Mary in the little Battersea lodgings was at breakfast when her George's telegram arrived. She puckered over its mystery; shaped events this way and that, but could make of them no keyhole that the message would fit and unlock.
She flew among the higher improbabilities: George, she conjectured, had misrepresented this stony-hearted uncle; last night had told all to Mr. Marrapit, and Mr. Marrapit had warmed to her and bade him fetch her to Herons' Holt. She ripped George's description of his uncle from about the old man; dressed Mr. Marrapit in snowy locks and a benign smile; pictured him coming down the steps with outstretched hand to greet her. She heard him say, “My daughter”; she saw him draw George to her, lock their hands; she heard him murmur, “Bless you, my children.”
This was a romantic young woman. A poached egg was allowed to grow cold as she trembled over her delectable fancies.
But a glance at the telegram pulled her from these delicious flights; bumped her to earth. “Think can get you situation here.” “Situation” drove the fatherly air from Mr. Marrapit; once more rehabilitated him as her George presented him—grim and masterly.
Further conjecture altogether drove Mr. Marrapit from the picture. What situation could be offered her in the Marrapit household? Why should “here” mean Herons' Holt? It must mean at a house in the district.
Upon the magic carpet of this new thought my Mary was whirled again in an imaged paradise. She would be near her George.
High in these clouds she ran to her bedroom for her hat; but with it there descended upon her head a new thought that again sent her toppling earthwards. Characterless, and worse than characterless, how was she to get any such delightful post? My Mary started up the street for the Agency, blinking tears.
At Battersea Bridge a new thought came sweeping. She clutched on to it; held it fast. Into her tread it put a spring; to her chin gave a brave tilt. If everything failed, if of the telegram nothing came, why, at least she had the telegram!—was making for the Agency under a direct command from her George. The thought swelled her with confidence and comfort. How warm a thing it was to feel that she did not face the world alone! Her George's arm was striking for her, her George's hand was pointing a terse command. “Go to Agency.” She was obeying him; she belonged to him.
Mary had intended to wait outside the Agency until her George should arrive and explain his mysterious message. But she was scarcely at the building when Miss Ram, also arriving, accosted her—took her upstairs. Miss Ram quite naturally regarded the meeting as evidence that Mary had come for help. Mary, in a flutter as to George's intentions, could but meekly follow.
In the room marked “Private,” settled at her table, Miss Ram icily opened the interview. “I have heard from Mrs. Chater. I did not expect to see you again.”
Mary began: “I don't know what you have heard—”
Miss Ram stretched for a letter.
“Oh, I don't wish to,” Mary cried; put out a hand that stayed the action. “To hear all she says would again begin it all. It would be like her voice. It would be like being with her again. Please, please, Miss Ram, don't tell me.”
“You have your own version?”
“I have the truth.” Mary pointed at the letter-file. “The truth isn't there. Mrs. Chater isn't capable of the truth. She cannot even recognise the truth when she hears it.”
In yet more freezing tones Miss Ram replied: “She is an old and valued client.”
“You only know her in this office,” Mary told her. “You don't know her in her home.”
“I have suited her with other young ladies. I have heard of her from them.”
“And they have spoken well of her?”
“Discounting the prejudice of a late employee, they have spoken well.”
“Was her son there with them?”
“They have not told me so.”
“Ah!” said Mary; sat back in her chair.
“Then your version is about the son?”
Mary nodded. Recollection put a silly lump in her throat.
Miss Ram said: “Miss Humfray, when I received that letter from Mrs. Chater, I said I would have no more to do with you. I told Miss Porter I would not see you. Why, out of all my ladies, do you come back to me characterless from your situations? I will listen to your story. Make it very brief. Don't exaggerate. I have sat in this chair for seventeen years. I can distinguish in a minute between facts and spleen. You desire to tell your version?”
“I must,” Mary said. “What I'd like to do would be to get up and say, 'If you doubt me, I'll not trouble to convince you.' I'd like to walk out and leave you and face anything rather than 'explain.' Why should I 'explain' to anybody? But I'm not going to walk out. I haven't the pluck. I know what it is like to be alone out there.” She gave a little choke. “I've learnt that much, anyway.” She went on. “I'll just tell you, that's all. I don't want your sympathy; I only want your sense of justice.”
“I like your spirit,” Miss Ram said. It was a quality she rarely found in her applicants. “Go on.”
Then Mary told. She phrased bluntly. Her recital was after the manner of the fireworks called “Roman candles.” These, when lit, pour out fire and smoke in a rather weak-kneed dribble. They must be held tightly. When tensely enough constricted, of fire and smoke there is little, but at intervals out there pops an exceedingly luminous ball of flame.
My Mary kept the pressure of pride upon her throat. There was no dribble of emotion. Only the facts popped out—hard and dry, and to Miss Ram intensely illuminative. Mary did not mention George's name. She concluded her narrative with jerky facts relative to the scene in the Park. “Then I ran away,” she said, “and a friend of mine came up. He had seen. And he thrashed him. When I got back to Mrs. Chater's her son had arrived—battered. He told his mother that he had seen me with a man and had interfered. That the man assaulted him. That's all.”
“The miserable hound!” pronounced Miss Ram with extraordinary ferocity.
From a drawer in her desk she took a manuscript book, bound in limp leather, tied with blue ribbon. Herein were contained the remarkable thoughts which from time to time had come to this woman during her seventeen years' occupancy of the chair in which she sat. Upon the flyleaf was inscribed “Aphorisms: by Eugenie Ram.” It was her intent to publish this darling work when beneath each letter of the alphabet twelve aphorisms were written.
“The miserable hound!” cried she, when the full tale of Mr. Bob Chater's vileness was told; drew “Aphorisms” towards her and wrote in hot blood.
Then looked at Mary. “L,” she read, “L. Lust. Lust is the sound meat of natural instinct gone to carrion. Men eat meat, wolves eat carrion. Some men are wolf-men—Hand me the dictionary, Miss Humfray. Two r's in carrion. I thought so. Thank you.”
She replaced “Aphorisms.” “My dear, I will do what I can for you,” she told Mary. “I do believe you. Go into the interview room. I hear a step.”
That step was George's. Abashed in this home of women he shuffled uneasily in the passage, then put a hesitating knuckle upon “Enquiries.”
From within a violent movement was followed by a strange guttural sound. George entered.
With scarlet face and watery eyes, Miss Porter—the stout young woman who presided over this department, and whose habit it was to suck sweets the better to beguile the tedium of her duties—gazed at him; made guttural sounds. The start of George's knock had caused this girl to swallow a particularly large sweet, and its downward passage was inflicting upon her considerable pain.
Her face was an alarming sight. “I'm afraid—” George began.
“Pardon!” gasped Miss Porter, driving the sweet with a tremendous swallow. “Pardon!”
“Not at all,” George pleasantly said. “Not at all. I called with reference to a lady-help.”
The grinding sweet forbade the pleasant dalliance
Miss Porter could have wished with this handsome young man. In a brave spasm (this girl was in great suffering), “I will tell the Principal,” she said; trod heavily to Miss Ram's door.
Fate is an abominable trickster; loves to tease us. With one hand it gave Miss Porter a delectable male; with the other prevented her enjoying him. Furthermore, it prematurely deprived her of a fine sweet.
Reappearing and holding the door ajar: “Miss Ram will see you,” she murmured. Tears were in this girl's eyes; the bolted sweet was still paining her very much indeed.
In two clever bows Miss Ram without a word greeted George; indicated a chair.
George sat down. “I want,” he began—“that is, my uncle wants, a lady-help—”
“Name, please,” rapped Miss Ram, opening the ledger.
George gave it; stretched a leg to indicate a confidence he did not feel; pitched his voice to aid the presentment. “When I say lady-help—”
“Address, please,” said Miss Ram with a pistol-snap.
George withdrew the signs of confidence with a jerk. He gave the information. Then waited Miss Ram to give him a lead. He had twice been shot; was in no desire again to expose his person.
Miss Ram fixed her small black eyes upon him. She said nothing. The intrusion of a young man into matters essentially domestic she strongly disapproved. Under “D” in “Aphorisms” this woman had a trenchant note touching this matter. “D. Domesticity. Domesticity,” said this note, “is the offspring of all the womanly virtues. The virtues impregnate the woman, and domesticity is the resultant child. Absence of a single womanly trait aborts or debilitates the offspring. Men have nothing whatever to do with it, and nothing is more abominable than a man who meddles with domestic matters.”
The rays of Miss Ram's disconcerting eye pushed George steadily backwards from the rock of such small confidence as remained to him. Assailed by the inquiring bows with which she now interrogated his further purpose, he slipped from it, plunged wildly into the sea of what he required, and for five minutes beat this way and that, hurling the splash of broken sentences at Miss Ram's unbending countenance.
Beginning a description of Mr. Marrapit's household, he floundered thence to a description of the required lady's duties; abandoning that unfinished, splashed to a description of the manner of person for whom he sought.
It was his object to paint a character and appearance as near to his Mary's as he could master; to induce Miss Ram to suggest her as likely candidate for the post. He could not introduce his Mary to his uncle unless she came under the auspices of some recognised institution.
So he floundered on.
Miss Ram did not move. His struggles grew less; he caught at haphazard words; flung them desperately; at last relapsed; sat sweating.
Miss Ram poked him with a questioning bow. He did not stir.
With a further bow she accepted his defeat; handed him a pink paper. “Now, kindly fill up this form. State precisely what you require. Write clearly, please.”
George obeyed. Miss Ram studied the answers to her printed interrogations; opened her ledger. “I have several suitable ladies.” She started to read a list. “Miss Minna Gregor; aged 25; daughter of the late Humphrey Gregor, stockbroker; three years' character from Mrs. Mountsaffron of Charles Street, to whom she was lady-help and from whom an excellent reference may be obtained.”
“Too old,” said George.
Miss Ram frowned; returned to the ledger. “Miss Ellen Hay; aged 20; daughter of Lieutenant Hay, late R.N. For two years with Mrs. Hoyle-Hoyle of Knightsbridge.”
George squeaked, “Too young.” He had not anticipated this ordeal.
Miss Ram read on. At the fifteenth name George was in desperate agitation. His list of objections was exhausted. Each protest had narrowed his field.
“This is the last upon my books,” Miss Ram severely told him. “She fills all your requirements. None of your objections applies. You will certainly engage her.”
“I feel sure I shall,” George brightly said. If this was the last name it must be Mary.
“I am glad to hear that,” Miss Ram announced. “You are hard to please. This is a most admirable young woman.”
George leaned forward with an expectant smile. Miss Ram read: “Miss Rosa Brump—”
George's smile died. An “Eh?” was startled out of him.
“Brump,” said Miss Ram testily. “Brump. B-r-u-m-p, Brump.”
George said “Oh!”; ran a finger around the inside of his collar.
Miss Ram read on, emphasising the Brumps with the suggestion of a ball bouncing from rock to rock:
“Miss Rosa Brump; aged 21; daughter of the late Selwyn Agburn Brump, barrister-at-law. Companion to Miss Victoria Shuttle of Shuttle Hall, Shuttle, Lines, until that lady's death. The late Miss Shuttle dying suddenly, Miss Brump has no reference from her. What that reference would have been, however, is clearly evidenced by the fact that in her will Miss Shuttle bequeathed 'to my faithful companion Rosa Brump,' her terra-cotta bust of the late Loomis Shuttle, Esq., J.P., inventor of the Shuttle liquid manure.”
Miss Ram wagged a finger at George. “That speaks for itself,” she said.
George did not answer. He was in a confusion of fear. This terrible woman would force Miss Brump upon him. He was powerless in her hands. He was in chains.
“Does it not?” poked Miss Ram.
“Rather,” said George. “Oh, rather.”
“Very good. I congratulate your uncle upon obtaining this estimable young woman. She should call here in a few minutes. You can then make final arrangements. Meanwhile, this form—”
George hurled himself free from this hypnotic panic. Anything must be done to shake off this intolerable Brump.
“One moment,” he said. “I had forgotten—”
“Well?”
“What colour is Miss Brump's hair?”
“Her what?”
“Hair. Her hair.”
“How extraordinary! Brown.”
George effected an admirable start. He echoed: “Brown? Oh, not brown?”
“Certainly. Brown.”
George mournfully shook his head. “Oh, dear! How unfortunate! I'm afraid Miss Brump will not suit, Miss Ram. My uncle—extraordinary foible—has a violent objection to brown hair. He will not have it in the house.”
“Unheard of!” Miss Ram snapped. “Unheard of!”
George rubbed together his sweating palms; blundered on. “None the less a fact,” he said impressively. He dropped his voice. “It is a very sad story. He had fifteen brothers—”
“Fifteen!”
“I assure you, yes. All were black-haired except one, who was brown—the first brown-haired child in the history of the house. 'Bantam' they used to call him when they were girls and boys together—'Bantam.'”
“Girls! You said brothers!”
“Ah, yes. Girls as well. Twelve, twelve girls.”
“Twelve girls and fifteen boys!”
“I assure you, yes. A record. As I was saying, the brown-haired child, he took to drink. It is most painful. Died in a madhouse. My uncle, head of the family, reeled beneath the stigma—reeled. Vowed from that day that he would never let a brown-haired person cross his threshold.”
George wiped his streaming face; sat back with a sigh. Miss Brump was buried.
Miss Ram's next words caused him to start in his seat.
“But your hair is brown.”
My contemptible George, all his lies now rushing furious upon him, put his hand to his head; withdrawing it, gazed at the palm with the air of one looking for a stain.
“How about that?” rapped Miss Ram.
George gave a wan smile. “It is my misfortune,” he said simply—“my little cross. We all have our burdens in this life, Miss Ram. Pardon me if I do not care to dwell upon mine.”
With a bow Miss Ram indicated sympathy; decorously closed the subject.
George gave a little sigh. With a simulation of brightness he proceeded: “You are sure you have no other lady?”
“I have one,” said Miss Ram. “She would not suit.”
“May I be allowed to judge?”
Miss Ram turned to the ledger. “'Miss Mary Humfray.'”
George started. “It is nothing,” he explained. “One of those shivers; that is all.”
Miss Ram bowed. “'Miss Mary Humfray; aged 21; only child of the late Colonel Humfray, Indian Army; references from former employer not good, but with extenuating circumstances.'”
“I think she might suit,” George said. “She—she—” he groped wildly—“she is the daughter of a colonel.”
“So were four others.”
George wiped his brow. “The—the only daughter.”
“You consider that a merit?”
“My uncle would. He has curious ideas. He is himself an only child.”
Miss Ram stared. George had the prescience of trouble, but could not find it. “Oh, yes,” he said, “oh, yes.”
“Fifteen brothers and twelve sis—”
George saw the gaping pit; sprang from it. “Has an only child,” he corrected. “Has, not is.”
Miss Ram glared, continued: “What of the absence of character?”
“I imagine the fact of being an only child would override that. You said there were extenuating circumstances?”
“There are. I personally would speak for the young lady.”
Excitement put George upon his feet. “I thank you very much, Miss Ram. I feel that this lady will suit.”
“You have asked nothing about her. With the others you were unusually particular.”
“I act greatly by instinct. It is a family trait. Something seems to assure me in this case.”
Miss Ram gazed searchingly at George; answered him upon an interested note. “Indeed!” she spoke. “Remarkable. Pray pardon me.” She drew “Aphorisms” from its drawer; hesitated a moment; with flowing pen wrote beneath “I.”
She turned towards George. “Pray pardon me,” she repeated. “What you tell me of acting by instinct greatly interests me as a student of character. In this little volume here I—allow me.” She emphasised with a quill-pen. “I. Instinct. Instinct is the Almighty's rudder with which He steers our frail barques upon the tempestuous sea of life at moments when otherwise we should be quite at a loss. Some of us answer quickly to this mysterious helm and for example something seems to tell them in the middle of the night that the house is on fire, and they get up and find it is. Let those who don't answer quickly beware!”
“That's awfully well put,” said George. “Awfully well.”
For the first time Miss Ram smiled. “You would wish to interview the young lady?” she asked. “Fortunately she is present. Kindly step to the Interview Room.”
She led the way. With thundering pulses George followed. His Mary rose. Miss Ram introduced them.
George rolled his tongue in a dry mouth; passed it over dry lips. He had no words.
“Have you no questions?” Miss Ram asked severely.
For a third time since he had entered this building, panic broke damply upon George's brow. He blew his nose; in a very faint voice asked: “Your age is twenty-one?”
Upon an agitated squeak his Mary told him: “Yes.”
“Ah!” In desperation he paused: caught Miss Ram's awful eye; was goaded to fresh plunge. “Ah, one-and-twenty?”
In a tiny squeak Mary replied: “Yes.”
He shuffled in desperation. “When will you be twenty-two?”
“In February.”
“Ah! February.” This was awful. “February.”
Miss Ram's eye stabbed him again.
“February. Then you must be twenty-one now?”
“Tch-tch!” sounded Miss Ram.
“Twenty-one,” George stammered. “Twenty-one—”
From the other room at that moment Miss Porter called.
“I am required,” said Miss Ram, “elsewhere. I will return in a moment.” She passed out; closed the door.
“My darling!” cried George.
“Georgie!”
They embraced.
He held her to him; kissed the soft gold hair.
On a movement in the next room his Mary wriggled free. “Tell me.”
“By Gad, it's been awful! Did you hear me in that room?”
She nodded, laughing at him. He kissed the smiles.
“Oh, do be careful! Let go, George; let go. I couldn't hear what you said. But you were hours—hours.”
“Years,” said George. “Years. Aeons of time. I have aged considerably. I thought it would never end. It was appalling.”
She clasped her pretty hands. “But tell me, George. Do tell me. I don't understand anything. What has happened?”
“Give me time,” George told her. “I am not the same George. The light-hearted George of yore is dead under Miss Ram's chair. I am old and seamed with care.”
“George, do, do tell me! Don't fool.”
“I'm not fooling. I can't fool. You don't realise what I have been through. You have no heart. I can't fool. When I was a child I thought as a child; I did childish things. But now that I have been through Miss Ram's hands my bright boyhood is sapped. I am old and stricken in years.”
“Oh, Georgie, do, do tell me!”
This ridiculous George gave a boyish laugh; clasped his Mary again; squeezed her to him till she gasped. “I've got you, Mary!” he said. He kissed the gold hair. “I've got you. I'm going to see you every day. You're coming down to live at Herons' Holt.”
Then he told her.
Miss Ram returned; directed at George a bow that Was one huge note of interrogation.
“Quite satisfactory,” George replied. “I am sure my uncle will agree.”
“There is, of course,” objected Miss Ram, “the unfortunate matter of references.”
George took a frank air. “Miss Ram, I am quite willing to take your personal assurances on that matter. On behalf of my uncle I accept them.”
“I will send a written statement of the matter,” said Miss Ram. Her air was dogged.
“I most solemnly assure you that is unnecessary.”
Miss Ram killed him with a bow. “It is my custom. I have the reputation of seventeen years to sustain.”
George quailed.
“Your uncle,” Miss Ram exclaimed, “will also wish to see Miss Humfray. She shall go this afternoon.”
“Not this afternoon,” George told her. “No. To-morrow. He could not see her to-day.”
“Very well. To-morrow. To-night I will write the references to him. Kindly pay the fee to Miss Porter in the office. Good morning!”
She pushed him off with a stabbing bow. He fled.
In that delectable interview during Miss Ram's absence George had arranged with his Mary that this was a day to be celebrated. She should not proceed instantly to be weighed by Mr. Marrapit; let that ordeal be given to the morrow. This splendid day should splendidly end; tremendous gaiety should with a golden clasp fasten the golden hours of the morning. In the afternoon he had a lecture and clinical demonstrations. Like a horse he would work till half-past six. At seven he would meet his Mary in Sloane Square.
So it was. At that hour George from the top of his 'bus spied his Mary upon the little island in the Square. He sprang down and his first action was to show a fat and heavy sovereign, pregnant with delights, lying in his palm.
“Borrowed,” said George. “One pound sterling. Twenty shillings net. And every penny of it is going to fly.”
He called a hansom, and they smoothly rolled to Earl's Court.
When sovereigns are rare possessions, how commanding an air the feel of one imparts! Mary watched her George with pride. How masterful was he! How deferential the head waiter at the restaurant in the Exhibition became! The man was putting them off with an inner table. Her George by a look and a word had him in a minute to right-abouts, and one of the coveted tables upon the verandah was theirs. Waiters flocked about. With such an air did George command the cheapest wine upon the list that the waiter, whose lip ordinarily would have curled at such an order, hastened to its execution with dignity of task, deference of service.
They ate robustly through the menu: faltered not nor checked at a single dish. They passed remarks upon their neighbours. At intervals George would say, “Isn't this fine, Mary?”; or his Mary would say, “Oh, Georgie, isn't this splendid?” And the other would answer, “Rather!”
A meal and a conversation to make your proper lovers shudder! There was no nibbling at and toying with food; there was no drinking and feasting from the light of one another's eyes. When George felt thirsty he would put his nose in the cheap claret and keep it there till mightily refreshed; such hungry yearnings as his Mary felt she satisfied with knife and fork. These were very simple children and exceedingly healthy.
But while his Mary's tongue ached with a cold, cold ice, George was in the pangs of mental arithmetic. As the bill stood, that pregnant sovereign had given birth to all the delights of which it was capable; was shattered and utterly wrecked in child-bed.
A waiter came bustling. There was just time. George leant across. “Mary, when I ask you if you'll have coffee, say you prefer it outside—it's cheaper there.”
“Coffee, sir?”
“Special coffee,” George ordered nonchalantly. “Yes, two. One moment. Would you rather have your coffee outside near the band, Mary?”
His Mary was splendid. She looked around the room, she looked into the cool night—and there her eye longer lingered. “It's cooler outside,” she said. “I think it would be nicer outside, if you don't mind.”
“All right.”
“Sure you don't mind?”
“Oh, no; no, not a bit. Bill, waiter.”
The waiter bowed low over his munificent tip; dropped it into a jingling pocket. George gathered his miserable change; slid it silently to where it lay companionless; with his Mary passed into the warm night.
In the Empress Gardens they found a hidden table; here sipped coffee, and here were most dreadfully common. Mary's hand crept into her George's; they spoke little. The warm night breeze gently kissed their faces; the band stirred deepest depths; they set their eyes upon the velvety darkness that lay beyond the lights, and there pictured one another in a delectable future. Mary saw a very wonderful George; now and then glimpsed a very happy little Mary in a wonderful home. George also saw a happy little Mary in a wonderful home, but he more clearly followed a very wonderful George, magnificently accomplishing the mighty things that made the little Mary happy.
George kissed his Mary upon the doorstep of the Battersea lodgings; caught scented hedges murmured to him with his Mary's voice.
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