Suddenly the vision of old Chelsea Church rose up before her with its little motherly old pew-opener. She had so often been meaning to go and see her again, but something had always interfered. She hunted through her drawers and found a comparatively sober-coloured shawl, and tucked it under her cloak. The service was just commencing when she reached the church. Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently remembered her. "I want to see you afterwards," she whispered; and Mary Stopperton had smiled and nodded. The service, with its need for being continually upon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it. And the sermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxford drawl, was uninteresting. She had half hoped that the wheezy old clergyman, who had preached about Calvary on the evening she had first visited the church, would be there again. She wondered what had become of him, and if it were really a fact that she had known him when she was a child, or only her fancy. It was strange how vividly her memory of him seemed to pervade the little church. She had the feeling he was watching her from the shadows. She waited for Mary in the vestibule, and gave her the shawl, making her swear on the big key of the church door that she would wear it herself and not give it away. The little old pew-opener's pink and white face flushed with delight as she took it, and the thin, work-worn hands fingered it admiringly. "But I may lend it?" she pleaded.
They turned up Church Street. Joan confided to Mary what a rotten Christmas she had had, all by herself, without a soul to speak to except her landlady, who had brought her meals and had been in such haste to get away.
"I don't know what made me think of you," she said. "I'm so glad Idid." She gave the little old lady a hug. Mary laughed. "Where are you going now, dearie?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't mind so much now," answered Joan. "Now that I've seen a friendly face, I shall go home and go to bed early."They walked a little way in silence. Mary slipped her hand into Joan's. "You wouldn't care to come home and have a bit of supper with me, would you, dearie?" she asked.
"Oh, may I?" answered Joan.
Mary's hand gave Joan's a little squeeze. "You won't mind if anybody drops in?" she said. "They do sometimes of a Sunday evening.""You don't mean a party?" asked Joan.
"No, dear," answered Mary. "It's only one or two who have nowhere else to go."Joan laughed. She thought she would be a fit candidate.
"You see, it makes company for me," explained Mary.
Mary lived in a tiny house behind a strip of garden. It stood in a narrow side street between two public-houses, and was covered with ivy. It had two windows above and a window and a door below. The upstairs rooms belonged to the churchwardens and were used as a storehouse for old parish registers, deemed of little value. Mary Stopperton and her bedridden husband lived in the two rooms below.
Mary unlocked the door, and Joan passed in and waited. Mary lit a candle that was standing on a bracket and turned to lead the way.
"Shall I shut the door?" suggested Joan.
Mary blushed like a child that has been found out just as it was hoping that it had not been noticed.
"It doesn't matter, dearie," she explained. "They know, if they find it open, that I'm in."The little room looked very cosy when Mary had made up the fire and lighted the lamp. She seated Joan in the worn horsehair easy-chair; out of which one had to be careful one did not slip on to the floor; and spread her handsome shawl over the back of the dilapidated sofa.
"You won't mind my running away for a minute," she said. "I shall only be in the next room."Through the thin partition, Joan heard a constant shrill, complaining voice. At times, it rose into an angry growl. Mary looked in at the door.
"I'm just running round to the doctor's," she whispered. "His medicine hasn't come. I shan't be long."Joan offered to go in and sit with the invalid. But Mary feared the exertion of talking might be too much for him. "He gets so excited," she explained. She slipped out noiselessly.
It seemed, in spite of its open door, a very silent little house behind its strip of garden. Joan had the feeling that it was listening.
Suddenly she heard a light step in the passage, and the room door opened. A girl entered. She was wearing a large black hat and a black boa round her neck. Between them her face shone unnaturally white. She carried a small cloth bag. She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about to retreat.
"Oh, please don't go," cried Joan. "Mrs. Stopperton has just gone round to the doctor's. She won't be long. I'm a friend of hers."The girl took stock of her and, apparently reassured, closed the door behind her.
"What's he like to-night?" she asked, with a jerk of her head in the direction of the next room. She placed her bag carefully upon the sofa, and examined the new shawl as she did so.
"Well, I gather he's a little fretful," answered Joan with a smile.
"That's a bad sign," said the girl. "Means he's feeling better."She seated herself on the sofa and fingered the shawl. "Did you give it her?" she asked.
"Yes," admitted Joan. "I rather fancied her in it.""She'll only pawn it," said the girl, "to buy him grapes and port wine.""I felt a bit afraid of her," laughed Joan, "so I made her promise not to part with it. Is he really very ill, her husband?""Oh, yes, there's no make-believe this time," answered the girl.
"A bad thing for her if he wasn't."
