CHAPTER XXIV.
MESSRS. BLACK AND PARKER.
Joan slept well that night, and woke to find the sunlight streaming in at her window. Coming down to the sitting-room at a quarter past seven, she saw that, early as it was, it had been swept and garnished and the breakfast laid.
“Good morning, my dear!” said Mrs. Bird: “I am glad to see that you are an early riser. I suppose it is a habit which you bring with you from the country. It was not so with the late accountant, who would never breakfast till nine if he could help it, and on Sundays not till ten; but I think that an affection of the liver from which he suffered made him sleepy. And now I am going to have prayers. Maria, come to prayers.”
Maria shuffled in, obedient, and diving into the back room reappeared wheeling her master before her, who, as he came, smiled sweetly and waved his hand in greeting to Joan. Presently Sally arrived, and the ceremony began. First Mrs. Bird handed two Bibles to her husband and her daughter, pointing out the passage which was to be read with her finger, then she gave them each a manual of prayer. These preparations finished, she began to read the chapter of the Bible aloud; and it was curious and touching to see the attention with which her deaf-and-dumb audience followed the words they could not hear, glancing from time to time at the motions of her lips to make sure that they were keeping pace with her. When the reading was finished she shut the Bible and knelt down an example that Mr. Bird could not follow, for his limbs were paralysed. Sally, however, placed herself near Joan, making it clear to her by signs that she was to indicate by pointing each sentence as it passed her mother’s lips.
Prayers being over—and surely family worship was never carried on under greater difficulties—breakfast followed, and then the business of the day began. Mr. Bird carved while Mrs. Bird and her daughter sewed at gowns that they were making. For a time Joan looked on helplessly; then, wearying of idleness, asked if she could not do something.
“Can you sew, my dear?” said Mrs. Bird.
“Pretty well,” she answered; “but not like you.”
“That is scarcely wonderful, considering that I have done nothing else for more than twenty years; but here are some seams to be run up, if you have nothing better to do.”
Joan took the seams and began to run them; indeed, she “ran” until her back ached with stooping.
“You are getting tired, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, “as I expected you would, not being accustomed to the work,” and she peered at her kindly through her spectacles. “Now you had better rest awhile and talk. What part of England do you come from?”
“From the Eastern counties,” answered Joan.
“Dear me! that is strange—quite a coincidence, I declare. I come from the East coast myself. I was born at Yarmouth, though it is many and many a year since I have seen a herring boat. You see, my story is a very simple one. I was an orphan girl, for my dear father was drowned in an October gale when fishing at sea, and I came to London with a family as nursemaid. They did not treat me kindly—even now I cannot say that they did, although I wish to be charitable—for they discharged me because I was not strong enough to do the work, and if I had not been taken in out of pity by a widow woman, a dressmaker and my predecessor in this very house, I do not know what would have become of me. My husband was her only child, and it was part of my duty, and indeed of my pleasure, to look after him in his affliction so far as I was able. Then when his mother died I married him, for I could not make up my mind to leave him alone, and this of course I must have done unless I became his wife. So you see, my dear, I took him on and the business with him, and we have been very happy ever since—so happy that sometimes I wonder why God is so good to me, who am full of faults. One sorrow we have had, it is true, though now even that seems to have become a joy: it was after Sally was born. She was a beautiful baby, and when for the first time I grew sure that she would be deaf and dumb also, I cried till I thought my heart would break, and wished that she might die. Now I see how wicked this was, and every night I thank Heaven that I was not taken at my word, for then my heart would have broken indeed.” And the dear little woman’s eyes filled with tears as, putting her arm round the child’s waist, she kissed her tenderly.
There was something so beautiful in the scene that Joan almost cried in sympathy, and even Jim, who seemed to understand everything, for one moment ceased to smile, and having wiped away a tear from his round blue eye, stretched out his great arms and swept both the mother and the daughter into a confused embrace.
“You say that you are full of faults,” said Joan, turning her head until the three of them had recovered their composure, “but I think you are an angel.”
“If to tend and care for those whom one loves is to be an angel, I think that we shall most of us get to heaven,” she answered, shaking her head; then added, “Oh! you wretched Jim, you have broken my spectacles—the new ones.”
Jim, watching his wife’s lip and the damaged glasses, looked so comically distressed that Joan burst out laughing, while Sally, seeing what was the matter, ran to the back room to fetch another pair.
“And now, my dear,” Mrs. Bird said presently, “you say that you have come to London to get work, though why you should want work if you have plenty of money I do not quite understand. What kind of employment do you wish to take? For my part I cannot think, for, to be frank with you, my dear, you seem too much of a lady for most things.”
“I thought,” said Joan diffidently, “that I might perhaps get a situation as one of those girls in shops whom they use to hang cloaks on for the approval of customers. You see, I am—tall, and I am not clever enough to teach, so I know nothing else for which I should be fit.”
Mrs. Bird shook her head. “I dare say that you might come by such employment, my dear, but I tell you at once that I do not approve of it. I know something of the wickedness of London, and I think that this sort of occupation puts too many temptations in the way of a young lady like you, who are so beautiful, and do not seem to have any home ties to keep your thoughts from them. We are most of us weak, remember; and flattery, and promises, and grand presents, all of which would be offered to you, are very nice things.”
“I am not afraid of such temptations, Mrs. Bird,” Joan answered, with a sad confidence that at once attracted the quick little woman’s attention.
“Now, when a person tells me that she is not afraid of a thing,” she said, glancing at her, “I conclude that she is either totally without experience and foolhardy, or that, having won the experience and passed through the fire, she no longer fears a danger which she has overcome, or——” and she stopped.
This vein of speculative reflection did not seem to recommend itself to Joan: at any rate she changed the subject.
“You have twice called me a lady, Mrs. Bird,” she said, “but I must tell you that I am nothing of the sort. Who my father was I don’t even know, though I believe him to have been a gentleman, and my mother was the daughter of a yeoman farmer.”
“Married?” asked Mrs. Bird interrogatively.
Joan shook her head.
“Ah! I understand,” said Mrs. Bird.
“I—That is partly why I left home,” explained Joan.
“Meaning Bradmouth? Don’t look surprised, my dear. I saw the name on the clergyman’s testimonial, and also on your box.”
“Yes, Bradmouth. I lived there with an aunt, and everybody looked down upon me because of my position.”
“That was very wicked of them. But did they begin to look down upon you all at once, or had you, perhaps, some other reason for coming away? I suppose your aunt knew that you were coming?”
“No, she did not know. We do not get on together, and I thought it best not to tell her. Also, she wanted me to marry somebody whom I dislike.”
“Because there is somebody else whom you do like, I suppose, my dear. Well, it is no affair of mine. But if you will not think me impertinent, where then do you get your money from?”
“A gentleman——”
“A gentleman!” exclaimed Mrs. Bird, dropping her work in horror.
“Oh! no, not that,” said Joan, blushing; “he is a kind of guardian, a friend of my father’s, I believe. At any rate he has paid for me all these years, and says that he will allow me five pounds a month though I would rather earn my own living if possible.”
“A friend of your father’s? What a strange story! I suppose that he is not your father, my dear?”
“My father!” said Joan, opening her eyes wide in amazement,— “Mr. Levinger my father! Of course not. Why, if he were, would he have treated me like a stranger all my life?”
“It is possible,” said Mrs. Bird drily; “I have heard of such things.”
“Oh no, he is not bad enough for that; in fact, he is very good and kind. He knew that I was coming away, and gave me five-and-twenty pounds to start on, and he told me himself that he was left my trustee by my father, who is dead, but whose name he was bound not to reveal.”
“Indeed,” answered Mrs. Bird, pursing up her lips. “And now I must go and see about the dinner. As it happens, I do work for some of the big shops; and I will inquire if there is any situation vacant that might suit you. Look: Jim wants you to turn your head a little, so that he can see your nose. Is he not making a beautiful likeness?” And, nodding affectionately at her husband, she left the room.
Once outside the door, Mrs. Bird stood still and reflected. “There is a mystery about that girl,” she thought, “and she has not told me all her story: she has left out the love affair—I could see it in her face. Now, if I were wise, I should send her about her business without more words; but, somehow, I cannot find the heart to do it. I suppose it is because she is so beautiful, and seems so sad and friendless; and after all it is one’s duty to help those who are placed thus—yes, even if they have not been quite respectable, though of course I have no right to suppose that she has not. No, I cannot turn her away. To do so might be to bring her to ruin, and that would be a dreadful thing to have upon one’s mind. But I do not think much of that guardian of hers, Mr. Levinger she called him, who can send such a lovely girl to take her chance in London without providing her with a proper home. It looks almost as if he wished to be rid of her: altogether it is a very strange story. I must say that it interests me; but then curiosity always was one of my sins, and I have not conquered it yet.” And again shaking her head, this time at the thought of her own depravity, Mrs. Bird made her way to the kitchen.
After dinner was over she announced to Joan that they were all going out for a walk in the Park, and asked her if she would like to accompany them. Joan, of course, was delighted, for already she began to feel a want of the fresh air to which she was accustomed; but as she accepted she looked inquiringly at Mr. Bird.
“Ah, my dear,” said his wife, “you are wondering how he can come out walking when his legs are crippled. Well, presently you shall see. Now go and put on your hat.”
By the time that Joan was ready she found that a long wheel-chair, which she had noticed standing in the passage, had been run into the sitting-room, and into this chair Mr. Bird shifted himself with marvellous agility by the help of his muscular arms, nodding and smiling at Joan the while.
“How on earth will they get it down the steps?” she wondered. Soon the mystery was solved, for, the front door having been opened, Sally appeared with three grooved boards which reached from the lintel to the pavement. The three wheels of the chair having been set in the grooves, Mr. Bird grasped the iron railings on either side of the steps, and, smiling triumphantly, launched himself with much dignity into the street.
“There, my dear!” said Mrs. Bird, while Sally replaced the boards in the passage and shut the door, “necessity is the mother of invention. Quite clever, isn’t it? But we have other contrivances that are even cleverer.”
Then they started, Mr. Bird guiding himself, while Sally and Mrs. Bird who was arrayed in a prim little bonnet and mantle, pushed behind. Joan offered to assist, but was not allowed this honour because of her inexperience of the streets, at any rate until they reached the Park. So she walked by the side of the chair, wondering at the shops and the noise and bustle of the Edgware Road.
Presently they came to the corner opposite the Marble Arch, where, as usual, the wide roadway was blocked with traffic. “How ever will they get across there?” thought Joan: “it frightens me to look at it.”
But it did not frighten Mrs. Bird and her family, who, without a moment’s hesitation, plunged into the thick of it, calling to Joan to keep close to them. It was really wonderful to see the skill with which the transit was accomplished; cabs, omnibuses and carriages bore down upon them from all directions, but the Bird family were not dismayed. Here and there the chair headed, now passing under the nose of a horse and now grazing the wheel of a cab, till at length it arrived safely at the farther pavement. Joan was not so fortunate, however; about half-way across she lost her head, and, having been nearly knocked down by the pole of an omnibus, stood bewildered till a policeman seized her by the arm and dragged her into safety.
“You see, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, “although you are so strong, you are not quite competent to wheel Jim at present. First you must learn to look after yourself.”
Then they went for their walk in the Park, which Joan enjoyed, for it was all new to her, especially when she was allowed to push the precious chair; and returned to Kent Street in time for tea.
The rest of the afternoon and evening passed like those of the previous day, and the morrow was as the yesterday had been. Indeed, there was little variety in the routine of the Bird ménage—so little that Joan soon began to wonder how they distinguished one month or one year from another. Few customers came to the house, for most of the dressmaking was put out to Mrs. Bird by the managers of large shops, who had confidence in her, and were not afraid to trust her with costly materials, which she made up, generally into skirts, and took back in the evenings.
So it came about that all day long Mrs. Bird and Sally sewed, while Jim carved endless walking-sticks, and Joan sat by giving such help as she could, now listening to her hostess’s good-natured chatter and now to the shrill song of the canary. At first, after all that she had gone through, this mode of life was a rest to her. It was delightful to be obliged neither to think nor to work unless she so wished; it was delightful to know that she was beyond the reach of Samuel Rock, and could not be harried by the coarse tongue of Mrs. Gillingwater or by the gossip of her neighbours. The atmosphere of goodness in which she lived was very soothing also: it was a new thing for Joan to pass her days where there was no hate, no passion, no jealousy, and no violence—where, on the contrary, charity and loving-kindness reigned supreme. Soon she grew very fond of little Mrs. Bird, as, indeed, anybody must have done who had the good fortune to know her; and began to share her adoration of the two “babies,” the great patient creature who faced his infirmities with a perpetual smile, and the sweet child from whom love seemed to radiate.
But after a while, as her body and mind shook off their weariness, these things began to pall; she longed for work, for anything that would enable her to escape from her own thoughts,—and as yet no work was forthcoming. At times, tiring of Jim’s smile as he hewed out libellous likenesses of herself upon his walking-sticks, and of the trilling of the canary, she would seek refuge in her own sitting-room, where she read and re-read the books that Henry had given her; and at times, longing for air, she would escape from the stuffy little house to the Park, to walk up and down there till she grew weary—an amusement which she found had its drawbacks. At last, when she had been a fortnight in Kent Street, she asked Mrs. Bird if there was any prospect of getting employment.
“My dear,” was the answer, “I have inquired everywhere, and as yet without success. To-night I am taking this skirt back to Messrs. Black and Parker, in Oxford Street, and I will ask their manager, who is quite a friend of mine, if he has an opening. Failing this I think you had better advertise, for I see that you are getting tired of doing nothing, and I do not wonder at it,—though you should be most thankful that you can afford to live without work, seeing that many people in your position would now be reduced to starvation.”
That night Mrs. Bird returned from Messrs. Black and Parker’s with a radiant countenance.
“My dear,” she said, “there is a coincidence, quite a wonderful coincidence. The young woman at Messrs. Black and Parker’s whose business it was to fit on the cloaks in the mantle department has suddenly been called away to nurse a sick uncle in Cornwall from whom she has expectations, and they are looking out for some one to take her place, for, as it chances, there is no one suitable for the post in their employ. I told the manager about you, and he said that I was to bring you there to-morrow morning. If they engaged you your pay would be eighteen shillings a week to begin with; which is not much, but better than nothing.”
Accordingly, on the following morning, having arrayed herself in her best dress, and a pretty little bonnet that she had made with the help of Sally, Joan set out for Messrs. Black and Parker’s in the company of Mrs. Bird.
Messrs. Black and Parker’s establishment was an enormous one, having many departments.
“You see it is a first-class shop, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, glancing with veneration at the huge windows filled with chefs-d‘oeuvres of the milliner’s and other arts. “Now follow me, and don’t be nervous.” And she led the way through various divisions till she reached a large box built of mahogany and glass labelled “Manager’s Office. No admittance except on business.”
At this moment the door of the box opened, and from it issued an oiled and curled specimen of manhood, with very white hands and hair so wavy, that it conveyed a suggestion of crimping tongs.
His eye fell upon Joan, and he bowed obsequiously.
“Can I do anything for you, madam?” he said. “We are so full this morning that I fear you are not being attended to.”
“She is not a customer, Mr. Waters,” said Mrs. Bird, emerging from behind Joan’s tall shape: “she is the young person about whom I spoke to you, who wants a situation as show-woman.”
“Oh! is she?” said Mr. Waters, with a complete change of manner; “then why didn’t you say so at first? Well, she’s a pretty girl anyway. Step in here, miss, and take off your jacket, please, so that I can see what your figure is like.”
Joan did as she was told, although she felt a hate of this individual swelling in her heart. Mr. Waters surveyed her critically for half a minute or more, shutting first one eye and then the other, as though to bring her better into focus.
“Any experience?” he said laconically. “I mean of business.”
“No, sir, none,” Joan answered.
“Ah! I see: a lady, I suppose.”
“I am not a lady, sir,” replied Joan.
“Ain’t you?—then you imitate the article very well.”
“Just what I feared,” murmured Mrs. Bird, shaking her head.
“However,” he went on, “we can overlook that fault; but I have another doubt about you. You’re too good-looking. Our customers like to see their things tried on a fine figure, of course, but they don’t like to see them tried on a girl who makes them look common dowds beside her. Why, a three-guinea mantle would seem a better thing on your back than a forty-pound cloak on most of them. You’d show off the goods, I dare say, but I doubt that you would frighten away custom.”
“I thought that tall people were always wanted,” hesitated Joan.
“Tall people!” said Mr. Waters, with an admiring snigger; “just you look at yourself in this pier glass, and I think that you will see something else there beside height. Now, I’ll give you a bit of advice: you drop this show and go on to the stage. You’ll draw there; yes, even if you can’t sing or act a bit, there are hundreds who would pay to come and look at you. By George! I’m not sure that I wouldn’t myself.”
“I do not wish to go on the stage,” answered Joan stiffly; and Mrs. Bird behind her murmured, “No! never!” in sympathetic tones. “If you think that I shall not suit,” she added, “I will not take up your time any longer.”
“I didn’t say that, miss. Here!”—and he put his head out of the door and called to a shop-woman—“just give me that velvet mantle, will you? Now, miss,” he said: “you fancy that Mrs. Bird’s a customer, and let me see you try to sell her this cloak.”
Joan’s first impulse was to refuse, but presently a sense of the fun of the situation prevailed, and she rose to it, mincing, smiling, and praising up the garment, which she hung upon her own shoulders, bending her graceful shape this way and that to show it in various lights and attitudes, till at length Mrs. Bird exclaimed, “Well, I never!—you’re a born actress, my dear. You might have been bred to the business. I should have bought that cloak long ago, I should, though, saving your presence, Mr. Waters, I don’t think it is worth the price asked.”
“You’ll do,” said the manager, rubbing his hands, “if only you can forget that you are a lady, and have nous enough to flatter when you see that it is welcome, and that’s always where ladies and their clothes are concerned. What’s your name?”
“Haste: Joan Haste.”
“Very well, Miss Haste. Let’s see: to-day is Saturday, so you may as well begin on Monday. Hours nine to seven, dinner and tea provided, also black silk dress, that you put on when you come and take off when you leave. I should think that the last young lady’s would fit you pretty well with a little alteration, unless you like to buy one yourself at cost price.”
“Thank you, I think that I will buy one for myself.”
“Indeed! Well, so much the better for us. It is usual to ask for references as to character, and security, or a sum on deposit; but I understand that Mrs. Bird guarantees all that, so we will say no more about it. The wages will be eighteen shillings a week for the first six months, and after that a pound if we are satisfied with you. Do you agree to these terms?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then. Good morning.”
“There’s a smart girl,” reflected Mr. Waters to himself, “and a real beauty too. But she’s a fool for all that; she ought to go on the boards,—she’d have a future there. However, it’s her affair, not mine.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird to Joan, “you got through that capitally. At first I thought that he would never engage you, but he seemed to take quite a liking to you before the end. What do you think of him?”
“I think him odious,” said Joan.
“Odious, my dear! What a strong term! Free and easy, if you like, but not odious. He is much better than most of them, I can tell you.”
“Then the rest must be very bad indeed,” said Joan, and continued on her way in silence.