ENGAGED
Out of the library and through the parlor--there was a parlor in the
Marshall home--strode Bill, with each step gathering speed and assuming
the momentum of an avalanche. Things that were in his way suffered
consequences. Not that Bill was clumsy at all, although he thought he
was, as most men do who belong in the oversize class. He was simply for
the moment disregardful of property. Sometimes he believed in the innate
perversity of inanimate matter and comported himself accordingly. He was
in a hopeless anguish of mind. Oh, that Aunt Caroline should have
pressed this cup to his lips.
Through the parlor and into the reception-room. A high-backed chair lay
in his path. He placed a foot against it and shot it across the floor,
the chair moving on its casters as smoothly as a roller coaster. It hit
the wall, spun around and a young woman fell out of it.
Bill halted to stare.
"Holy smoke!"
Then he was across the room, picking her up.
"Oh, I beg a million pardons!"
By this time she was on her feet, very pink in the cheeks and with eyes
all amaze. Bill was steadying her with a reassuring hand, but she drew
away quickly. It was quite plain that as soon as her surprise passed she
would become angry. Bill sensed this in a swift glance.
"Two million!" he said hastily.
She regarded him uncertainly. Gray eyes, straight nose, pleasant mouth,
but rather large, fluffy sort of hair that might be reddish in a strong
light--all these things Bill was observing. And then--yes, she had
freckles; not aggressive, spacious freckles, but small, timid,
delicately tinted freckles--the kind of freckles that are valuable to
the right sort of girl. Bill liked freckles.
"Three million," he said, and grinned.
"I'll take you at the last figure," she answered.
"Good. I'm awfully obliged. I suppose there's no use asking if I
startled you?"
"Quite useless. You did."
"It was very childish of me," said Bill, more humbly. "You see, the
chair was in my way."
"And you refused to be thwarted," she nodded gravely.
"I certainly did. I was angry about something and--say are you kidding
me?"
This time she smiled and Bill grinned again, sheepishly.
"Anyhow, the chair wasn't where it belonged," he said. "And when you sit
in it your head doesn't even stick over the top. I had no idea there was
anybody in it, of course."
"Of course," she assented. There was a funny little wrinkle at the
corner of her mouth.
"See here," said Bill sharply. "You _are_ kidding me, and--well, I'm
glad I kicked the chair."
"But really, I don't think either of us was to blame," said the young
woman. "I knew the chair wasn't in its regular place. It was moved over
here for me."
"What for?"
"So I could look at the ancestors."
Bill glanced at the wall, where Grandfather and Grandmother Marshall
hung in their golden frames.
"Now, who in blazes did that?" he demanded.
"I don't know. Some young man." She spoke as if young men were articles.
"I called to see Miss Marshall and a maid left me here for a few
minutes. And then this young man came into the room. He asked me if I
was interested in ancestors; that was the very first thing he said. And
I said I was!"
"Are you?"
"Certainly. So he moved the chair to the center of the room and made me
sit in it. He wanted me to be where I could get a proper light on the
ancestors, he said. And then he explained them to me. He was very
interesting."
"He is interesting," admitted Bill. "But he is an awful liar!"
"Isn't that too bad!"
"Oh, not necessarily. It's really not very important whether he tells
the truth or tells lies. You see, he's only a servant."
"Oh."
"My valet."
"I see," she said slowly.
"It was very impertinent of him," said Bill. "He is an exceptionally
good servant, but he is rather erratic at times. I shall speak to him
about it."
"Oh, please don't. He really didn't offend me."
"Doesn't make any difference," declared Bill, sternly. "I won't have him
forgetting his place. Won't you sit down again? I won't bother you to
look at the ancestors."
But scarcely had she seated herself than they were interrupted. A maid
came in to say that Miss Marshall would see her. To Bill it seemed that
the stranger became suddenly preoccupied. She was chewing her lip as she
walked out of the room and did not even nod to him.
"More of her later from Aunt Caroline," muttered Bill. "And now for a
brief word with Pete Stearns."
* * * * *
When Mary Wayne stood in the presence of Aunt Caroline she wondered if
she looked as guilty as she felt; it seemed as if "Fraud" must be
blazoned in black letters across her forehead. But Aunt Caroline did not
appear to discern anything suspicious. She smiled cordially and even
extended a hand.
"Please sit down," she said.
Mary sat down. She knew that a social secretary ought to be at ease
anywhere, and she was trying hard. Back in the reception-room, where she
had encountered two odd young men, she had been surprised at her own
poise; for a brief interval all thought of her deception had been driven
from her mind. But now, sitting face to face with a kindly old lady who
accepted her at face value, Mary was suffering from conscience. She
found herself gripping the arm of her chair tensely, girding up her
nerves to meet some sudden accusation.
"Miss Norcross, I believe," said Aunt Caroline.
"Ah--yes."
There! The thing was done. She had not done it very confidently, but the
lie evidently passed current. When it became apparent that Aunt Caroline
had no thought of thrusting a stern finger under her nose, Mary breathed
again.
"The people who sent you speak very highly of you," remarked Aunt
Caroline. "Did they explain to you the nature of the work that would be
required?"
"You wished a secretary, I understood."
"A social secretary."
"Yes; they told me that."
"Would you mind giving me some idea of your experience?"
Mary hesitated. She had not prepared herself for this; she was neither
forehanded nor wise in the ways of fraud.
"Perhaps," she managed to say. "You would like to see some references."
She tried to placate her conscience in that speech; it seemed a smaller
lie than saying "my" references.
"If you please," and Aunt Caroline adjusted her spectacles.
The references came out of Mary's bag. As the mistress of the Marshall
mansion took them Mary was thinking:
"Now I am a forger as well as a liar."
Aunt Caroline read the first slowly and aloud, and looked up to find her
caller blushing.
"Oh, I am sure it must be honest praise, my dear. Do I confuse you by
reading aloud?"
She passed to the next, glancing first at the signature.
"Why," exclaimed Aunt Caroline, "it's from Mrs. Rokeby-Jones. Is it
_the_ Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?"
Now, Mary had never heard of the lady. She did not know whether she was
"the," or merely "a," and to cover the point without committing herself
to the unknown she nodded. Aunt Caroline nodded in return and read the
reference.
"I am very pleasantly surprised, Miss Norcross," she said. "This is
what I should call a very distinguished reference. Of course, we all
know Mrs. Rokeby-Jones; that is, I mean, by reputation. Personally, I
have never had the pleasure of meeting her. You see, my dear, I am
rather old-fashioned and do not go out very much. Mrs. Rokeby-Jones.
Dear me, why everybody knows her."
Mary almost said "Do they?" The name of Rokeby-Jones meant nothing to
her.
"She speaks remarkably well of you," observed Aunt Caroline, again
glancing at the reference.
Mary had not even read it. She was too much of a novice for that, and
there had been too many things to distract her.
"Quite a cultured lady, I am told, Miss Norcross."
"Yes--quite."
Aunt Caroline was about to pass to the next reference, hesitated and
glanced up.
"You know, we women are curious, my dear. I should like to ask you
something."
Mary was gripping the chair again. What now?
Aunt Caroline leaned forward and lowered her voice.
"Is it really true--what they say about her daughter?"
The candidate for social secretary somehow felt that the bottom was
dropping out of things. What ought she to say? What could she say? And
what was it that anybody said about Mrs. Rokeby-Jones's daughter?
"I mean the older daughter," added Aunt Caroline.
So there were two. Mary was staring down at her lap, frowning in
bewilderment. How would she find Mrs. Rokeby-Jones's elder
daughter--guilty or not guilty? If she only knew what people said about
her. Probably it had been in the newspapers. Oh, why hadn't she seen it?
"I admit I merely ask from curiosity," said Aunt Caroline, yet
hopefully.
Mary looked up and made her decision. Even the meanest prisoner at the
bar was entitled to the benefit of a doubt. Why not Mrs. Rokeby-Jones's
daughter?
"Personally, I have never believed it," said Mary.
Aunt Caroline sighed happily.
"I am so glad," she said. "That means it isn't true, because you would
know. It always seemed to me it was such a strange and cruel thing to
say. Of course, I understand, that there are certain family traits on
the Rokeby-Jones side. But it doesn't follow, even then. Just how did
the story ever come to get about, my dear?"
"I--really, I---- Would you mind if I didn't discuss it, Miss Marshall?"
Aunt Caroline hastily put away the reference and passed to the next.
"You are perfectly right, my dear," she said. "I ought not to have asked
you. I think you show a very fine sense of honor in not wanting to talk
about it. I'm quite ashamed of myself. Still, I'm very glad to know it
isn't true."
She examined the remaining references, obtaining fresh satisfaction from
the discovery that the famous Mrs. Hamilton was fully as ardent in her
encomiums as Mrs. Rokeby-Jones.
"I must say that your references please me extremely," said Aunt
Caroline, as she finished reading the last one. "Your trip abroad with
Mrs. Hamilton must have been a charming experience. I shall ask you to
tell me about it some time. When will you be able to come?"
And thus Mary knew that she was engaged.
"I can start any time," she said.
"To-morrow?"
"Yes, Miss Marshall.
"That will do excellently. You will send your trunk here, of course. I
should prefer to have you live with us."
This was something Mary had given no thought, but it sounded wonderful.
No more boarding-house. And it would save money, too; there was no
telling how much would be needed for the sick girl on the East Side.
Aunt Caroline rang a bell and asked the maid to serve tea.
"We'll have a little chat about terms and other things," she said
comfortably.
The little chat lasted the better part of an hour, but it passed without
embarrassments. The terms were beyond Mary's hopes. As for Aunt
Caroline, she was quaint and captivating. Strange to say, she did not
ask many more questions. For the most part, she talked about herself;
occasionally she reverted to Mary's references which, it was obvious,
had made an indelible impression. Mary discovered a prompt liking for
the old lady, and the more she liked her the more shame she had in the
masquerade she was playing. Only the desperate plight of a sick girl
kept her nerved to the ordeal.
She was taking her leave when Aunt Caroline remarked casually:
"I feel sure that you will not find my nephew unduly exacting in the
work he expects of you."
"Nephew?" asked Mary.
"How odd, my dear. I didn't tell you, did I? I'm afraid I forget things
sometimes. You see, you are not my secretary at all. You are to be
secretary to my nephew."
Mary stared.
"Why--I----"
"Oh, Miss Norcross! You mustn't say you can't. You will find him most
considerate. He is really a brilliant fellow. He stood first in his
class at college, and he is even interested in religious matters. He has
a very promising social career ahead of him."
Something was whirling in Mary's brain. She felt as though she were
shooting through space, and then bringing up against a wall at the
farther end of it, where a large and grinning person stood offering
apologies by the million. She was going to be secretary to _him_--she
knew it.
"Say that you will try it, anyhow," pleaded Aunt Caroline. "I insist."
Too late for retreat, thought Mary. Besides, what difference did it
make, after all? The money had to be earned. And she felt quite sure
that he would not dream of asking her about Mrs. Rokeby-Jones's
daughter.
"I shall report in the morning," she said.