"Well, I'm sure; just to think you fancied they'd take anyone into a respectable house without a reference!" cried the tall slim woman, in a tone of exasperation, as she allowed May to find the front door and let herself out.
She hurried out of that street; she had not the courage to try at any other house there. She thought she should not have the courage to try anywhere else. She had already thought of going to an hotel, but had dismissed the idea. She had a great fear of being discovered; and an hotel was too open. Besides, she could not bring herself to face an hotel alone; there was something repugnant to her feelings in being without a friend or protector in a house the front door of which was always kept open. Besides, who could tell but, by one of those coincidences there is no foreseeing, some acquaintance of hers might light on that very hotel, and meet her in one of the passages? But if people objected to ladies as lodgers, and if those who did not object to ladies would take no one in who could not give a reference, how could she hope to find a resting-place for her weary limbs, a covering for her aching head that night? She could give no reference; for to do so would be, of course, instantly to betray herself.
What was she to do now? Whither should she turn? In a little while it would be dark. It was dreadful to be alone in London, cut off from all friends, having no home, no roof to cover her, and find the shades of night coming on. How peaceful and secure now seemed that small house over there in Knightsbridge, where but a few hours ago she had seen him, had heard his great kind voice, had felt his strong protecting arm round her! She had but to hold up her hand, get into the nearest cab, and in an hour she would be safe under that protecting roof.
Should she go back? Those houses in which she had sought shelter were hideous in her eyes, and the women repulsively vulgar. Should she go back and throw herself at her aunt's feet, and cry herself into her aunt's forgiveness? No, no, that would never do. She had resolved to sacrifice herself for him she loved, and she would do so, no matter how great the pain, no matter how great the humiliation she should endure. In the sum of her great sacrifice, what did these mean houses, these vulgar women, count for? Nothing. Why should she make great difficulties out of small? She had had the courage to write that letter to him, to renounce her love, to give up the one dream of her young life: was she now going to blench when confronted by trivial details such as would not daunt one out of ten of the women moving round her, passing up and down this road? No. She had been brave in the great thing, she would be indifferent in the small. She would be brave. She would hold on. She would lie down in the road and die rather than go back, rather than imperil his future happiness by once more placing herself under the influence of his presence, which she felt certain would be too strong for any resolution she might make.
She once more found herself walking down a side street, looking up at the windows for a card. This was a much better street than the last one. The roadway was wider, and the houses more respectable and better kept. She was now glad she had not succeeded in getting a place in the former street.
This one looked much better, and as though the people who lived in the houses could not be so vulgar.
She went down all one side, and saw no card in any window. She thought she had discovered one at the opposite side, but she could not be quite sure. She crossed. Yes, there was a card in one window, in only one. She knocked. A servant opened the door. Did they take lady lodgers? Oh yes; would the lady be kind enough to step into the front room and see the mistress?
In the front room May found a little old widow sitting at work. She greeted the entrance of the young girl with a benevolent smile, and bade her be seated. May was delighted she had come so far. This woman was much superior to either of the others. She had not the look of common prosperity of the first, nor of broken-down respectability of the second. Fate may make a lady poor, but it never can make her shabby-genteel. Though she may sink to pauperism, she can never fall so low as gentility. A lady once is a lady for ever; and the little old widow before May was evidently not only a lady, but a kindly and considerate old soul as well. May resolved, if possible, to cast her lot here.
After a few preliminary words, the landlady said:
"Yes, my dear, I not only take in ladies, but I do not take in gentlemen. I know how hard ladies, who wish to be quiet, find it to get lodgings in London, and so I have made up my mind to take in no gentlemen."