Chapter XXI: The Market Place

That evening, over her fire in the room which Andrew Fraser had christened "The Pictur Gallery," Isla took stock of her marketable accomplishments with the advertizing columns of the "Morning Post" and the "Daily Telegraph" spread on the table in front of her.

She had to confess that they were meagre both in quality and quantity. She had been imperfectly educated by a wholly incompetent woman, who had had to combine in one the offices of governess, housekeeper, and chaperon, and over whom for five years of the General's absence in India there had been none to exercise the slightest control.

Aunt Jean had offered to take the child to Barras to bring her up with her own, but she had altogether declined to have Malcolm even in the holidays. This had so angered the General that he had answered in the hot-headed Highland fashion that he would see to the upbringing of both his children himself and would be beholden to none.

That Isla had emerged from the process even as well equipped as she was said a good deal for her intelligence and native common sense. Her gifts of observation and her love of books had helped her to bridge the gaps in her educational training, but of the skilled attainments that fetch money in the market place she possessed none except the power to keep house with a good appearance on very slender means.

She decided, as her eyes wandered restlessly down those weary "Want" columns, that the only post she was fit for was that of a housekeeper, for which there was a limited demand. Many seemed to be in need of skilled and highly-trained governesses at substantial salaries, but against the unskilled all doors seemed to be shut.

Once more she perused the advertisement for a young person to give pet dogs an airing, and she resolved that, out of curiosity and as a preliminary canter into the unknown, she would call at the address given. It was in Westbourne Terrace, which, from inquiry, she learned was in her own neighbourhood and could be reached on foot.

She was a little subdued when she arose next morning to find "The Pictur Gallery" at eight o'clock in a sort of twilight gloom consequent upon the rain and the fog outside. After the glorious airs, the limitless freedom of the Moor of Creagh it was an experience calculated to damp the bravest spirit.

She had to ring three times before receiving the smallest attention from the squint-eyed maid, and Agnes, tired with the unexpected excitement of the previous day, had not felt herself well enough to get up before breakfast, as she had fully intended.

Much ringing of bells, some altercations in the passages, and a variety of odours were the outstanding characteristics of the Cromer Street house in the early morning hours.

At a quarter past nine Isla's French breakfast was brought up on a slatternly tray, and, finding it impossible to drink the coffee, she had to ask--and she did so in quite humble tones--for a fresh pot of tea.

"I ain't 'ad no borders about brekfus for 'The Pitcsher Gallery,' Miss," quoth Arabella in a rather high and mighty voice. "But I'll get the tea. It ain't all beer and skittles 'ere of a mornin', I kin tell yer, wiv hall the bells in the 'ouse a-ringin' at onct, the missus in 'er bed, and ole Flatfeet on the warpath in the kitching."

When the door had closed Isla sat down on the front of her bed and laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. The dreariness of the place in which she sat, the dead ashes on the cold hearth, the indescribable lack of the comforts--even of the decencies--of life appalled her.

Yet just in such conditions, and in others infinitely worse, must thousands of Londoners awake to the duty of each new day. She wondered that the multitude had any heart for the day's work.

She could not start to clean her room or light a fire, and she had been reared in the belief that a bed required a thorough airing before it could be made.

After she had partaken of her meagre breakfast therefore she opened the window and, donning her mackintosh and heavy boots, prepared to sally forth. Even the streets would be preferable to her present surroundings.

She decided not to go up to see Agnes, who probably felt the situation more acutely than she herself did. Perhaps, after all, it might be better, if it was not indeed absolutely necessary, that she should find some other lodging in a smaller house, where she could have a sitting-room and a bedroom. The prospect of unlimited hours spent in "The Pictur Gallery" was a little dismaying.

The rain was falling heavily when she left the house, but the clean, sharp patter on the pavements, somehow, cheered her. It was clean, it was wholesome, it would help to wash away some of the impurity from the streets. The rain, rolling in over the hills upon the Moor of Creagh and sweeping down Glenogle--how often had she welcomed its pure sting on her cheek and revelled in it! But here all was depressing, dark, dismal, and soul-crushing.

In such mood did Isla arrive at the address in Westbourne Terrace, which, in conjunction with three others, she had written on a small piece of paper and placed in her purse.

A man-servant, in a blue coat with brass buttons and a striped waistcoat, opened the door and stood, obligingly waiting to take her message.

"I have called in reference to the advertisement in the 'Morning Post' this morning. Please, can I see the lady of the house?"

The man looked doubtful, but said politely in imperfect English with a very German accent that if she would come in and sit down in the hall he would inquire.

At the moment the door of the breakfast-room at the end of the hall was opened and a lady in a very elaborate morning robe much trimmed with lace and with two black-and-white Japanese spaniels in her arms, looked out.

"Who is that, Fritz?" she asked in a high and rather fretful voice.

"Pleas'm, a young lady about the advertisement in the paper."

"Oh, she can come in here."

She re-entered the breakfast-room, and Isla, in some inward amusement, followed. She felt like a person in a play, but it said something for her courage and determination that, on the second morning of her London life, she should seek such an experience.

She closed the door behind her and said good morning to the lady, altogether unconscious that, instead of looking like a suppliant, she had the air of one about to bestow a favour.

Her possible employer was a woman of about her own age, with a kind of artificial prettiness which depended a good deal on art for its preservation. She had a pleasant enough manner, however, and was quite civil to her visitor.

"You have called?" she said inquiringly, with her head on one side like a bird and her cheek against the glossy coat of one of the spaniels.

"I have called in reference to the advertisement in the 'Morning Post,'" said Isla with difficulty, for the reality, instead of being amusing, was distinctly trying. "But I don't think it will be any use. I am sure I would not be suitable."

"Oh, sit down, and let us talk it over now that you are here," said the lady affably. "I am Madame Schultze. Yes--I am English. My husband is a Viennese. He is on the Stock Exchange. He had only just left the house as you entered. Perhaps you saw him?"

Isla said she had not seen anybody resembling Mr. Schultze.

"I am not strong, and almost immediately I am going off with my husband to Schwalbach. It is very late in the year for Schwalbach, but he has not been able to get away before now. It is about my little darlings! Look at them! Aren't they sweet loves? This is Koshimo, and this is Sada, and this is Tito, and the little one, who was born here, is Babs. Did you ever see anything so perfectly sweet?"

Isla was at a loss what to say. She knew nothing of the cult of pet dogs, or of how enslaved an idle woman can become by them, and she thought the adoration visible in Madame Schultze's eyes was rather foolish.

There were four separate baskets lined with padded wool, with little rugs over them, and other comforts such as many a poor baby lacked. To Isla the creatures looked stolid, overfed, unintelligent, and uninteresting. But she could not say so.

"I suppose they are very valuable?" was all she could bring herself to say.

"I should say so. Koshimo, as a puppy, cost a hundred and fifty guineas. My Karl gave him to me on the anniversary of our wedding. We can't take them to Schwalbach with us, and the other person I had to look after them was a wretch. Behind my back she used to pinch Koshimo, and the poor darling's spirit is quite broken."

"Yet you are going to leave them behind in the care of--of the person you engage?"

"That is what I thought of doing. I have no alternative. They don't permit dogs at the Cure Hotel."

"Then would she be required to live in the house?"

"Oh, no--only to come for a half-day every morning. Sundays included, to bathe the darlings, make their toilets, and take them for a walk in the Park. After that they will be in the care of Fritz, the house-boy, who is quite good. Only he has not a woman's delicacy of touch and sympathy. They need sympathy quite as much as a human being does, if not more so."

Isla repressed an almost overpowering desire to laugh aloud, and she politely inquired what would be the remuneration for this occupation.

"Seven-and-sixpence a week and luncheon. I reckoned that by the time you had returned from the Park it would be one or half-past one, and the servants' dinner would be going on, so that your luncheon would never be missed," said Madame Schultze with an engaging frankness. "Of course, the work is not hard, and it is delightful, besides. You don't know what a privilege it is to have the care of such pets. They are so dainty and so very, very human."

Isla thanked her and said that she was afraid the post would not suit her.

"Oh, but why not come for a few days and try it?" said the odd woman, who had taken a fancy to Isla. "You look different from the creatures who usually call when one wants anybody. You look even as if you might have had pet dogs of your own."

Something caught at Isla's throat as she remembered.

"I have had them. But, thank you, I'm sorry I can't come. The--the money is much too small. I shall have to find something to do which will keep me. I am not well off. Good morning, Madame Schultze."

"You won't leave your name? I might find you something. My husband has a large acquaintance on the Stock Exchange, and we move in very good society," said Madame Schultze with a kind of indolent good-humour.

But Isla, with another hasty word of thanks, withdrew. She felt almost hysterical as the door was politely closed upon her by the foreign butler, and she dashed something like a tear from her eye.

"Serves you right, Isla Mackinnon, for all the airs you give yourself! Seven-and-six a week and the servants' luncheon! What would they say at home?"

She said "they," but it was the face of Peter Rosmead that came persistently before her--of Peter the Bridge-builder, with thousands in his pocket that he could not spend! Would Peter, if he met her in the park airing pet dogs for a livelihood, pass by, like a Levite, on the other side?

Her lip curled whimsically at the thought. She did not welcome the memory of Rosmead, which had come unsought. In her secret heart she felt disappointed that he had not written. True, he had not promised to do so, nor had he even asked whether he might. But other men did not wait for permission. Neil Drummond never lost an opportunity of speaking or writing to her, and often she did not trouble to read his letters through.

She was brought back from her reveries sharply by finding herself once more in the Bayswater Road with the rest of the day in front of her.

"I do want a good breakfast," she said to herself dolefully, for a few mouthfuls of the doubtful bread and butter provided by Arabella had more than satisfied her in "The Pictur Gallery".

Looking down the road towards Kensington, she saw that shops seemed to abound, and she proceeded to walk on. At length she came to a tea-shop, which she entered. There she ordered tea and a couple of poached eggs. These she consumed at a small round table drawn invitingly near a bright fire, where she was able to dry her boots and where she passed a very comfortable half-hour.

But it was all unreal. Once more she had the weird feeling that she was a character in a play and that she would soon awaken to the reality of things.

After her experience in Westbourne Terrace she decided that, instead of calling at any more private addresses, she would go to some of the employment agents, who, judging from their advertisements, seemed to possess particulars of every conceivable kind of opening. She would there give a true account of her meagre accomplishments and candidly inquire what was their market value.

She did not shrink from doing this, because all her life long she had been facing things and making the best of untoward circumstances. But, somehow, it was difficult here in London. In Glenogle all was familiar and most dear. Besides, whatever the state of the exchequer, Miss Mackinnon of Achree had an unassailable position.

Her name counted for nothing here, however. Nay, it were better perhaps that she should exchange it for one less pretentious and betraying.

The rain having ceased, she rode on the top of an omnibus the whole length of the Bayswater Road to Oxford Street, where she presented herself in the office of one of the well-known employment agencies that advertise extensively in all the newspapers.

She had to wait some little time among others, and when her turn came she was again in thrall to the odd feeling of unreality which had possessed her for most of the day.

"What kind of post, madam, and what experience?" said the very middle-aged lady who sat, pen in hand, ready to take the particulars.

Isla explained as clearly as possible what she wanted, and she did not fail to observe that while she was speaking the face of her questioner fell. While she was listening she was, however, observing Isla keenly, and she very quickly came to the conclusion that she was not one of the ordinary applicants, but rather was one who had been driven into the ranks of the workers by stress of circumstances.

"Of course, madam," she said kindly but with great brevity and decision, "you are not unaware that you are handicapped? Our books"--here she patted an immense ledger lying on the table beside her--"our books are full of names of ladies requiring employment, and most of these are very thoroughly equipped. But, even with all the resources at our command, we would never be able to supply all their wants, for the very simple reason that the necessary vacancies do not exist."

"There are so many thousands seeking situations, then?" said Isla hesitatingly.

"Thousands. We have no difficulty with our skilled workers. There is always a demand for them, but for the gentlewoman class--to which you evidently belong--for whom the earning of a living has become a sad necessity, we have practically no demand. You are a good housekeeper, you say, but you would not care to take a working-housekeeper's place?"

"I could not. At least, I should not care to do actual housework, and I can only cook theoretically. I could order a lady's house, and order it well. I've been used until quite lately to superintend a fairly large establishment."

"In your father's house?" said the agent with an understanding nod.

"Yes."

"I thought as much. Well, I have only one post on my books at present which would seem to come anywhere near your requirements, and I tell you quite frankly that I have already sent at least half a dozen ladies after it."

"Where is it?" asked Isla interestedly, "and what sort of a place is it?"

"It is to be a sort of companion-housekeeper to a lady who is not strong. The duties, I think, are not very arduous, but I consider it only right to tell you that this is the fourth time in twelve months that this post has become vacant."

"Why has it been like that?"

"I prefer not to enter into reasons. There have always been faults on both sides, of course. I have myself interviewed Mrs. Bodley-Chard here when she was able to drive out. Latterly, I think, she has not been able. I have always liked her. I'm afraid that the trouble is with Mr. Bodley-Chard."

"Oh, I shouldn't mind him," said Isla quietly. "And, after all, his wife's housekeeper need not see much of him."

The agent smiled.

"I can give you the address if you like. You will be the third who has gone to-day. But that, I think, does not matter. Mrs. Chard, I know, intends to be very, very particular this time."

"What is the salary?"

"Twenty-five pounds a year."

"And to live in the house?"

"Why, of course."

"She would not engage a person who wished to lodge outside?"

"My dear madam, picture a companion-housekeeper who arrived with the milk--shall we say?--and left with the last post at night! It's unpractical, to say the least."

Isla smiled and sighed a little as she rose.

"I see that beggars can't be choosers and that one must give up something in order to earn one's living. I wish, however, that it was not one's freedom. May I have the address, if you really think there is the smallest use in my calling?"

"I am sure that it is worth your while calling. I have even a sort of odd feeling that Mrs. Chard's choice might fall on you. You see, you are just a little different from the average run of reduced ladies who come here."

"Thank you," said Isla, not knowing whether to take the words as a compliment or the reverse.

The agent wrote the name and address on one of the office cards and then noted Isla's in her book.

"And what happens if I am engaged?" she asked with a little humorous smile about her mouth. "Is it like a servants' registry office? Do I come back and pay a fee, or do I pay it now?"

"The fee would be half a sovereign in this case--that is if you are engaged. There is no charge otherwise. I hope you will be successful, Miss Mackinnon."

"I don't know whether I hope so or not," answered Isla.

Her ease of manner, so different from the usual bearing of the agent's clients, made a strong impression on her listener.

"I shall be pleased to see you in any case. And perhaps something else may turn up, if you are not successful," she said with a cordiality which surprised even herself.

Usually the seekers after employment were merely units of the system to be dismissed as soon as possible. But this applicant had drawn out her interest and her sympathy in a very strong degree, principally because she had not proffered a single plea for special consideration, and because she had been so candid about her capabilities.

When Isla got outside she stopped on the stairs and read the name and address on the agent's card--Mrs. Bodley-Chard, Hans Crescent, S.W.

A look of satisfaction crossed her face just for a moment, because this locality was within that part of the area of London with which she was perfectly familiar. As Malcolm might have said, it was on the right side of the Park. But again, that had its disadvantages, one of them being that she might be more easily discovered and recognized.

But some instinct made her decide to go, and to go as quickly as possible. She hailed a passing hansom and got in, calculating that she would reach Hans Crescent in time to catch Mrs. Bodley-Chard immediately after luncheon.