THE NEW SECRETARY
Hester's problem was exceedingly simple; she wanted two or three
minutes alone with Miss Thompson's golf bag. That was all she asked
of fortune, two or three minutes; and, for the accomplishment of this
purpose she had summoned all her wits and all her daring. Easy
enough to talk about keeping straight, but if you happened to be a
girl who knew where $25,000 was lying in wait for some one to pick it
up and were the only person in the world who had a line on this
pleasant bunch of money--say, what was the use of arguing? She had
made the break and would see the thing through. It wasn't every
well-meaning citizen who could land a fortune by putting in a little
time chasing a golf bag!
Meantime, while this dark-eyed schemer waited for a chance to ravish
the beautiful bank notes from their unsuspected hiding place, Betty
Thompson, all unconscious of Hester's presence, was going through
agitated hours in the little mezzanine chamber opening off the
library that she had chosen for her bedroom, partly on account of its
appropriate situation for a secretary and chiefly because of its
quaint unusualness. At the first glance her fancy had been taken by
the odd little staircase that curved up in a corner of the big room
to a narrow door high in the paneled oak wall. For the rest it was a
plain, convent-like chamber with whitewashed walls and one small
window opening, like that of Horatio's study, over the roof of the
conservatory.
Little it mattered to Betty whether her room was large or small and
whether its furnishings were sumptuous or simple. She had more
important things to think of, poor child, and a problem to face that
required all her fortitude. Here were the hopes and dreams of her
life rudely shattered and her whole outlook changed in a moment.
Instead of being rich, as she had always thought herself, with a
fortune that meant freedom, pleasure, everything, it now appeared
that she was a poor girl with a burden of debt and must work for her
living. She who had never learned to work and who hated drudgery,
who had often asked herself how shop girls and office girls could
possibly endure their dull existence, now she must work for her
living! No wonder Miss Betty Thompson tossed sleepless and wretched
and tearful through most of this first night at Ipping House, after a
forlorn dinner sent to her room, under plea of headache, and then
scarcely touched.
It was late the next morning when Mrs. Baxter knocked at Betty's door
and entered with brisk salutations. Was the headache better? Yes,
thanks, it was. And would the new secretary have breakfast in bed?
The new secretary laughed and admitted that, for this once, she would
very much enjoy some coffee and toast in bed, nothing else, please;
and she assured Mrs. Baxter that never again would she be so
neglectful of her duties. What must Mr. Baxter think of her?
"Mr. Baxter went into town on the early train," answered Eleanor
reassuringly, "so don't disturb yourself. I think he left some
papers for you with Bob."
"Oh!" said Betty, and she recalled, with a thrill of pleasure, the
tall, clean-cut, young American who had met them at the station.
Nice eyes had little Bobby, who was now big Bobby! Very nice eyes!
And rather good shoulders! Extremely good shoulders! Must have been
an athlete at college--rowed on the crew and that sort of thing. She
would ask him. Stop, she would do nothing of the sort! She mustn't
ask personal questions or think of him as Bobby. He was Mr. Robert
Baxter, a very serious person with papers for her to copy, and she
was--she was the new secretary!
Strange to say, this thought that in the night had brought such gloom
came now to Betty as a matter of amused contemplation. Mr. Robert
Baxter! Ahem! And more than once, while she carefully dressed, the
American girl flashed mischievous and approving smiles into the glass
out of her deep, blue eyes and, when, shortly after ten, she
descended to the library by her little winding stairs, she was as
fresh and lovely a vision of a fair young woman as one would wish to
see, quite in spirit with the pleasant sunshine flooding the park and
the blackbirds rejoicing in the beeches. Miss Thompson's buoyant
youth and sense of humor had come to the rescue.
A glance showed her that the library was empty and she spent some
moments enjoying the dignity of this long, spacious room that was to
be the scene of her labors. Those old carved oak panels of the
napkin pattern, how she loved them! And the Elizabethan ceiling and
the tall, deep windows opening on the conservatory! Surely the very
last place where one would expect to find the desk of a hustling
American man of business. Yet there it was, waiting for Betty to
begin, not a roll-top desk, thank heaven, but an antique piece of
curious design and richly inlaid standing near one of the great
windows and now heaped with a pile of mail for Hiram Baxter that had
accumulated since his sailing from New York.
At a little distance from this desk was a long, narrow table, also
carved, but of a later period, with a standard telephone at one end
and a typewriter at the other, while between these were rows of
neatly arranged papers, pamphlets, and reports. On top of the
typewriter lay a large sheet of paper, on which the new secretary
read a blue-penciled message to herself:
"Dear Miss Thompson," began the message. "Father has gone to town.
You will find some correspondence on the other desk that he wants you
to look over. Please make a little abstract of who wrote the letters
and what they are about. I'll be in shortly and explain. Yours
truly, R. BAXTER."
It was with mingled emotions that Betty read this note. "Dear Miss
Thompson!" There it was in black and white! And, having seen it,
she did not particularly like it. Nor the cool way in which Bobby
Baxter gave her orders! He would be back shortly to explain.
Indeed! R. Baxter would be back shortly. Very well! When R. Baxter
came back she would show R. Baxter that she could be just as stiff
and business-like as he was.
Seating herself at the desk, Betty began with the letters, looking up
from time to time to enjoy the changing greens of the conservatory
that shimmered in through the leaded window panes. And presently she
smiled at her foolish annoyance. Why shouldn't Bob be stiff and
business-like? It was all her doing and it was too late now to draw
back and----. Here was a task that she had given herself, a sort of
penance that would show how deeply she realized her great obligation
to Hiram Baxter. She had set out to be the new secretary, and, in
spite of R. Baxter, with his eyes and his shoulders, in spite of
annoyances or humiliations, she would be the new secretary.
Thus resolved, Betty threw herself zealously into her work and
presently brought such a spirit of intensely modern activity into
this ancient and solemn room that the row of ancestors in their dull
frames above the paneling looked down in faded astonishment at this
vivid, self-reliant, American girl bending busily over her desk by
the window.
So absorbed was the new secretary in these duties that she did not
hear a quick step in the conservatory nor the opening of the farther
French window as Bob Baxter, glowing with health after a brisk walk,
stepped into the library. He paused at the sight of Betty and
waited, smiling, for her to look up, which she presently did with a
startled "Oh!"
"I beg your pardon," he said presently. "I see you're on the job,
Miss Thompson."
"Yes," she said briefly, wondering if this was a sarcastic reference
to her late appearance.
"I've just been for a walk around the pond. They call it a lake, I'm
told." He settled himself comfortably on a fat blue davenport that
offered its ample hospitality just beyond the typewriter.
"Do they?" she replied, scarcely looking up.
"Why, yes."
She faced him now and decided that he had not meant to be sarcastic.
And he was good looking. How could she have thought him plain the
night before? It was such a relief to see a man clean shaven after
those hideous mustaches and scraggly beards in Paris!
Then she resumed her work, while the object of her approval picked up
a newspaper listlessly, and for several minutes there was no sound in
the library save the rustle of sheets. Then suddenly Bob's
expression changed to one of absorbed interest.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "Robbery in a railway carriage!! Five
thousand pounds! That's $25,000! Why, he's a friend of father's!
He visited us in New York!"
Betty looked up quickly. "You mean the Bishop of Bunchester?"
"Oh, you've read it?"
"No, no--that is, I mean it happened two days ago. Are there any
developments?"
"It seems they have a new clew." Then he read aloud: "Among papers
left by the suspected woman, Jenny Regan, at her lodgings on Fulham
Road, was the visiting card of a young American lady whose name----"
he paused to turn over the page.
"Yes?" she asked eagerly.
"Whose name," he went on, "is withheld by the police in the hope that
it may aid in discovering the criminal."
"How could it aid in discovering the criminal?" she questioned.
"Oh, they have detectives on the case."
"Detectives! Really!" and, with a thrill of excitement, Betty once
more busied herself with her work, while Bob continued his reading,
glancing from time to time in the direction of the new secretary.
What an interesting face! And such hands! A lady's hands! An
artist's hands! Where in the world had the old gentleman discovered
this girl?
"I suppose my father found you in London?" he asked presently.
"Yes," she replied, and he noticed her low pleasant voice and admired
the rippling mass of her glossy brown hair as it lifted from her
white neck. Here was a stenographer, he reflected, with the
well-groomed look of a thoroughbred. The old gentleman certainly was
a wonder!
Bob wanted to keep her talking, but could think of nothing in
particular to say. Queer how this girl put him ill at ease. And why
should he wish to keep her talking, anyway? His dealings with
stenographers had always been on a basis of calmest and most
business-like indifference, but somehow this one affected him
strangely; she "rattled" him.
"Do you take rapid dictation, Miss Thompson?" he finally ventured.
Betty hesitated a moment and her heart sank as she thought of her
limitations at the machine. When she had told Hiram Baxter that she
could work a typewriter she was speaking from the standpoint of an
amateur who had taken the thing up largely as a diversion.
"You mean in shorthand? No, I don't; I'm not a stenographer."
Young Baxter looked at her in surprise. "Not a stenographer?"
"I take dictation direct to the machine," she explained. "Mr. Baxter
thinks there are qualities in a private secretary that may be more
important than the ability to take rapid dictation."
Bob nodded wisely. "I see. I guess Father told you about
the--er--trouble he had with his last secretary?"
"You mean the leak in the New York office?" said Betty quickly.
Bob lowered his voice. "That's what I mean. You'll have to be very
careful in this position, Miss Thompson. We're in a fight with the
big copper trust and Father has enemies, people who are watching
every move he makes and are doing their best to ruin him. That's why
Dad went to town this morning. That's why I jumped on a quick
steamer the day after he sailed from New York. I heard of things
that----" he looked about him cautiously, "that I wouldn't trust in
the mails."
"You suspect some one--here?" she whispered.
"I don't know, but--I want you to keep your eyes open. The market
has been strong lately and we've been buying Independent copper all
the way up the line. Ten points more will let us out even, but----"
he stopped short as a man's figure passed through the conservatory.
It was Anton, the chauffeur.
"What is it, Anton?" he called.
A man with a twisted nose and a shock of black hair appeared at the
French window and touched his cap politely. "Looking for a wrench,
sir. I'm fixing up the runabout."
"Where's the car?"
"The countess and Mr. Fitz-Brown are out in the car, sir."
"Oh!" said Bob, whereupon the chauffeur, with another salute and a
keen glance at the new secretary, withdrew.
"Mr. Baxter," inquired Betty, "isn't there a great risk in buying
stock when you don't really pay for it?"
"You mean on a margin? Of course there's a risk. That's what keeps
us worried."
"Then--why do you do it?"
"We can't help it."
"Why?"
"You see, Father inherited this fight from his partner. He's dead.
It's a long story. Dad will be sure to tell you some day."
Betty burned with eagerness to hear this story, to know more about
her father, yet she dared not press her questions, and suddenly Bob
became silent. Then, as if restless, he rose from the davenport and
strolled over to one of the windows, then turned again, toying with a
cigarette case.
"Do you mind?" he asked politely, indicating the silver box.
"No, I like it," she said. It was evident that he had no intention
of going and she must begin this copying if she was ever to get it
finished. The time had come when she must demonstrate her ability to
use the keys. So, gathering up a pile of letters, she moved
resolutely over to the typewriter.
"This machine is very dusty," she decided, after a preliminary
examination. "Here's a brush to clean the keys, but--do you suppose
I could have a little olive oil?" she asked.
"Why, certainly, I'll get you some," and he hurried off, thus giving
Betty a few minutes for preliminary practice. Fortunately, the
keyboard was the one she knew already and she soon found, to her
great relief, that she could do the work fairly well.
When Bob returned with the oil Betty thanked him sweetly and then,
while she fussed with the levers, managed tactfully to turn the
conversation back to Mr. Baxter's partner. And presently she learned
the sickening truth that Hiram Baxter's present difficulties were
entirely due to the fact that her father had been led into
speculation.
"It was the old story, Miss Thompson; he thought he could pull a
fortune out of the market, but----" Bob shrugged his shoulders.
"He lost?"
"Lost his money and a lot of Father's. They had been partners for
twenty-odd years, did a nice conservative banking business until this
thing happened."
"Oh! Oh!!" murmured the unhappy girl. "Why did he do it?"
"The same old reason. They always lived in a rather large way. The
old man had a daughter, an only child, and--he just worshiped her,
lavished things on her. I'd have done the same, for she's a corking
fine girl, Betty is, only--it took a lot of money and--Betty wanted
to live in Paris and--oh, well, you understand."
"You mean she was extravagant?"
"Generous--extravagant--it comes to the same thing, and the old
gentleman wanted to leave her so she could live as she pleased,
but--he didn't do it."
Bob had risen again and stood leaning against one of the stiff-backed
chairs, blowing cigarette smoke thoughtfully toward the conservatory.
For a few moments Betty could scarcely trust herself to speak.
"And the girl--Betty--what became of her?" she asked presently.
"Oh, she's over in Paris, I believe. She doesn't know a word of
this. I'm only telling you as Father's private secretary and--you
understand this is absolutely confidential, Miss Thompson?"
"Of course."
"It would break Betty all up if she knew it."
"But--don't you think----" hesitated the girl and, despite her
bravest efforts, her eyes betrayed her deep distress.
Bob looked at her fixedly. "I say, you have a tender heart, Miss
Thompson. What were you going to say?"
"I only meant--it seems unfair to--to--the girl," stammered Betty.
"It puts her in a false position. Perhaps she has been spending a
lot of money that she thought was hers."
"That's all right," declared Bob cheerfully. "Father and I will
stand for it. We're pretty keen about Betty and--she's going to have
everything she wants. So remember, if she shows up here, which she's
apt to do, not a word about this, Miss Thompson."
"I'll remember," answered Betty, with a deeper meaning than her
companion suspected.
Then there was silence again, broken only by the clicking of the
machine.
"It's odd about Betty," Bob went on, half to himself. "I haven't
seen her since she was a little tot about eleven. She was sailing
for Europe."
Betty faced him with brightening eyes. "Really? You haven't seen
her since then?"
He shook his head. "The last I saw of Betty was a little figure in a
gray ulster and a Tam o' Shanter waving an American flag to me from
the deck of a big steamer that was getting smaller every minute,
while the lump in my throat was getting bigger."
The agitated girl bent closer over the keyboard to hide her mantling
color, while Bob continued, all unconscious of the effect he was
producing. "That was twelve years ago. Betty must be
twenty-three--think of that!"
"Do you think you'd know her if you saw her now?"
"Know her? Know Betty!" he exclaimed. "Of course I'd know her. I'd
know her anywhere."
"Is she--er--pretty?"
Bob thought a moment, stroking his chin wisely. "Um--er--well, no,
you couldn't call Betty pretty. Sort of lanky, long-legged girl,
with freckles, but she had an air about her, even at eleven. I've no
use for these magazine-cover sirens, anyway."
"Does she--does she ever write to you?"
He settled himself on the arm of an easy chair. "We used to write,
but it dwindled. I haven't heard from Betty in a long time. You
see, I've been hustling in New York, and--she's been studying singing
in Paris. She thinks she has a voice, poor child!"
Betty smiled and bit her lip.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this. It can't interest you much,"
he said.
"Oh, but it does," she insisted. "I like to know about the people I
am to meet. I suppose Miss Betty Thompson will visit here?"
"She's sure to some time, but you never can tell when. These singing
people are all more or less crazy."
"Yes? I should think you'd write and tell her you're here. That
would surely bring her."
"Ah! You're teasing now, but--by Jove, that isn't a bad idea! I
believe I will write to her."
"Shall I take it down for you?" She looked at him quite seriously
and then put a fresh sheet in the machine as if awaiting his
dictation.
"What? On the typewriter? What would Betty think?"
"That depends. Do you owe her a letter?"
"Owe her? It's the other way around. She owes me a whole bunch of
letters."
"Well, then, I should think----" she began, but Bob interrupted with
a burst of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! I'll do it. I'll be very stiff
and formal. It will puzzle her anyway, but--have you time?"
"Yes, Mr. Baxter," she said, with exceeding amiability. "I am ready."
Thus it came about that Betty's first duty as private secretary was
to take down a letter to her own sweet self from a man who seemed to
like Betty Thompson, not only as he remembered her eleven years ago,
but as he saw her now without knowing it, which struck the fair
secretary as decidedly amusing.
"My dearest Betty--" Bob began, then strode about the room in search
of further inspiration. "Have you got that?"
"My dearest Betty," repeated Miss Thompson.
"That doesn't sound very stiff and formal, does it?" laughed Bob.
"You wait a minute. Now, then." And he went on with suppressed
merriment, "What in the world has become of you? I would have
written oftener only I've been having such a lively time that I
haven't had a moment. That'll make her sit up, eh?"
"Perhaps!" answered Betty demurely, as she clicked off the words.
"I met a dream of a girl in New York," he continued, "a brunette, and
another on the steamer, a blonde--that makes two dreams--but they
weren't either of them in your class, Betty, dear?" Bob smiled
complacently. "How's that, Miss Thompson?"
"Is it true?" asked Betty.
"About not being in her class? Well, I should say so. She's the
finest, gamest, bulliest little sport you ever saw. Come to think of
it, I don't believe I'll tell her about those other two girls I met.
What's the use?"
"Do you think she would care?"
"Maybe not, but it sounds a little fresh and I wouldn't hurt Betty's
feelings for the world. We'll cut the letter out, Miss Thompson.
I'll write one by hand."
"Very well," obeyed the other, and drawing the sheet from the
machine, she crumpled it up and threw it into the waste basket.
"It's funny how that letter brings her back to me," mused Bob. "What
a loyal little sport she was! Always getting herself into scrapes to
help other people out of them! And generous! Why, she'd give you
her last dollar! She'd give you the coat off her back; yes, she
would, Miss Thompson."
"She must be a perfect angel," smiled the girl.
"Not she. She's got a temper all right. I wouldn't give a hang for
a girl who hadn't a bit of temper. We used to have regular fights.
Ha, ha, ha! I remember when we broke Father's glasses in one of our
scuffles. I did it, but Betty took the blame, or she tried to. Dad
gave me an awful scolding and made me spend three dollars of my money
for a new pair. Three dollars is a lot for a little fellow; it was
all I had in the world and Betty was so sorry for me that--what do
you suppose that little monkey did?"
"What?" questioned the secretary, and there was a quiver in her voice.
"She had no money of her own; Betty never had any money, so she took
her new club skates and her bicycle, mind you, she just loved that
bicycle, and she sold 'em both to a boy named Cohen for three
dollars."
An indignant look flashed in Betty's eyes. "Sammy Cohen! Little
Shylock!"
Bob looked at her sharply. "How did you know his name was Sammy?"
"Why--didn't you say Sammy Cohen?" she answered in confusion.
"Did I? Well, anyway, Betty stuffed that three dollars into my
savings bank because she knew I wouldn't take it. Can you beat that?"
At this moment their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of
Parker, the butler, who came to say, with mysterious nods and a grim
tightening of the lips, that Mr. Fitz-Brown and the countess had got
in trouble with the car at the foot of the hill and that Anton had
gone to their assistance. Whereupon Bob Baxter hurried off to see
what was the matter and Parker hurried after him, if Parker could
ever be said to hurry.
Betty was glad to be alone, and for some minutes she sat
thinking--thinking--while a perplexed smile played about her sweet
mouth and a new gladness shone in her eyes, a gladness that kept
coming back and would not be denied, try as she would to frown it
away. There were difficulties and sorrows attending Miss Elizabeth
Thompson, but one great cheering fact rose above them and made life
seem worth living after all, the eternally blessed fact that, when
youth hears the call of love, then nothing else in the world matters
very much. She rose suddenly from her chair and, searching eagerly
in the waste basket, drew forth a crumpled sheet and, smoothing it
out, gazed at it with quickening pulses.
"My dearest Betty," she murmured, and her lovely face was radiant
with a great happiness. "My dearest Betty! My dearest Betty!" She
spoke the words softly, over and over again. And, yielding to the
cry of her heart, she pressed the precious paper to her lips, then
proudly, joyously thrust it into her bosom.