Once Aboard the Lugger Part 45

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.

II.

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 a.s.saulted him. That's all."

"The miserable hound!" p.r.o.nounced Miss Ram with extraordinary ferocity.

From a drawer in her desk she took a ma.n.u.script 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. l.u.s.t. l.u.s.t 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."

III.

That step was George's. Abashed in this home of women he shuffled uneasily in the pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sage 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 Princ.i.p.al,"

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.

IV.

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--"