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LIFE

THE INTERPRETER

PHYLLIS BOTTOME

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LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK LONDON AND BOMBAY

Copyright, 1902,

BY

LONGMANS, GREEN & CO,

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Chapter I

^^To have what we want is riches; but to be able to do without it is power/'

‘‘But the extraordinary thing is that it has happened!” The lady who seemed a victim of this surprise lay back in her luxurious chair and exhibited a small foot on the fender.

“Black velvet slippers,” said her companion critically, “on a brass fender are really, my dear, a poem. Where do you learn these things? Poor Muriel, her feet were always rather large!”

“She had everything in her favor,” said Mrs. le Mentier, the first speaker. “ Money, position, a face and figure one could do a good deal with. She was simply ruined by 1 her earnestness. I have often said to her, ‘Well, Muriel, why don’t you take up the Church? But she never did; she said it was too comfortable and that it would crush her. I ’m sure she’s not too comfortable now!”

Mrs. Huntly rose and went to the window. It was raining dismally, with a constant reiterated drip, drip on the tiles. She turned back, shivering a little, to the cosey boudoir of her friend with whom she had just been lunching.

“I often wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “if it wasn’t Jack Hurstly after all. You know I had them last summer with me; and though poor Muriel always managed things

very well, there were times And then

he went off suddenly, you know; and she said she couldn’t imagine what I could see in him, though I know for certain she bore with that brutal bull-terrier of his, and pretended to like it, while all the time she loathed animals — dogs especially.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. le Mentier; “and she’s really dropped out — one can’t do anything! All the time when she isn’t actually at that tiresome Stepney club of hers she’s contriving things for it — positively it amounts to a terror! She asked me last week to sing at a smoking concert for some factory hands. I told her I thought smoking concerts for those kind of people were simply immoral, and she actually flamed up and cried, ‘You sing for Captain Hurstly and his do-nothing friends, who can afford to amuse themselves, and you won’t sing for men whose daily life is a hell, and whose only amusements are unspeakably degrading!’ Of course I stopped her at once. I told her she should give them Bible lessons. She saw how silly she had been then, and laughed in that dear old way of hers, and said, ‘You always had such a lot of common sense, Edith! But you see she must be dropped. She’ll begin to talk about her soul next!” Her friend yawned.

“Well, my dear,” she said, “don’t you get earnest too. That wretched Madame Veune is coming to fit me at three o’clock, so I must be off. Oh, by-the-bye, if Muriel should turn up to-morrow you might ask her to come and see me — I don’t know her slum address — one must do what one can, you know. Good-bye, dear.” And the two affectionately kissed and parted.

Mrs. Huntly frowned as she drove home. Muriel Dallerton had been an old friend of hers, and she really meant to do what she could for her.

Chapter II

^^The sky is not less blue because the blind man cannot see it”

Muriel Dallerton knelt on the floor of a small lodging-house room by the fire. It was with evident difficulty that she could make it burn at all, for the soot kept rolling down and the chimney threatened to smoke. She had not yet accustomed herself to black hands every time she touched the shovel.

The worst of it was she expected her uncle and guardian to tea, and she had to confess to herself that the prospect was not pleasing.

She had lived with her uncle ever since she had been an orphan at six years of age, and she had been sent to an expensive boarding-school and been finished in Paris. After three triumphant London seasons, every moment of which she had lived through with the same earnest delight that 5 was one of her most striking characteristics, she had come to the conclusion that in some way or other she was wasting her life.

She had for a whole year tried every way of doing good that was compatible with a house full of servants, a stable full of horses, and a social position. But at every turn she met with opposition — this, that, the other was “not nice” — not “the proper thing” — the horses couldn’t go out — what would the servants think — she was upsetting the whole house — people would begin to talk. She confessed herself lamentably deficient in the sense of what was the proper thing, and on her own side she felt she could no longer bear the strain of the double life.

She was needed all day at the club. She had organized games, classes, recitations, employments and entertainments for men, women and children, and all needed her personal supervision.

It was not that she was not fond of pleasure — she had immense capacities for enjo5anent. She was known by all her acquaintances as that “radiant Miss Dallerton” — only to live for pleasure that was different, and little by little she found herself “dropped out.”

Society is very exacting: it demands the whole heart and constant attendance at its haunts, so that when Muriel Dallerton finally announced her intention of going to live in a model tenement next to her club society was careful to make plain to her that reluctantly, and with all due respect for her ten thousand a year, until she returned to her senses and her west-end house, society must pass her by on the other side. Her uncle. Sir Arthur Dallerton, felt deeply what was generally termed her “extraordinary attitude” — it cast a reflection upon him. He missed her gracious household ways, the little attentions with which she had surrounded him. He had, it is true, neglected her atrociously; but up till now she had always, as he framed it, “done her duty by him.” Her living away from him was a positive slur.

Sir Arthur Dallerton was coming this afternoon to shake her resolution, and he had no doubt whatever of his success.

Muriel tussled with the fire, which finally consented to burn, then she rose to her feet, brought out some tea-things, and began to toast a muffin.

A bunch of daffodils in a cracked vase did much to improve the appearance of the room; a touch here and there finished it; and she had scarcely taken off her outdoor things and washed her hands (very unused to the work they had been put to) when a dismal slavey announced, “A genelman to see yer, miss,” and backed almost on to the gentleman in question, who with an exclamation of disgust pushed past her into the room.

“My dear Muriel,” he said, “this is disgraceful!” He paused as she ran forward to meet and relieve him of his hat and umbrella. She looked up at him, her face beaming with smiles.

“Dear,” she laughed, “did the blackbeetle quite crush you? How horrid! But now you’ll sit down here and have some tea. You needn’t insult that chair by doubting it. It will bear anything I know — I saw the landlady sit on it, and nothing happened!”

Her uncle sat down gingerly. “Were those people,” he said coldly, “down in what I can only call a yard — a yard, Muriel! — the people you imagine you have a mission amongst? ”

Muriel poured out the tea. “They look as if they needed it, don’t they, dear ? ” she said, handing him a cup. “There, you’ve got a whole handle, and only two chips round the rim! Yes, those were some of my people. I hope they weren’t in your way? ”

“They are extremely in my way, Muriel — extremely; I may say I am greatly inconvenienced by them. I suppose you realize that I am alone in the world; and yet you seem to imagine that your duty is to be among these unpleasant characters in filthy slums instead of at home looking after my comfort.”

Muriel smiled a little to herself as she thought of the array of servants the great house held, of the friends and cronies at the club, where he spent the greater part of his time. “His comfort!” — surely there were enough people in the world already looking after that.

“Uncle Arthur,” she said, “we’ve talked all this out before, haven’t we? We don’t see it quite in the same light. I am very sorry you are not comfortable. If the servants ”

“Muriel,” he interrupted in a raised voice, “how dare you mention servants to me! Do you imagine that when I refer to comfort I mean personal attendance? You have never had any heart ! Mine has always been an essentially affectionate nature. It is domestic companionship that I desire; and now that you are of an age to be of some comfort to me, you fly off to — Heaven knows where! — and throw me back on the servants!”

Muriel sighed gently and laid her hand on his. “ Dear uncle, you have always been so good to me. But you see you weren’t always at home, and a girl nowadays isn’t satisfied simply in being domestic.”

“I should scarcely have imagined you, my niece Muriel, accusing me of neglect! You invariably lose your temper upon these subjects, which proves that you feel yourself to be in the wrong. Y ou know perfectly well that you can have any woman you want to live with you as lady companion, but you’re so independent and obstinate ’’

MFE, THE INTERPRETER

“That no one would live with me if you asked them/’ she finished merrily. “Ah! — but please don’t talk about this any more/’ she pleaded as he strove to begin again. “We shall never agree! I must have my work to do. I cannot be happy without it, and I cannot do it at home. But I only ask for nine months of it. It is April now, and in July you shall have me back for three whole months, and do just what you like, dear. Isn’t that a splendid bargain? ”

The tea was very nice, and the buttered muffins especially were done to a turn.

Sir Arthur Dallerton crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair (forgetful of its former occupant). “My dear,” he said mildly, “what will people say? Have you ever thought of that? ”

“Yes, dear uncle,” said Muriel, smiling; “I have thought of it, and I have come to the conclusion that I had better not think about it any more. Won’t you have some more muffin? ”

Sir Arthur Dallerton graciously accepted another piece. It did not occur to him that Muriel had eaten nothing — those sort of things never did occur to him. If it had done so he would have put it down to hysteria — the one great refuge for the selfish.

“Mrs. le Mentier/’ he pursued, “who is a very sensible woman, told me what people were saying, and I think you ought to know of it too.”

Muriel rose and looked out of the window. It was still raining heavily.

“Well?” she said a little wearily.

“They say this is a mere whim of yours to bring Jack Hurstly to book.”

The girl by the window stood quite still. She did not see the children in the yard below playing cheerfully in the gutter; she did not even notice one of her most hopeful cases reel across the court in a condition which would have filled her soul with pity and disgust two minutes before. Her uncle thought her cold and indifferent, or possibly sullen.

“Yes!” he said bitterly, “that is the sort of thing, Muriel, that your conduct forces me to put up with.” Muriel faced him suddenly.

“Mrs. le Mentier,” she said quietly, “is ” she paused, “is very much mistaken if she thinks such absurd rumors have power to affect me; and I do not think you need be put out by what she says, for nobody who knows either Captain Hurstly or myself would believe her.” Her uncle rose to his feet.

“You seem to be in a very bad temper, Muriel,” he said. “ I knew what would be the result of your taking up this work. But it’s very depressing to me. I shall go home — when you come to a proper frame of mind, let me know.” She ran forward and kissed him.

“But you do love me, don’t you?” she whispered.

“Of course, Muriel, if you would only give up yoiir absurd whim.” She drew back a little.

“Mind the stairs,” she laughed; “and oh, whatever you do, don’t tread on the blackbeetle.” She watched him cross the yard, and bowl off in a hansom. Somehow she felt very forlorn and lonely all by herself. She was startled to feel a tear-drop on her hand. “Nonsense!” she said; “it’s time for the girls’ cooking class ! ” She gave herself a little shake and put on her things.

She found herself saying as she left the room, ‘‘If Jack thinks so I’ll never, never speak to him again.” She was a little impatient at the cooking class.

ii

Chapter III

'^And custom lies upon thee with a weight: heavy as frost, and deep almost as life/^

“You are quite right in thinking I care for her, Mrs. Huntly, and have done ever since I knew her,” said Jack Hurstly, looking hard at an inoffensive poker. '‘But there’s no doing anything with her. I am not earnest enough, it seems. She objects to my club, my sport, and all my set. I believe she even objects to my regiment. At any rate she thinks I am wasting my time here in England, and ought to be sweating in some beastly tropics — Heaven knows why!”

"So you ought. Jack, so you ought,” said Mrs. Huntly soothingly. "Muriel is quite right. It’s positively shameful the lives our society young men lead. A horse, a gun, a club and a dress-suit, what a catalogue of occupations ! Can you increase it? ”

"Oh, well,” said her companion rather 15 sheepishly, “I’m no worse than the other fellows, am I, Mrs. Huntly? ”

“My dear Jack, she’s not going to marry the ‘other fellows,’ is she? You had better leave them out of the question; and if your ambition is to be no worse than they are you had better dispense with Muriel. Go off and hunt somewhere, and then come back and marry a girl of your own sort.”

The door opened. “Miss Dallerton” the butler announced. Muriel came forward into the middle of the room. There was such a warm, gracious dignity about her that people who had little to recommend them but the external felt thin in her presence. Mrs. Huntly greeted her warmly. Jack said very little, but as his eyes rested on her Mrs. Huntly thought that the hunting expedition, if it ever came off, must be a long one.

“I’m so glad, so glad to see you both,” cried Muriel joyously, “particularly as you are neither of you going to ask me for soup tickets ! Dearest Mary, are you really well? And what a comfort it is to see a pretty dress! And won’t you please both tell me all about everybody, and who has married who, though they ought to have done better? I feel so ignorant.” She sat down by Mary Huntly, caressing her hand, and looking with glad eyes from one to the other like a child out for a holiday.

‘‘Oh, my dear girl,” cried Mrs. Huntly mournfully, “to think that you are out of it all! It almost breaks my heart!”

“Mary, how dare you! I came to be pacified, and if I’m reproached I shall simply turn tail and run away! You don’t reproach me, do you. Captain Hurstly?”

“ Perhaps I should like to, if you gave me time,” he said, smiling.

“Oh, but I won’t, not for any such purpose — you shan’t have a moment of it. But who is this?” A young girl had entered the room; she was dangerously pretty (it is the only adjective one can use), and she was perfectly self-possessed. Mrs. Huntly introduced her to them. She was a young cousin of hers, Gladys Travers.

Imperceptibly the atmosphere changed. Mrs. Huntly and Muriel drew apart from the other two, and Muriel could not help noticing how perfectly satisfied Captain Hurstly seemed with his companion, and how well they got on together.

When she rose to go Gladys crossed over to her. “May I come to see you, Miss Dallerton?” she asked. “I want so much to know about your work, and I — I like you so much ! Don’t think me frightful. I have lived in the States, you know, and people say all Americans are forgiven everything! I do really want so much to know you.” She spoke in quick, low tones, the expression changing as the shadows on a pool change under a light wind. She was very appealing.

“ Oh, but it’s dear of you to like me,” said Muriel, smiling. “Please come really, will you? You will always find me somewhere about the club — Mary has the address.” She turned to Captain Hurstly.

“I am coming with you, if I may,” he said. The two descended to the street in silence.

“You’re looking awfully dragged and thin. Miss Muriel,” he said at last.

“You always were so hopelessly rude,’’ she laughed.

“ You know what I think about the whole thing? ” he said gravely.

“Ah, it’s that which makes me tired!” she sighed. “All my friends say just the same. They won’t think how — how hard they make it for me — no — not even you.”

“Even me?” he asked quietly. She bit her lips; she was losing her head it seemed; she must not do that.

“I take the ’bus at this corner,” she said.

“I think we’ll go by hansom,” said her escort. She smiled.

“You always will contradict me. Captain Hurstly.”

“You will not contradict me if I remind you that you used to call me — Jack?” he ventured.

The hansom drove up, and Muriel put out her hand to him. She unmistakably intended to go alone, even though she had let him choose her vehicle.

“I may come and see you?” he asked. She frowned a little.

“I’m very busy, you know,” she said.

“ Does that mean I’m not to come? ”

“You might come,” she suggested suddenly, ‘'and bring Mary’s little cousin; she can’t come alone.”

“ I can though,” he persisted. She shook her head and laughed merrily.

“Mary’s little cousin,” she said as she, drove off, “or not at all!” And he never went.

CHAPTER IV '^What^s the use of cry in’, when the mother that bore ye

(Mary, pity women!) knew it all afore ye?”

The club room, large and bare, with a bench or two and one long table, was full of girls, though at first glance you might not have been inclined to call them so. They were all so inexpressibly old. As they stood talking in groups, large and broad, with their frowsy hair and draggle-tailed dresses, lifting loud, rough voices and breaking from time to time into hoarse roars of laughter, they could scarcely be called prepossessing. These were the girls who had warned a simple-minded lady Bible-reader that “if she didn’t tyke ’erself orf they’d strip her” — and they would have done it.

As Muriel Dallerton entered the room the whole gang swarmed towards her in greeting. They loved her. “She ’adn’t got no nonsense about ’er,” “She was a real good sort, and no mistake,” and they 21 showed their appreciation of her by rushing from their ten hours’ work into the club and paying with treasured pennies the tiny entrance fees she exacted for the classes.

To-day was cooking class, and from a great cupboard were drawn two dozen aprons, which they themselves had helped to buy and make,

Muriel knew just what wages they had, and never denied them the dignity of giving a little, if they had that little to give.

Two long hours’ class followed. To the girls who were accustomed to factory work it was mere play, and the plaesure and excitement of seeing how Mary Ann’s scones or Minnie Newlove’s pie turned out was inexhaustible.

It was not until it was over and the cooking boards and utensils put away that Muriel missed one of the number, Lizzie Belk was a girl who attended most regularly, and Muriel walked over to her mate to inquire after her.

‘‘Mary Ann, where is Lizzie this afternoon?” she asked. There was a titter of laughter from the group of girls with her.

‘‘Ye will! will ye!” shrieked Mary Ann in a sudden fury. “ Idl bash yer ’ead in for ye, Florrie Stevens!” she cried to a girl whose laughter was the loudest. “What right ’ave ye to pass it on my mate? I’ll tell ye, miss.” She appealed to Muriel. “Florrie’s none so straight as she can blacken poor Liz.” Muriel leaned against the table, feeling sick.

“Hush, Mary, you must not talk like that,” she said at last. “What is the matter with Lizzie?” There was an uneasy silence. “The rest of you can go,” said Muriel. “ Good-night, girls, go out quietly, please.” And the girls nodding to her in rough good-nature went out leaving her alone with Lizzie’s mate.

Muriel crossed to her side and took her hand gently. “Poor Lizzie!” she said softly. “Poor, poor Lizzie!” Mary burst into tears.

“ ’E ’adn’t ought to er done it, miss, ’e really ’adn’t!” she sobbed. “She was alwers a straight ’un, was Liz, an’ ’e promised ’er the lines an’ all, an’ now ”

“Where is she, Mary?” said Muriel quietly.

“She ain’t got nowheres to go to ’cept the ’orspital. They turned ’er off to-day at the factory; an’ ’er father’s beat ’er somethink hawful, miss, the blasted, drunken sot!” Muriel still held her hand.

“ I think we had better go and find her,” she said.

“Ye won’t ’ave nought to do with the likes o’ ’er, will ye? ” asked the girl in blank astonishment.

“Yes, Mary; don’t you think Lizzie needs help?”

“She needs it bad, miss.”

“Then that’s what we’re going to give her,” said Muriel firmly. Mary still stood where she was.

“Ye — ye won’t be rough on her, miss?” she begged in shamefaced tones. “ ’E treated ’er cruel bad.”

“ No, Mary, I won’t be rough on her. I’m not angry at all, only so ver^, very sorry. It’s such a dreadful thing, isn’t it? Poor Lizzie, we must do all we can for her.” Mary’s big hand tightened over the slender fingers of their “wonderful lady,” who seemed to understand without being told, and never said more than she meant to do.

They went out into the streets together.

Lizzie was not hard to find. She was in a deserted yard near the factory, among heaps of refuse and mouldered iron. She had cried till she could cry no more, and lay in a sort of hopeless apathy, with wide, dull eyes staring straight in front of her. Muriel knelt down by her side, and Mary, with the unobtrusive delicacy many of the poorest have, turned away for a little.

“ Lizzie,” said Muriel, as if she were speaking to a little child, ‘‘ Lizzie, I want you to come with me.”

‘‘ Oh, my God ! ” said the girl. “ Oh, my God!”

“You will come, won’t you, Lizzie? ” She put out her hand.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” wailed the girl. “Who brought ye ’ere? Ye don’t know what I am. Oh, my God! my God!”

“I know all about it, Lizzie, and you must get up now and come with me.”

“They shan’t tyke me to the ’orspital, I tell yer — no, nor hanywheres. ’Ome? I daren’t show my fice there! D’ye see my harm an’ my ’ead? Father did that, an’ ’e said ’e’d kill me if I was to come back! Oh, let me alone ! Why don’t ye let me alone? ”

‘'Get up, Lizzie,” said Muriel, rising briskly to her feet. “Get up at once. I am not going to take you either home or to the hospital. You are coming back with Mary and me to the club, and I shall find a room for you in my lodgings.”

“Oh, now, Liz, do come, lovey, do come!” Mary urged. Lizzie rose dizzily to her feet, and between the two they got her back somehow — first to the club, and when they had fed her they took her to a room next MurieFs.

The landlady did not say much. “If the young lydy choose to look hafter the likes o’ ’er, well an’ good, if not she could not stiy, of course.” But the young lady did choose to look after her, and to pay double for the room as well, so there was no more to be said.

It was a terrible night. Muriel never forgot it. She sat there holding the girl’s hand and hearing the whole story — the old, old story, told in all its crude, black reality between gasping sobs.

“ ’E said as ’ow I should ’ave my lines,” she groaned; “an’ now ’e says we’d starve. But I shouldn’t care for that, miss — no.

I shouldn’t, if honly they couldn’t call

“No, dear, no! they shan’t call you that,” Muriel murmured. “What is his name, Lizzie?”

“Oh, ’e ’adn’t er ought to a treated me so — Gawd knows ’ow I loves ’im! No! — I can’t tell ye ’is name, dear miss — don’t hask it ! ”

“But you must tell me, Lizzie.”

“Not if I was to die for it, miss!”

“If you tell me I can help you, Lizzie, perhaps to — to get your lines.”

“Oh, miss, ’e’d never forgive me!”

“Then I can do nothing, Lizzie.”

The girl sobbed afresh. Muriel rose and went to the window. Out of the dark clouds the stars peeped timorously, as if afraid to look down on the sad, sordid world beneath. A church clock chimed the hour — twelve o’clock — and from the publichouse across the way a burst of brawling voices broke. It was illegal she thought to close so late.

The candle on the washstand flickered miserably. She went back to the bedside, and with careful, tender hands put back the heavy hair and sponged away the tears.

“Lizzie/’ she said, and it seemed to her as if the whole of London stood still to listen, “there is some one I love with all my heart — I — I think I could forgive him anything.” She drew in her breath with a long gasp. “Now — won’t you tell me his name, Lizzie?” she pleaded. The two women looked at each other. The girl raised herself on her elbow and stared as if she were weighing the soul of the other woman (she had forgotten she was a lady). At last she sank back satisfied. “ If she had a man,” Lizzie thought, “she might understand.”

“It’s — it’s Hobbs — Dick Hobbs,” she said. “Ye won’t be ’ard on ’im, miss. They can’t ’elp it, can they? Not as I knows on — an’ hanyway ’twere all my fault, I think.”

“ I — I won’t be hard on him, Lizzie.” The tears were rolling down her cheeks. “And now I’ll put out this light, and you’ll go to sleep, won’t you? And to-morrow I’ll see Dick and get a license, and — and everything. ”

LIFE, THE INTERPEETER 29

‘‘Oh, miss!” cried the girl — “not my lines? ”

“Yes, Lizzie ! If you’re a good girl and go to sleep you shall have your lines to show.” Muriel left her. When she came back a few minutes later she found the exhausted girl fast asleep; her face was red and swollen still with crying, but there was a happy smile on her lips. She was only seventeen.

“And there are thousands like this — thousands,” thought Muriel. “God forgive us our blindness and their pain.”

Suddenly she felt very faint and dizzy. She remembered she had had nothing to eat since her tea with Mary Huntly. She covered her face with her hands, for she realized more overwhelmingly than ever that she could never marry Jack Hurstly. But though she had cried for the other girl, no tears came now.

Chapter V

God, I would not live, save that I think this gross; hard-seeming world

Is our misshapen vision of the Powers behind the world that make our griefs our gains/^