“What is he?” said Magdalen. “His name is Jack, isn’t it?”
“Yes; and a fit name it is for him. He came here first, to my sorrow, last December, and took the garret for half-a-crown a week. He had a portmanteau then and some little money; and he was quiet enough for almost a month. But he kept very much to himself except for letting poor little Rosie play about his room, and teaching her little songs. You can’t think what a queer child she is, Miss Sutherland. I’m sure you’d say so if you saw Mr. Jack, the only lodger she took any fancy to. At last he sent the servant to pawn his things; and I, like a fool, was loath to see him losing his clothes, and offered to let the rent run if he could pay at the end of the month. Then it came out that he was in the music profession, and akshally expected to get pupils while he was living in a garret. I did a deal for him, although he was nothing to me. I got him a stationer’s daughter from High Street to teach. After six lessons, if you’ll believe it, Miss, and she as pleased as anything with the way she was getting along, he told the stationer that it was waste of money to have the girl taught, because she had no qualification but vanity. So he lost her; and now she has lessons at four guineas a dozen from a lady that gets all the credit for what he taught her. Then Simpson’s brother-in-law got him a place in a chapel in the Edgeware Road to play the harmonium and train the choir. But they couldn’t stand him. He treated them as if they were dogs; and the three richest old ladies in the congregation, who had led the singing for forty-five years, walked out the second night, and said they wouldn’t enter the chapel till he was gone. When the minister rebuked him, he up and said that if he was a God and they sang to him like that, he’d scatter ’em with lightning. That’s his notion of manners. So he had to leave; but a few of the choir liked him and got him occasionally to play the piano at a glee club on the first floor of B public house. he got five shillings once a fortnight or so for that; and not another halfpenny had he to live on except pawning his clothes bit by bit. You may imagine all the rent 1 got. At last he managed someway to get took on as tutor by a gentleman at Windsor. I had to release his clothes out of my own money before he could go. I was five pound out of pocket by him, between rent and other things.”
“Did he ever pay you?” said Mary.
“Oh, yes, Miss. He certainly sent me the money. I am far from saying that he is not honorable when he has the means.”
“It is a funny coincidence,” said Mary. “It was to us that Mr Jack came as tutor. He taught Charlie.”
“To you!” said Magdalen, surprised and by no means pleased. “Then you know him?”
“Yes. He left us about a fortnight ago.”
“Just so,” said Mrs. Simpson, “and was glad enough to come straight back here without a penny in his pocket. And here he is like to be until some other situation drops into his lap. If I may ask, Miss, why did he leave you?”
“Oh. for no particular reason,” said Mary uneasily. “That is, my brother had left Windsor; and we did not require Mr Jack anymore.”
“So he was the tutor of whom Mrs Beatty told mother.” said Magdalen significantly.
“Yes.”
“I hope he was pleasanter in your house, Miss, than he is in mine. However, that’s not my business. I have no wish to intrude. Except the letter he wrote me with the money, not a civil word have I ever had from him.”
“A lady whom I know,” said Mary, “employed him, whilst he was with us, to correct some songs which she wrote. Perhaps I could induce her to give him some more. I should like to get him something to do. But I am afraid she was offended by the way he altered her composition last time.”
“Well, Polly,” said Magdalen, “we are forgetting my business. Where is the professor that Mrs Wilkins told me of? I wish Mr Jack gave lessons in elocution. I should like to have him for a master.”
“Why, Miss Madge, to tell you the honest truth, it is Mr Jack. But wait till I show you something. He’s given me a ring to pawn; and it’s the very moral of your own that you used to wear in Gower Street.”
“It is mine, Polly. I owe Mr Jack four guineas; and I must pay him today. Don’t stare: I will tell you all about it afterwards. I have to thank him too, for getting me out of a great scrape. Mary: do you wish to see him?”
“Well, I would rather not, “ said Mary slowly: “at least, I think it would be better not. But after all it can do no harm; and I suppose it would not be right for you to see him alone.”
“Oh, never mind that,” said Magdalen suspiciously. “I can have Polly with me.”
“If you had rather not have me present, I will go.”
“Oh, I don’t care. Only you seemed to make some difficulty about it yourself.”
“There can be no real difficulty, now that I come to consider it. Yet — I hardly know what I ought to do.”
“You had better make up your mind,” said Magdalen impatiently.
“Well, Madge, I have made up my mind,” said Mary, perching her spectacles and looking composedly at her friend. “I will stay.”
“Very well.” Said Madge, not with a very good grace: “I suppose we must not go to Mr. Jack, so he had better come to us. Polly go and tell him that two ladies wish to see him.”
“You had better say on business.” added Mary.
“And don’t mention our names I want to see whether he will know me again.” said Magdalen. Mary looked hard at her.
“D’ye really mean it, Miss Madge?”
“Good gracious, yes!” replied Magdalen angrily.
The landlady, after lingering a moment in doubt and wonder went out. Silence ensued. Magdalen’s color brightened; and she moved her chair to a place whence she could see herself in the mirror. Mary closed her lips, and sat motionless and rather pale. Not a word passed between them until the door opened abruptly and Jack, with his coat buttoned up to his chin, made a short step into the room. Recognizing Mary, he stopped and frowned.
“How do you do, Mr Jack?* she said, bowing steadily to him. He bowed slightly, and looked around the room. Seeing Magdalen, he was amazed. She bowed too, and he gave her a scared nod.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr Jack?” said the landlady, assuming the manner in which she was used to receive company.
“Have you pawned that ring yet?” he said, turning suddenly to her.
“No,” she retorted, scandalized.
“Then give it back to me.” She did so; and he looked at Magdalen, saying, “You have come just in time.”
“I came to thank you.”
“You need not thank me. I was sorry afterwards for having helped a young woman to run away from her father. If I were not the most hotheaded fool in England, I should have stopped you. I hope no harm came of it.”
“I am sorry to have caused you any uneasiness,” said Magdalen, coloring. “The young woman drove straight home after transacting some business that she wished to conceal from her father. That was all.”
“So much the better. If I had known you were at home, I should have sent you your ring.”
“My father expected you to write.”
“I told him I would; but I thought better of it. I had nothing to tell him.”
“You