Chapter XI.

A Harbour of Refuge

It was the cabman who first made it clear to me that my town address

was somewhat out of the common. He had stowed my two portmanteaux on

the roof (it was a four-wheeled cab), and, descending to hold the door

open for me to enter, shut it after me with a bang and waited while I

stated my destination.

“I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said, incredulously; “did you say

Wellclose Square?”

“Yes. Number sixty-nine.”

Again he regarded me with wrinkled brows. “That won’t be Wellclose

Square down by the Docks?” he suggested.

“I don’t know if it’s near the Docks,” I replied, “but it isn’t far

from Ratcliff Highway.”

“That’s the place, sure enough,” said he. “Number sixty-nine. Well,

I’m jiggered.” With this he turned and slowly climbed to the box,

looking in at me through the front window as he mounted; and even when

he had taken his seat and gathered up the reins, he took yet another

confirmatory glance over his shoulder before starting.

These mysterious proceedings occasioned me some surprise, not entirely

unmixed with anxiety. Dr. Thorndyke had admitted that the

neighbourhood was squalid, and the question arose, How squalid was it?

The first part of the journey, through Eastcheap and Great Tower

Street, was rather reassuring; and as we crossed Tower Hill and the

grey pile of ancient buildings loomed up above the trees, I was quite

pleasantly impressed. But then came a change for the worse. Long

streets of characterless houses, all of a dingy, grey colour--the

colour of all-pervading dirt--and growing greyer and dingier as we

proceeded; populated by men and women, and especially children, of the

same cobwebby tint, with something foreign and unfamiliar in their

aspect and manners--a deficiency of artificial head-covering with a

remarkable profusion of the natural, and a tendency to sit about on

doorsteps; these, with a general outbreak on the shop signs of

Wowskys, Minskys, Steins and Popoffs, were the features of the

neighbourhood that chiefly attracted my attention as the cab rattled

eastward. But there was not much time for extended observation, for I

had barely noted these appearances when we turned into a short

side-street and emerged into a square, the dingyness of which was

somewhat relieved by a group of faded trees in the central enclosure.

Round the square the cab trundled slowly until it drew up opposite a

tall house of the Georgian type, with white window frames and a green

door. As the cab stopped, the green door opened and a small elderly

lady came forth, while three younger women lurked in the background.

Escaping from the cab, I advanced to meet the elderly lady, who

received me with a singularly pleasant smile and a few quietly-spoken

words of welcome; a proceeding that was observed with furtive interest

by the cabman as he transferred my portmanteaux from the cab-roof to

the pavement and thence to the hall; nor did his curious observation

of me cease until it was brought to an end by actual invisibility,

for, as the cab moved out of the square, I saw his face still turned

towards me over the roof, with the same expression of puzzled

surprise.

“You would like to see your room, I expect,” said the elderly lady

whom I had correctly assumed to be Miss Polton; “then we will have tea

and talk over your arrangements.” She moved towards the stairs (up

which I had just seen one of the young women hopping with surprising

agility, with one of my portmanteaux in either hand), and conducted me

to a room on the second floor, where the portmanteaux had been duly

deposited, though the bearer had vanished.

“It’s rather bare,” said Miss Polton, “but you can have some pictures

and ornaments if you like. My young ladies usually prefer to have

their own things and arrange them in their own way. Your workroom is

downstairs. I consulted my brother about it, and he said he thought

you would like a room with a stone floor if you were going to do

hammered work and use a furnace. So, as I had one with quite a good

light, I have kept it for you--that is, of course, if you like it.”

“I expect I shall,” I replied. “A wooden floor is dreadfully noisy

when one is hammering on a stake, and not very safe when there are

red-hot crucibles about.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “and you can have a mat for your feet when you are

sitting at the bench. And now I will leave you and go and see about

the tea.”

Left to myself, I looked around at my new home. The room, though

spacious, was undeniably bare, but yet it gave me an impression of

comfort. For its bareness was due merely to the absence of

superfluities. The empty walls, distempered a pale cream colour, were

severe to baldness; but how much better than the usual boarding-house

walls, covered with staring flowered paper and disfigured with

horrible prints or illuminated texts! They, like the empty

book-shelves, were ready to receive the personal touches and to become

friendly and sympathetic. Of actual necessaries there were more than

in many an over-furnished room; a small wardrobe, a good-sized, firm

table, a chest of drawers with a looking-glass on it, a small writing

chair, a comfortable folding arm-chair, a washing-stand and a sponge

bath, besides the book-shelves aforesaid, and a daintily-furnished

bed, gave me a foundation of material comfort and convenience on which

it would be easy to build and make additions. As I concluded my survey

and refreshed myself with a wash, I decided that, whatever the

surroundings of the house might be like, its interior seemed to have

the makings of a home.

Nor was I less favourably impressed when I went downstairs. The

dining-room, in which I found the ladies assembled, was pervaded by an

air of spotless cleanliness with a severity approaching bareness. The

absence of superfluous furniture and useless ornaments and bric-a-brac

struck me, indeed, as rather odd in a household composed--so far as I

knew--entirely of women.

“I must introduce you to the family,” said Miss Polton, with a

pleasant wrinkly smile, “at least those who are at home. There are

three more who will come in to dinner. This is Miss Blake, and these

ladies are Miss Barnard and Miss Finch.”

I shook hands with my new comrades--the last being the little lady who

had skipped up the stairs so actively with my luggage--and then we sat

down to the table, at the head of which Miss Polton presided, and made

the tea in a delightful Delft teapot from a brass kettle on which I

cast an expert and somewhat disapproving eye, for it was of a

blatantly commercial type and quite unworthy of the teapot.

At first, conversation was spasmodic and punctuated by considerable

pauses. Miss Polton was evidently a silent, self-contained woman,

though genial in a quiet, restful way. Miss Finch, too, who sat by me,

was quiet and a little shy, speaking rarely but silently plying me

with food. Miss Blake, on the other hand, had a restless manner, and,

though she spoke little at first, was undisguisedly interested in me,

for whenever I looked at her I caught her wide-open, blue eyes fixed

on me with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. She was a rather

remarkable-looking girl, with a wealth of red-gold hair, a white and

pink complexion, and a profile which, with its sharp, projecting chin

and retroussé nose, might have been taken direct from one of

Burne-Jones’s allegories; indeed, my first glance at her had made me

think of the “Briar Rose” and the “Golden Stairs.” And now, as I

caught her intense gaze again and again, I had the feeling that she

was wanting to say something to me; and the more so since I thought I

detected a certain expectancy in the expression of her neighbour, Miss

Barnard. Nor was I mistaken; for, after one of the periodic pauses in

the conversation, she leaned over the table towards me and said in

low, portentous tones:

“Mrs. Otway, I want to ask you a question, if you won’t think me too

inquisitive.” Here she paused--and Miss Barnard also paused in the

conveyance to her mouth of a large piece of bread and marmalade.

“I don’t suppose your question would be too inquisitive,” I said,

guardedly.

“It isn’t really,” said she. “You know, I have been looking at your

face, and I’ve been wondering--it’s an extraordinary psychic face, do

you know?”

“Is it?” said I, noting that Miss Barnard had broken out into a slow

smile, which she was trying to obliterate with the lump of bread and

marmalade.

“Oh, very. Intensely so. It is a face, you know, in which the workings

of the subconscious appear, as it were, like an undercurrent moving

beneath the surface of the conscious. I have been watching it with

deep interest, and I have been wondering if you are, as I am, a

dweller in the larger world beyond that inhabited by the conscious

self, beyond the mere material universe. Is it not so, Mrs. Otway?”

Now this was a “facer.” As my dear father would have expressed it in

his playful fashion, it “knocked me sideways.” I cast a bewildered

glance round the table, and was aware of a very extensive outbreak of

the subconscious, Miss Polton was blandly indulgent, her face

transformed into a network of amiable wrinkles; Miss Finch was engaged

in an intense scrutiny of the bowl of a jam spoon; while Miss

Barnard’s feats, with the bread and marmalade, were becoming

positively dangerous.

“I am not sure that I quite understand your question,” said I.

“You generally don’t,” murmured Miss Finch, as Miss Polton explained

that “Miss Blake was somewhat of a mystic.”

“Like her famous namesake,” said I.

“And ancestor,” Miss Blake added, eagerly.

“Really!” I exclaimed, clutching at this straw; “you are actually a

descendant of William Blake? And I daresay you are a great admirer of

his works?”

“I should think she is!” exclaimed Miss Barnard. “You should just see

her fashion plates.”

Recalling Blake’s usual rendering of the human figure and its

unadaptability to the conditions of our climate, I secretly resolved

to take an early opportunity of examining those fashion plates.

Meanwhile, I remarked, “I was thinking of his poems rather than the

drawings.”

“Yes,” said Miss Blake; “though the drawings are very spiritual, too.

But to return to my question. You see, I had been looking at your

intensely psychical face, and hoping that, at last, I had met with a

kindred spirit. And I do hope--I feel convinced--that I have. Perhaps

I did not put my question very clearly--it is difficult to be very

definite when one is speaking of the psychic life; but I was wondering

if you had ever had experiences that had made you aware of that larger

world beyond the world of mere matter and sense-perception; if you had

sometimes felt the thoughts of other minds stealing into your own

without the aid of speech or bodily presence and even, perhaps, held

converse with those dear to you who, while they have passed out of

this little, material world, still share with you the greater world in

which soul speaks to soul unhampered by the limitations----”

The humorous wrinkles had suddenly faded from Miss Polton’s face,

leaving it grave and quiet; and now, in a quiet, grave voice, she

interposed:

“I think, Lilith, dear, that Mrs. Otway’s griefs are too new and too

real----”

“I know!” Miss Blake exclaimed, impulsively. “I am an egotistical

wretch. It was horrid of me to be so wrapped up in my own interests. I

am so sorry; so very, very sorry. Please forgive me, dear Mrs. Otway!

Let us talk of something else.”

“I don’t think we must talk of anything much longer,” said Miss

Polton. “We have finished tea and we ought to get on with our work.

Besides, Mrs. Otway will want to unpack her things and set her room in

order.”

On this there was a general up-rising. Miss Finch immediately fell to

work gathering up the débris and returning the cups and saucers to

the tray, while Miss Blake renewed her apologies and expressions of

sympathy. Then Miss Polton took possession of me, and, having shown me

my workshop--a smallish, well-lighted room, with a paved floor and a

large window looking on an unexpectedly pleasant garden--took me

upstairs to a box-room in which my personal luggage had been

deposited.

“Supper is at eight o’clock,” said she. “We have made it rather late

so that everyone may have a good, long day’s work and all the

wanderers may have come home. It is the social event of the day. And

now I will leave you to your unpacking.”

She tripped away up a narrow flight of stairs that opened from the

landing, towards what I took to be the attics; from whence presently

came a rhythmical “click-clack” that I associated with the loom of

which Dr. Thorndyke had spoken. Meanwhile, I fell to work on my

trunks, with a view to transferring their contents to my room; but I

had hardly got them open when Miss Finch appeared at the open door.

“Can I help you?” she asked. “If I carry some of the things down you

won’t have so many journeys.”

“But aren’t you busy?” I asked in return.

“Do I look like it? No, I’m lazy this afternoon, but I should like to

help you, if you will let me.”

Of course I was only too glad, and forthwith loaded her with an armful

of books, following her with a second consignment. For some time we

continued our journeys up and down the stairs with very little said on

either side, and gradually my room began to lose its emptiness and

severity, and to take on the friendly aspect of an inhabited

apartment.

“It doesn’t look so bad,” said Miss Finch, surveying it critically.

“Looks as if someone lived in it. Do you like the wash-stand?”

“I’ve been admiring it. It’s so simple and so tasteful and unusual.”

“Yes; and yet it is only stained deal, with a few touches of gesso.

Phillibar made it--Phyllis Barton, you know. You’ll meet her at

supper.”

“Is she a carpenter?”

“No; she makes frames for mirrors and pictures; wooden frames

decorated with gesso, or compo, or else carved. But she’s very

thorough. Does it all herself. Makes up the frames from the plank,

makes the compo and the moulds and does the gilding. And she is quite

a good wood-worker and carves beautifully.”

“And does she make a pretty good living?” I asked, bearing Dr.

Thorndyke’s observations in mind.

“She does quite well now, though she had a hard struggle at first. But

now she works direct for the artists and gets as much as she can do.

You will often see her frames in the exhibitions. The floor-cloth is

rather nice, too, isn’t it, though it is only stencilled sacking.

You’d be surprised to see how durable it is. The more it is worn, the

better it looks--if it is properly done. This is stencilled with a

stain. Lilith did it.”

“Lilith? Is that Miss Blake?”

“Yes. Her name is really Winifred, but we call her Lilith because she

looks as if she had come out of a stained-glass window. You might

think that she was a little--well, a little barmy. But she’s awfully

clever.”

“She does fashion-plates, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, poor Lilith! She hates them, but she does them rippingly all the

same. She would rather paint pictures or mural decorations or design

tapestries, but you’ve got to do what you can sell, you know, if you

want to make a living; and Lilith has a little brother whom she keeps

at school--an awfully nice little kiddie. She’s a really good sort,

you know, though frightfully spooky--planchette, crystal ball and all

that sort of tosh; and she thinks she has found a fellow-spook, so you

will have to look out.”

As Miss Finch paused to take another survey, her eye and mine fell

upon the wash-stand, or rather on what it supported.

“I think,” I remarked, “that I shall have to treat myself to some new

crockery. That jug and basin are hardly worthy of Miss Barton’s

masterpiece.”

“No; they’re horrid, aren’t they? Regular Whitechapel china-shop

stuff. But I believe I’ve got some--I’ll just run up and see.”

She tripped away up the stairs and presently returned, bearing a basin

and pitcher of simple, reddish-buff earthenware glazed internally with

a fine green glaze.

“They are frightfully crude and coarse,” she said apologetically (and

with cheeks several shades redder than the ware), “but they aren’t

vulgar. Would you like to have them until you can get something

better?”

“I shall have them a long time, then,” said I. “They are

charming--delightful, and they suit the wash-stand perfectly. What a

house this is for pottery! I noticed the teapot and the beautiful cups

and plates, all so interesting and uncommon. And now you produce these

wonderful things like some benevolent enchantress. How do you do it?

Do you keep a crystal ball, too?”

Miss Finch laughed and blushed very prettily. “We all do our little

bit towards making the home presentable and saving expense. Miss

Polton distempered these walls, and Joan Allen painted the

woodwork--you’ll like Joan, I think; she paints portraits when she can

get them, and fills in her time by doing magazine covers and

book-wrappers. We shall expect a diploma work from you, too. You’re a

goldsmith, aren’t you?”

It was my turn to laugh and blush as this magnificent title was

applied to me. “Not exactly a goldsmith,” I protested. “Say, rather, a

very elementary jeweller and metal-worker, or perhaps a coppersmith.

And, as we have finished with this room for the present, I had better

begin to get my workshop in going order.”

“And you’ll let me help you with that, too, won’t you?” said Miss

Finch, with a wheedling air; and as I gladly accepted her help, she

linked her arm in mine and we descended together to the scene of my

future labours.

My experience of various workers has led me to observe that manual

skill is a much more generalized quality than is commonly realized.

The old saw of the “Jack of all trades and master of none” is entirely

misleading; for manual skill acquired in the practice of one art is

largely transferable to others. The acquirement of a particular kind

of skill results in the establishment of a generally increased manual

faculty, so that a person who has completely learned one handicraft is

already more than half-way towards the attainment of skill in any

other. This fact was impressed upon me as I watched little Miss Finch

and noted her extraordinary handiness with probably unfamiliar

appliances and her instant comprehension of the uses of things that

she had probably never seen before. My two benches--the jeweller’s and

the general bench--had fortunately been made in a portable form, and

now had to be joined up with their screw-bolts. But my little

assistant took this in at a glance, and, before I had half finished

unpacking the tool cases, she had the bench-tops up-ended, had sorted

out the legs, struts and the appropriate bolts, and was hard at work

with the spanner. Yet, as she worked, she kept an alert and interested

eye on the tools and appliances that came forth from the cases.

“What a jolly little muffie!” she exclaimed, as I deposited the small

enamel furnace on the floor, pending the erection of its stand; “but

won’t it eat up the gas. You’ll have to have your own meter--and watch

it, too, to see that your earnings don’t all go to the gas company.

And what a little duck of an anvil! But what on earth are those

things?” pointing to a bundle of body-tools and snarling-irons.

I explained the use of these mysterious appliances and of sundry

others; and so, with a good deal of gossip, partly personal and partly

technical, we worked on until the sound of the first supper-bell sent

us to our rooms to make ourselves presentable; by which time the

fitting out of the workshop was so far advanced as to make it possible

for me to begin work on the morrow.

The great social function of supper introduced me to the rest of my

comrades; Phyllis Barton, who turned out, to my surprise, to be a

tiny, frail-looking middle-aged woman of meek aspect--I had pictured

her as a large, muscular, boisterous young woman; Joan Allen, who

really corresponded somewhat to this description, and whom I detected

more than once in the act of inspecting me with one eye closed; and a

tall, rather shy girl, by name Edith Palgrave, a scrivener and

calligrapher, who, I learned from Miss Finch, wrote, by choice, Church

service books and illuminated addresses, but, by necessity, gained her

principal livelihood by writing shop-tickets.

It was a pleasant genial gathering: homely, informal, and yet quite

regardful of the indispensable social amenities. What the social class

of my companions might have been I could hardly guess. They were all

educated women, of good intelligence and pleasant manners, all keenly

interested in one another’s doings, but each fully occupied with her

own activities. The agreeable impression was conveyed that, in this

little human hive, the companionship arising from the community of

domestic life tended in no way to hinder a self-contained person like

myself from living her own life and pursuing her own interests and

satisfactions.

And so, when, somewhat early, I retired to my room to spend an hour

with my books before going to bed, my thoughts turned gratefully to

Dr. Thorndyke, and I congratulated myself not a little on having found

this quiet anchorage in which to rest after the stormy passages of my

troubled life.