CHAPTER III.

_A WOMAN FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD._

How tedious, false, and cold seem all things! I Have met with much injustice in this world.

Choking back the tears that seemed as if they _would_ well forth from a fountain that had long been sealed, Margaret Grey turned from her companions of an hour to go home. To a very desolate home in truth. Walled in and bricked out from the fair sights and sounds of Nature, even the sunbeams as they touched it seemed only to reveal its dinginess.

But four walls cannot make a home, any more than a casket can enrich its jewelled contents. The most desolate exterior may be endeared by what it holds. It might be so with Margaret's home, yet no light came into her pale face as she caught sight of her dwelling. For a moment she even hesitated--it seemed bitter to meet its dull blankness--only a moment; then with a half smile at her own weakness she walked languidly up a few dirty steps and rang the bell.

It was answered by a servant in keeping with the steps, and passing her by, Margaret went into her rooms. They consisted of a bed- and sitting-room, separated by folding doors. The sitting-room was very much what the exterior of the house had promised--very dull, very shabby. A cracked mirror was over the chimney-piece, its frame carefully veiled by yellow muslin that had lost its primal brightness. A chandelier in the centre of the room was also enveloped with the same dingy covering. A few shells and gay china ornaments were scattered about on unsteady stands. On a table beside the window was a group of dusty-looking paper flowers.

Tea was laid, the one cup and saucer telling their pathetic tale of a lonely life. Margaret had left her lodgings that morning, desperate with the feeling that either her eyes and her senses must have some relief or her mind must give way. When she returned and looked round her once more, she began to fear that her experiment had been worse than useless. The force of contrast had increased the bitterness of her lot.

She sank wearily into a stiff pretence of an arm-chair, and began again thinking out the problem that beauty and dreariness alike presented to her mind--the uncertain future. And then came over her like a flood the vision of days and years without hope, without joy. Burying her face in her hands, she gave way for a few moments to unrestrained weeping. It was an unwonted exercise, for Margaret was brave, and none of the last and deepest bitterness, that of remorse, cast its shadow on her retrospect of the past. Thoughtless she might have been, sinning she was not: of this thing the secret court of her inner consciousness, so pitiless to the true offender, had freely acquitted her.

It would be a long story to tell what it was that overcame Margaret Grey till she sobbed out her sadness alone in the stillness of the May evening. Partly, perhaps, the squalor of her present surroundings, for the beautiful face and form encased a soul attuned to highest harmonies; partly the sweet womanly sympathy, which she had looked upon only and then put resolutely away from her; partly the daily pinpricks of disappointment and repulse that she had encountered in prosecuting the business which had led her to London. For, like a multitude of helpless women, Margaret was on the look-out for employment.

She had one little girl, a child about six years of age. With such a sweet tie children-lovers might wonder at her utter desolation. Strange to say, this tie, so sweet to many, was to her more of a care than a pleasure. The future of her little one weighed heavily on her mind.

In the lonely seaside village where she had left her it would be scarcely possible to educate her to fill the position that might be hers in the future. Margaret's scanty means did not allow her to think of a residence in town, or of the expenses of a school education for her daughter, unless, indeed, she could earn the necessary money.

Hence her visit to London. She had been well educated herself; of course her first thought was that by educating others she could pay for the education of her child. If she had loved her little one very much, perhaps she would have judged differently. She might have thought it better to make a home for her child in any spot, however lonely, feeling that the lack of some accomplishment would be well compensated by the refining influence of a mother's constant love and care.

But Margaret did _not_ love her child so deeply as to find her presence a sweet necessity. There was a cloud over her motherhood, which robbed it of some of its fair charm. Duty to her child, not pleasure in her, was her one idea of the tie that alone, at this period of her history, bound her to life. It was _this_ made her anxiety that, whatever her own lot might be, Laura should have every advantage in the way of education and training. And with the anxiety came the need for exertion. Up to the moment when the child's growth and development made the mother think of that bugbear of mothers--her education--Margaret had not been troubled with any money difficulties. She had lived in her retirement, the one trouble of her life wrapping her in its gloomy folds, but with no care for the provision of herself and her child in the future. Suddenly, inexplicably, one source of income had failed. Margaret had not been accustomed to trouble herself about money: the sufficient came to her--that was all she required to know--and this poverty was a new and dreadful thing which she found it very difficult to realize.

She tried to fathom the mystery, but it eluded her; only this remained as a hard fact: eighty pounds a year was all she received or seemed likely to receive, and Laura had to be educated.

The spirit of self-sacrifice is strong in some women; it was very strong in Margaret. She had loved her solitude by the great sea, and had succeeded in making it almost pleasant. There she pondered and wept and hoped; there, if anywhere, she thought that her trial must end. She would not enter the great world, to be swamped and lost in its multitude. Hiding her loss where none could know and none would blame, she would live in the midst of a savage loneliness which seemed almost sympathetic to her mood.

This suited her, but would it do for Laura? Was she a fit companion for her child, already dreamy and imaginative beyond her years? No, Margaret told herself; and, leaving the little one in the care of the woman from whom she hired their little cottage, she went to London alone, to try and find some occupation for herself.

She had been directed to Islington as a cheap neighborhood; and there she had stayed in a wretched lodging-house for about three weeks--three ages to poor Margaret, filled with dismal memories of humiliation and disappointment. She was reviewing it all that evening--the rudeness, the repulses, the cruel cross-examinations; for with these came the fresher scenes which that day had brought--the chivalrous admiration that had shone out of Arthur's young eyes, the gentle, womanly tenderness of Adele.

Employers--so it seemed to poor Margaret; they were a very new class to her--were cast in a different mould. It was their duty to ask disagreeable questions and to probe unhealed wounds; it was their duty to be stiff and cross, and not at all impressed with the outward advantages which Margaret knew she possessed. It seemed very hopeless, but she felt it necessary to persevere, at least for a little while longer. The thought aroused her. She raised her head, and became suddenly conscious of the fact of hunger. She had not eaten a morsel since breakfast. No wonder, she thought, that faintness had overpowered her. So she went into her bedroom and washed away the traces of tears, that the dirty maid-of-all-work might not read her weakness, then rang the bell to order an egg or something a little more substantial than usual for her tea.

The girl came in, holding out a card that had not been improved, in point of coloring, by its transit through her fingers. She informed Margaret that a lady had left it half an hour ago with a message.

The message, not very lucidly delivered, was to the effect that the lady whose name appeared in minute letters on the card would, in all probability, call again in the course of the evening.

Poor Margaret! she looked at the card. "Mrs. Augustus Brown." It had not a very encouraging sound, but it might mean business, and business meant provision for Laura's needs. But the thought of the impending interview had robbed her of all appetite; so, after hastily swallowing a cup of tea with a dry biscuit, she again rang the bell, had the tea-apparatus cleared away, and then sat by the window trying to read.

The apparition of a yellow chariot which seemed to fill the narrow street interrupted her, and before many minutes a thundering rap at the door made her aware of the fact that the dreaded visitor was at hand. Margaret's cheek burned. For one moment she longed desperately for a refuge where she could hide her head from these intrusions, then she remembered that she had invited them, and strove to brace her nerves to endurance. When, therefore, the door was thrown open to its fullest extent by the servant, who, never having seen so grand a person in her life as Mrs. Augustus Brown, thought it necessary to give her plenty of room, Margaret was herself again--the heightened color the struggle had called forth alone testifying to her recent emotion.

Mrs. Augustus Brown was a little round individual, almost as broad as she was long, decked out in flounces and laces and ribbons: it was one of the chief trials of her life that none of these things made her look important. Mrs. Augustus Brown was governess-hunting, for she possessed no less than seven small likenesses of herself, who began to be unruly, and to require, as she would have expressed it, a stricter hand over them.

And this governess-hunting was by no means an uncongenial occupation to Mrs. Brown. It could not but be pleasing, especially as the yellow chariot and its attendant luxuries were of comparatively recent origin, to dash up to registry-offices and through quiet streets, and to watch the effect produced on the untutored minds of inferior persons by her brilliant _tout ensemble_. But as yet she had not suited herself. In a governess, as she said, "tong" was essential; _her_ children would have to be brought up suitably, that they might adorn the position Providence had evidently prepared for them, and "tong" seemed to be a rare article in the market of female labor.

On the previous day Mrs. Augustus had dilated very largely upon this point at a registry-office. She had been directed, in consequence, to Mrs. Grey--a prize, as she was assured, in point of appearance and manner. Curiosity was strong in Mrs. Brown. Certain allusions and hints about Mrs. Grey's antecedents attracted her, and she lost no time in looking her up; hence the apparition of the yellow chariot.

But Mrs. Augustus Brown has been left in the doorway to introduce herself to Mrs. Grey. As she entered Margaret rose, with the true instinct of a lady, and went forward to meet her, with a bow to which her visitor did not deign to respond.

Mrs. Augustus Brown flattered herself that she had tact enough to put people in their own places and keep them there--a notable piece of wisdom, truly; the only difficulty being as to certain doubts about what is the "own place." Were those rightly solved, perhaps a few fine ladies would be slightly astonished by finding a level at some unexpected layer of the social crust.

It was not Mrs. Brown's way to trouble herself with doubts. She waddled across the room with great satisfaction to herself, but in a manner that to the uninitiated could hardly have been called dignified, sank down on a chair which directly faced Margaret, and began divesting herself quietly of some of her wraps.

Never to appear too eager with any of these people was, in the code of Mrs. Augustus, an essential point in their management. When this business had been performed, and she had settled herself as comfortably as might be in a not very luxurious arm-chair, Mrs. Brown felt for a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses, adjusted them and looked Margaret over from head to foot. "Bless me, how handsome!" was her mental ejaculation: "my word for it, _she's_ no good."

It was not wonderful that this coarse mind found it difficult to understand the strange anomaly, for Margaret was one of those rarely beautiful beings who seem only made for the tenderest handling. Her face might have been a poet's ideal, for the traces of suffering and conflict it only too plainly revealed had removed it far from the meaningless glory of mere form and coloring; and yet she was too young perhaps for these to have bereft her of any charm; they rather endowed her pale fair beauty with a certain refinement, an appealing pathos, which spoke powerfully to the imagination.

She possessed a form, too, whose every line was perfect, well developed, yet fragile--womanly, yet full of grace. And the deep crimson which Mrs. Brown's studied rudeness had called to her face heightened the effect of her beauty.

She sat before her visitor, her eyes cast down, her hands crossed in her lap, like a fair Greek slave in the barbarian's market-place, waiting for the decree of fate.

It was a relief when Mrs. Augustus Brown began to give her attention to the ponderous carriage-bag in her hand. Some of its fastenings, being the latest patents and the height of convenience, were difficult to manage.

"Your name," she said, hunting for a letter--"ah, here it is!--_Mrs._ Grey."

Margaret bowed, shivering slightly. That fatal emphasis. This was the way in which the inquisitions generally began.

Mrs. Augustus here coughed slightly, and looked over her gold-rimmed spectacles in a way intended to be severe. Alas! how we deceive ourselves! The look was only comic. "A married woman, I presume?"

Margaret bowed again.

Here Mrs. Brown consulted a set of ivory tablets: "With one little girl, I am told, and small income, anxious to make enough for her education. Is this correct?"

"Perfectly so, madam."

"A very laudable object: then, Mrs. Grey, you are, I presume, a widow?"

There was a moment's hesitation. Margaret pressed her hand to her side as if she were in pain, and Mrs. Augustus eyed her suspiciously: "My question, Mrs. Grey, is a simple one."

"And my answer, madam, can be equally simple. I am _not_ a widow."

"_Not_ a widow!" Mrs. Brown drew back her chair and took another long look--one that expressed incredulous horror. "Not a widow! And pray, Mrs. Grey, where is your husband?"

In spite of herself, Margaret smiled feebly, but the smile was a nervous one. She looked up and shook her head: "I am sorry to say, madam, that I cannot tell."

"Then," and Mrs. Brown again receded, as if to put as much space as possible between herself and this naughty person--"then, Mrs. Grey, you are separated from your husband?"

"I am."

The answer was spoken in a low, clear voice, very calmly, but with a certain intonation of sadness that would have struck upon a more sensitive ear. To Mrs. Augustus Brown this very quietness of demeanor was in the highest degree brazen. She fluttered her fan, drew herself up to her full height, and looked virtuous as a Roman matron (in her own opinion, be it said parenthetically).

"You seem strangely forgetful, Mrs. Grey, of the importance of the position which you seek to fill in my household. With the utmost coolness you describe yourself as a woman living separated from her husband. Goodness knows why. For all I can tell, you may have done something very wrong." Here Mrs. Brown coughed and hid an imaginary blush behind her fan. "And yet," she continued, when the blush had been given time to fade, "you wish to take the entire charge of little innocents, the eldest of whom is only ten, and seven of them. I had my children so quick." Here Mrs. Brown lost her thread. To mothers of large families these reminiscences are always bewildering.

Margaret's eyes were looking very weary; she filled up the pause: "Perhaps it would be better then to inquire no farther. From what you say I fear that I shall scarcely suit you." She rose as she spoke.

Mrs. Brown did not take the hint; she remained where she was, rooted to the place by sheer astonishment. For a young woman to make so light of such a position as that of governess in _her_ family was an unheard-of thing. But Mrs. Grey rose in her estimation from that moment. Then she was curious. "Sit down again, my dear," she said in a manner that was intended to be gracious. "Mrs. Townley spoke highly of you, and you certainly _look_ a respectable person. I'm not one always to blame my own sex. I believe in these affairs the men are very often in fault. You may not be aware that Mr. Augustus Brown and myself consider salary no object, and masters for every branch. Rudiments and style, Mrs. Grey, and of course character with children, you understand. If it were as my confidential maid, now, I might not be so particular; but, unfortunately, the young person I have I brought from Paris, and can't get rid of her under three months. Not half so handy as I was given to understand."

She fluttered her fan again, and waited for an answer. Margaret hesitated. Had she consulted her own inclinations she would have refused decidedly to have anything further to do with this vulgar woman. Already she felt by anticipation what the yoke of servitude in such a house as hers would be; but Laura--the high salary. The servitude, though bitter, might be shortened. It ended in a compromise. "Will you be kind enough to allow me a day or two's delay?" she asked. "I have friends who will certainly not refuse to give me the necessary references; but I have not seen many of them for some time, and they do not know of my present position."

Mrs. Augustus Brown got up, her dignity gone for the time in her anxiety to make this striking-looking person one of her household.

"Yes, yes," she said, "that's the best plan; I'm sick of looking up governesses--one more pasty-looking and unstylish than the other--and I fancy you'll suit. Let me hear soon, for the children get more headstrong every day. I'm too gentle with them. And then so much in society. Why, we have three engagements of an evening sometimes, turning night into day, _I_ say. And the servants can no more manage them than fly. I shall lose my health, as I tell Mr. Brown, if I'm referred to every hour of the day by servants and children. Too great a strain, Mrs. Grey. Well, good-bye, my dear."

She waddled off to the yellow chariot, and Margaret was left alone--headstrong children, references, explanations, pictures and unexpected kindness making one great riot in her brain. She went to bed early that night, and the events of the day grouped themselves together into fantastic dreams.

In the brain of Mrs. Augustus Brown one thought was pre-eminent; it haunted her among the cream-colored cushions of the yellow chariot, was present in the drawing-room, slightly interfering with her mild contemplation of the sleeping face of a sandy-haired individual on the sofa; it followed her even to the marital couch, mingling with her dreams.

"She's mighty handsome: I hope to goodness Brown won't fall in love with her."

Brown was calmly unconscious of this want of conjugal trust. Had he known to what it bore reference, he might have been slightly excited, for Mr. Augustus, though his hair was sandy and his nose a decided snub, was an admirer of female beauty, and considered himself highly irresistible. Mrs. Brown was totally unaware of this fact.

"After years of life together" they were, on this point at least, "strangers yet."

Sentimental young ladies, who croon over these pathetic words, thinking perhaps, with an approach to soft melancholy, of the desolation reserved for themselves in the future, when, their finest feelings unappreciated, they must shut themselves up in mystery, might learn a lesson from Mr. and Mrs. Augustus.

To be "strangers yet" on some points with that nearest and dearest, the unappreciative husband of the future, may possibly be conducive to harmony rather than desolation.