Jennie Brewster stood with her back to the door, a sweet smile on her
face.
'This is my day for acting, Miss Longworth. I think I did the _rôle_ of
housemaid so well that it deceived several members of this family. I am
now giving an imitation of yourself in your thrilling drama, "All at
Sea." Don't you think I do it most admirably?'
'Yes,' said Edith, sitting down again. 'I wonder you did not adopt the
stage as a profession.'
'I have often thought of doing so, but journalism is more exciting.'
'Perhaps. Still, it has its disappointments. When I gave my thrilling
drama, as you call it, on shipboard, I had my stage accessories arranged
to better advantage than you have now.'
'Do you mean the putting off of the boat?'
'No; I mean that the electric button was under my hand--it was impossible
for you to ring for help. Now, while you hold the door, you cannot stop
me from ringing, for the bell-rope is here beside me.'
'Yes, that is a disadvantage, I admit. Do you intend to ring, then, and
have me turned out?'
'I don't think that will be necessary. I imagine you will go quietly.'
'You are a pretty clever girl, Miss Longworth. I wish I liked you, but I
don't, so we won't waste valuable time deploring that fact. Have you no
curiosity to hear what I was going to tell you?'
'Not the slightest; but there is one thing I should like to know.'
'Oh, is there? Well, that's human, at any rate. What do you wish to
know?'
'You came here well recommended. How did you know I wanted a housemaid,
and were your testimonials----'
Edith paused for a word, which Jennie promptly supplied.
'Forged? Oh dear no! There is no necessity for doing anything criminal in
this country, if you have the money. I didn't forge them--I bought them.
Didn't you write to any of the good ladies who stood sponsor for me?'
'Yes, and received most flattering accounts of you.'
'Certainly. That was part of the contract. Oh, you can do anything with
money in London; it is a most delightful town. Then, as for knowing
there was a vacancy, that also was money. I bribed the other housemaid
to leave.'
'I see. And what object had you in all this?'
Jennie Brewster laughed--the same silvery laugh that had charmed William
Longworth an hour or two before, a laugh that sometimes haunted
Wentworth's memory in the City. She left her sentinel-like position at
the door and threw herself into a chair.
'Miss Longworth,' she said, 'you are not consistent. You first pretend
that you have no curiosity to hear what I have to say, then you ask me
exactly what I was going to tell you. Of course, you are dying to know
why I am here; you wouldn't be a woman if you weren't. Now, I've changed
my mind, and I don't intend to tell you. I will say, though, that my
object in coming here was, first, to find out for myself how servants are
treated in this country. You see, my sympathies are all with the women
who work, and not with women--well, like yourself, for instance.'
'Yes, I think you said that once before. And how do we treat our
servants?'
'So far as my experience goes, very well indeed.'
'It is most gratifying to hear you say this. I was afraid we might not
have met with your approval. And now, where shall I send your month's
money, Miss Brewster?'
Jennie Brewster leaned back in her chair, her eyes all but closed; an
angry light shooting from them reminded Edith of her glance of hatred on
board the steamship. A rich warm colour overspread her fair face, and her
lips closed tightly. There was a moment's silence, and then Jennie's
indignation passed away as quickly as it came. She laughed, with just a
touch of restraint in her tone.
'You can say an insulting thing more calmly and sweetly than anyone I
ever met before; I envy you that. When I say anything low down and mean,
I say it in anger, and my voice has a certain amount of acridity in it. I
can't purr like a cat and scratch at the same time--I wish I could.'
'Is it an insult to offer you the money you have earned?'
'Yes, it is, and you knew it was when you spoke. You don't understand me
a little bit.'
'Is it necessary that I should?'
'I don't suppose you think it is,' said Jennie meditatively, resting her
elbow on her knee and her chin on her palm. 'That is where our point of
view differs. I like to know everything. It interests me to learn what
people think and talk about, and somehow it doesn't seem to matter to me
who the people are, for I was even more interested in your butler's
political opinions than I was in Lord Frederick Bingham's. They are both
Conservatives, but Lord Freddie seems shaky in his views, for you can
argue him down in five minutes, but the butler is as steadfast as a rock.
I do admire that butler. I hope you will break the news of my departure
gently to him, for he proposed to me, and he has not yet had his answer.'
'There is still time,' said Edith, smiling in spite of herself. 'Shall I
ring for him?'
'Please do not. I want to avoid a painful scene, because he is so sure of
himself, and never dreams of a refusal. It is such a pity, too, for the
butler is my ideal of what a member of the aristocracy should be. His
dignity is positively awe-inspiring; while Lord Freddie is such a simple,
good-natured, everyday young fellow, that if I imported him to the States
I am sure no one would believe he was a real lord. With the butler it
would be _so_ different,' added Jennie, with a deep sigh.
'It is too bad that you cannot exchange the declaration of the butler for
one from Lord Frederick.'
'Too bad!' cried Jennie, looking with wide-open eyes at the girl before
her; 'why, bless you! I had a proposal from Lord Freddie two weeks before
I ever saw the butler. I see you don't believe a word I say. Well, you
ask Lord Freddie. I'll introduce you, and tell him you don't believe he
asked me to be Lady Freddie, if that's the title. He'll look sheepish,
but he won't deny it. You see, when I found I was going to stay in
England for a time, I wrote to the editor of the _Argus_ to get me a
bunch of letters of introduction and send them over, as I wanted
particularly to study the aristocracy. So he sent them, and, I assure
you, I found it much more difficult to get into your servants' hall than
I did into the halls of the nobility--besides, it costs less to mix with
the Upper Ten.'
Edith sat in silence, looking with amazed interest at the girl, who
talked so rapidly that there was sometimes difficulty in following
what she said.
'No, Lord Freddie is not half so condescending as the butler, neither is
his language so well chosen; but then, I suppose, the butler's had more
practice, for Freddie is very young. I am exceedingly disappointed with
the aristocracy. They are not nearly so haughty as I had imagined them
to be. But what astonishes me in this country is the way you women
spoil the men. You are much too good to them. You pet them and fawn on
them, and naturally they get conceited. It is such a pity, too; for
they are nice fellows, most of them. It is the same everywhere I've
been--servants' hall included. Why, when you meet a young couple, of what
you are pleased to call the "lower classes," walking in the Park, the man
hangs down his head as he slouches along, but the girl looks defiantly at
you, as much as to say, "I've got him. Bless him! What have you to say
about it?" while the man seems to be ashamed of himself, and evidently
feels that he's been had. Now, a man should be made to understand that
you're doing him a great favour when you give him a civil word. That's
the proper state of mind to keep a man in, and then you can do what you
like with him. I generally make him propose, so as to get it over before
any real harm's done, and to give an artistic finish to the episode.
After that we can be excellent friends, and have a jolly time. That's the
way I did with Lord Freddie. Now, here am I, chattering away as if I were
paid for talking instead of writing. Why do you look at me so? Don't you
believe what I tell you?'
'Yes, I believe all you say. What I can't understand is, why a bright
girl like you should enter a house and,--well, do what you have done
here, for instance.'
'Why shouldn't I? I am after accurate information. I get it in my own
way. Your writers here tell how the poor live, and that sort of thing.
They enter the houses of the poor quite unblushingly, and print their
impressions of the poverty-stricken homes. Now, why should the rich man
be exempt from a similar investigation?'
'In either case it is the work of a spy.'
'Yes; but a spy is not a dishonourable person--at least, he need not be.
I saw a monument in Westminster Abbey to a man who was hanged as a spy. A
spy must be brave; he must have nerve, caution, and resource. He
sometimes does more for his country than a whole regiment. Oh, there are
worse persons than spies in this world.'
'I suppose there are, still----'
'Yes, I know. It is easy for persons with plenty of money to moralize on
the shortcomings of others. I'll tell you a secret. I'm writing a book,
and if it's a success, then good-bye to journalism. I don't like the spy
business myself any too well; I'm afraid England is contaminating me, and
if I stayed here a few years I might degenerate so far as to think your
newspapers interesting. By the way, have you seen Mr. Wentworth lately?'
Edith hesitated a moment, and at last answered:
'Yes, I saw him a day or two ago.'
'Was he looking well? I think I ought to write him a note of apology for
all the anxiety I caused him on board ship. You may not believe it, but I
have actually had some twinges of conscience over that episode. I suppose
that's why I partially forgave you for stopping the cablegram.'
Edith Longworth was astonished at herself for giving the young woman
information about Wentworth, but she gave it, and the amateur housemaid
departed in peace, saying, by way of farewell:
'I'm not going to write up your household, after all.'