Her mother's sisters had written after the funeral inviting her to come to them in England "while she looked about her." She could recall every sentence of that letter. It had burned. Each word, each comma was fresh before her eyes as the cab jolted on to Palace Gardens.

"It would have been our pleasure constantly to have entertained you during your mother's life-time," they had written, "but she wilfully flouted our desires at her marriage and thereafter utterly ignored us.

The fault for the rift between us was of her making, not ours; we sent her an Easter card one year, and had no reply; though we have no doubt that your father, not that we would say a word against him now, influenced her against her better judgment. However...."

She had written back a hysterical letter.

"Your letter came just after I had returned from burying my dear, dear father, who worshipped my darling mother. If I were begging in the street, starving, dying, I would not touch a crumb or a penny of yours. You are wicked--yes, you are wicked to write to me as you have written...."

VI.

She could not stay in Ireland. Her only friends there lived about the dear home that was now no longer a home but a "desirable residence with some acres of garden and paddock." Her only friends there were friends who had been shared with Mother and Dad--whose presence now would be constant reminder of that happy partic.i.p.ation now lost. One and all offered her hospitality, but she must refuse. "No, no silly idea of being a burden to you, dear, dear Mrs. Sullivan--only I can't, can't live anywhere near where we used to live."

Years before a great friend of hers had married an English clergyman; had written often to her from London of the numerous activities in which she was engaged--princ.i.p.al among them a kind of agency and home for gentlewomen. "Governesses, dear, and all that kind of thing ...

poor girls, many of them, who have suddenly had to earn a living."

The correspondence had died, as do so many, from the effects of undue urgency at the outset; but she had the address, and was certain there of welcome and of aid. "Poor girls who have suddenly had to earn a living." The words took on a new meaning: she was of these.

From Euston she drove to the address. Her friend had gone. Yes, the present occupant remembered the name. The present occupant had been there two years; had taken over the lease from the former tenant because the lady was ill and had been ordered abroad. That was all the present occupant knew; saw her to the door; closed it behind her.

Alone in London. "Alone in London"--it had been one of Dad's jokes; he had written a burlesque on it, and they had played it one Christmas to roars of fun. O G.o.d! what a thing at which to laugh now that the realisation struck and one stood on the pavement in the dark with this great city roaring at one!

Cabmen, she had heard, were brutes; but the man who had brought her to the house must be appealed to.... Where could she get the cheapest lodging of some kind?

How did he know? What was she wanting to pay? ...

The great city roared at her. Her head swum a little. An idler or two took up a grinning stand: the thing looked like a cab-fare dispute....

What was she wanting to pay? ... Well, as little as possible. "I have never been in London before, and I don't know anybody. My friend here has gone. I have just arrived from Ireland." She began to cry.

He from his box in a moment. "From Ireland!"

Why, he was from Ireland! ... Not likely she was from Connemara? ...

She was? ... From Kinsloe? ... Why, he knew it well; he was from Ballydag!

He rolled his tongue around other names of the district; she knew them all; could almost have laughed at the silly fellow's delight.

Why, the honour it would be if she would come and let his missus make her up a bed! "Don't ye cry, missie. Don't ye take on like that. It's all right ye are now." He put a huge, roughly great-coated arm about her--squeezed her, she believed; helped her into the cab.

VII.

Missus in the clean little rooms over the rattling mews was no less delighted. From Kinsloe? Why, missie saw that canary?--that was a present from Betty Murphy in Kinsloe, not three months before!

The canary, aroused by the attention paid it, trilled upward in a mounting ecstasy of shrillness that went up and up and up through her head ... louder and louder ... shriller and yet more shrill ... bird and cage became misty, swum around her.... Missus and Tim must have carried her to the bed in which she awoke.

VIII.

Friends in Ireland had given her the addresses of friends in London on whom she must call. She visited some houses; then in a sudden wild despair tore the list. Either these people were dense of comprehension or she clumsy of explanation. To make them realise her position she found impossible. They were warmly kind, sympathetic--cheery in that lugubrious fashion in which we are taught to be "bright" with the afflicted. But when she spoke of the necessity to find employment they would warmly cry, "Oh, but you must not think of that yet, Miss Humfray ... after all you have been through.... You must keep quiet for a little."

One and all gave her the same words. An impulse took her to kick over the tea-table--anything to arouse these people from their stereotyped mood of sympathy with a girl suddenly bereaved,--and to cry, "But don't you _understand_? I am living over a mews--over a _mews_ with twelve pounds and a few shillings, and then _nothing_--nothing at all."

Wise, perhaps, had she indulged the outburst without the action; wiser had she written to some of the friends in Ireland, asked to go back to one of them for a while. But the dull grief beneath which she still lay benumbed prevented her from other course than tonelessly accepting the proffered sympathy; and the thought of returning to Ireland was impossible. She tore the list of London friends; appealed to Tim and Missus.

Tim was helpful. He had taken fares to an Agency in Norfolk Street--an Agency for "Disturbed Gentlewomen," he called it; there took her one morning.

"Distressed Gentlewomen," she found the bra.s.s plate to read--"The Norfolk Street Agency for Distressed Gentlewomen."

A lymphatic-looking young woman, a.s.sisting the growth of a singularly stout face by sucking a sweet, and wearing brown holland sleeve protectors hooked up with enormous safety-pins, received her in the room marked "Enquiries"; put her into that labelled "Waiting." Here were two copies of the _Christian Herald_, some emigration pamphlets, a carafe of water covered by an inverted tumbler dusty with disuse, and three elderly females--presumably gentlewomen, possibly distressed, but not advertising either condition.

In due time her turn for the room marked "Private"; interrogation by Miss Ram, a short, thin lady in black, who bowed more frequently than she spoke, possessing a range of inclinations of the head each of which had unmistakable meaning.

Position sought?--Oh, anything; governess, companion. Last situation?

--None; she was inexperienced. Capabilities?--Equally lacking, as discovered by a probing cross-examination. Salary required?--Oh, anything; whatever was usual; a _home_--that was the chief object in view.

Miss Ram entered the details in a severe-looking book with a long thin pen--could hold out but faint hopes. The applicants whom she was accustomed to suit were "in nine and ninety cases out of one hundred cases" accomplished in the domestic or scholastic arts. However. Yes, Miss Humfray should call every morning. Better still, stay in the waiting-room. Be On the Spot--that was the first requisite for success, as Miss Humfray would find whether in a situation or awaiting a situation; be On the Spot.

IX.

On the Spot. A nightmare week in the dingy waiting-room ... thoughts probing the mind, stabbing the heart.... Nine till one, a cup of tea and a roll at an A.B.C. shop, an aimless walk in the park; two till six, good-night to the stout young woman named Miss Porter in "Enquiries," home to the rattling mews and to Missus.

On the Spot. Occasional interviews. "Miss Humfray, a lady will see you." ... "Oh, too young--far too young." ... "Thank you, that will do, Miss Humfray." ... "Oh, not my style at all." ... "Thank you, that will do, Miss Humfray."

On the Spot. Fortunately On the Spot one day--a Mrs. Eyton-Eyton, as nursery governess, Streatham.

For a week very much On the Spot with Mrs. Eyton-Eyton. Nursery governess was a comprehensive word in the Eyton-Eyton vocabulary; covered every duty that in a nursery must be performed. One must do the nursery fire, sweep the nursery floor, bring up and carry down the nursery meals--servants, you see, object to waiting upon one whom, as Mrs. Eyton-Eyton with a careless laugh pointed out, they regard as one of themselves. Quickly the lesson was appreciated that while a servant must never be "put upon," the same consideration need not be extended to a lady. Servants are rare in the market, young ladies cheap.

X.

The lesson of dependence, subserviency, Mary found harder in the learning; did not study it; therein reaped disaster.

She arrived on a Tuesday. Upon that day of the following week Mrs.

Eyton-Eyton paid to the nursery one of her rare visits, beautifully gowned, the hired victoria waiting to take her a round of calls.

Lunch, delayed not to disturb the midday sleep of Masters Thomas and Richard Eyton-Eyton, was not cleared--Master Thomas still struggling with a plate of sago pudding.

Betwixt her children Mrs. Eyton-Eyton--beautifully gowned, hired victoria in waiting--took her seat; Mary hovered behind--and catastrophe swooped. Master Thomas grabbed for a gla.s.s of milk; Mary strove to restrain him. There was an awkward struggle, her elbow--or his--caught the plate of pudding, tipped the sticky ma.s.s into the silken lap of Mrs. Eyton-Eyton, beautifully gowned, hired victoria in waiting.

Infuriated, Mrs. Eyton-Eyton turned upon Mary. "Oh, you little fool!"

The rebuke that should have been taken with downcast eyes, murmured apologies, was otherwise received.