Chapter IV: Part 4

Her sister was in a convalescent state, ready to talk of subjects other than Henry, and when the girl burst into the room which they jointly occupied, and throwing herself on the red couch, gave way to tears, comfort was close at hand. The sister wisely refrained at first from putting questions, allowed the girl to have her cry out, and only said soothingly, “It’s all right, dearie. Don’t worry more than you can help.” When composure returned, the solace of the confessional was utilised and the married sister listened, interjecting now and again, “Yes, I understand,” and “I quite see what you mean.”

“You don’t mind, I hope, if I point out,” she remarked, when the last word had been said, “that mother and I have always been persuading you to take up music or singing or some accomplishment of the kind.”

“I know,” admitted the girl penitently.

“And you have always said there were plenty of girls who could do these things, and that you were not going to bother about them. Now you see how important it is that you should keep them level with others. You must make hay whilst the sun shines,” quoted the married sister.

“I shall have to make a start.”

“And when we get back to London, you are going to set to work at once and learn some of these useful accomplishments?”

“I promise,” declared Miss Rodgers resolutely. “And I think, too, I should like to take up cooking. One never knows when it may come in handy.”

* * * * *

The performance went well, and nothing could have exceeded the graciousness of young Miss Rodgers towards the leading lady; few of the later compliments exceeded hers. Indeed, when, on the following day, the frost returned succeeded by a pleasant sprinkling of snow, she offered to take the leading lady out on the rink and charge herself with the responsibility of teaching the art of skating.

“No, dear,” replied the other. “Thank you very much, but no. As a matter of fact, although I try my best not to look it, I’m too old. Look after Mr. Masterson, instead. He admires you, and you mustn’t lose any chance of persuading him to continue to do so, indoors or out. I know what men are!”

IX—FOREIGN AFFAIRS

WE parted from Mr. Peter A. Chasemore at Bologna owing to a slight difference of opinion. Carolyn Stokes and myself had the notion that we should find Venice damp and possibly cold; Mr. Chasemore declared that to go home without seeing a gondola would give him a pain compared with which rheumatism might be considered a sensation of acute delight. There is no use denying the fact that we two women missed Mr. Chasemore a good deal. Confusion took place on the journey, for which I blamed Carolyn Stokes, and she blamed me. When with the assistance of luck we did reach the Belvedere our tempers were not improved by the fact that a young man and an elderly lady occupied, for the moment, the attention of the hotel people.

“Norman,” she said to him, as the proprietor eventually came to us, “you can consider yourself free for the remainder of the day.” He bowed. “Give me that; I will take charge of it.” Both Carolyn Stokes and myself noticed the name on the label as the leather case was being transferred.

I suppose the fact that there are no such titles where we come from caused the encounter to make an impression upon us; we watched her as she went up in the elevator, and noticed the special consideration paid by attendants. At home we reckon everybody to be equal, with a few exceptions, but here it was evident that to be called Lady Mirrible counted for something, and we naturally fell in with the local view. When you are in Rome you should do as the Romans do; the remark applies equally well to Florence. The young man gave way to us at the desk of the concierge, and Carolyn Stokes offered him a large smile.

“Have you come far?” she asked.

“Fairly good distance.”

“Are you going soon?”

“That doesn’t quite depend upon me,” he replied.

I mentioned when we were in our room that a considerable amount of information had not been extracted, and Carolyn Stokes said no doubt I should prove more successful in the game. I replied that this seemed highly probable, and we did not speak to each other again until the gong sounded in the corridor announcing that the meal was almost ready. Downstairs in the reading-room we encountered a nasty jar in the discovery that none of the rest of the people had dressed specially for dinner. This was one of the small difficulties caused by the absence of a man capable of making inquiries beforehand.

“I beg your pardon,” he remarked. He had taken the _Herald_ from the table just as my hand went out; he replaced it and selected a London journal. I was determined to let Carolyn Stokes see that I could manage the situation better than she had done.

“You are not an American?” I asked.

“I am only English.”

“We have met several very pleasant folk from your country in the course of our travels.”

“How extremely fortunate.”

“What startles us amongst you is your class distinctions. You should, I think, make an endeavour to break down the barriers.”

“Something ought certainly to be done,” he agreed. And went off with his newspaper.

Carolyn Stokes mentioned—not for the first time—that she was old enough to be my mother, and went on to argue that whereas it was quite permissible for a woman of her age to speak at an hotel to a stranger, the case was entirely different where a girl of twenty was concerned. All the same when she found him seated at the next table in the dining-room she allowed me to take the chair which enabled me to speak across to him without twisting my neck. From what I heard him say to the waiter I gained that her ladyship was taking the meal in her own room.

Carolyn Stokes has many estimable qualities, but I have more than once had to point out to her that she does not exercise a sufficient amount of restraint over her conversational powers. Also she pitches her voice somewhat high, rather as though she, being at Liverpool, were addressing a public meeting in New York. I am myself a good and fluent talker, but my chances are small if I enter into competition with Carolyn. It was difficult, however, to overlook the fact that he preferred listening to me, and when we both spoke at once it was I who secured his attention. I asked him what there was to be seen in Florence of an evening when the picture galleries were closed, and he said we could not do better than stroll down the Lung ’Arno, see the Vecchio bridge, returning by way of the Piazza Vittore Emmanuele.

“We should scarcely dare to go out alone,” I remarked.

He crumbled his bread for a moment.

“I think,” he said, “it will be possible for me to place myself at your disposal.”

“That is perfectly sweet of you,” cried Carolyn Stokes. We arranged to meet at nine o’clock in the entrance hall.

Taking our coffee in the drawing-room Carolyn and myself came to the conclusion that there was more in the wisdom of Providence than some people care to admit. If Mr. Chasemore had decided to come on with us to Florence the likelihood was that we should have had no opportunity of making this very fortunate and delightful acquaintance; there would have been less to record in our diaries under the heading of that day. Carolyn’s impression was that the son of a titled lady was a viscount, but she could not be certain; she had on some far-distant occasion studied the matter thoroughly, but most of the information then acquired seemed to have been erased from her mind. Anyway the chance was too good to lose, and Carolyn Stokes said the great thing was to exhibit not too much eagerness, but to allow friendship to ripen, so to speak, in the course of the next twenty-four hours. Carolyn has a distinct streak of sentimentality in her character, and she spoke of the influence of blue Italian skies and the moon shining on the water, and Dante and Beatrice, and the new hat I had purchased in the Via Condotti at Rome. We went upstairs to put on some wraps.

In the passage her ladyship’s head was out of her door, and she was calling in an imperative kind of way.

“Norman, Norman! Where on earth has he got to again? Never here somehow when he’s wanted.” One of the hotel maids came along and she gave her a message. “The lad really,” she said, taking her head in, “is perfectly useless.”

Carolyn Stokes was occupying a few minutes later a central position at the mirror in our room when she suddenly gave a shriek; I assumed it was only the presence of a moth in the room. As she did not shriek again I considered the hideous danger was past and done with, and I requested her to permit me to share the mirror for a moment.

“Child,” she announced in a subdued sort of voice and still gazing into the glass, “I have seen it all in a flash. You are under the impression that he is some sort of a nobleman. He is nothing of the kind. He is merely a footman or a courier, paid a moderate amount per week to attend on this Lady Somebody. That’s what he is,” she said, striking the dressing table, “and I am more thankful than I can express that I have discovered it in time.”

“The question can be easily decided,” I mentioned. “We have only to glance in the book kept at the desk below.”

“I did that, but they have not yet registered.”

“Then a question must be put to the people of the hotel.”

“That I also did,” replied Carolyn Stokes, “and their acquaintance with the American language made them assume that I required a postcard with a view of the cathedral. They have no right,” she went on vehemently, “in these foreign hotels to allow a footman to dine with the other guests. I know it is done, but no one will persuade me that it is right or fair to respectable visitors. It ought to be stopped.”

I sat on the rocking chair and took some violent exercise for a few minutes in order to collect my thoughts. It seemed we were in a somewhat difficult corner. To stay in our room only meant that he would come and knock at the door; the wisest plan appeared to be to effect an escape. Carolyn Stokes, for once, agreed with me.

“I wish Mr. Chasemore were here,” she said.

We went along the corridor very quietly and crept down the staircase. From the last landing we could see him waiting near the desk of the concierge. There was no means of slipping past without being seen.

“I tell you what to do!” I whispered. “You must go and inform him that I have been taken suddenly ill.”

“A good idea,” she said, “but I would so much rather you went and told him that I was ill.”

He tapped with his walking-stick impatiently on the floor, moved to examine letters in the rack. I pulled at Carolyn Stokes’s arm in order to persuade her to make a run for it; before I could arouse her dormant intelligence he had returned to his former position. He glanced at the clock and at his watch; Carolyn Stokes sat on the stairs.

“Meanwhile,” I grumbled, “we are missing valuable moments in a most interesting and historical city.”

“Think,” she said impressively, “think of the fate from which I have saved you.”

The call of “Norman!” came again, but apparently it did not reach his ears. I am a creature of impulse and, without thinking, I imitated the call. He whipped off his cap at once, laid down his walking-stick and started up, taking two steps at a time and coming near to us.

Carolyn Stokes and myself will never be able to decide which of us took the initiative, which gripped at the other and used some amount of force. We discovered ourselves in the nearest room, where an elderly gentleman was about to retire to rest; I had never thought the time would come when I should be thankful for not understanding a foreign language. The young man rushed by; we made our escape just as the aged person was about to throw a hair brush.

We tried to persuade ourselves, in walking along the side of the river, that all was well that ended well. Carolyn Stokes said the experience was one she wished never to undergo again, and for some reason reproached me. We walked as far as the Trinity Bridge, turned to the left, found ourselves in the Via del Moro, came later to the Piazza de St. Maria Novello, took what we thought would be a short cut for the hotel, and lost ourselves. Carolyn Stokes asked the way of two or three people in tones quite loud enough to enable them to understand, but success did not crown her efforts.

“Why, here you are!” cried an English voice. We turned, and for the moment we both forgot how anxious we had been not to meet him. “Now, how in the world did I manage to miss you? My fault, I’m sure.”

“It would be kind of you,” said Carolyn Stokes with reserve, “to put us in the right direction for our hotel.”

“But, of course, I’ll see you back there with the greatest pleasure. Unless you like to allow me, even now, to show you round the town. As a matter of fact, the hotel is just round the corner. There’s the Garibaldi statue.”

“I am somewhat fatigued,” she said, “and I would prefer to return.”

“And you?” he said, turning to me.

“There has been a mistake made,” I answered resolutely. “We took you for somebody else. You must allow us to close the acquaintance here and now.”

“No idea I had a double,” he remarked. “This matter must be looked into or complications may ensue.”

“We jumped to the conclusion that you were the son of the lady you are travelling with.”

“I am,” he answered. Carolyn Stokes and I began to talk together; he appeared to do his best to understand us, but presently gave up the attempt and led the way to the hotel. There in the entrance hall he spoke again.

“So it was because I showed some attention to my dear mother that you thought I was a courier.”

We interrupted, and endeavoured once more to explain.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Had an idea this was going to be quite a pleasant friendship. Goodbye.”

I kept awake half that night making my plans. But in the morning fresh English visitors—more titles—had arrived, and some of them knew him, and they surrounded him, and the girls made a fuss of him, and there was no chance of my getting near. A letter came for me from Venice saying that the writer would be in Milan on Wednesday. “Yours with affectionate regards, P. A. C.”

I have now to rely upon my tact and my industry and my own bright, intelligent young mind to assist me in marrying Mr. Peter A. Chasemore.

X—BEFORE LUNCH

OTHER travellers were becoming jammed in the corridor of the train, their tempers taking the tone of acerbity easy to those about to start on a railway journey. A determined young woman came up the step, and supported the conductor in an appeal for order, addressing herself more particularly to the English passengers; quiet obtained, she took the first advantage of it by presenting her ticket. The conductor showed gratitude by escorting her at once to her place.

“You don’t mean to say—” stammered the occupant of seat Number Twenty. “It can’t be! I shall begin to think I’m losing my senses.”

“If you’re Mr. Chiswell,” she replied briskly, “there’s no reason to be afraid of that.”

“A remark,” protested Mr. Chiswell, “so unkind that I can tell it comes from nobody but Miss Everitt.” She lifted her bag to the rack, and when she had succeeded in placing it there, he made a gesture of assistance. Glancing at herself in the mirror below the rack, she remarked that she looked a perfect bird frightener.

“I don’t agree with you,” he said.

“So far as I remember,” she said, “you seldom did.”

“We won’t exaggerate,” urged Mr. Chiswell. “For my part, I’m very glad that we’re to be fellow travellers, and I trust we shall have a pleasant journey. It’s clear enough to me, Miss Everitt, that fate has brought us together again.”

“Then I wish to goodness fate would mind its own business.”

The last passenger came into the saloon; the conductor’s forehead cleared of wrinkles, and he hung up his brown peaked cap with a sigh of relief. The train moved out from the Gare de Lyon in a casual way, as though it were going for a short stroll, and giving no indication that it intended to occupy the day by racing down the map of France. Folk on the low platform of the station waved handkerchiefs, blew kisses, cried.

“Is Freddy with you?” asked Miss Everitt.

“Need you ask! Is Emily with you?”

“Course she is.”

“Neither of ’em married?”

“Neither of them married,” agreed Miss Everitt. “Just as well perhaps. There are people who, so long as they remain single, can keep up a certain style and position; once they get spliced, first thing they do is to cut down expenses.”

“Exactly the view I took of it,” he cried eagerly. He leaned forward, and gave a glance around the saloon to make certain that no one listened. “Just the way I looked at the matter. Between ourselves, it was because of that I acted as I did.”

The attendant from the dining-car came to inquire whether the passengers wished to lunch in the first series, or in the second series; the two, after consultation, settled to take the meal together at the later hour. They found new grounds for agreement in the view that coffee and rolls at half-past seven in the morning, at a Paris hotel, formed but a mere imitation of a breakfast.

“I know perfectly well that what I’m going to tell you,” said Chiswell confidentially, “won’t go any further. I recollect how in the old days when we were—well, friends—you always knew when to keep your mouth shut. A great quality, that, in a girl, and I don’t want to flatter you when I say that one very seldom comes across it. What I’m about to tell you refers to—”

He jerked his head, and she nodded.

“They might meet,” she said.

“It wouldn’t matter,” he replied confidently. “They’re not on speaking terms now.”

“Fire away with what you were going to tell me.”

“As a Member of Parliament,” began Mr. Chiswell, “Freddy was not what the world might call a roaring success. Used to take a lot of trouble, and the Duke, his old father, was always getting at him, and asking when he was going to be asked to join the Cabinet. As a matter of fact, his speeches sounded all right when he said ’em off to me in Curzon Street, but apparently when he tried ’em in the House they didn’t go for nuts. I never went down there to hear him—got too much respect for myself to go near the place—but I always read the Parliamentary reports, and there, when he did get the chance of speaking, the papers mentioned his name amongst the ‘Also spokes,’ and that was about all. Whatever faults he may have had as a Member of Parliament, he was, and he is, a first-class chap to valet, and I don’t care”—Mr. Chiswell gave a resolute gesture—“I don’t care where the next comes from. I’ve only to say one word against a suit of clothes, and that suit of clothes is virtually handed over to me on the spot. I know to a penny what his income is, and I know to a penny what his expenses amount to. A peculiar chap, mind you, in some ways; never able, for instance, to bear the idea of being in debt. Most extraordinary, with people of his class.”

Chiswell dismissed this problem.

“Now you must understand—you know me well enough to realise it—that I’m not one of those who want to be always chopping and changing. If I’m in a nice comfortable easy-chair like this, I’m not the kind of chap to give it up, and go and sit out there in the corridor on a tip-up wooden seat. I’m the sort that—”

“Leave off bragging as soon as you’re tired,” suggested Miss Everitt, “and get on with your story.”

The young man, an elbow resting on the ledge of the window, and giving no attention to the scenery which flew past, with a straight road curling up like a length of white ribbon, applied himself to the task of describing the course of procedure adopted. The girl gave now and again a cough of criticism, here and there a slightly astonished lift of the eyebrows. Occasionally she sniffed at a bottle of Eau de Cologne with the air—obviously copied from some superior model—the air of having temporarily lost interest in the subject. Stated with a brevity that Chiswell, the day before him and personal exultation behind, could not be induced to show, the particulars might be fairly stated thus. Chiswell—

“Mind you,” he said firmly, “no one can call me a Paul Pryer. I look after myself; I don’t profess to look after others.”

—Chiswell happened, by chance, to come across a note addressed to his master which, so far as he could judge, had no reference to his master’s Parliamentary duties, or to any scheme for improvement of the masses; he founded his opinion on the fact that it commenced “My dearest.” Chiswell, a man of the world, would have been prepared to exercise tolerance and to pass it by with a wink, but for the fact that the communication was dated from an exclusive ladies’ club; the fact that the writer adopted a pen name baffled him and aroused his curiosity. He left the letter on the table, and concealed inquisitiveness until he should be entrusted with letters for the post. Looking through the bundle handed to him at four o’clock he felt pained and grieved to find that his master had not trusted him fully and entirely; the envelopes were addressed either to Esquires or to ladies known to the world as seriously interested in the work of the party. He particularly asked whether there were any other communications to be placed in the pillar box for despatch, and his master, on the point of running off to the House, distinctly and formally answered:

“No, Chiswell. That’s the lot. Don’t forget to post them.”

“Quite sure, sir?”

The reply to this polite and deferential question came in the form of a request, first that Chiswell should not be a fool, second that if he could not help being a fool, he would at any rate take steps to hide and to mask the circumstance. Chiswell was affected by these remarks as a duck is concerned by water running over its back; what did perturb him was the want of confidence shown between master and man after an acquaintance that had lasted for years. Chiswell, pondering on this, was placing the letters singly in the pillar box and giving to each a final examination when he discovered that one, addressed to—

“I know!” said Miss Everitt, much interested.

—Bore a special sign on the flap of the envelope. Mr. Chiswell, scarce hoping that he had struck the trail, retained this and kept it back for further consideration.

The custom of placing scarlet wax on the flap of an envelope and impressing the wax with a seal is probably an old-fashioned tradition dating from the days when gum could not be trusted. In the case of an envelope fastened in the ordinary way, Chiswell would have had to take the trouble of placing a kettle on the gas stove; in the present instance his work was rendered easy by the help of a penknife and, later, the use of a stick of wax and the seal. The matter appeared to be serious. A passing flirtation Chiswell might have permitted, although that he would have held undignified in a Member of the House of Commons, but within the few lines of the letter before him there seemed a plain hint of marriage. He was about to tear up the letter in the hope of thus giving a start to a misunderstanding when it suddenly occurred to him—

“An inspiration,” said Chiswell contentedly. “That’s what you may call it.”

—It suddenly occurred to him that the insertion of two words in the brief note, just two words in a space that seemed to have been left temptingly for them, would entirely alter the meaning: changing it from a hurried message of affection into a hasty intimation of dislike. “Do not” were the two words, and Chiswell took the pen and wrote them as quickly as he now, in the Cote d’Azur express, spoke them.

“You’re not blaming me,” urged Mr. Chiswell apprehensively.

“Go on,” she ordered.

Little else to go on about. The letter, resealed, went to its destination; the General Election came, and that meant a quick departure for the country. Freddy, greatly worried with one matter and another, seemed, so far as his valet could judge, to enter upon the contest in anything but a whole-hearted fashion; Chiswell managed to intercept and cancel a telegram sent to the same young party, urgently begging her to come and help. The meetings were noisy, and the candidate, who but a few years before made retorts which became classical, and delivered speeches the reports of which had to be decorated by reporters with “Loud laughter” and “Long and continued cheering,” gave no signs of alertness, falling back on dreary statistics which he himself could not understand, and his audiences declined to accept. Now that it was all over, they were on their way to Nice, where Chiswell hoped to meet no one but other defeated candidates and attendants who, it might be hoped, would, in their own interests, abstain from the vulgar chaff to which he and his master had been subjected in town.

“But what I want to point out to you, my dear—beg pardon—what I want to say is that I managed to stop him from entering upon marriage, and in doing so, I reckon I did a good turn for myself, and that I did a good turn for you.”

“She was very much worried and upset.”

Chiswell stretched himself luxuriously.

“It don’t do to share other people’s anxieties,” he said. “Great thing in this world is to keep trouble off your own shoulders. Do that, and you may reckon you’ve done pretty well. How have you been getting along since—since—”

“Since you dropped me?”

“Mutual consent,” he argued, rather uneasily, “mutual consent.” Both looked out of the window for a time. “By the by, do you ever see anything of that chap Miller? You don’t remember him perhaps; he was in Grosvenor Gardens when last I heard of him.”

“I believe he’s there still,” she answered, examining the tips of her boots.

“When did you—”

“Oh, don’t bother me!” cried Miss Everitt sharply. “You’re always wanting to know everything about everybody. A nuisance, that’s what you are.”

“I’ve got no grievance against Miller,” contended Chiswell. “You’re doing me an injustice. Me and Miller are good friends enough. Last time I met him he gave me some information, and we parted on what I may call the most amicable terms. I shouldn’t at all mind,” he went on generously, “I shouldn’t object in the least to running across poor Miller again.”

“You needn’t call him ‘poor.’”

“I’m not using the term,” said Mr. Chiswell, “in a monetary sense.”

“The monetary sense, as you call it, is about the only one you possess.”

Noting that she tapped the side of her easy-chair and that her head trembled, he decided to say nothing more on the subject, reverting instead to the matter already discussed. In going over some of the circumstances he found excuse for increased content; the swiftness of his action, and the general dexterity he had displayed made his eyes grow round and bulgy. The dining-car attendant came through to announce that the first series for lunch was ready, and Chiswell said he would smoke one cigarette and then go along and see whether his services were required by Freddy. Miss Everitt rose, remarking that it would be well, perhaps, for her to ascertain, at once, whether she could be of any use to Emily.

They returned to their chairs in less than five minutes: one perturbed, the other calm.

“Well, of all the—” he spluttered. “What I mean to say is, what in the world is going to happen next, I wonder?”

“That’s more than either of us can tell,” remarked Miss Everitt composedly. “What I know is that I do want my lunch. Sight of food in the dining-car has made me feel hungry.”

“The two of them! The two of them sitting there at a small table opposite each other!”

“I caught sight through the glass door of the bill of fare,” said Miss Everitt. “The name of the fish I couldn’t quite make out, but there were côtes de boeuf rôtis, and poularde, and haricots verts—”

“They were sharing a bottle of Chablis together. And he—he’d placed his hand on the top of her hand. Did you notice?”

“Wonder whether they’ll give us an ice?”

Chiswell found a handkerchief and rubbed his forehead.

“All very well for you to sit there and talk about food; how do you know that now they’ve met and made it up, that she won’t get rid of you in the same way that he’s jolly well certain to manage without me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, with calm. “I’ve saved!”

“The amount you’ve saved, my girl,” he declared, “will last you for just about five weeks.”

“What do you know about how much I’ve put by?” she demanded.

“I can tell you the sum to within a pound. I can write it down now, if you’ll lend me a lead pencil.”

He scribbled some figures on the margin of his newspaper, and handed it across to her.

“Guess again!” she said.

“It isn’t a question of guessing,” he said. “I happen to know. Unless you’ve made a considerable sum within the last three months, that’s the exact amount.”

“You really believed, then, what Mr. Miller told you?”

The conductor came, and returned to each the green cardboard covers enclosing their tickets. Under the impression that Chiswell was still a blade, a chum, a jovial companion, the conductor aimed at him a cheerful blow on the shoulder, and the train giving at this moment a lurch, the action took something of a more aggressive nature. Chiswell blazed up, trying to disengage himself from his coat. Other passengers in the saloon looked around interestedly; Miss Everitt interposed and ordered Chiswell to behave himself, to remember that he was in the presence of ladies. The conductor apologised and went on; the French passengers remarked to each other that the English formed an excitable nation.

“Pardon me,” said Chiswell to his companion, “but I should like to know your facts. I should be very glad indeed if you’ll kindly place me in possession of the true circumstances. To put it plainly—here’s your pencil—how much have you actually got in the bank on deposit, or on current account at the present moment? That’s all I want to know.”

She struck out his figures and wrote underneath. Leaning over he gave a whistle of astonishment.

“My dear,” he said deferentially. “There’s been a misunderstanding, due to the interference of outsiders. It’s not too late to put it all smooth and right again, but at the same time I’m bound to say such conduct is altogether inexcusable. When I come across Miller, I shall tell him so to his face. Who asked him to come to me, and give me wrong information, I should like to know?”

“I did!” she remarked. “But I’ve just made up for it by giving correct information on another subject to my young mistress.”

Chiswell threw himself back in his chair, and gazed severely at the roof of the saloon carriage.

“All I can say is,” he declared, “it’s absolutely ruined my lunch.”

XI—COUNTER ATTRACTIONS

HALF the time I don’t trouble to look up at them, especially when I happen to be busy. They put their money underneath the brass wire; they ask for what they want; it’s given to them, and off they go. If any other plan was adopted we should never get through the work at our office, and there would be complaints to answer, and the superintendent might send some one along to kick up a row. As Miss Maitland says, when all the customers are made on one pattern everything will be much easier to manage; meanwhile we can’t do better than to do the best we can, and to recognise that some are in a hurry, some are just the reverse.

“Above all,” mentioned Miss Maitland, when I first came here, “no carrying on across the counter with young gentlemen.”

“When you’ve known me longer, Miss Maitland,” I said, “you’ll see how unnecessary it is to make a remark like that.”

“I’m only warning you for your own good.”

“I can behave myself,” I said, “as well as most girls. The fact that I’m a bit above the average in regard to looks—”

“Is that really a fact?” inquired Miss Maitland.

The very queer thing about it all was that he came in on the afternoon of the very second day I was there. I was having an argument about a halfpenny with a lady sending a telegram, and she said that she always understood we were well paid, and if that was true we ought not to try to make anything extra. I kept my temper, but I daresay I managed to say what I wanted to say—I generally do—and eventually she took the telegram back and decided to take a cab to Charing Cross and send it from there.

“Shilling’sworth of your best stamps,” he requested; “I want them to match my necktie.”

“Pennies or halfpennies?” I asked. You can understand I wasn’t in the mood for nonsense just then.

“Which are most fashionable just now, miss? I don’t want to look odd or conspicuous.”

“You’ll do that in any case. Kindly say what you want.”

“Perhaps I’ll try sixpennyworth of each,” he said.

I tore them off and pushed them underneath the trellis.

“Are these absolutely fresh? I may not be cooking them at once, you see. They’ll be all right, I suppose, if I keep them on ice?”

“You may as well put your head there at the same time,” I said.

The other girls on my side of the counter looked around, and Miss Maitland gave a cough.

“Heavens!” he said, putting on a deep voice, “how I adore the fair creature! Ere yonder sun sinks to its rest she must, she shall, be mine.”

I glanced up at him, prepared to give him such a haughty look, but I found he was a good-tempered-looking young fellow with his straw hat tipped to the back of his head, and somehow I couldn’t manage my cold stare quite so well as usual. Two or three people entered through the swing doors at that moment and came straight to my part of the counter.

“Very well then,” he said loudly, “that’s arranged. Outside the British Museum Tube Station half-past eight to-night. Mind, I shan’t wait more than ten minutes.”

The fuss Miss Maitland made just because I’d answered him back! I had a good mind to say something about old maids, but I stopped it just in time; instead I thought it the best plan to say he was a great friend of my brother’s and that he was one of those peculiar young gentlemen who had the impression that he ought to keep up his reputation for being comic.

“If he comes in again,” said Miss Maitland, “call me, and I’ll show you how to deal with him.”

The next day at about the same time I noticed out of the corner of my eye his lordship at the doors. He came in and I knew he was looking for me; to please Miss Maitland I went along to deal with some registered letters; she left her stool and took my place. “Now,” I said to myself, “now he’ll get his head bitten off.” I was engaged with work for about five minutes, and to my surprise, when I had finished, there was Miss Maitland chatting away with him as amiably as possible. “I like to go somewhere fresh every year,” she was saying. “That’s why I went to Windermere last summer.” He said, “Not in July by any chance?” and she said, “Yes, the middle of July.” It appeared he had been there at that date; not exactly Windermere but at Bowness, and he remarked—talking to her in a very different way from the one he had adopted with me—that it would have greatly improved his holiday if he had been so fortunate as to meet her. Maity gave a sort of smile and was about to make some further remark when he took out his watch, lifted his straw hat, hurried away.

“Really,” she said to me, still flushed with the conversation and looking quite young, “really a very well-spoken gentleman. Depends a good deal on how we approach them. If they think we want silly talk, why naturally enough they give it. In a general way,” concluded Maity, as though she possessed a wide and considerable experience, “in a general way men treat us as we deserve to be treated.”

He came in again that afternoon to use the telephone; the box was occupied and he had to wait. We were all watching to see how he would behave this time; lo and behold if he didn’t take a big book from underneath his arm called The Horse and his Health and read carefully, taking no notice of any of us. Maity looked disappointed, and one of the girls said the great drawback about men was that they were never twice alike.

That was the evening I found him waiting outside. It always rains when I leave my umbrella at home, and I couldn’t very well refuse his offer to see me into the motor omnibus, and it was certainly kind of him to suggest that I should take his gamp. I told him that the bus took me within a minute and a half of mother’s house.

At the time I was in the habit of telling mother everything, and she decided—not often she praised me—that I had behaved in a ladylike manner, and mentioned it would be a good thing if every mother brought up children as she had treated me. Mother told me about one or two half-engagements that occurred before she married poor father, and gave me one piece of advice which she said was worth its weight in gold, namely, that the moment you saw a young man getting fond of you the best plan was to pretend to be indifferent and in this way to make him see that there was a lot of hard work in front of him. Mother said this three times to impress it on my memory.

How in the world he found out the name it was not easy to see, but, as every one is aware, people spare themselves no trouble when they become fond of anybody. However that may be, the fact remains that a letter came, signed W. J. C., saying the writer would be at the statue on a certain day and at a certain hour, and, just for fun, I kept the appointment. Maity was very nice about giving me leave, and I waited there ten minutes. For a full ten minutes nothing happened, and I had to look at the omnibuses as they stopped in order to pretend I wanted to catch one of them. Presently I caught sight of him looking in a newspaper shop, and taking his time over it too. I became so mad that if there had been a pebble about I think I should have picked it up and thrown it at him. He turned, and I had to wave my muff in order to gain his attention.

“Hullo,” he said, coming across. “Taking up express messenger-boy work? Where’s your parcel?”

“I came here,” I said coldly, “because I was asked to do so, and for no other reason. I’ve no desire to be made to look like an idiot.”

“Plenty of easier tasks than that,” he mentioned. “I should reckon you were one of the most sensible girls going.”

“People say that about a lady when they can’t think of any other compliment to pay her.”

“Are you waiting for anybody, I wonder?”

“I wish you wouldn’t try to make jokes.”

“My dear girl,” he cried, and he seemed greatly concerned, “please forgive me. And now that we’re here, what shall we do?” He looked around, glanced at his watch, and sighed. “Come along and see a bioscope show.”

We caught a bus and went to one of the swell places in Oxford Street; I couldn’t help feeling pleased when I noticed that he paid eighteenpence each for seats. You can say what you like, and you can talk about the joys of being independent, but there’s something very gratifying in discovering for the first time that a gentleman is willing to take your ticket for you. Of course the place was all darkened whilst the pictures were going on, and I thought perhaps he would try to take my hand, and I was prepared to give him a pretty sharp remark if he did; but nothing happened, and I couldn’t make it out at all. It was nothing like what I’d read in books; nothing like what other girls had told me.

“You seem a very comfortable set in your office,” he said when the lights went up. “All on good terms with each other, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so,” I answered. “It’s my first experience, you see. What age do you think I am?”

“I should say that you are young enough to be pleased if I guessed you to be older than you really are. Shall we say nineteen?”

“Eighteen next birthday, and that’s on Tuesday of next week.” (There’s nothing like giving a hint.)

“What have you been doing all these eighteen years?”

“Improving myself,” I said.

“You can give that up now you are perfect.”

The lights went down again, and there was set of pictures about a girl who was being loved by two gentlemen—one rather plain with plenty of money and the other much better-looking but apparently only a clerk. I thought over his last remark and tried to discover whether he was still joking or whether he really meant it—if he did mean it it was a very gratifying thing to be said, especially in view of the fact that mother is generally finding fault with me. She has often said that I’m the worst girl in the world for leaving my shoes about and not putting a book away when I have done with it, and all this going on day after day, week after week, had given me a kind of a lurking suspicion that I wasn’t quite up to the mark. When the pictures showed that the plain man’s money really belonged to the good-looking chap he began to talk again and went back once more to the subject of the post office. I would rather he had spoken of something else; I wanted to forget Maity and the rest of them for awhile.

“Are many of them engaged?” he asked.

“Two of them say they are,” I replied. “I should feel inclined to guess it was only a half-and-half affair in either case.”

“Wonder what their names are?” I told him and he seemed relieved. “It’s very strange,” he went on, speaking in a more serious way than usual, “how these affairs happen. Looks as though some one who exercises control jumbles all the names into two hats and picks out one from each at random and decides that they shall meet each other and fall in love.”

“A good deal of it is mere luck,” I agreed. “Mother met father at a dance at the Athenæum up at the end of Camden Road. Of course a steward introduced them, but to all intents and purposes they were strangers.”

“A man goes on,” he said, still thoughtfully, “fighting pretty hard and not giving much attention to the other sex and all at once he catches sight of a face, through, say, brass trelliswork, and instantly he decides ‘That’s the girl for me.’ And he thinks of nothing else, can’t keep away from the neighbourhood of her, and—” He put his hands over his eyes and bent down.

I felt sorry and I felt pleased if you understand that; sorry for him, pleased for myself—seemed as though I had done him an injustice. It showed that you could not reckon any one up correctly by their outside manner. At the first I had no idea he was anything but the ordinary chaffing sort of young gentleman, and here he was obviously upset. All very well for mother to say that you ought to keep them at arm’s length when they are fond of you, but I simply couldn’t help patting his sleeve gently.

“Thanks very much,” he said gratefully. “You’re a good little girl and I’m really obliged to you.”

There was a funny set after this, with a short-sighted old gentleman blundering over everything he did, getting mixed up with motor cars, carried up by a balloon, tumbling down the funnel of a ship, and finally being rolled out flat by a steam roller, and pulling himself together and walking off.

“Always feel sorry for people who have to wear glasses,” I remarked.

“It improves some people.”

“I don’t agree with you. See how peculiar our old joker looks at the office.”

He stared at me.

“Surely you don’t mean that Miss Maitland?” he said.

“Of course I mean that Miss Maitland. Who else should I be referring to?”

He pressed the palm of a hand against his forehead.

“Let us get this straight,” he urged. “We seem to be in a muddle. Your name is Maitland, isn’t it?”

“My name is Barnes. Up to the present.”

“Then that confounded new messenger boy took my shilling and mixed up the information, and”—he stopped and fanned himself—“and you received the letter I intended for her.”

“I wish to goodness,” I said forcibly, “that some of you men had got a little more common sense.”

* * * * *

Mother says everything in this world happens for the best, and in all probability there’s some one else waiting for me somewhere. Mother says I have plenty of time in front of me; mother herself was twenty-eight before she married. Mother says there is no need for me to feel nervous until I get past that age.

XII—HERO OF HAMMERTON STREET

HE had been away so long that few people remembered him, but his last exploit before leaving ensured that in the minds of those few he remained clear and definite. His wife, when she set out to meet him, was accompanied by a Reception Committee of three, and as they waited outside the large building where he had been staying for the last few months (his hosts kept several important establishments in various parts of the country and he had spent part of the time at one, part at others), as they waited, I say, under the avenue of trees well away from the front door—having, as a point of delicacy, no desire to be seen by the servants about the place—they speculated on the probable improvement in his personal appearance. Members of the Committee recalled precedents where So-and-so went away stout and unhealthy on a vacation of similar length, and came back so trim and brown that his own sweetheart would not have known him had she remained in the neighbourhood.

“Here he is!” cried the wife suddenly. “I could tell him, bless ’is heart, in a thousan’.”

“That ain’t him!”

“He’s got a short beard, at any rate,” urged the wife, admitting her error grudgingly as the visitor was claimed and marched off by another lady.

“They all ’ave. Try to use your intelligence, why don’t you!”

“Well,” said the wife, pointing her umbrella at a sharp-eyed man, who, coming out of the large doorway, glanced around suspiciously, “well, at least that’s not my Jim.” The sharp-eyed man came across the open space towards them, still keeping a look-out on either side. “He’s mistaking us for his own people. My Jim’s a better-looking man than him.”

“If you say that again, Meria,” remarked the arriving man in tones that could not be mistaken, “I shall have to— Now then, now then! I don’t want no kissing!”

He was dressed in a suit for which he had not been measured, and his boots were scarcely a precise fit; he shambled along with his friends, responding gruffly to their polite inquiries and complaining bitterly—first, that they should have come to meet him; second, that so many friends were absent. Informed that some of these were no longer alive, he declined to accept this as a sufficient excuse, describing them as a cantankerous lot, ever thoughtless where the feelings of others were concerned. They stopped quite naturally at the first place of refreshment, and he criticised the beverage set before him, declaring that had he known beer could be so bad, he would not have worried his thoughts so much about it during recent years. He was equally dissatisfied with his first pipe of tobacco, which he had some trouble to light, and when he heard that his sister had married a respectable fruiterer, off Bethnal Green Road, he made no attempt to conceal his annoyance with the way the world had been managed during his absence.

“Once I turn my back for a moment—” he said disgustedly. “Who’s got the pub at the corner of our street?”

“I’ve moved, James,” explained his wife apologetically.

“Moved? Who told you to move?”

“The landlord, dear.”

“Don’t you begin ‘dearing’ of me,” he retorted threateningly. “Why wasn’t I asked?”

“There was no opportunity, James.”

“Bah!” he said, in the manner of one who can find no other repartee. He turned to the men. “What ’ave you three come all the way down ere’ for? On the make, I s’pose?”

“We are not on the make,” said the leader precisely. “Recollecting what you was put away for, we have come down ’ere to offer you, as something in the nature of a hero, a ’earty welcome on your return to what we may venture to term your ’earth and ’ome.” James relaxed the sternness of his demeanour, and took another sip from his glass, this time without making a wry face. “We’re a-going to make a fuss of you, old man.”

“Don’t go overdoing it,” he said grudgingly.

They reached Hoxton at about noon, not because the way was long, but because the Committee, possessing funds, desired to do the thing well. A neighbour had taken charge of the arrangements for dinner, and the three men, arrived at the door in Hammerton Street, mentioned gracefully that the reunited pair would in all probability like to be left alone for a few hours, and withdrew; first, however, warning James that he would be expected at the Green Man that evening at eight o’clock precisely, at which hour a few select friends would be present to wish him success in his future career.

“Whad ye mean by my future career?” he demanded. “What are you three a-getting at now?”

“It’s all right, old chap,” they answered soothingly. “Only a form of speech, you know.”

“Be a bit more careful how you pick your words,” he retorted threateningly. “I ’aven’t come back to be ragged by such as you.”