miss Haste—I think you said Haste was your name; although,” she added nervously, sweeping off her lap some crumbs of the bread and butter that she had been eating, “if I was quite sure that you are respectable I might be able to make a suggestion.”
“What suggestion, Mrs. Bird?”
“Well, I have two rooms to let here. My last lodger, a most estimable man, and a very clever one too—he was an accountant, my dear—died in them a fortnight ago, and was carried out last Friday; but then, you see, it is not everybody that would suit me as a tenant, and there are many people whom I might not suit. There are three questions to be considered; the question of character, the question of rent, and the question of surroundings. Now, as to the question of character——”
“I have a certificate,” broke in Joan mildly, as she produced a document that she had procured from Mr. Biggen, the clergyman at Bradmouth. Mrs. Bird put on a pair of spectacles and perused it carefully.
“Satisfactory,” she said, “very satisfactory, presuming it to be genuine; though, mind you, I have known even clergymen to be deceived. Now, would you like to see my references?”
“No, thank you, not at all,” said Joan. “I am quite sure that you are respectable.”
“How can you be sure of anything of the sort? Well, we will pass over that and come to the rent. My notion of rent for the double furnished room on the first floor, including breakfast, coals, and all extras, is eight shillings and sixpence a week. The late accountant used to pay ten-and-six, but for a woman I take off two shillings; not but what I think, from the look of you, that you would eat more breakfast than the late accountant did.”
“That seems very reasonable,” said Joan. “I should be very glad to pay that.”
“Yes, my dear, you might be very glad to pay it, but you will excuse me for saying that the desire does not prove the ability. How am I to know that you would pay?”
“I have plenty of money,” answered Joan wearily; “I can give you a month’s rent in advance, if you like.”
“Plenty of money!” said the little woman, holding up her hands in amazement, “and that very striking appearance! And yet you wander about the world in this fashion! Really, my dear, I do not know what to make of you.”
“For the matter of that, Mrs. Bird, I do not quite know what to make of myself. But shall we get on with the business?—because, you see, if we do not come to an agreement, I must search elsewhere. What was it you said about surroundings?”
“That reminds me,” answered Mrs. Bird; “before I go a step further I must consult my two babies. Now, do you move your chair a little, and sit so. Thank you, that will do.” And she trotted off through some folding doors, one of which she left carefully ajar.
Joan could not in the least understand what this odd little person was driving at, nor who her two babies might be, so she sat still and waited. Presently, from the other side of the door, there came a sound as though several people were clapping their hands and snapping their fingers. A pause followed, and the door was pushed a little farther open, apparently that those on the farther side might look into the room where she was sitting. Then there was more clapping and snapping, and presently Mrs. Bird reentered with a smile upon her kind little face.
“They like you, my dear,” she said, nodding her head “both of them. Indeed, Sal says that she would much prefer you as a lodger to the late accountant.”
“They? Who?” asked Joan.
“Well, my dear, when I spoke of surroundings you may have guessed that mine were peculiar; and so they are very peculiar, though harmless. The people in the next room are my husband and my daughter; he is paralytic, and they are both of them deaf and dumb.”
“Oh, how sad!” said Joan.
“Yes, it is sad; but it might have been much sadder, for I assure you they are not at all unhappy. Now, if I had not married Jim it would have been otherwise, for then he must have gone to the workhouse, or at the best into a home, and of course there would have been no Sal to love us both. But come in, and you shall be introduced to them.” And Mrs. Bird lit a candle and led the way into the small back room.
Here Joan saw a curious sight. Seated in an armchair, his withered legs supported on a footstool, was an enormous man of about forty, with flaxen hair and beard, mild blue eyes, and a face like an infant’s, that wore a perpetual smile. Sometimes the smile was more and sometimes it was less, but it was always there. Standing by his side was a sweet and delicate-faced little girl of about twelve; her eyes also were blue and her hair flaxen, but her face was alight with so much fire and intelligence that Joan found it hard to believe that she could be deaf and dumb. Mrs. Bird pointed to her, and struck her hands together this way and that so swiftly that Joan could scarcely follow their movements, whereon the two of them nodded vigorously in answer, and Sal, advancing, held out her hand in greeting. Joan shook it, and was led by her to where Mr. Bird was sitting, with his arm also outstretched.
‘There, my dear,’ said Mrs. Bird ... ‘ this is my family.’
“There, my dear—now you are introduced,” said Mrs. Bird. “This is my family. I have supported them for many many years, thanks be to God; and I hope that I have managed that, if I should die before them, there will be no need for them to go to the workhouse; so you see I have much to be grateful for. Though they are deaf and dumb, you must not think them stupid, for they can do lots of things—read and write and carve. Oh, we are a very happy family, I can assure you; though at times I want somebody to talk to, and that is one of the reasons why I like to have a lodger—not that the late accountant was much use in that respect, for he was a very gloomy man, though right-thinking. And now that you have seen the surroundings, do you think that you would wish to stay here for a week on trial?”
“I should like nothing better,” answered Joan.
“Very well, then. Will you come upstairs and see your rooms and wash your hands for supper? I will call the girl, Maria, to help you carry up the box.”
Presently Maria arrived. She was a strong, awkward-looking damsel of fifteen, “a workhouse girl,” Mrs. Bird explained, but, like everything else in that house, scrupulously clean in appearance. With her assistance the box was dragged up the narrow stairs, and Joan found herself in the apartments of the late accountant. They were neat little rooms, separated from each other by double doors, and furnished with a horsehair sofa, a round deal table with a stained top, and some old chairs with curly backs and rep-covered seats.
“They look a little untidy,” said Mrs. Bird, eyeing these chairs; “but the fact is that the late accountant was a careless man, and often upset his coffee over them. However, I will run you up some chintz covers in no time, and for the sofa too if you like. And now do you think that the rooms will do? You see here is a good cupboard and a chest of drawers.”
“Very nicely, thank you,” answered Joan. “I never expected a sitting-room all to myself.”
“I am glad that you are pleased. And now I will leave you. Supper will be ready in half an hour—fried eggs and bacon and bread and butter. But if you like anything else I dare say that I can get it for you.”
Joan hastened to assure her that eggs and bacon were her favourite food; and, having satisfied herself that there was water in the jug and a clean towel, Mrs. Bird departed, leaving her to unpack. Half an hour later Joan went down and partook of the eggs and bacon. It was an odd meal, with a deaf-and-dumb child pouring out the tea, a deaf-and-dumb giant smiling at her perpetually across the table, and her little hostess attending to them all, and keeping up a double fire of conversation, one with her lips for Joan’s benefit, and one with her head and hands for that of her two “babies.”
After supper the things were cleared away; and having first inquired whether Joan objected to the smell of smoke, Mrs. Bird filled a large china pipe for her husband, and brought him some queer-shaped tools, with which he began to carve the head of a walking-stick.
“I told you that he was very clever,” she said; “do you know, he sometimes makes as much as four shillings in a week. He gives me the money, and thinks that I spend it; but I don’t, not a farthing. I put it all into the Savings Bank for him and Sally. There is nearly forty pounds there on that account alone. There, do you know what he is saying?”
Joan shook her head.
“He says that he is going to carve a likeness of you. He thinks that you have a beautiful head for a walking-stick. Oh! don’t be afraid; he will do it capitally. Look, here is the late accountant. I keep it in memory of him,” and Mrs. Bird produced a holly stick, on the knob of which appeared a dismal, but most lifelike, countenance.
“He wasn’t very handsome,” said Joan.
“No, he wasn’t handsome—only right-thinking; and that is why Jim would like to carve you, because you see you are handsome, though whether or no you are right-thinking remains to be proved.”
Joan smiled; there was something very quaint about the little lady.
“I hope that Mr. Bird does not want me to sit to him to-night,” she said, “for, do you know, I am dreadfully tired, and I think that I will go to bed.”
“No, no; he will only make a beginning to-night, perhaps of two or three sticks, and afterwards he will study you. You will be much better for some sleep after your journey,—though you have not yet told me where you came from,” and she shook her straw-coloured head doubtfully.
Joan made no answer, not feeling inclined to submit herself to cross-examination at the moment; but, going round the table, she shook hands with Mr. Bird and with Sally, who had been watching her all the evening and now put up her face to be kissed in a way that quite won Joan’s heart.
“That shows that Sally likes you,” said Mrs. Bird, in a gratified voice; “and if Sally likes you I shall too, for she is never wrong about people. And now good night, my dear. We breakfast at half-past seven; but first I read some prayers if you would like to attend them: I read, and my two babies’ follow in a book. Be sure you put your light out.”
Joan stumbled upstairs, and, too tired even for thought, was soon in bed. Beneath her she could hear a clapping and cracking of fingers, which told her that she was being vigorously discussed by the Bird family after their own strange fashion; and to this queer lullaby she went to sleep.