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.