Chapter VI: Unsuccessful Effort

"A bitter and perplexed 'What shall I do?'
Is worse to man than worse necessity."
COLERIDGE.

AUDREY reached the station to find that there would not be a train back to London for another hour. She went into the small waiting-room, which was empty, then drawing a chair up to the table, rested her elbows upon it, and with her hands over her eyes, tried to steady her throbbing pulses and formulate in some way plans for her future. She did not know till now how much she had been building upon that disastrous letter. She had pictured returning to her home with employment of some sort in connection with her father's friend. His very personality, the extreme contrast he presented to what she had depicted him, was in itself a shock to her.

"Abide by his counsel," had been her father's advice to her. And she gave a short laugh in the bitterness of her heart at the absurdity of such a suggestion. No gentle dignitary of the Church with grey hairs, who would introduce her to a like-minded wife—a motherly, capable woman—ready to take a lonely girl into her home and heart. But a strong, able man in the prime of life—and an unmarried man—had stood before her. A man whom she earnestly and hotly prayed she might never set eyes on again.

"And now," she kept repeating to herself, "what am I to do? How shall I live? And how shall I have the courage to go back and tell them all that it was a mare's nest, and worse than that? How can I tell them the truth? I will die rather than do it. Why, in the folly of my heart, I thought my ideal clergyman and his wife would ask me to stay the night! And here I am, with no bed in prospect at all. It is certain I cannot reach home to-night!"

She sat and thought. A less strong-minded girl might have succumbed to her unfortunate circumstances. Not so Audrey. Now that her passion was burning itself out, the pressing need of employment of some sort for the future began to fill her brain.

"I 'must' earn money. I am in London, or will be very soon. Why should I go back, away from all the opportunities it may offer me? I won't do it. I have ten pounds in my pocket untouched. I will get some quiet lodgings, and hunt up some registries or employment bureaux, and I will—I must—find work."

Such a resolution fired her with hope and energy. When her train came in, she sat back in her third-class carriage, weaving all kinds of possible adventures, and buoying herself up with the certain prospect of success.

When Victoria was reached, she began to have qualms. She knew she could not afford to go to an hotel. She also knew that there were many pitfalls for ignorant country girls, and unknown lodging filled her with dread. Was it by chance that her eyes fell on a card headed "Travellers' Aid Society" hung up in the waiting-room in which she found herself? Audrey put it down afterwards to Pauline's earnest prayers for her that very evening.

She was not long in making her way to the address at the foot of the card, but found a very tired and uninterested woman in the office.

"Very sorry. We have a boarding-house in connection with the society, but it is full at this time. I can recommend you some respectable lodgings, I think. How long will you be in town?"

"Not long, I hope. I am looking for employment."

The woman gave a weary smile.

"It may be longer than you think. There—these rooms are over a greengrocer's, but we know the woman to be honest and industrious, and the street is a fairly quiet one. It turns out of King's Road, Chelsea. A 'bus will put you down at the corner."

Audrey thanked her gratefully and departed.

A little later, she was standing in a small dingy bed-sitting-room overlooking a paved yard and chimney-stacks, and a careworn, anxious little woman with one baby in her arms and another clinging to her skirt, was explaining her terms to her.

"My young ladies generally feed out, except what they buy and bring in themselves. I had a young lady who was a post office clerk for four months—very quiet and respectable she were. But she were very delicate—got a cold on her lungs, and died in Brompton 'Orspital two weeks ago come this Thursday. I only arsks five shillin's for the room, and it is nicely furnished, as you see."

"It will do very nicely," said Audrey cheerfully, "but couldn't you just this first night give me a cup of tea and cook me a chop? I will mind your babies up here while you do it. I'm strange to London. To-morrow, I shall learn its ways."

A faint smile flickered across Mrs. Dutton's face.

"Ah!" she said. "I see you're strange to town ways. You're so fresh and 'appy lookin'. I'll get you a bit o' supper. My man be in the shop now. Thank you kindly. I've only these two children as yet, but they be quite enough; the second one come so quick on top of the first."

Audrey took the baby, which was clean, though poorly clad. She smiled at herself as she lighted the one gas-jet the room contained, and wondered if she could rise to the expense of a fire.

She saw there was a grate, but no sign of coals or wood, and, sighing a little, she turned her attention to the two children, sat down on a low wooden chair, and took both of them in her lap.

When Mrs. Dutton reappeared, Audrey was softly singing to the two sleepy children:

"Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon.
Rest, rest on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon.
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon.
Sleep, my little one; sleep, my pretty one, sleep."

Mrs. Dutton put down her tray on the table very quietly, and when Audrey looked up at her, she saw tears in her eyes.

"Ah, miss, your voice do go right through me. We haven't no time for that sort o' thing here, but I dearly loves music—always did. To think of you a-sittin' there and rockin' my children to your breast, just as if you were a mother!"

"Ah, well," said Audrey, with a strange smile, "I'm trying to lull myself as well as them to sleep!"

She gave the babies back to their mother.

"I suppose I couldn't have a fire?" she asked doubtfully.

Mrs. Dutton looked surprised.

"My last young lady had an oil-stove; she never had naught but that all the winter through. She bought it herself, and her sister, what come when she died, took it off with her other things."

"Never mind; I'll have my supper and go to bed."

"The sheets be clean and nicely aired. I always keep the room ready. And you give me a call, if you want anything more." She left the room.

And Audrey gazed at her blackened, smoky chop and chipped crockery with disgust.

Then she shook herself.

"What with the dead young lady, and the oil-stove, and the extreme drabbiness and poverty of it all, I am getting quite depressed. How I shall laugh over my first night in London in a short time! Now I am hungry; I shall shut my eyes and eat every bit that she has brought me. And I'm thankful to be safely sheltered under an honest roof this night!"

But when her scanty meal was over, Audrey did not turn into her uninviting-looking bed. She sat huddled up at the table, her waterproof over her shoulders and her chin in her hands. Very slowly she was going back over every detail of her past day, dwelling with hot and crimson cheeks upon her short and passionate interview with Dr. Vernon, and upon every word that escaped his angry lips.

"He spoke to me abominably, as if I had come to request him to marry me! I shall never forgive him for humiliating me so—'never!' And father—poor father—how could he place me in such a disgraceful position! How could he calmly try to dispose of me like a bundle of goods! And sent me up all that way to be confronted with such rudeness! I feel I shall never get back my self-respect. Oh, I won't think of it. It makes me miserable! Let me turn my thoughts to what I must do with myself. I will not return home yet. I couldn't. Mr. Blunt and his curious sisters would soon get to the bottom of my story. I will die rather than let them know the contents of that letter. I could never hold up my head again if they got hold of the facts. I have enough money to last me several weeks, I am sure. By that time, I shall have found something to do. How often I have dreamed of such an opportunity as I have now! They say you sink or swim in London. I don't think I have it in me to sink very easily!"

With such thoughts as these, she whiled away another hour, and then turned into bed. For a very brief space of time, she bent her knees in prayer.

"Pauline felt so sure that I would be helped. I wonder if my experience would shake her faith? And yet nothing would do that, and so far I have certainly met with no disaster.

"'O God, I ask Thee to strengthen my faith in Thee, to trust Thee for my daily bread, and to give me the powers of mind and body to enable me to get it!'"

So Audrey prayed. As yet, God above was her Creator and Preserver—nothing more.

"It is a pity you are not a clergyman's daughter, miss."

"Why?" asked Audrey, amused.

She was having her first interview with the principal, of a large registry recommended to her by the Travellers' Aid Society.

"It seems to give you a position at once," said the disposer of her fate. "Nor an officer's daughter?"

"My father was a retired Indian civil servant," said Audrey. "What possible business is that of any employer? I don't care what I do, as I tell you, only I have not received a very good education."

"Ah, miss, that's the pity of it in these days. I will do what I can for you, but my books are very full of such young ladies as you, and unless you have a 'speciality' of some sort, it is difficult to get work. You can give good references, I presume?"

"Yes," said Audrey, a little doubtfully; "of course I shall be able to do that."

"Have you none with you?"

"Dear me, no."

Audrey's heart began to sink within her. Then she plucked up courage.

"Look here, Mrs. Hart, I should be a very good companion. I wouldn't mind teaching very small children. I have a smattering of Latin and French, and could manage music as well. I am a good needlewoman. I am a careful and economical housekeeper. Why, lots and lots of people would find me quite a treasure!"

She broke into a little laugh at the impressive stolidity of Mrs. Hart's expression.

"Will you call again? I will see what I can do for you?"

Audrey left the office with renewed hope. And then, yielding to the fascination of London, she spent the rest of the day in sight-seeing. But she managed to write to Pauline the following letter:

_"52 Nottingham Street,_
_Chelsea, S.W._

"MY DEAR PAULINE,

"Here I am, and this is my address for the present. I will let you know when my future plans are definitely settled. I had my interview yesterday with Dr. Vernon, but I would rather not tell you yet the exact result of it. I am very well, bubbling over with energy and with delight at being in the heart of this golden city! I am so glad I left our house in good order for the Maypoles to take it over, for there is no need for me to return yet awhile. You will hear from me before long. I have been to the Tower, to the British Museum, and to Westminster Abbey to-day, so I feel rather tired, but by no means satiated. I find the omnibus a very cheap means of getting about, but I also find that the pennies mount up, so I shall soon be content with my own legs. God bless you, Pauline. Remember me in your prayers, and tell Mr. Blunt everything is going well with me.

"Yours affectionately,

"AUDREY.

"P.S.—A breeze or two is sure to come to one walking westward, but she
has had no gale to beat her down as yet."

By the same post went a small note to Mr. Broughton:

"DEAR MR. BROUGHTON,

"I wonder if you would be so very kind as to write a little note, just as a reference for me to show to someone? Only to say that you know me to be respectable and so forth. It is a mere form, and I would ask you to treat this in confidence. I will soon let you know what I am doing.

"With kind regards,

"Yours very sincerely,

"AUDREY HUME."

She got the necessary reference by return of post, and a very affectionate letter from Pauline, which cheered and comforted her, for before many days had passed, Audrey was in need of cheer. The formula was the same wherever she went:

"We have nothing this morning for you. Will you call again?"

She began to haunt the registries: from a companion and governess she came down to mother's help, and eventually had an interview with a harassed little woman, the wife of a small tradesman, who nervously told the registry woman that Audrey was too grand in manner for her.

At last, after ten days of effort, Audrey began to grow rather desperate.

"Look here," she said to Mrs. Hart, going back to her, "I must get something to do. My money is dwindling away. There's a great dearth of servants; I'll go into service if you can get me nothing else."

"Lady servants are not much in demand," was the reply. "They don't seem to answer."

"Then leave out the 'lady,' and get me a place as house-parlourmaid somewhere."

Mrs. Hart smiled.

"You are like so many of them. They think they can dispense with the training of a lifetime, and know instinctively how to do things they have never practically put their hand to before. The general verdict of lady servants is that they have no order, or method, or punctuality, or knowledge of the small details of a servant's life."

"That may be the case with those who have lived a life of luxury," said Audrey, "but not with me, for I have done the work of a small house single-handed when we have been without a servant."

"Everyone will say that you are too grand for them," said Mrs. Hart, looking at her with disfavour. "Ladies in big houses would not take you; they prefer the experienced class. And you would not be appreciated by the small houses."

"Well, all this means that you can get me no work," said Audrey.

And Mrs. Hart replied reluctantly:

"I am afraid it will be difficult, but I will do my best."

Audrey went straight away, and bought some daily papers, which she took back to her dingy bedroom. Then she began to answer the various advertisements she thought might suit her. At first, she enclosed stamped envelopes, but experience soon taught her to dispense with those. After getting rid of nearly eight shillings' worth of stamps with no result, she sat down with wrinkled brow to consider her next step.

"It's perfectly ridiculous!" she said to herself, stamping up and down her room. "Someone must want me. I am healthy and able to work. I must find some thing somewhere. I will not give in."

Her little store of money was diminishing rapidly. She began to reduce her food, until her health began to suffer. Then the climax came one morning when she had her pocket picked in an omnibus and her purse, with four pounds in it, stolen from her.

"It is really like the story-books," she said, with a grim, set smile. "I shall now slowly starve, or creep back to my native village a mere bag of bones. Happy thought! I will go and see Honor. Why have I not thought of looking her up before? What a fool I have been! She might help me to get something, if I swear her to secrecy. I only hope she is still in town."

To think was to act with Audrey. She went straight off then and there to Berkeley Square, and was told that Honor was in, but engaged with Mrs. Montmorency.

"When can I see her?" demanded Audrey peremptorily.

The butler looked at her with impertinent curiosity.

"Miss Broughton is at liberty between six and seven. You can call then if you like."

"Take her my card, and say I will see her at six." Audrey strode down the steps with flaming cheeks. Then she laughed at herself.

"If I were in Honor's shoes how happy I should be! I should not mind a butler's insolent criticism. How I was hoping to get a nice cup of tea! I shan't do that now, and I really must do without it this afternoon. I will walk about in the Park, I think; only it makes one so hungry!"

She did not go far, for she found herself in a very busy street, and amused herself by watching the passers-by.

"How I envy the working-girl with her shabby gloves and untidy hair! I do not see any drone like myself; they are all in such a hurry. I wish I could be an errand boy. I wonder if any milliner would engage me to carry round her hat boxes? But I suppose the apprentices do it, or else these swell porters."

A sudden inspiration seized her to stop a young girl carrying a large parcel under her arm.

"Excuse me, but do tell me—are you in work—earning your living?"

The girl stopped, and glanced at Audrey a little contemptuously.

"Yes, I am," she snapped; "and sick enough I am of it."

"Do you mind telling me what it is?"

"I'm 'prenticed to a Court dressmaker. 'Tisn't often I get out. But as I'm the youngest hand, and shopping has to be done sometimes, it's generally me that does it. They all put on me. Are you out of a job? What's your line?"

"Oh," groaned Audrey, "I have none. I'm dying to work, and no one will engage me. How did you get apprenticed? I wonder if I could begin from the bottom? I'm a good needlewoman."

"Our firm is full up; my sister took me in. She's a skirt hand. No amatoor would do. You're a lady; I can tell that."

"I shall soon be starving," said Audrey, with her happy laugh.

The girl stared at her.

"I guess you won't be the first one who finds looking for work a hungry business. Go home to your friends, miss. You're doing no good to yourself or any one else here!"

"Thank you for such sage advice," said Audrey with a little nod.

But the girl's last words had a depressing effect.

"I'm not beaten yet, but I almost think I shall be," Audrey said to herself as she retraced her steps to Berkeley Square.

At six o'clock, she gained an entrance, and was shown into a small ante-room at the end of the hall. And then in another moment, Honor stood before her with a radiant face and outstretched hands.

"Oh, Audrey! How delicious to see you! I heard you were up in town, but no one gave me your address. Oh! You do bring a whiff of country air with you. Do give me the latest news of all at home!"

"I feel as if I have been away for twenty years," said Audrey, with a little laugh. Then, with a graver face, she added: "I have been in trouble, Honor, as you know, and have seen very little of any one lately. I have been entirely engrossed with my own affairs, and am so still. How are you? Happy?"

"Oh, no—no, indeed! I'm desperately homesick. Mrs. Montmorency is hard to please. I am really little more than a superior lady's maid. She goes out a great deal, but never takes me with her."

"Then you must have a lot of leisure time."

"No; I mend, and even make many of her clothes. I am sewing away at nightdresses now—most elaborate concerns. Oh, Audrey, you don't know what it is to see you. I could hug you. But have you been ill? You look so—so—"

"Hideous. Don't mind saying it. I am quite well. A little worried, that is all."

"What brings you to town? Are you staying for long? I must see you. I have oceans to talk about. Mrs. Montmorency is going out to lunch to-morrow. I wonder if she would let me ask you to lunch with me here?—Or we could go out together."

"Better have me here," suggested Audrey, who knew how ill she could afford a restaurant lunch.

"Wait a moment. I think I must venture to ask Mrs. Montmorency. She is resting in her room. I go to dress her at seven o'clock. She is going out to dinner. Why, Audrey, could you stay with me to-night?"

She ran out of the room. Audrey said, half aloud:

"She is waking up. I never saw her so animated. The idea of a thorough good dinner makes my mouth water. I only wish I could have it!"