MISS BEAMAN
He was up at eight o'clock next morning, was dressed and out by nine.
An hour too soon. At nine o'clock London is seemingly awake, but with
its eyes still closed.
He walked from Sloane Square to Charing Cross and then on to Fleet
Street, arriving at White Lion Court a few minutes after ten. Martia
had not arrived yet, but the senior partner, Miss Beaman, was there--a
capable, middle-aged woman who received him and held him in talk till
the arrival of the junior.
Rose Beaman was one of those people who do not hang on formalities. She
talked to Bobby as though she had known him all her life; she talked of
his work and she talked of her partner.
Martia was killing herself with work; she was one of those
conscientious people who slave themselves to death over detail; she had
taken only a week's holiday that summer, and a month would not have
been too much.
"You see," said Miss Beaman, "it all depends on the person and where
they were born. A born Londoner is different from a person brought up
in the country. I have known Martia since she was a child. We used to
call her March Hare, she was so wild and such a tom-boy: now she is
like a creature tamed and depressed by captivity. Cities are all wrong,
it seems to me; great prisons--work-houses--where the people are quite
content, not because they ought to be content but because they are
subdued to their surroundings."
Then the arrival of the discussed one broke off the conversation, and
a minute later Bobby found himself tête-à-tête with her and trying to
explain Behrens' whole proposition in a few words.
"He's backing me to the extent of three thousand pounds," he finished
at last, "and we are to divide the profits. And that brings me to what
I want to say. You introduced me to this business and, of course, your
firm must have a share in it."
The girl laughed.
"I think we will discuss that," said she, "when we see how things turn
out. There mightn't be anything to share. Then, again, it's all very
well to say we ought to share in the profits, but how about the work
and the danger of the business? It was no trouble to me to give you an
introduction to Mr. Behrens. He asks you to take the matter up; you
take all sorts of risks and the work is sure to be hard. Why should we
take a commission when we run no risks with you and do no work?"
She spoke without animation, in a tired way. Here, in the full light
of morning, Bobby began to perceive the truth of Miss Beaman's words.
March Hare, the light-hearted creature of other days pictured by Miss
Beaman, was far from being suggested by this girl, fading in the air of
Fleet Street, exhausted by office work and the struggle with editors,
authors, clerks, typewriters, and all the gnomes and fiends that move
behind the great set stage of Storyland.
Bobby sometimes had luminous ideas; one came to him now.
"Why not?" asked he.
"Why not what?" asked she.
"Share in the risks and the work. Take a holiday and come with us.
I'm not joking. We'll only be a few months, and think of it--think
of it," said Bobby, almost frightened at the daring of the proposal,
which in the Victorian age would have caused him to be exterminated
by an outraged parent or guardian, but which left Martia Hare quite
unshocked--she had, indeed, driven an ambulance in the Great War.
"Think of it! There was never such an expedition before. Think of the
fun and the excitement? Fishing? It beats fishing hollow. It's not
fishing for fish but for old gods and things. There's no knowing what
we may get up out of that place. Think of the Greek Islands! It's a
regular town, streets and buildings, all covered with shallow water
clear as a diamond. Hyalos is the name of it."
"Don't," said the girl almost irritably. "How could I? I'm tied to my
work. It's like holding out an apple to a donkey that's behind bars and
can't reach it. Would I come? Of course I would come, if I were free."
"Miss Beaman said you were working yourself to death, and that you
wanted a long holiday. She'd let you free soon enough. Besides,
you're a partner, aren't you? And it's business; you would have your
commission on your share!"
"It's impossible," said Martia. "There are too many things to be done
here."
"Leaving everything else aside," said he, "your brains would help to
make the thing a success. I'm not a brainy person, at all events in
that way. I'm always forgetting things. Well, say this at all events;
say that you'll think of it."
"I'm sure to do that," she answered, with a sigh.
"I mean as a business proposition. Promise me to think it over and try
and find some way by which you may be able to come."
"Yes, I'll do that, if you wish, but it's hopeless."
"No, that's no use. Promise me that you will put the hopelessness aside
and really think of it and try and find some way out. Think it out like
a problem."
"Very well. I will."
"Remember you will be one of the expedition, so you'll have no
expenses. Oh, promise me another thing."
"What?"
"That you'll talk the matter over with Miss Beaman."
"But I thought it was to be kept a secret?"
"So it is. But Miss Beaman is safe."
"Very well. I will talk to her about it."
He looked at his watch.
"Now I must be going. I have to catch the train to Bournemouth and get
to Poole Harbour to see a man I know there who may be able to help me.
May I come to-morrow and tell you how I am getting on?"
"Yes, certainly," said Martia, looking at the clock behind him. "Have
you got your luggage with you or will you have to go home to pack?"
"Which luggage?" asked Bobby.
"Well, a bag or something. You see, Poole is a good way from
Bournemouth, and you mayn't be able to get back to-night."
He hadn't thought of this. He had reckoned in a hazy way that he could
be back by the evening.
"There you are," said he. "I clean forgot all about that. You remember
the first time I saw you you said I was a forgetful person. I am.
I'll just have to buy a toothbrush and a few things on the way to the
station."
Off he went, and the girl sat for a moment looking at the morning
correspondence before her on the desk, but gazing in reality at
the mental picture of Bobby and his irresponsibility. She knew his
character quite well by now--or so she thought. Anyhow, she knew pieces
of it. Picking up the railway guide that lay on her desk, she followed
the traveller in her mind. She found that the proper way to get to
Poole is not to go to Bournemouth but to Poole, direct.