Bone Street/Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A NEW INTEREST
Jack and Ernest stayed behind a few minutes after the others, while Ernest marked up their various cues, and when they took their departure about five minutes later they were practically the last to leave the theatre, and were proceeding home when suddenly a woman’s scream sounded in the still morning air.
“What’s that?” said Jack, “sounds like a woman in trouble,” and they set off up Canning Lane in the direction of the cry.
A short distance up they saw in the light of an open doorway the figure of a woman struggling with a man, the latter evidently trying to force her inside. She saw the two men coming, and so did her assailant, for leaving the girl he made for the door, slamming it to after him. They turned to the girl to find that it was no other than Miss Hinton, the dark girl Jack had noticed at rehearsals.
“Oh, Mr. Bradley,” she said. “That horrid man,” and she burst into tears.
Ernest and Jack stood uncomfortably by until she had regained her composure.
“Tell us all about it,” Jack said.
“Oh,” replied the girl, “that man lives here. When I told my landlady to-day that I should probably be late home he volunteered to stay up, so that she could go to bed. I refused to speak to him, but——”
Her story was interrupted by the opening of the door, and the landlady stood before them, a frowsy, unkempt creature who had evidently just risen from her bed.
“Come to bed,” she said sneeringly, “you’ve made a lot out of nothing. You’re too stuck up, miss, altogether. Come on, I’m not going to stand here all night.”
The girl clung to Jack’s arm, terrified.
“No,” she said, “I can’t sleep in your house again after that man’s behaviour.”
“Well, get out then,” said the other, and she slammed the door.
“Now,” said Ernest, “what are we going to do?”
“Oh,” said the girl, “I’ll do anything before going to that house again, it was horrible.”
“I know what,” said Jack, “we’ll try Marthalice for the night, that is if Miss Hinton won’t object to putting up with working folk.”
“Oh, I’ll go anywhere,” said the girl, and it was obvious to both the young men that she was on the verge of breaking down. So with a cheery “right-o,” they took an arm each, and escorted the girl to Bone Street.
Marthalice and her family were all settled down in bed comfortably for the night, but a discreet knock at the door and some dirt thrown at the bedroom window brought a reply immediately. Shortly afterwards Marthalice unlocked the door, and opening it a few inches asked :
“Who’s that ?”
“It’s me,” said Jack.
“Why, whativver’s up, lad, coming at this time o’ neet ? Why,” she continued, “there’s a lass with thi.” She opened the door wider, revealing herself arrayed in a skirt, and shawl over her shoulders. “Come in, all on yer, it’s cowd aht theer.”
They entered the house, the old lady looking at them questioningly, while Jack explained.
“Miss Hinton is in our company, and after we’d finished rehearsal and were walking home, we heard a scream, and found her struggling with a man at the door of her lodgings. She daren’t go there again, so I brought her here, to see if she could stop with you for the night.”
Marthalice looked from Jack to the girl, and after the old blue eyes had looked into the young brown ones for a moment, the look relaxed, and with a hurried “Wait a minnit, we’ll hev some tea,” she lit the gasring, and put the pan on. Motherly, she drew the girl to her, saying, “Come on, bairn, tell me all about it.”
The girl choked a few minutes, and then managed to say brokenly : “Oh, I can’t go there again, please let me stay.” She looked at Marthalice pleadingly.
“Of course, tha’ll stay,” was the reply. “See you, lads, away home wi ye. Leave this lass wi me, she’ll be all reight.”
A request from Marthalice was really a command, so they took their departure, accompanied with a grateful look from a pair of moist brown eyes. The command was obeyed, with “Good night, Marthalice,” although it was really early morning.
It was a tired Jack who arose at five-thirty on Saturday morning, and his first thought was as to how Miss Hinton had gone on. He decided to visit Marthalice after dinner, for being Saturday, work ceased at noon for the day.
Ceasing work at twelve o’clock, he hurried home, changed his clothes, and eating his dinner quickly, was down at his old friend’s just after one o’clock. But he had no cause to worry, for on arrival, he found the girl almost one of the family. Dinner was just finished, and they were all sitting round the table, enjoying their after-dinner cup of tea.
“Come on, lad,” said Marthalice, “come and hev a cup o’ tea.” And Jack readily agreed.
Turning to Miss Hinton, he asked, “Feel all right now?” as he looked confusedly at the brown eyes.
“Oh, splendid,” was the reply, throwing an arm round the old lady’s neck, “thanks to this dear woman, and I’m going to stay here, aren’t I?” she asked.
“That you are, bairn, we’ve settled that; t’lass is noan going to leave us while she’s in Beckton, are ta, lass?”
The girl smiled her grateful appreciation and thanks, then touching Jack’s arm, said, “Thank you also, Mr. Bradley.” The touch sent a curious thrill under his waistcoat, but he covered his confusion, although rather badly, for he caught The Imp’s eyes fixed on him, and a grin of mischief on her wicked little face.
Miss Hinton was the centre of attraction, for she was so different in every way from the girl of the West Riding. Her speech and dress were different, and to the ears of Marthalice and her family, intensely interesting.
“Tell us about London, Miss Hinton,” said The Imp.
“I will, on one condition,” was the reply, “that is if you will call me ‘Mary.’ ‘Miss’ is all right for the theatre, but from you dear people, it sounds much too formal.”
“That’s it,” said Marthalice, “I like to hear thi talk like that.”
So round the table, drinking their tea, the tale was gradually told.
She was the daughter of a small farmer in Surrey, about sixteen miles from London. Unfortunately he found himself in financial difficulties, the worry of which, accompanied by indifferent health, had taken him away long before his time. The farm was sold over their heads, leaving a wife and daughter totally unprepared to face the realities of a world that can be very cruel.
They were unable to obtain a living in the country, and had removed to London, in which city the mother gradually drooped, and after weeks of lingering illness, died, leaving Mary to fight life on her own. She secured a situation as a waitress in a café. The wage was small, and the work not too easy. There was no prospect of improving her position, and one day, hearing two girls talking of trying for the stage, she decided to try herself as she had a good voice, and some knowledge of music.
After a few weeks, she managed to get in the chorus of one of the London theatres, but quickly the change was regretted, and after six weeks the show in which she was engaged came to an end, so another situation must be sought, and through an agency she had secured her present place.
“No one knows how I wish I could get out of it,” she said. “I would just love to go into the country again.” And Jack nodded his head appreciatively.
“But,” said Mary, “here I am, putting on you dear people.”
“Nay, lass,” said Marthalice, “you’re noan putting on us, and if you were, we’d do it for yer.”
“Tell us more about the country,” said Polly, “and about the farm.”
“Nay, lass,” said her mother, “wheer’s yer manners?”
“Please,” persisted The Imp.
“Oh,” said Mary, “I wish we were at the old spot again. We had many acres of land, and a small orchard, together with cattle and poultry.”
The family listened entranced as the picture was unfolded before them.
Jack’s mind wandered back to the farm and the old man he had met on his tramp from Hull, and so engrossed was he in his thoughts, that Marthalice cut them short by saying, “Nah, lad a penny for ’em.”
“Nay,” he replied, “I was thinking of that farm in Lincoln.”
Miss Hinton enquired what the story was, so he related how the old man found him munching a currant cake, and had invited him to the farm for breakfast. “I don’t know why,” he added, after telling the story, “but that old man has been in my thoughts scores of times since. Sometimes at night I can see him staring at me, as though weighing me up. Ah well,” continued Jack, “there’s nothing I’d like better than to settle in the country, but I suppose it’s not for me.” And Mary nodded her head understandingly.
“Nah, lasses,” said Marthalice, “get t’washing up done. Not thee, lass,” she added, as Mary made to help, “there’s plenty of ’em to wash t’pots without thee.” But no, Mary determined that if she was going to be one of the family she was going to take her share of household duties.
Jack departed, arranging to call for her, and accompany her to the theatre. The thought that the girl had won the heart of his old friend, and would be comfortable and safe, at all events until after the pantomime had had its run, greatly relieved his mind.