Aunt Agatha had of course to be told. Aunt Agatha was the widow of Sir
Davenport Collum and Ben's mother's sister. Her opinion on any subjects
whatever doesn't really matter, but Ben would not have been happy to
have left her in ignorance.
"You mustn't think me narrow-minded," Aunt Agatha said, "because I'm
not. Whatever else I may be, I'm not narrow-minded. But I really
do think you might have chosen something better to do than to be a
maid-of-all-work or a Jack-of-all-trades at the command of anyone with
the money to pay your fee. You--you demean yourself. We should have
dignity."
"Yes, aunt," said Ben, "but one must maintain oneself first. There is
no dignity without independence."
"But surely--don't you remember Landseer's picture?" inquired Lady
Collum.
"No, aunt. That was 'Dignity and Impudence,'" Ben replied.
"Yes, so it was. I had forgotten. And, after all, the words are very
much alike. I can see it now. We had an engraving in the hall at home.
Two dogs. Well, dear, as you were saying?"
"I was saying, aunt," Ben resumed, "that dignity without independence
is only a shadow. What I want is to make my own living and 'The Beck
and Call' seems to be a way. At any rate, it is worth trying."
"A horrid phrase," said Lady Collum. "'Beck and Call.' Why, it suggests
dependence and nothing else. Servility even. You belong to every one
but yourself; you will be London's errand girl."
"But if I don't mind that, what then?" Ben asked. "And besides, I shall
reserve the right to select my jobs."
"Beggars," said Aunt Agatha, "cannot be choosers. There's a proverb to
that effect and I am a great believer in proverbs. An apple a day--ah!
how true!"
"Yes, aunt, but how miserable you would be if anything kept your own
darling doctor away! And I believe it's really an onion, as a matter of
fact."
"Onions undoubtedly are very healthy," said Lady Collum. "But what were
we saying? Oh, yes. This office of yours. 'The To and Fro.' Where is it
to be?"
"'The Beck and Call,' aunt," Ben corrected. "I have taken two rooms
over an old book-shop in Motcombe Street."
"Taken them!" exclaimed Lady Collum, in horror. "I had no idea it had
gone so far as that. What is the use of my giving you any advice if the
deed is done? It's like locking the garage door after the car has been
stolen."
"But I don't think I was asking you to advise me," said Ben. "I was
merely telling you about it, because I thought you would like to know,
and in case you knew of anyone who might want to make use of me."
"Oh dear! Oh dear!" exclaimed Lady Collum. "To think that it's all
settled! You're plighted to it now."
"Yes, aunt," said Ben. "The die is cast. There is no looking back. We
begin next Monday."
"Plighted!" murmured Lady Collum, dreamily. "What a beautiful word it
might be! Can be. Why, my dear, don't you marry some nice man instead
of opening offices?"
"Well, aunt, for one reason, no one that I cared for sufficiently has
asked me," said Ben smiling.
"Then you have had a proposal or two?" said Lady Collum, eagerly. "I'm
glad."
"Not very serious ones," Ben told her. "Only from Tommy Clinton."
"Oh, him!" said Aunt Agatha. "And yet you're very pretty," she went on.
"What's the matter with the other young men? Let's see, how old are
you?"
"Twenty-two," said Ben.
"That's a little late for the young ones," said Lady Collum, "or much
too early. Hasn't any nice older man asked you?"
"No, aunt," said Ben, "and I don't know that I want one either.
Marriage isn't everything. I can imagine an amusing business being far
more entertaining than a husband. But surely you see," she went on more
seriously, "that now that father's married again I must be independent.
I can't possibly go on living at home."
"Ah, yes," said Lady Collum. "Of course. Poor child, yes. The cruel and
ugly stepmother, my heart bleeds for you."
"But dear Aunt Agatha, she isn't cruel, and she isn't ugly," said Ben.
"And I like her."
"That's your sweet nature," Lady Collum replied, "or her artfulness.
And what about poor little Toby?" she resumed. "His home closed to him.
I can't think what your father was about. Surely at sixty-three he
might have continued to face life alone and then everything would be
happy still, and poor little Toby not at the mercy of this heartless
woman and you not driven out into the world to start 'The Hide and
Seek.'"
"'Beck and Call,' aunt," Ben corrected. "And I haven't been driven out;
I was glad to go."
"So you say," said Lady Collum. "But it's your kind heart. Anyway, it's
that motherless child I'm thinking most about--poor Toby."
"But, aunt, dear," said Ben, "Toby is hardly ever at home. He's at
Oxford until the vacation, and then he stays with friends. And he's six
feet tall. It's far too long since you saw him. I assure you he's in no
need of such sympathy."
"Poor child, poor child!" Lady Collum murmured. "It is dreadful when
the cuckoo displaces the young meadow-pipits. I saw it on a film.
Dreadful! My poor little Toby!"
"Well," said Ben, rising to go, and abandoning the struggle with
preconceived ideas (always a stubborn one), "you'll send to me if you
want any shopping done while you're down in the country, won't you?"
"Of course I will," said Aunt Agatha. "I'll do all I can for you. Let's
see, what is the place called?--'Mind the Step'?"
"'Beck and Call,' aunt," said Ben.
"Of course. How funny I should have said 'Mind the Step.' And yet how
natural!" she added, sighing deeply, "for I am always thinking about
her. The step! What a tragedy for all of you! How could your father
have done it! Well, you _will_ mind her, won't you? They're all hard
and all cunning. I know. I've read about them. And deceitful. And they
are always saving and stealing, and stealing and saving, for their own
children."
"But, dear aunt, you are so wrong about this," said Ben. "Belle is the
kindest thing. And she hasn't got any children of her own."
"So she says," was Lady Collum's last dark utterance.