All Roads Lead to Calvary Part 19

She walked with him to Euston and saw him into the train. He had given up his lodgings and was living with her father at The Pines. They were busy on a plan for securing the co-operation of the workmen, and she promised to run down and hear all about it. She would not change her mind about Birmingham, but sent everyone her love.

She wished she had gone when it came to Christmas Day. This feeling of loneliness was growing upon her. The Phillips had gone up north; and the Greysons to some relations of theirs: swell country people in Hampshire.

Flossie was on a sea voyage with Sam and his mother, and even Madge had been struck homesick. It happened to be a Sunday, too, of all days in the week, and London in a drizzling rain was just about the limit. She worked till late in the afternoon, but, sitting down to her solitary cup of tea, she felt she wanted to howl. From the bas.e.m.e.nt came faint sounds of laughter. Her landlord and lady were entertaining guests. If they had not been, she would have found some excuse for running down and talking to them, if only for a few minutes.

Suddenly the vision of old Chelsea Church rose up before her with its little motherly old pew-opener. She had so often been meaning to go and see her again, but something had always interfered. She hunted through her drawers and found a comparatively sober-coloured shawl, and tucked it under her cloak. The service was just commencing when she reached the church. Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently remembered her. "I want to see you afterwards," she whispered; and Mary Stopperton had smiled and nodded. The service, with its need for being continually upon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it. And the sermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxford drawl, was uninteresting. She had half hoped that the wheezy old clergyman, who had preached about Calvary on the evening she had first visited the church, would be there again. She wondered what had become of him, and if it were really a fact that she had known him when she was a child, or only her fancy. It was strange how vividly her memory of him seemed to pervade the little church. She had the feeling he was watching her from the shadows. She waited for Mary in the vestibule, and gave her the shawl, making her swear on the big key of the church door that she would wear it herself and not give it away. The little old pew-opener's pink and white face flushed with delight as she took it, and the thin, work-worn hands fingered it admiringly. "But I may lend it?" she pleaded.

They turned up Church Street. Joan confided to Mary what a rotten Christmas she had had, all by herself, without a soul to speak to except her landlady, who had brought her meals and had been in such haste to get away.

"I don't know what made me think of you," she said. "I'm so glad I did."

She gave the little old lady a hug. Mary laughed. "Where are you going now, dearie?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't mind so much now," answered Joan. "Now that I've seen a friendly face, I shall go home and go to bed early."

They walked a little way in silence. Mary slipped her hand into Joan's.

"You wouldn't care to come home and have a bit of supper with me, would you, dearie?" she asked.

"Oh, may I?" answered Joan.

Mary's hand gave Joan's a little squeeze. "You won't mind if anybody drops in?" she said. "They do sometimes of a Sunday evening."

"You don't mean a party?" asked Joan.

"No, dear," answered Mary. "It's only one or two who have nowhere else to go."

Joan laughed. She thought she would be a fit candidate.

"You see, it makes company for me," explained Mary.

Mary lived in a tiny house behind a strip of garden. It stood in a narrow side street between two public-houses, and was covered with ivy.

It had two windows above and a window and a door below. The upstairs rooms belonged to the churchwardens and were used as a storehouse for old parish registers, deemed of little value. Mary Stopperton and her bedridden husband lived in the two rooms below. Mary unlocked the door, and Joan pa.s.sed in and waited. Mary lit a candle that was standing on a bracket and turned to lead the way.

"Shall I shut the door?" suggested Joan.

Mary blushed like a child that has been found out just as it was hoping that it had not been noticed.

"It doesn't matter, dearie," she explained. "They know, if they find it open, that I'm in."

The little room looked very cosy when Mary had made up the fire and lighted the lamp. She seated Joan in the worn horsehair easy-chair; out of which one had to be careful one did not slip on to the floor; and spread her handsome shawl over the back of the dilapidated sofa.

"You won't mind my running away for a minute," she said. "I shall only be in the next room."

Through the thin part.i.tion, Joan heard a constant shrill, complaining voice. At times, it rose into an angry growl. Mary looked in at the door.

"I'm just running round to the doctor's," she whispered. "His medicine hasn't come. I shan't be long."

Joan offered to go in and sit with the invalid. But Mary feared the exertion of talking might be too much for him. "He gets so excited," she explained. She slipped out noiselessly.

It seemed, in spite of its open door, a very silent little house behind its strip of garden. Joan had the feeling that it was listening.

Suddenly she heard a light step in the pa.s.sage, and the room door opened.

A girl entered. She was wearing a large black hat and a black boa round her neck. Between them her face shone unnaturally white. She carried a small cloth bag. She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about to retreat.

"Oh, please don't go," cried Joan. "Mrs. Stopperton has just gone round to the doctor's. She won't be long. I'm a friend of hers."

The girl took stock of her and, apparently rea.s.sured, closed the door behind her.

"What's he like to-night?" she asked, with a jerk of her head in the direction of the next room. She placed her bag carefully upon the sofa, and examined the new shawl as she did so.

"Well, I gather he's a little fretful," answered Joan with a smile.

"That's a bad sign," said the girl. "Means he's feeling better." She seated herself on the sofa and fingered the shawl. "Did you give it her?" she asked.

"Yes," admitted Joan. "I rather fancied her in it."

"She'll only p.a.w.n it," said the girl, "to buy him grapes and port wine."

"I felt a bit afraid of her," laughed Joan, "so I made her promise not to part with it. Is he really very ill, her husband?"

"Oh, yes, there's no make-believe this time," answered the girl. "A bad thing for her if he wasn't."

"Oh, it's only what's known all over the neighbourhood," continued the girl. "She's had a pretty rough time with him. Twice I've found her getting ready to go to sleep for the night by sitting on the bare floor with her back against the wall. Had sold every stick in the place and gone off. But she'd always some excuse for him. It was sure to be half her fault and the other half he couldn't help. Now she's got her 'reward' according to her own account. Heard he was dying in a doss-house, and must fetch him home and nurse him back to life. Seems he's getting fonder of her every day. Now that he can't do anything else."

"It doesn't seem to depress her spirits," mused Joan.

"Oh, she! She's all right," agreed the girl. "Having the time of her life: someone to look after for twenty-four hours a day that can't help themselves."

She examined Joan awhile in silence. "Are you on the stage?" she asked.

"No," answered Joan. "But my mother was. Are you?"

"Thought you looked a bit like it," said the girl. "I'm in the chorus.

It's better than being in service or in a shop: that's all you can say for it."

"But you'll get out of that," suggested Joan. "You've got the actress face."

The girl flushed with pleasure. It was a striking face, with intelligent eyes and a mobile, sensitive mouth. "Oh, yes," she said, "I could act all right. I feel it. But you don't get out of the chorus. Except at a price."

Joan looked at her. "I thought that sort of thing was dying out," she said.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Not in my shop," she answered.

"Anyhow, it was the only chance I ever had. Wish sometimes I'd taken it.

It was quite a good part."

"They must have felt sure you could act," said Joan. "Next time it will be a clean offer."

The girl shook her head. "There's no next time," she said; "once you're put down as one of the stand-offs. Plenty of others to take your place."

"Oh, I don't blame them," she added. "It isn't a thing to be dismissed with a toss of your head. I thought it all out. Don't know now what decided me. Something inside me, I suppose."