Next morning her efforts were begun. It rained, and she began to
understand what it means to the unemployed to tramp a city where two
days of every four are wet.
To buy papers, and examine them at home was out of the question; but
she was aware that there were news-rooms where for a penny she could
see them all. Directed to such an institution by a speckled boy,
conspicuous for his hat and ears, she found several dejected-looking
women turning over a heap of periodicals at a table. The "dailies" were
spread on stands against the walls, and at a smaller table under the
window lay a number of slips, with pens and ink, for the convenience of
customers wishing to make memoranda of the vacant situations. She went
first to The Times, because it was on the stand nearest to her, and
proceeded from one paper to another until she had made a tour of the
lot.
The "Wanted" columns were of the customary order; the needy
endeavouring to gull the necessitous with speqious phrases, and the
well-established prepared to sweat them without any disguise at all. A
drapery house had a vacancy for a young woman "to dress fancy windows,
and able to trim hats, etc., when desired"--salary fifteen pounds.
There was a person seeking a general servant willing to pay twenty
pounds a year for the privilege of doing the work. This advertisement
was headed "Home offered to a Lady," and a few seconds were required
to grasp the stupendous impudence of it. A side-street stationer, in
want of a sales-woman, advertised for an "Apprentice at a moderate
premium"; and the usual percentage of City firms dangled the decaying
bait of "An opportunity to learn the trade." Her knowledge of the glut
of experienced actresses enabled her to smile at the bogus theatrical
managers who had "immediate salaried engagements waiting for amateurs
of good appearance"; but some of the "home employment" swindles took
her in, and, discovering nothing better, she jotted these addresses
down.
From the news-room she went to a dairy, and dined on a glass of milk
and a bun. And after an inevitable outlay on stamps and stationery, she
returned to the lodging a shilling poorer than she had gone out.
Unacquainted with the wiles of the impostors she was answering, the
thought of her applications sustained her somewhat; it seemed to her
that out of the several openings one at least should be practicable.
She did not fail to make the calculation that most novices make in such
circumstances; she reduced the promised earnings by half, and believed
that she was viewing the prospect in a sober light which, if mistaken
at all, erred on the side of pessimism.
The envelopes that she had enclosed came back to her late the following
afternoon; and the circulars varied mainly in colour and in the prices
of the materials that they offered for sale. In all particulars
essential to prove them frauds to everybody excepting the piteous fools
who must exist, to explain the advertisements' longevity, they were the
same.
With the extinction of the hope, the darkness of her outlook was
intensified, and henceforth she eschewed the offers of "liberal
incomes" and confined her attention to the illiberal wages. Day after
day she resorted to the news-room--one stray more whom the proprietor
saw regularly--resolved not to relinquish her access to the papers
while a coin remained to her to pay for admission. She wrote many
letters, and spent her evenings vainly listening for the postman's
knock. She attributed her repeated failures to there being no mention
of references in her replies; they were so concise and nicely written
that she felt sure they could not have failed from any other reason.
Probably her nicely-written notes were never read: merely tossed with
scores of others, all unopened, into the wastepaper basket, after a
selection had been made from the top thirty. This is the fate of most
of the nicely-written notes that go in reply to advertisements in the
newspapers; only, the people who compose them and post them with little
prayers, fortunately do not suspect it. If they suspected it, they
would lose the twenty-four hours' comfort of hugging a false hope to
their souls; and an oasis of hope may be a desirable thing at the cost
of a postage-stamp.
One evening an answer did come, and an answer in connection with a
really beautiful "Wanted." When it was handed to her, she hardly dared
to hope that it related to that particular situation at all. The
advertisement had run:
"Secretary required by a Literary Lady. Must be sociable, and have no
objection to travel on the Continent. Apply in own handwriting to C.B.,
care of Messrs. Furnival," etc.
The signature, however, was not "C.B.'s." The communication was from
Messrs. Furnival. They wrote that they judged by Miss Brettan's
application that she would suit their client; and that on receipt of
a half-crown--their usual booking fee--they would forward the lady's
address.
If she had had a half-crown to send, she might have sent it; as it was,
instead of remitting to Messrs. Furnival's office, she called there.
It proved to be a very small and very dark back room on the
ground-floor, and Messrs. Furnival were represented by a stout
gentleman of shabby apparel and mellifluous manner. Mary began
by saying that she was the applicant who had received his letter
about "C.B.'s" advertisement; but as this announcement did not seem
sufficiently definite to enable the stout gentleman to converse on the
subject with fluency and freedom, she added that "C.B." was a literary
lady who stood in need of a secretary.
On this he became very vivacious indeed. He told her that her chance
of securing the post was an excellent one. No, it was not a certainty,
as she appeared to have understood, but he did not think she had much
occasion for misgiving; her speed in shorthand was in excess of the
rate for which their client had stipulated.
She said: "Why, I especially stated that if she wanted someone who knew
shorthand, I should be no use!"
He said: "So you did! I meant to say, your type-writing was your
recommendation."
"Mr. Furnival," she exclaimed, "I wrote, 'I do not know shorthand, and
I am not a typist'! You must be confusing me with someone else. Perhaps
you have answered another application as well?"
Perhaps he had.
"You're my first experience of an applicant for a secretaryship who
hasn't learnt shorthand or type-writing," he said in an injured tone.
"Of course, if you don't know either, you'd be no good at all--not a
bit."
"Then," she said, "why did you ask me to send you half a crown?"
Before he could spare time to enlighten her as to his reason for this
line of action, they were interrupted by an urchin who deposited an
armful of letters on the table. The gentleman seemed pleased to see
them, and she came away wondering how many of the women who Messrs.
Furnival "judged would suit their client" enclosed postal-orders to pay
the "fee."
Quite ineffectually she visited some legitimate agencies, and once
she walked to Battersea in time to learn that the berth that was the
object of her journey had just been filled. Even when one walks to
Battersea, and dines for twopence, however, the staying-powers of
two-and-ninepence are very limited; and the dawning of the dreaded date
for the bill found her capital exhausted.
Among her scanty possessions, the only article that she could suggest
converting into money was a silver watch that she wore attached to a
guard. It had belonged to her as a girl; she had worn it as a nurse;
it had travelled with her on tour during her life with Carew. What a
pawnbroker would lend her on it she did not know, but she supposed
a sovereign. Had she been better off, she would have supposed two
sovereigns, for she was as ignorant of its value as of the method
of pledging it; but being destitute, a pound looked to her a very
substantial amount. She made her way heavily into the street. She felt
that her errand was printed on her face, and when she reached and
paused beneath the sign of the three balls, all the passers-by seemed
to be watching her.
The window offered a pretext for hesitation. She stood inspecting the
collection behind the glass; perhaps anyone who saw her go in might
imagine it was with the intention of buying something! She was nerving
herself to the necessary pitch when, giving a final glance over her
shoulder, she saw a bystander looking at her steadily. Her courage took
flight, and she sauntered on, deciding to explore for a shop in a more
secluded position.
Though she was ashamed of her retreat, the respite was a relief to her.
It was not until she came to three more balls that she perceived that
the longer she delayed, the worse she would feel. She went hurriedly
in. There was a row of narrow doors extending down a passage, and,
pulling one open, she found the tiny compartment occupied by a woman
and a bundle. Starting back, she adventured the next partition, which
proved to be vacant; and standing away from the counter, lest her
profile should be detected by her neighbour in distress, she waited
for someone to come to her.
Nobody taking any notice, she rapped to attract attention. A young man
lounged along, and she put the watch down.
"How much?" he said.
"A pound."
He caught it up and withdrew, conveying the impression that he thought
very little of it. She thought very little of it herself directly it
was in his hand. His hand was a masterpiece of expression, whereas his
voice never wavered from two notes.
"Ten shillings," he said, reappearing.
"Ten shillings is very little," she murmured. "Surely it's worth more
than that?"
"Going to take it?"
He slid the watch across to her.
"Thank you," she said; "yes."
A doubt whether it would be sufficient crept over her the instant she
had agreed, and she wished she had declined the offer. To call him
back, however, was beyond her; and when he returned it was with the
ticket.
"Name and address?"
New to the requirements of a pawnbroker, she stammered the true one,
convinced that the woman with the bundle would overhear and remember.
Even then she was dismayed to find the transaction wasn't concluded;
he asked her for a halfpenny, and, with the blood in her face, she
signified that she had no change. At last though, she was free to
depart, with a handful of silver and coppers; and guiltily transferring
the money to her purse when the shop was well behind, she reverted to
routine.
It was striking five when she mounted to the attic, and she saw that
Mrs. Shuttleworth, with the punctuality peculiar to cheap landladies
when the lodger is out, had already brought up the tray. On the plate
was her bill; she snatched at it anxiously, and was relieved to find it
ran thus:
s. d.
Bred 1 2
Butter.... 10
Milk 3 1/2
Tea 6
Oil 2
Shuger.... 2 1/2
To room til next Wensday 5 0
8 2
So far, then, she had been equal to emergencies, and another week's
shelter was assured. The garret began to assume almost an air of
comfort, refined by her terror of losing it. When she reflected that
the week divided her from actual starvation, she cried that she must
find something to do--she must! Then she realised that she could
find it no more easily because it was a case of "must" than if it
had been simply expedient, and the futility of the feminine "must,"
when she was already doing all she could do, served to accentuate her
helplessness. She prayed passionately, without being able to feel much
confidence in the efficacy of prayer, and told herself that she did
not deserve that God should listen to her, because she was guilty, and
sinful, and bad. She did not seek consolation in repeating that it was
always darkest before dawn, nor strive to fortify herself with any
other of the aphorisms belonging to the vocabulary of sorrow for other
people. The position being her own, she looked it straight in the eyes,
and admitted that the chances were in favour of her being very shortly
without a bed to lie on.
Each night she came a few pence nearer to the end; each night now she
sat staring from the window, imagining the sensations of wandering
homeless. And at last the day broke--a sunless and chilly day--when she
rose and went out possessed of one penny, without any means of adding
to it. This penny might be reserved to diminish the hunger that would
seize her presently, or she might give herself a final chance among the
newspapers. Having breakfasted, she decided on the final chance.
As she turned the pages her hands trembled, and for a second the
paragraphs swam together. The next instant, standing out clearly from
the sea of print, she saw an advertisement like the smile of a friend:
"Useful Companion wanted to elderly lady; one with some experience of
invalids preferred. Apply personally, between 3 and 5, 'Trebartha,' N.
Finchley."
If it had been framed for her, it could hardly have suited her better.
The wish for personal application was itself an advantage, for in
conversation, she felt, the obstacle of having no references could be
surmounted with far less trouble than by letter. A string of frank
allusions to the difficulty, a dozen easy phrases, leapt into her
mind, so that, in fancy, the interview was already in progress, and
terminating with pleasant words in the haven of engagement.
She searched no further, and it was not till she was leaving that she
remembered the miles that she would have to walk. To start so early,
however, would be useless, so on second thoughts she determined to pass
the morning where she was.
She was surprised to discover that she was not singular in this
decision, and she wondered if all; the clients that stayed so long had
anywhere else to go. Many of them never turned a leaf, but sat at the
table dreamily eyeing a journal; as if they had forgotten that it was
there. She; watched the people coming in, noting the unanimity with
which they made for the advertisement-sheets first, and speculating as
to the nature of the work they sought.
There was a woman garbed in black, downcast and precise; she was a
governess, manifestly. Once, when she had been young, and insolent with
the courage of youth, she would have mocked a portrait looking as she
looked now; there was little enough mockery left in her this morning.
She quitted the "dailies" unrewarded, and proceeded to the table, her
thin-lipped mouth set a trifle harder than before. A girl with magenta
feathers in her hat bounced in, tracing her way down the columns
with a heavy fore-finger, and departing nonchalantly with a blotted
list. This was a domestic servant, Mary understood. A shabby man of
sinister expression covered an area of possibilities: a broken-down
tutor perhaps, a professional man gone to the bad. He looked like
Mephistopheles in the prompter's clothes, she thought, contemplating
him with languid curiosity. The reflections flitted across the central
idea while she sat nervously waiting for the hours to pass, and when
she considered it was time at last, she asked the newsagent in which
direction Finchley lay. She omitted to mention that she had to walk
there, but she obtained sufficient information about a tram-route to
guide her up to Hampstead Heath, where of course she could inquire
again.
The sun gave no promise of shining, and a bleak wind, tossing the
rubbish of the gutters into little whirlpools, made pedestrianism
exceedingly unpleasant. She was dismayed to find on how long a journey
she was bound; she arrived at the tram-terminus already tired, and then
learnt that she was not half-way to Finchley. It was nothing but a name
to her, and steadily trudging along a road that extended itself before
her eternally she began to fear that she would never reach her goal at
all. To add to the discomfort, it was snowing slightly now, and she
grew less sanguine with every hundred yards. The vision of the smiling
lady, the buoyancy of her own glib sentences, faded from her, and the
thought of the utter abjectness that would come of refusal made the
salvation of acceptance appear much too wonderful to occur.
When she reached it, "Trebartha" proved to be a stunted villa in red
brick. It was one of a row, each of the other stunted villas being
similarly endowed with a name befitting, a domain; and suspense
catching discouragement from the most extraneous details, Mary's heart
sank as the housemaid disclosed the badly-lighted passage.
She was ushered into the sitting-room; and the woman who entered
presently had been suggested by it. She seemed the natural complement
of the haggard prints, of the four cumbersome chairs in a line against
the wall, of the family Bible on the crochet tablecover. She wore silk,
dark and short--plain, except for three narrow bands of velvet at the
hem. She wore a gold watch-chain hanging round her neck, garlanded
over her portly bosom. She said she was the invalid lady's married
daughter, and her tone implied a consciousness of that higher merit
which the woman whose father has left her comfortably off feels over
the woman whose father hasn't.
"You've called about my mother's advertisement for a companion?" she
said.
"Yes; I've had a long experience of nursing. I think I should be able
to do all you require."
"Have you ever lived as companion?"
"No," said Mary, "I have never done that, but--but I think I'm
companionable; I don't think I'm difficult to get on with."
"What was your--won't you sit down?--what was your last place?"
Mary moistened her lips.
"I am," she said, "rather awkwardly situated. I may as well tell you
at once that I am a stranger here, and--do you know--I find that's
a great bar in the way of my getting employment? Not being known,
I've, of course, no friends I can refer people to, and--well, people
always seem to think the fact of being a stranger in a city is rather
a discreditable thing. I have found that! They do." She looked for a
gleam of response in the stolid countenance, but it was as void of
expression as the furniture. "As I say, I have had a lengthy experience
of nursing; I--it sounds conceited--but I should be exceedingly
useful. It's just the thing I am fitted for."
The married daughter asked: "You have been a nurse, you say? But not
here?"
"Not here," said Mary, "no. Of course, that doesn't detract from----"
"Oh, quite so. We've had several young women here already to-day. Do
I understand you to mean there is nobody at all you can give as a
reference?"
"Yes, that unfortunately is so. I do hope you don't consider it an
insuperable difficulty? You know you take servants without 'characters'
sometimes when----"
"I _never_ take a servant without a 'character.' I have never done such
a thing in my life."
"I did not mean you personally," said Mary, with hasty deprecation; "I
was speaking----"
"I'm most particular on the point; my mother is most particular, too."
"Generally speaking. I meant people do take servants without
'characters' occasionally when they are hard pushed."
"Our own servants are only too wishful to remain with us. My mother has
had her present cook eight years, and the last one was only induced
to leave because a young man--a young man in quite a fair way of
business--made her an offer of marriage. She had been here even longer
than eight years--twelve I think it was, or thirteen. It was believed
at the time that what first attracted the young man's attention to her
was the many years that my mother had retained her in our household.
I'm sure there are no circumstances under which my mother 'd consent to
receive a young person who could give no proof of her trustworthiness
and good conduct."
"Do you mean that you can't engage me? It--it's a matter of life and
death to me," exclaimed Mary; "pray let me see the lady!"
"Your manner," said the married daughter, "is strange. Quite
authoritative for your position!" She rose. "You'll find it helpful to
be less haughty when you speak, less opinionated; your manner is very
much against you. Oh, my word! no violence, if you please, miss!"
"Violence?" gasped Mary; "I'm not violent. It was my last hope, that's
all, and it's over. I wish you good-day."
So much had happened in a few minutes--inside and out--that the roads
were whitening rapidly and the flutter of snow had developed into a
steady fall. At first she was scarcely sensible of it; the anger in
her heart kept the cold out, and carried her along in a semi-rush.
Words broke from her breathlessly. She felt that she had fallen from
a high estate; that the independence of her life with Carew had been
a period of dignity and power; that erstwhile she could have awed the
dull-witted philistine who had humbled her. "The hateful woman! Oh,
the wretch! To have to sue to a creature like that!" Well, she would
starve now, she supposed, her excitement spending itself. She would die
of starvation, like characters in fiction, or the people one read of
in the newspapers; the newspapers called it "exposure," but it was the
same thing; "exposure" sounded less offensive to the other people who
read about it, that was all. The force of education is so strong that,
much as she insisted on such a death, and close as she had approached
to it, she was unable to realise its happening to her. She told herself
that it must; the world was of a sudden horribly wide and empty; but
for Mary Brettan actually to die like that had an air of exaggeration
about it still. Pushing forward, she pondered on it, and the fact came
close; the sensation of the world's widening about her grew stronger.
She felt alone in the midst of illimitable space. There seemed nothing
around her, nothing tangible, nothing to catch at. O God! how tired she
was! she couldn't go on much further.
The snow whirled against her in gusts, clinging to her hair, and
filling her eyes and nostrils. Exhaustion was overpowering her. And
still how many miles? Each of the benches that she passed was a fresh
temptation; and at last she dropped on one, too tired to stand, wet and
shivering, and shielding her face from the storm.
She dropped on it like any tramp or stray. Having held out to the
uttermost, she did not know whether she would ever get up again--did
not think about it, and did not care. Her limbs ached for relief, and
she seized it on the high-road because relief on the high-road was the
only kind attainable.
And it was while she cowered there that another figure appeared in the
twilight, the figure of a tall old man carrying a black bag. He came
smartly down a footpath, gazing to right and left as for something that
should be waiting for him. Not seeing it, he whistled, and Mary looked
up. A trap was backed from the corner of the road. Then the man with
the bag stared at her, and after an instant of hesitation, he spoke.
"It's a dirty nicht," he said, "for ye tae be sittin' there. I'm
thinking ye're no' weel?"
"Not very," she said.
He inspected her undecidedly.
"An' ye'll tak' your death o' cold if ye dinna get up, it's verra
certain. Hoots! ye're shakin' wi' it noo! Bide a wee, an' I'll put some
warmth intae ye, young leddy."
Without any more ado, he deposited the bag at her side and opened it.
And, astonishing to relate, the black bag was fitted with a number of
little bottles, one of which he extracted, with a glass.
"Is it medicine?" she asked wonderingly.
"Medicine?" he echoed; "nae, it's nae medicine; it's 'Four Diamonds
S.O.P.' I'm gi'en ye. It's a braw sample o' Pilcher's S.O.P., ma
lassie; nothin' finer in the trade, on the honour o' Macpheerson! Noo
ye drink that doon; it's speerit, an' it'll dae ye guid."
She took his advice, gulping the spirit while he watched her
approvingly. Its strength diffused itself through her in ripples of
heat, raising her courage, and yet, oddly enough, making her want to
cry.
Mr. Macpherson contemplated the little bottle solemnly, shaking his
head at it with something that sounded like a sigh.
"An' whaur may ye be goin'?" he queried, replacing the cork.
"I am going to town," she answered. "I was walking home, only the
storm----"
"Tae toon? Will ye no' ha'e a lift along o' me an' the lad? I'll drive
ye intae toon."
"Have you to go there?" she asked, over-joyed.
"There'd be th' de'il tae pay if I stayed awa'. Ay, I ha'e tae gang
there, and as fast as the mare can trot. Will ye let me help ye in?"
"Yes," she said; "thank you very much."
He hoisted her up. And she and her strange companion, accompanied by an
urchin who never uttered a word, made a brisk start.
"I am so much obliged to you," she murmured, rejoicing; "you don't
know!"
"There's nae call for ony obleegation; it's verra welcome ye are. I'm
thinkin' the sample did ye a lot o' guid, eh?"
"It did indeed; it has made me feel a different woman."
"Eh, but it's a gran' speerit!" said the old gentleman with reviving
ardour. "There's nae need to speak for it, an' that's a fact; your ain
tongue sings its perfection to ye as ye sup it doon. Ye may get ither
houses to serve ye cheaper, I'm no' denyin' that; but tae them that can
place the rale article there's nae house like Pilcher's. And Pilcher's
best canna be beaten in the trade. I ha'e nae interest tae lie tae
ye, ye ken; nor could I tak' ye in wi' the wines and speerits had I
the mind. There's the advantage wi' the wines and speerits; ye canna
deceive! Ye ha'e the sample, an' ye ha'e the figure--will I book the
order or will I no'?"
"It's your business then, Mr.----?"
"Will ye no' tak' my card?" he said, producing a large one; "there, put
it awa'. Should ye ever be in need, ma lassie, a line to Macpheerson,
care o' the firm----"
"How kind of you!" she exclaimed.
"No' a bit," he said; "ye never can tell what may happen, and whether
it's for yoursel' ye need it, or a recommendation, ye'll ken ye're
buying at the wholesale price."
She glanced at him with surprise, and looked away again. And they
drove for several minutes in silence.
"Maybe ye ken some family whaur I'd be likely tae book an order noo?"
remarked Mr. Macpherson incidentally. "Sherry? dae ye no' ken o' a
family requirin' sherry? I can dae them sherry at a figure that'll
tak' th' breath frae them. Ye canna suspect the profit--th' weecked
ineequitous profit--that sherry's retailed at; wi' three quotations tae
the brand often eno', an' a made-up wine at that! Noo, I could supply
your frien's wi' 'Crossbones'--the finest in the trade, on the honour
of Macpheerson--if ye happen tae ha'e ony who----"
"I don't," she said, "happen to have any."
"There's the family whaur ye're workin', we'll say; a large family
maybe, wi' a cellar. For a large family tae be supplied at the
wholesale figure----"
"I am sorry, but I don't work."
"Ye don't work, an' ye ha'e no frien's?" He peered at her curiously.
"Then, ma dear young leddy, ye'll no' think me impertinent if I ax ye
how th' de'il ye live?"
The wild idea shot into her brain that perhaps he might be able to put
her into the way of something--somewhere--somehow!
"I'm a stranger in London," she answered, "looking for
employment--quite alone."
"Eh," said Mr. Macpherson, "that's bad, that's verra bad!"
He whipped up the horse, and after the momentary comment lapsed into
reverie. She called herself a fool for her pains, and stared dumbly
across the melancholy fields.
"Whauraboots are ye stayin'?" he demanded, after they had passed the
Swiss Cottage.
She told him. "Please don't let me take you out of your way," she added.
"Ye're no' verra far frae ma ain house," he declared. "Ye had best come
in an' warm before ye gang on hame. Ye are in nae hurry, I suppose?"
"No, but----"
"Oh, the mistress will nae mind it. Ye just come in wi' me!"
Their conversation progressed by fits and starts till his domicile was
reached. Leaving the trap to the care of the boy, who might have been
a mute for any indication he had given to the contrary, Mr. Macpherson
led her into a parlour, where a kettle steamed invitingly on the hob.
He was greeted by a little woman, evidently the wife referred to; and a
rosy offspring, addressed as Charlotte, brought her progenitor a pair
of slippers. His introduction of Mary to his family circle was brief.
"'Tis a young leddy," he said, "I gave a lift to. But I dinna ken your
name?"
"My name is Brettan," she replied. Then, turning to the woman: "Your
husband was kind enough to save me from walking home from Finchley, and
now he has made me come in with him."
"It was a braw nicht for a walk," opined Macpherson.
"I'm sure I'm glad to see you, miss," responded the woman in cheery
Cockney. "Come to the fire and dry yourself a bit, do!"
The initial awkwardness was very slight, for Mary's experiences in
bohemia were serviceable here. The people were well-intentioned, too,
and, meeting with no embarrassment to hamper their heartiness, they
grew speedily at ease. It reminded the guest of some of her arrivals on
tour; of one in particular, when the previous week's company had not
left and she and Tony had traversed half Oldham in search of rooms,
finally sitting down with their preserver to bread-and-cheese in her
kitchen! It was loathsome how Tony kept recurring to her, and always in
episodes when he had been jolly and affectionate!
"Your husband tells me he is in the wine business," she observed at the
tea-table.
"He is, miss; and never you marry a man who travels in that line,"
returned the woman, "or the best part of your life you won't know for
rights if you're married or not!"
"He's away a good deal, you mean?"
"Away? He's just home about two months in the year--a fortnight at the
time, that's what he is! All the rest of it traipsing about from place
to place like a wandering gipsy. Charlotte says time and again, 'Ma,
have I got a pa, or 'aven't I?'--don't yer, Charlotte?"
"Pa's awful!" said Charlotte, with her mouth full of
bread-and-marmalade. "Never mind, pa, you can't help it!"
"Eh, it's a sad pursuit!" rejoined her father gloomily. In the glow
of his own fireside Mary perceived with surprise that his enthusiasm
for "his wines and speerits" had vanished. "Awa' frae your wife an'
bairn, pandering tae th' veecious courses that ruin the immortal soul!
Every heart kens its ain bitterness, young leddy; and Providence in its
mysteerious wisdom never meant me for the wine-and-speerit trade."
"Oh lor," said Charlotte, "ma's done it!"
"It was na your mither," said Mr. Macpherson; "it's ma ain conscience,
as well ye ken! Dae I no' see the travellers themselves succumb tae th'
cussed sippin' and tastin' frae mornin' till nicht? There was Burbage,
I mind weel, and there was Broun; guid men both--no better men on th'
road! Whaur's Burbage noo--whaur's Broun?"
"Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul!" interpolated Charlotte.
"Gone!" continued Mr. Macpherson, responding to his own inquiry
with morbid unction. "Deed! The Lord be praised, I ha'e the guid
sense tae withstand th' infeernal tipplin' masel'. Mony's the time,
when I'm talkin' tae a mon in the way o' business, ye ken, I turn
the damned glass upside down when he is na lookin'. But there's the
folk I sell tae, an' the ithers; what o' them? It's ma trade to
praise the evil--tae tak' it into the world, spreadin' it broadcast
for the destruction o' monkind. Eh, ma responsibeelity is awfu' tae
contemplate."
"I'm sure, James, you mean first class," said the little woman weakly.
"Come, light your pipe comfortable, now, and don't worrit, there's a
good man!"
The traveller waved the pipe aside.
"There's a still sma' voice," he said, "ye canna silence wi' 'bacca;
ye canna silence it wi' herbs nor wi' fine linen. It's wi' me noo,
axin' queestions. It says: 'Macpheerson, how dae ye justeefy thy
wilfu' conduct? Why dae ye gloreefy the profeets o' th' airth above
thy speeritual salvation, mon? Dae ye no ken that orphans are goin'
dinnerless through thy eloquence, an' widows are prodigal wi' curses on
a' thy samples an' thy ways?' I canna answer. There are nichts when the
voice will na let me sleep, ye're weel aware; there are nichts----"
"There are nights when you're most trying, James, I know."
"Woman, it's the warnin' voice that comes tae a sinner in his
transgreession! Are there no' viseetations eno' about me, an' dae I
no' turn ma een frae them; hardenin' ma heart, and pursuin' ma praise
o' Pilcher's wi' a siller tongue? There was a mon are day at the
Peacock--a mon in ma ain inseedious line--an' he swilled his bottle
o' sherry, an' he called for his whusky-an'-watter, and he got up
on his feet speechify in', after the commercial dinner. 'The Queen,
gentlemen!' he cries, liftin' his glass; an' wi' that he dropped deed,
wi' the name o' the royal leddy on his lips! He was a large red mon--he
would ha' made twa o' me."
He seemed to regard the circumference of the deceased as additionally
ominous. His arms were extended in representation of it, and he waved
them aloft as if to intimate that Charlotte might detect Nemesis in the
vicinity preparing for a swoop.
"You take the thing too seriously," said Mary. "Nine people out of ten
have to be what they can, you know; it is only the tenth who can be
what he likes."
The little woman inquired what her own calling was.
"I am very sorry to say I haven't any," she answered. "I'm doing
nothing."
There was a moment's constraint.
"Unfortunately I know nobody here," she went on; "it's very hard to
get anything when there's no one to speak for you."
"It must be! But, lor! you must bear up. It's a long lane that has no
turning, as they say."
"Only there is no telling where the turning may lead; a lane is better
than a bog."
"Wouldn't she do for Pattenden's?" suggested the woman musingly.
"For whom?" exclaimed Mary. "Do you think I can get something? Who are
they?"
"James?"
"Pattenden's?" he repeated. "An' what; would she dae at Pattenden's?"
"Why, be agent, to be sure--same as you were!"
Mary glanced from one to the other with; anxiety.
"Weel, noo, that isn't at a' a bad idea," said Mr. Macpherson
meditatively; "dae ye fancy ye could sell books, young leddy, on
commeession--a hauf-sovereign, say, for every order ye took? I'm
thinkin' a young woman micht dae a verra fair trade at it."
"Oh yes," she replied; "I'm sure I could. Half a sovereign each one?
Where do I go? Will they take me?"
"I dinna anteecipate ye'll fin' much deefficulty aboot them takin' ye:
they dinna risk onythin' by that! I'll gi'e ye the address. They are
publishers, and ye just ax for their Mr. Collins when ye go there; tell
him ye're wishful tae represent them wi' ane o' their publeecations.
If ye like I'll write your name on ane o' ma ain cards; an' ye can send
it in tae him."
"Oh, do!" she said.
"Ye must na imagine it's a fortune ye'll be makin'," he observed; "it's
different tae ma ain position wi' the wines an' speerits, ye ken: wi'
Pilcher's it's a fixed salary, an' Pilcher's pay ma expenses."
"Pilcher's pay _our_ expenses!" affirmed Charlotte the thoughtful.
"They dae," acquiesced the traveller; "there's a sicht o' saving oot
o' sax-and-twenty shillin's a day tae an economical parent. But wi'
Pattenden's it's precarious; are week guid, an' anither week bad."
"I am not afraid," said Mary boldly; "whatever I do, it is better than
nothing! I'll go there to-morrow, the first thing. Very many thanks;
and to you too, Mrs. Macpherson, for thinking of it."
"I'm sure I'm glad I did; there's no saying but what you may be doing
first-rate after a bit. It's a beginning for you, any way."
"That it is! But why can't the publishers pay a salary, the same as
your husband's firm?"
"Ah! they don't; anyhow, not at the beginning. Besides, James has been
with Pilcher's ten years now; he wasn't earning so much when he started
with them."
"'Spect one reason is because such a heap more people buy spirits than
books!" said Charlotte. "Pa!"
"Eh, ma lassie?"
"The lady's going to be an agent----"
"Weel?"
"Then, pa," said Charlotte, "won't we all drink to the lady's luck in a
sample?"
"Ye veecious midget," ejaculated her father wrathfully, "are ye no'
ashamed tae mak' sic a proposeetion? Ye'll no' drink a sample, will ye,
young leddy?"
"I will not indeed!" answered Mary.
"No' but what ye're welcome."
"Thanks," she said; "I will not, really."
"Eh, but ye will, then," he exclaimed; "a sma' sample, ye an' Mrs.
Macpheerson! Whaur's ma bag?"
In spite of her protestations he drew a bottle out, and the hostess
produced a couple of glasses from the cupboard.
"Port!" he said. "The de'il's liquors a' o' them; but, if there's a
disteenction, maybe a wee drappie o' the 'Four Grape Balance' deserves
mon's condemnation least." His conflicting emotions delayed the toast
for some time. "The de'il's liquors!" he groaned again, fingering
the bottle irresolutely. "Eh, but it's the 'Four Grape Balance,'" he
murmured with reluctant admiration, eyeing the sample against the
light. "There! Ye may baith o' ye drink it doon! But masel', I wouldna
touch a drap. An' as for ye, ye wee Cockney bairn, if I catch ye
tastin' onything stronger a than tea in a' your days, or knowin' the
flavour o' the perneecious stuff it's your affleected father's duty tae
lure the unsuspeecious minds wi'--temptin' the frail tae their eternal
ruin, an' servin' the de'il when his sicht is on the Lord--I'll leather
ye!"
Charlotte giggled nervously--Figaro-wise, that she might not be obliged
to weep; and Mrs. Macpherson, raising the glass to her lips, said
"Luck!"
"Luck!" they all echoed.
And Mary, conscious that the career would be no heroic one, was also
conscious she was not a heroine. "I am," she said to herself, "just a
real unhappy woman, in very desperate straits. So let me do whatever
turns up, and be profoundly grateful that anything can be done at all."