"THE KEY OF THE STREET."
"For the third and last time, I say--will you hand me that letter or
will you not?"
"No, I will not." And the speaker's lips tightened, and her blue eyes
met the angry red brown ones calm and full, and the coronal of golden
hair shone upon a very erect head indeed.
The parties to this dialogue were a girl and a woman, the latter
middle-aged, not to say elderly. She had a hooked, commandeering nose
and a hard mouth turning down at the corners. Now they were turning
down very much indeed. It may be hardly necessary to explain that these
two occupied the position of employer and employed.
"Now mark my words, Miss Seward," went on the first speaker, fast
getting into the tremulous stage of white anger. "I'll give you just
one more chance, and only one. Hand me over that letter, or--out of my
house you go. Without references mind--and this very day at that.
Now--take your choice."
There was some excuse for the irritation displayed by the older woman,
in that she had surprised the other in the act of reading a letter--a
fairly closely written one too, and that in the handwriting of her only
son, a young subaltern not long gazetted, and only recently gone out to
India. She had suspected something between them prior to his departure;
and this girl was a mere paid teacher of French and music to her own
two--then in the "flapper" stage. As a matter of fact there had been,
but it was all on one side--on that of the boy.
"There's really nothing in it," was the answer, "I didn't want him to
write to me, and told him so more than once. But as he has, well I
can't show private correspondence to a third person, even though it be
the correspondent's mother."
In hard reality the speaker was more than half inclined to comply--more
to put an end to the whole bother than anything. But there were two
obstacles in the way of such a safe and easy course; first her own
pride, of which she had all her share--in spite of her dependent
position--not that she considered it a dependent one as long as she gave
_quid pro quo_, and who shall say that she was altogether wrong? And
Mrs Carstairs had put on a tone that was raspingly dictatorial and
commandeering. The second lay in the fact that the writer had
particularly requested that all knowledge of her having received the
letter should be withheld from his mother. Equally, as a matter of
fact, even as she had said--there was nothing in it. It was a very
harmless effusion. It contained vehement declarations of devotion, but
such were merely unsophisticated and doglike. When at home the boy had
fallen violently in love with her, but though kind to him in a sisterly
way, she had not reciprocated, and while sorry for him had pointed out
plainly to him more than once that this was so. She was older than him
too, and could not look upon him from the point of view he wanted--and
this she also pointed out to him plainly.
In view of all this it seemed rather hard lines now that his mother
should swoop down upon her in this fashion as though she were a mere
designing intriguing adventuress, instead of being, as it happened, of
considerably older descent than this family of two generations of worthy
and successful manufacturers, among whom perforce for the time being,
she was earning her daily bread, and perhaps it was a little of this
sense of contrast that raised that gold-crowned, well-poised,
thoroughbred head somewhat higher in the air during the gathering storm
of the interview. But here were two angry women, rapidly becoming more
angry still--the one steadfastly refusing what the other as equally
steadfastly imagined she had every right in the world to demand. What
sort of outcome was this likely to yield?
The elder woman's normally rubicund cheeks had now gone nearly white.
"So that's your last word?" she panted.
"I'm afraid so."
"Then go. D'you hear. Go upstairs and pack, and leave this house at
once. That is the return I get for my kindness--my charity--in ever
taking you into it at all."
Melian Mervyn Seward threw back her head, and straightened herself still
more at the ugly word.
"Excuse me, Mrs Carstairs," she said, a small red circle coming into
each of her likewise paled cheeks, "but I think you used the wrong word.
You have had your full money value from me, fair work for fair wage.
So I don't see where the word `charity' comes in at all."
The other could only sputter, she was simply speechless with wrath. The
girl went on:
"Not only that, but I am entitled to some notice. I refuse to be thrown
out in the street without any at all. Remember, I have to make my own
arrangements as to my next plans. So I will take your notice now if you
like."
You see there was the element of a capable business woman about this
thoroughbred, self possessed orphan girl, who had hardly a friend in the
world and that not capable of being of any use to her in a stress like
the present. She, calm, because with the power to control her white
anger, held the other at a disadvantage, who had not.
"Oh, well," the latter managed to stutter. "I will pay you your month's
wages, and--"
"Quarter's," corrected the girl quietly. "I am not a servant, let me
remind you, but teacher of French and music to your children. Therefore
I am entitled to a quarter's notice."
"Why, this is blackmailing," blared the woman furiously. "Sheer
blackmailing."
"Don't keep on using ugly words. You know it's nothing of the kind--
only a sheer matter of business." And then somehow the mere mention of
the word seemed to be effectual in calming the speaker's restrained
math. "I have got to take care of myself, you know. There's no one
else in this wide world to do it for me. So I must have my contract
carried out, or take steps to enforce it if necessary. There is no
blackmailing in that."
"Oh, that's a threat, is it?"
"Not a bit. I am merely putting the situation before you from both
sides."
"You shall have your quarter, then," said the other, after a moment of
silence. "But--leave this house by to-night."
"If I can, I will," answered the girl. "But I must first make sure that
I have somewhere to go to. So if you will kindly have a telegram
dispatched for me, and the reply is satisfactory, I shall be prepared to
do as you wish. _If_ it is not, I fear I shall have to burden you until
to-morrow morning."
The other gasped in speechless amazement. But she knew what was in the
speaker's mind. If the latter were to go out herself with the object of
sending the telegram, who knew but that she might not find herself
refused re-admission? In justice it is only fair to say that such an
extreme measure would not have been adopted. Still, as the girl had
said, she had got to take care of herself.
"Very well, write your telegram then," she snapped, and rustled out.
Melian went over to a writing table, found a telegraph form, and having
filled it in, rang the bell and dispatched it. Then she went up to her
room.
So she had lost her means of livelihood. It was not a very congenial
means of livelihood, still it might have been worse--infinitely worse--
and this she candidly acknowledged. There was little sympathy between
herself and her employer. The latter had treated her with a certain
courtesy, but she was a hard, dictatorial, narrow minded type of woman,
and utterly intolerant of contradiction in any shape or form. As for
the nominal head of the house he was a mere nonentity, a mere cipher.
Outside its limits he was a fairly prosperous stockbroker, and only
returned home to dine and sleep, and seldom speak. Her charges were not
particularly interesting or engaging children; empty-headed, selfish,
and thoroughly spoilt. Still she managed to get on with them--and what
was more--to get them on. And now she had to leave; to lose her means
of livelihood for the time being--and Heaven only knew where and how she
was going to obtain another--and all because a silly boy now at the
other end of the world had chosen to fall in love with her at this.
Yet as she caught her three parts length reflection in the glass, Melian
Mervyn Seward would have been no woman had she not known that upon that
account the boy was not so silly after all. For it framed a really
exquisite picture--that of a beautifully proportioned figure, neither
tall nor short, in fact exactly the right height for a woman. The
well-poised head, gleaming gold under the electric light was set upon a
full, rounded throat. The blue eyes, beneath their well marked brows
were steadfast, and full of character, and even more so if possible the
set of the mouth. But the contour of cheeks and chin was perfect, and
now that the reaction after the strife had brought an unusual glow of
colour to the former the face was absolutely lovely. Here was a girl
who well and tastefully dressed would have created more than a sensation
in any big ballroom, and now she stood there realising more and more how
utterly helpless and alone in the world she was, with her only means of
livelihood taken from her, and with very precarious chances of finding
another.
"Little fool!" she muttered with a stamp of the foot against the fender
bar; the exclamation not being directed against herself but against her
absent adorer. "Little fool! I expect he'll feel pretty sick when he
hears what he's been the means of doing--if he ever does hear. Still--
he couldn't help it, I suppose."
Looking up, the blue eyes suddenly filled, then overflowed, for they had
encountered a portrait of her dead father. She caught up the frame from
the mantelpiece, and pressed her red warm lips passionately against the
cold glass, murmuring words of love and tenderness. Then she sank into
a low chair and sobbed unrestrainedly--it may be that the reaction of
the nervous system after her late passage of arms had something to do
with the breakdown. There came a knock at the door. Instantly she
sprang to her feet, dashing the tears away. Heavens! they would be
attributed to grief and fear over her dismissal. That would not do--no
not for anything. It was difficult, however, to regain her self command
at a brace of seconds' notice, and the maid who now entered with a
telegram, subsequently and as a matter of course did set them down to
that very cause.
The wire was a reply from her friend, a girl who made a living as a
typist, and hardly comes within the scope of our story except in so far
that now she wired that she could take Melian into her modest quarters
for a night or two while the latter "looked about her." This was so far
satisfactory. Melian wrote out another telegram in reply, saying she
was coming on in a couple of hours, and gave it to the maid, which
message of course supplied that young person with something to talk
about, and conjecture about, below stairs. Then she set to work to pack
in earnest.
Mrs Carstairs was not quite happy in her mind, while sitting in her
morning-room waiting for her discharged _employee_ to come and take her
leave--and her salary. She was not a bad hearted woman _au fond_, only
there were times when the "_fond_" took a good deal of getting at. Now
she had qualms. Miss Seward had not been wrong in saying she had given
her good money's worth. She certainly had done that, and now the woman
was already consumed with misgivings as to how she was going to supply
her place. But as Miss Seward entered, this misgiving merged into a
feeling of vague self-gratulation that it had turned out for the best.
The girl was looking lovely. Quietly but tastefully dressed, her
patrician blood and bearing was never so manifest. She wore a large
black hat--large without exaggeration--which framed and set off the
beautiful refined face, and the velvety blue eyes. No, assuredly she
was too dangerously pretty to keep; otherwise there is no telling that
she would not have climbed down even at the eleventh hour.
"Here is your cheque, Miss Seward," she said, "and there is the receipt
form." Then having seen this duly signed, she added stiffly--"And now,
good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mrs Carstairs. I'll just repeat to you. There was no harm
whatever in that letter. I did not feel justified in showing you--only
on principle, mind. Good-bye, children."
For the two girls had just come in. There was, as we said, nothing
engaging about them. They were gawky plain girls, sallow faced and
inclined to be hook-nosed too, with a skimpy black pigtail hanging down
each of their backs. They showed no more feeling on parting with Melian
than if she were just getting up from an afternoon call. They each
stuck a limp bony paw into her palm, and there was an end of it.
She went downstairs. Her luggage--by no means the traditional, and
feminine, "mountain of luggage"--was being stowed in and on a cab. A
door on the ground floor opened into the hall. Within this stood the--
nominal--master of the house.
"I hear you're leaving us, Miss Seward. I'm sorry," he began rather
jerkily. "Will you kindly step in here for a moment?"
Melian wondered, but complied. Seen in the full light, he was a quiet
looking, keen faced man, keen as to the upper part of his face--that
represented his moderate success on the Stock Exchange--falling away in
the lower--that represented his subsidiary position as merely nominal
master in his own house.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "You're very young, and I understand, alone
in the world. This fuss, whatever it's about, is clean outside my
department, but remember, if ever you want a friend--either to speak a
good word for you--or what not--remember me. Good-bye, child."
She flashed a bright smile at him as she took the hand which jerkily
shot forth at her. Then she went out.
"By gad, she's lovely!" exclaimed Carstairs, staring after her, "and the
very perfection of a lady too. What a fool Adelina is to have got rid
of one like that."
And Adelina, who from the upper landing was privily assisting
auricularly at this scene, was for once, inclined to agree with the
submissive one. Certainly it would not be easy to find an adequate
substitute.
"Still--she's too pretty," she told herself with something of a sigh.
"Too pretty, and--too proud. Yes--far too proud."
And this reflection seemed to carry something of consolation as her mind
went back to that scene in the forenoon, and how the girl had
uncompromisingly declined to capitulate, while she herself had come out
of it with far from flying colours.