All Roads Lead to Calvary Part 20

Joan found herself poking the fire. "Have you known Mary Stopperton long?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," answered the girl. "Ever since I've been on my own."

"Did you talk it over with her?" asked Joan.

"No," answered the girl. "I may have just told her. She isn't the sort that gives advice."

"I'm glad you didn't do it," said Joan: "that you put up a fight for all women."

The girl gave a short laugh. "Afraid I wasn't thinking much about that,"

she said.

"No," said Joan. "But perhaps that's the way the best fights are fought--without thinking."

Mary peeped round the door. She had been lucky enough to find the doctor in. She disappeared again, and they talked about themselves. The girl was a Miss Ensor. She lived by herself in a room in Lawrence Street.

"I'm not good at getting on with people," she explained.

Mary joined them, and went straight to Miss Ensor's bag and opened it.

She shook her head at the contents, which consisted of a small, flabby- looking meat pie in a tin dish, and two pale, flat mince tarts.

"It doesn't nourish you, dearie," complained Mary. "You could have bought yourself a nice bit of meat with the same money."

"And you would have had all the trouble of cooking it," answered the girl. "That only wants warming up."

"But I like cooking, you know, dearie," grumbled Mary. "There's no interest in warming things up."

The girl laughed. "You don't have to go far for your fun," she said.

"I'll bring a sole next time; and you shall do it _au gratin_."

Mary put the indigestible-looking pasties into the oven, and almost banged the door. Miss Ensor proceeded to lay the table. "How many, do you think?" she asked. Mary was doubtful. She hoped that, it being Christmas Day, they would have somewhere better to go.

"I pa.s.sed old 'Bubble and Squeak,' just now, spouting away to three men and a dog outside the World's End. I expect he'll turn up," thought Miss Ensor. She laid for four, leaving s.p.a.ce for more if need be. "I call it the 'Cadger's Arms,'" she explained, turning to Joan. "We bring our own victuals, and Mary cooks them for us and waits on us; and the more of us the merrier. You look forward to your Sunday evening parties, don't you?" she asked of Mary.

Mary laughed. She was busy in a corner with basins and a saucepan. "Of course I do, dearie," she answered. "I've always been fond of company."

There came another opening of the door. A little hairy man entered. He wore spectacles and was dressed in black. He carried a paper parcel which he laid upon the table. He looked a little doubtful at Joan. Mary introduced them. His name was Julius Simson. He shook hands as if under protest.

"As friends of Mary Stopperton," he said, "we meet on neutral ground. But in all matters of moment I expect we are as far asunder as the poles. I stand for the People."

"We ought to be comrades," answered Joan, with a smile. "I, too, am trying to help the People."

"You and your cla.s.s," said Mr. Simson, "are friends enough to the People, so long as they remember that they are the People, and keep their proper place--at the bottom. I am for putting the People at the top."

"Then they will be the Upper Cla.s.ses," suggested Joan. "And I may still have to go on fighting for the rights of the lower orders."

"In this world," explained Mr. Simson, "someone has got to be Master. The only question is who."

Mary had unwrapped the paper parcel. It contained half a sheep's head.

"How would you like it done?" she whispered.

Mr. Simson considered. There came a softer look into his eyes. "How did you do it last time?" he asked. "It came up brown, I remember, with thick gravy."

"Braised," suggested Mary.

"That's the word," agreed Mr. Simson. "Braised." He watched while Mary took things needful from the cupboard, and commenced to peel an onion.

"That's the sort that makes me despair of the People," said Mr. Simson.

Joan could not be sure whether he was addressing her individually or imaginary thousands. "Likes working for nothing. Thinks she was born to be everybody's servant." He seated himself beside Miss Ensor on the antiquated sofa. It gave a complaining groan but held out.

"Did you have a good house?" the girl asked him. "Saw you from the distance, waving your arms about. Hadn't time to stop."

"Not many," admitted Mr. Simson. "A Christma.s.sy lot. You know. Sort of crowd that interrupts you and tries to be funny. Dead to their own interests. It's slow work."

"Why do you do it?" asked Miss Ensor.

"d.a.m.ned if I know," answered Mr. Simson, with a burst of candour. "Can't help it, I suppose. Lost me job again."

"The old story?" suggested Miss Ensor.

"The old story," sighed Mr. Simson. "One of the customers happened to be pa.s.sing last Wednesday when I was speaking on the Embankment. Heard my opinion of the middle cla.s.ses?"

"Well, you can't expect 'em to like it, can you?" submitted Miss Ensor.

"No," admitted Mr. Simson with generosity. "It's only natural. It's a fight to the finish between me and the Bourgeois. I cover them with ridicule and contempt and they hit back at me in the only way they know."

"Take care they don't get the best of you," Miss Ensor advised him.

"Oh, I'm not afraid," he answered. "I'll get another place all right: give me time. The only thing I'm worried about is my young woman."

"Doesn't agree with you?" inquired Miss Ensor.

"Oh, it isn't that," he answered. "But she's frightened. You know. Says life with me is going to be a bit too uncertain for her. Perhaps she's right."

"Oh, why don't you chuck it," advised Miss Ensor, "give the Bourgeois a rest."

Mr. Simson shook his head. "Somebody's got to tackle them," he said.

"Tell them the truth about themselves, to their faces."

"Yes, but it needn't be you," suggested Miss Ensor.

Mary was leaning over the table. Miss Ensor's four-penny veal and ham pie was ready. Mary arranged it in front of her. "Eat it while it's hot, dearie," she counselled. "It won't be so indigestible."

Miss Ensor turned to her. "Oh, you talk to him," she urged. "Here, he's lost his job again, and is losing his girl: all because of his silly politics. Tell him he's got to have sense and stop it."

Mary seemed troubled. Evidently, as Miss Ensor had stated, advice was not her line. "Perhaps he's got to do it, dearie," she suggested.

"What do you mean by got to do it?" exclaimed Miss Ensor. "Who's making him do it, except himself?"