CHAPTER II
For about six months after Nancy's promise to her mother that she wouldnot even try to write during the working hours, life went fairlyprosperously with the widowed boarding-house keeper. Then a spell of badluck set in. Several boarders left and were not replaced. Their bestpaying permanent boarder--a rich old gentleman, the head of a largebusiness in the city--died suddenly, died without a will, although hehad several times spoken of his intention of leaving Mrs. Macdonald ahandsome legacy; and his next-of-kin did not seem to think it necessaryto do more than pay the actual expenses which their relative hadincurred. Twice they had visitors who left without paying their bills;and, as a last crowning act of ill-luck, the youngest child fell sick,and the doctor pronounced the illness to be scarlet fever.
"When troubles come, they come not single spies, But in battalions";
and that is as true to-day as when Shakespeare penned the lines morethan three hundred years ago.
Mrs. Macdonald was almost beside herself. She ceased to gird at anymember of the family or household; she girded at Fate instead, morning,noon, and night. She discussed the situation in a frenzied manner, withtears in her eyes and a large amount of gesticulation, which would haveformed an excellent object-lesson to a student for the stage; but, atthe same time, it must be owned that raving appeals to the Almighty,passionate assertions that she was the most unlucky woman that the lightof day had ever shone upon, bitter forebodings of what her daily lifewould be like when she was safely landed in the nearest workhouse, didnot avail anything. No, the Macdonald family was in for a spell of badluck, and all the asseverations in the world would not alter it orgainsay it.
At this time Nancy was like a rock in the midst of a stormy sea. She,after much self-communing, threw over her promise to her motherconcerning the time of her writing. She felt, as every true artistfeels, that it was in her to do great things; and that even a littlemoney earned in such a crisis would be of double value. So every momentthat she could steal from the now greatly decreased house duties shespent in her own room, working with feverish haste and anxiety at a newstory, a story which was not about lords and ladies, or majesticguardsmen, or lovely heroines in costly Parisian dresses; no, she felt,all in a moment, the utter futility of trying to draw a phase of lifewith which she herself was not familiar. It seemed to come to her likea flash of light that her children of pen and ink were not real; thatshe was fighting the air; that she was like an artist drawing without amodel. Like a living human voice a warning came into her mind, "Writewhat you know; write what you see; before all things be animpressionist." So her new child was slowly coming to life, a childborn in poverty and reared in a boarding-house. The form of the childwas crude, and was the work of an unpractised hand; but it was strong.It was full of life; it was a thing alive; and as line after line camefrom under her hand, as the story assumed shape and colour from underher nervous fingers, Nancy Macdonald felt that she was on the right tackat last, that this time she would not fail.
As soon as her story was done, she sent it with breathless hope to awell-known weekly magazine which is almost a household word, and thenshe sat down to wait. Oh! but it is weary waiting under suchcircumstances. After three days of sickening suspense, Nancy decided inher own mind that if she had to wait as many weeks she would be ravingmad at the end of them. So she locked herself in her room and begananother story, the story of a love affair which came about in just sucha house as their own.
Meantime, it can scarcely be said that the Macdonald fortunes improved.It is true that the fever-stricken child recovered, and was sent away toa superior convalescent home at the seaside. It is true that one or twofresh boarders came, and that there were hopes that the family would beable to weather the storm, supposing, that is, that they were able totide over the next few months. Still, in London, it is not easy to tideover a few months when your resources have been drained, and your incomehas been sorely diminished. There were bills for this and that, claimsfor that and the other, and these came in with great rapidity and withpressing demands for payment.
Mrs. Macdonald pitied herself more than ever; her tones, as she recalledthe virtues of her past life, were more tragic; her debit and creditaccount with the Almighty she showed to be clearly falsified. Never wasso good a woman so abominably used of Providence and humanity alike.She wept copiously over her deservings, and railed furiously against herfate. Poor Mrs. Macdonald! For many a weary year she had toiled to thebest of her ability, and she had done her duty by her children accordingto her lights, which were pitiably dim, "The Lord must indeed love me,"she remarked, with bitterest irony, one day, when a mysterious visitorhad put a gruesome paper into her unwilling hands.
"It is but the beginning of the end, Nancy," she said resignedly, "thebeginning of the end. I haven't a sovereign in the house, and how I amto pay nine pounds seventeen and fourpence is beyond me altogether. Itwon't last long; we shall have the roof of the workhouse over our headssoon. We can't go on like this. Where's the money to come from?"
And that, of course, Nancy knew no more than her mother.
"Could not we sell something?" she said, looking round their shabbylittle sitting-room, where all that was worst in the house was gatheredtogether because it was only used by themselves. "Couldn't we sellsomething?"
"I might sell my cameo brooch," said Mrs. Macdonald, with a huge sigh."It was the last present your poor father ever gave me."
"And I don't suppose it would fetch anything like nine pounds seventeenand fourpence," said Nancy doubtfully.
"Your father paid a great deal for it," returned Mrs. Macdonald, "butwhen one has to sell, it's different to buying. One gives one's thingsaway."
As a matter of fact, the late Mr. Macdonald had given fifty shillingsfor the cameo brooch in question, having bought it in a pawnshop in theStrand; but neither Mrs. Macdonald nor Nancy were aware of that fact.
"Dear Mother," said Nancy, "I would not worry. You have still afortnight before you need settle it one way or the other. A great manythings may turn up in a fortnight."
"Not a ten pound note," said Mrs. Macdonald, with an air of conviction.
"You don't know, Mother. Look how many things have turned up when weleast expected them, and money has come that seemed to have dropped fromthe clouds. At all events, I would not break down over it until thevery last day comes; I would not indeed, Mother."
"Ah, perhaps you would not," said the mother, "I should not have done sowhen I was your age. When you are mine, you will understand me better."
"Yes, dear, perhaps I shall; but you know, even if the worsthappens--oh, but we shall manage somehow, depend upon it, we shallmanage somehow."
But Nancy's youthful philosophy did not tend to check the flow of Mrs.Macdonald's troubled spirit. A whole week went by, which she passedchiefly in tears, and in drawing gloomy pictures of the details of thelife which would soon, soon be hers. "I shall have to wear a pokebonnet and a shawl," she remarked, in a doleful tone one day, "and Inever could bear a shawl, even when they were in fashion--horrid coldthings." At meals, of course, poor lady, she had to keep a cheerfulcountenance, so that her guests should not suspect how badly things weregoing with them; but Nancy noticed that she ate very little, and likemost young people, her chief idea for a panacea for all woes took theform of food. In Mrs. Macdonald's case, it took the form of fresh teaand hot buttered toast; and, really, I would be sorry to say how muchtea was used in that household during those few days, by way ofbolstering its mistress's strength and spirits against what might happenin the immediate future.
The fortnight of grace soon passed away, and with every day Mrs.Macdonald's spirits sank lower and lower. She looked old and aged andworn; and Nancy's heart ached when she realised that there was noprospect of anything turning up, and apparently no chance of the dangerwhich threatened them being averted. What money had come in had mostlybeen imperatively required to meet daily expenses. It seemedpreposterous that people with a large hou
se as they had should be insuch straits for so small a sum; and yet, if they began selling theirbelongings, which, with the exception of the cameo brooch and Mrs.Macdonald's keeper ring, almost entirely consisted of furniture, sheknew that it would be impossible to replace them, or even to dispose ofthem without the knowledge of their guests. She hardly liked to suggestit to her mother, and yet she felt that when the last day came, shewould have no other course open to her.
It was the evening before the last day of grace, and still the needfulsum had not been set aside. Twice during the day Mrs. Macdonald hadsubsided in tears and wretchedness into the old armchair by their littlesitting-room fire, while Nancy had brought her fresh fragrant tea and alittle covered plate of hot buttered toast, and had delicately urged herto decide between selling the precious brooch and appealing to one orother of the boarders for an advance payment.
"I will just wait till the morning," she said to herself, as she camedown from the drawing-room after dispensing the after-dinner coffees.
"Nancy! Nancy!" cried her younger sister Edith, at that moment. "Whereare you?"
"I am here, dear," Nancy replied. "What is the matter?"
The child, for Edith was only some thirteen or fourteen years old, camerunning up the stairs two steps at a time.
"Here's a letter for you, Nancy," she said eagerly.
"A letter?" cried Nancy, her mind flying at once to her story.
"Yes, it's got a Queen's head on it or something. Here it is."
The two girls reached the large and dimly-lighted entrance-halltogether, one from upstairs and one from down.
"Give it to me," said Nancy, breathlessly.
She felt that it was a letter about her story. The very fact that it hadcome without an accompanying roll of manuscript gave her hope. She toreopen the envelope with trembling fingers, and by the light of the singleflickering gas-lamp, read its contents.
"The Editor of the _Family Beacon_ presents his compliments to MissMacdonald, and will be pleased to accept her story, 'Out of Gloom intothe Sun,' for the sum of fifteen guineas, for which a cheque will besent immediately on receipt of her reply."
For a few moments the poor painted hall, with its gaunt umbrella standand cold black and white marble floor, seemed to be rocking up and down,and spinning round and round. The revulsion of feeling was so intensethat the girl staggered up against the wall, fighting hard with herpalpitating heart.
"Oh, Nancy, what is it?" cried Edith, staring in a fright at hersister's chalk-white face. "Is it bad news?"
"Oh, no, GOOD news; the best news. Where's Mother? I----" she couldnot speak, she simply could not finish the sentence. Her trembling lipsrefused to perform their office. In her shaking hands she stillclutched the precious letter, and gathering her wits together, sheturned and literally tore down the stairs to the basement.
"Mother! Mother! Where are you?" she cried.
"What is it?" cried Mrs. Macdonald, who, poor soul, was ready for alland every evil that could fall upon her.
For a moment Nancy tried to control herself sufficiently to speak, butthe revulsion of feeling was too great. Twice she opened her mouth, butno words would come. Then she dropped all of a heap at her mother'sfeet, and hiding her head upon her knee, she burst into a passion oftears.
Then she dropped all of a heap at her mother's feet, andhiding her head upon her knee, she burst into a passion of tears.]
In spite of her acidity, and her disputes with Providence and things ingeneral, Mrs. Macdonald still retained some of her mother's instinct.She drew the girl's head to her breast, and held her there tightly, witha tragic at-least-we-will-all-die-together air that was utterlypathetic. She had no words of consolation for what she believed wassome new and terrible trouble come upon them. Then, as Nancy stillsobbed on, she drew the letter from her unresisting fingers, masteredits contents, and sat like a woman turned to stone.
"I am afraid," she said, after a long silence, "that I have been verycruel to you, Nancy. I have called your scribbling, rubbish; I havescolded you; I have been very hard on you; and instead of my beingpunished for my blindness, it is _your_ work which has come to save mefrom the end which I so dreaded. But I shall never forgive myself."
But Nancy, the storm over, brushed the tears away from her eyes, and satback, resting her elbow upon her mother's knee.
"Oh, it is very silly of me to go on like this," half laughing, and halfinclined to weep yet more. "I have been so worried you know, Mother.It's really stupid of me; but you mustn't blame yourself now that goodluck has come to us, must you? You did what you thought was right, andyou had a right to speak; and, after all, I _did_ leave everything toyou--everything, and I might have wasted all my time. You were quiteright, Mother."
"What was that line Willie was writing in his copybook last week?" saidMrs. Macdonald, holding the girl's hand fast, and looking, oh, so unlikeher usual self--"Torches were made to burn; jewels to wear."
Butler & Turner. The Selwood Printing Works. Frome, and London.
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