The day will come

by M. E. Braddon

The lines of the face were classic in their regularity, but the hollow cheeks and pallid complexion told of care and toil, and the face was aged untimely by a hard and joyless life. The eyes were darkest grey, large and pathetic-looking, the eyes of a woman who had suffered much and thought much. The beauty of those eyes gave a mournful charm to the pale pinched face, and the light auburn hair was still luxuriant. Theodore noted the delicate hands and taper fingers, which differed curiously from the other hands which were busy around the hospitable board.

He could see that this young woman was a favourite with Sarah Newton, and he told himself that she was of a race apart from the rest; but he was agreeably surprised in finding that, except for the prevailing Cockney accent, and a few slight lapses in grammar and pronunciation, Miss Newton’s guests were quite as refined as those ladies of Dorchester with whom it had been his privilege to associate; indeed, he was not sure that he did not prefer the Cockney twang and the faulty grammar to the second-hand smartness and slang of the young ladies whose “Awfully jolly,” “Ain’t it,” and “Don’t you know,” had so often irritated his ear on tennis lawn or at afternoon tea. Here at least there was the unstudied speech of people who knew not the caprices of fashion or the latest catch word that had descended from Belgravia to Brompton, and from Brompton to the provinces.

There was a great deal of talk, as Miss Newton had told him there would be; and as she encouraged all her guests to talk about themselves, he gathered a good deal of interesting information about the state of the different trades and the ways and manners of various employers, most of whom seemed to be of a despotic and grasping temper. The widows talked of their children’s ailments or their progress at the Board School; the girls talked a little, and with all modesty, of their sweethearts. Sarah Newton was interested in every detail of those humble lives, and seemed to remember every fact bearing upon the joys or the sorrows of her guests. It was a wonder to Theodore, to see how the careworn faces lighted up round the cheerful table in the lamplight. Yes, it was surely a good thing to live among these daughters of toil, and to lighten their burdens by this quick sympathy, this cheerful hospitality. Vast Pleasure Halls and People’s Palaces may do much for the million; but here was one little spinster with her small income making an atmosphere of friendliness and comfort for the few, and able to get a great deal nearer to them than Philanthropy on a gigantic scale can ever get to the many.

Theodore noticed that while most other tongues babbled freely, the girl called Marian sat silent, after her task of distributing the tea was over, with hands folded in her lap, listening to the voices round her, and with a soft slow smile lighting her face now and then. In repose her countenance was deeply sad, and he found himself speculating upon the history that had left those melancholy lines upon a face that was still young.

“I am much interested in your next neighbour,” he said to Miss Newton, presently, while Marian was helping another girl to clear the table. “I feel sure there must be something very sad in her experience of life, and that she has sunk from a higher level.”

“So do I,” answered Miss Newton, “but I know very little more about her than you do, except that she is a most exquisite worker with those taper fingers of hers, and that she has worked for the same baby-linen house for the last three years, and has lived in the same second-floor back in Hercules’ Buildings. I think she is as fond of me as she can be, yet she has never told me where she was born, or who her people were, or what her life has been like. Once she went so far as to tell me that it had been a very commonplace life, and that her troubles had been in nowise extraordinary—except the fact of her having had a very severe attack of typhus fever, which left her a wreck. Once, from some chance allusion, I learnt that it was in Italy she caught the fever, and that it was badly treated by a foreign doctor; but that one fact is all she ever let slip in her talk, so carefully does she avoid every mention of the past. I need hardly tell you that I have never questioned her. I have reason to know that her life for the last three years has been spotless—an industrious, temperate, Christian life—and that she is charitable and kind to those who are poorer than herself. That is quite enough for me, and I have encouraged her to make a friend of me in every way in my power.”

“She is happy in having found such a friend, an invaluable friend to a woman who has sunk from happier surroundings.”

“Yes, I think I have been a comfort to her. She comes to me for books, and we meet nearly every day at the Free Library, and compare notes about our reading. My only regret is that I cannot induce her to take enough air and exercise. She spends all the time that she can spare from her needlework in reading. But I take her for a walk now and then, and I think she enjoys that. A penn’orth of the tramcar carries us to Battersea Park, and we can stroll about amongst grass and trees, and in sight of the river. She is better off than most of the girls in the way of getting a little rest after toil, for that fine, delicate needlework of hers pays better than the common run of work, and she is the quickest worker I know.”

The tables were cleared by this time, and space had been made for that half-circle round the fire of which Miss Newton had spoken on the previous night. The younger girls brought hassocks and cushions, and seated themselves in the front rank, while their elders sat in the outer row of chairs.

Theodore was now called upon to contribute his share to the entertainment, and thereupon took a book from his pocket.