Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

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 tête-à-tête 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 the 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, if 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 of 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 don’t get off thim

steps I’ll come and put you off. I’m caretaker here, and I’ll show

you.”

 

“Oh! what can 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 made 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 luggage 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 to London before, and do