force of stride--you know, my legs are long--and I somehow overbalanced
myself. But I didn't exactly fall--if I had fallen, I must have been
killed; I rolled and slid down, clutching at the weeds in the crannies
as I slipped, and stumbling over the projections, without quite losing
my foothold on the ledges, till I found myself brought up short with a
bump at the end of it.'
'And you think no bones are broken?'
'I can't feel sure. It hurts me horribly to move. I fancy just at first
I must have fainted. But I'm inclined to guess I'm only sprained and
bruised and sore all over. Why, you're as bad as me, I believe. See,
your dear hands are all torn and bleeding!'
'How are we ever to get him back again, Brownie?' Elsie put in. She was
paler than ever now, and prostrate with the after-effects of her
unwonted effort.
'You are a practical woman, Elsie,' I answered. 'Stop with him here a
minute or two. I'll climb up the hillside and halloo for Ursula and the
men from Lungern.'
I climbed and hallooed. In a few minutes, worn out as I was, I had
reached the path above and attracted their attention. They hurried down
to where Harold lay, and, using my cage for a litter, slung on a young
fir-trunk, carried him back between them across their shoulders to the
village. He pleaded hard to be allowed to remain at the _chalet_, and
Elsie joined her prayers to his; but, there, I was adamant. It was not
so much what people might say that I minded, but a deeper difficulty.
For if once I nursed him through this trouble, how could I or any woman
in my place any longer refuse him? So I passed him ruthlessly on to
Lungern (though my heart ached for it), and telegraphed at once to his
nearest relative, Lady Georgina, to come up and take care of him.
He recovered rapidly. Though sore and shaken, his worst hurts, it turned
out, were sprains; and in three or four days he was ready to go on
again. I called to see him before he left. I dreaded the interview; for
one's own heart is a hard enemy to fight so long: but how could I let
him go without one word of farewell to him?
'After this, Lois,' he said, taking my hand in his--and I was weak
enough, for a moment, to let it lie there--'you _cannot_ say No to me!'
Oh, how I longed to fling myself upon him and cry out, 'No, Harold, I
cannot! I love you too dearly!' But his future and Marmaduke Ashurst's
half million restrained me: for his sake and for my own I held myself in
courageously. Though, indeed, it needed some courage and self-control. I
withdrew my hand slowly. 'Do you remember,' I said, 'you asked me that
first day at Schlangenbad'--it was an epoch to me now, that first
day--'whether I was mediaeval or modern? And I answered, "Modern, I
hope." And you said, "That's well!"-- You see, I don't forget the least
things you say to me. Well, because I am modern--'my lips trembled and
belied me--'I can answer you No. I can even now refuse you. The
old-fashioned girl, the mediaeval girl, would have held that because she
saved your life (if I _did_ save your life, which is a matter of
opinion) she was bound to marry you. But _I_ am modern, and I see things
differently. If there were reasons at Schlangenbad which made it
impracticable for me to accept you--though my heart pleaded hard--I do
not deny it--those reasons cannot have disappeared merely because you
have chosen to fall over a precipice, and I have pulled you up again. My
decision was founded, you see, not on passing accidents of situation,
but on permanent considerations. Nothing has happened in the last three
days to affect those considerations. We are still ourselves: you, rich;
I, a penniless adventuress. I could not accept you when you asked me at
Schlangenbad. On just the same grounds, I cannot accept you now. I do
not see how the unessential fact that I made myself into a winch to pull
you up the cliff, and that I am still smarting for it----'
He looked me all over comically. 'How severe we are!' he cried, in a
bantering tone. 'And how extremely Girtony! A System of Logic,
Ratiocinative and Inductive, by Lois Cayley! What a pity we didn't take
a professor's chair. My child that isn't _you_! It's not yourself at
all! It's an attempt to be unnaturally and unfemininely reasonable.'
Logic fled. I broke down utterly. 'Harold,' I cried, rising, 'I love
you! I admit I love you! But I will never marry you--while you have
those thousands.'
'I haven't got them yet!'
'Or the chance of inheriting them.'
He smothered my hand with kisses--for I withdrew my face. 'If you admit
you love me,' he cried, quite joyously, 'then all is well. When once a
woman admits that, the rest is but a matter of time--and, Lois, I can
wait a thousand years for you.'
'Not in my case,' I answered through my tears. 'Not in my case, Harold!
I am a modern woman, and what I say I mean. I will renew my promise. If
ever you are poor and friendless, come to me; I am yours. Till then,
don't harrow me by asking me the impossible!'
I tore myself away. At the hall door, Lady Georgina intercepted me. She
glanced at my red eyes. 'Then you have taken him?' she cried, seizing my
hand.
I shook my head firmly. I could hardly speak. 'No, Lady Georgina,' I
answered, in a choking voice. 'I have refused him again. I will not
stand in his way. I will not ruin his prospects.'
She drew back and let her chin drop. 'Well, of all the hard-hearted,
cruel, obdurate young women I ever saw in my born days, if you're not
the very hardest----'
[Illustration]
I half ran from the house. I hurried home to the _chalet_. There, I
dashed into my own room, locked the door behind me, flung myself wildly
on my bed, and, burying my face in my hands, had a good, long,
hard-hearted, cruel, obdurate cry--exactly like any other mediaeval
woman. It's all very well being modern; but my experience is that, when
it comes to a man one loves--well, the Middle Ages are still horribly
strong within us.
VI
THE ADVENTURE OF THE URBANE OLD GENTLEMAN
When Elsie's holidays--I beg pardon, vacation--came to an end, she
proposed to return to her High School in London. Zeal for the higher
mathematics devoured her. But she still looked so frail, and coughed so
often--a perfect _Campo Santo_ of a cough--in spite of her summer of
open-air exercise, that I positively worried her into consulting a
doctor--not one of the Fortescue-Langley order. The report he gave was
mildly unfavourable. He spoke disrespectfully of the apex of her right
lung. It was not exactly tubercular, he remarked, but he 'feared
tuberculosis'--excuse the long words; the phrase was his, not mine; I
repeat _verbatim_. He vetoed her exposing herself to a winter in London
in her present unstable condition. Davos? Well, no. _Not_ Davos: with
deliberative thumb and finger on close-shaven chin. He judged her too
delicate for such drastic remedies. Those high mountain stations suited
best the robust invalid, who had dropped by accident into casual
phthisis. For Miss Petheridge's case--looking wise--he would not
recommend the Riviera, either: too stimulating, too exciting. What this
young lady needed most was rest: rest in some agreeable southern town,
some city of the soul--say Rome or Florence--where she might find much
to interest her, and might forget the apex of her right lung in the new
world of art that opened around her.
'Very well,' I said, promptly; 'that's settled, Elsie. The apex and you
shall winter in Florence.'
'But, Brownie, can we afford it?'
'Afford it?' I echoed. 'Goodness gracious, my dear child, what a
bourgeois sentiment! Your medical attendant says to you, "Go to
Florence": and to Florence you must go; there's no getting out of it.
Why, even the swallows fly south when their medical attendant tells them
England is turning a trifle too cold for them.'
'But what will Miss Latimer say? She depends upon me to come back at the
beginning of term. She _must_ have _somebody_ to undertake the higher
mathematics.'
'And she will get somebody, dear,' I answered, calmly. 'Don't trouble
your sweet little head about that. An eminent statistician has
calculated that five hundred and thirty duly qualified young women are
now standing four-square in a solid phalanx in the streets of London,
all agog to teach the higher mathematics to anyone who wants them at a
moment's notice. Let Miss Latimer take her pick of the five hundred and
thirty. I'll wire to her at once: "Elsie Petheridge unable through ill
health to resume her duties. Ordered to Florence. Resigns post. Engage
substitute." _That's_ the way to do it.'
Elsie clasped her small white hands in the despair of the woman who
considers herself indispensable--as if we were any of us indispensable!
'But, dearest, the girls! They'll be _so_ disappointed!'
'They'll get over it,' I answered, grimly. 'There are worse
disappointments in store for them in life-- Which is a fine old crusted
platitude worthy of Aunt Susan. Anyhow, I've decided. Look here, Elsie:
I stand to you _in loco parentis_.' I have already remarked, I think,
that she was three years my senior; but I was so pleased with this
phrase that I repeated it lovingly. 'I stand to you, dear, _in loco
parentis_. Now, I can't let you endanger your precious health by
returning to town and Miss Latimer this winter. Let us be categorical. I
go to Florence; you go with me.'
'What shall we live upon?' Elsie suggested, piteously.
'Our fellow-creatures, as usual,' I answered, with prompt callousness.
'I object to these base utilitarian considerations being imported into
the discussion of a serious question. Florence is the city of art; as a
woman of culture, it behoves you to revel in it. Your medical attendant
sends you there; as a patient and an invalid, you can revel with a clear
conscience. Money? Well, money is a secondary matter. All philosophies
and all religions agree that money is mere dross, filthy lucre. Rise
superior to it. We have a fair sum in hand to the credit of the firm; we
can pick up some more, I suppose, in Florence.'
'How?'
I reflected. 'Elsie,' I said, 'you are deficient in Faith--which is one
of the leading Christian graces. My mission in life is to correct that
want in your spiritual nature. Now, observe how beautifully all these
events work in together! The winter comes, when no man can bicycle,
especially in Switzerland. Therefore, what is the use of my stopping on
here after October? Again, in pursuance of my general plan of going
round the world, I must get forward to Italy. Your medical attendant
considerately orders you at the same time to Florence. In Florence we
shall still have chances of selling Manitous, though possibly, I admit,
in diminished numbers. I confess at once that people come to Switzerland
to tour, and are therefore liable to need our machines; while they go to
Florence to look at pictures, and a bicycle would doubtless prove
inconvenient in the Uffizi or the Pitti. Still, we _may_ sell a few. But
I descry another opening. You write shorthand, don't you?'
'A little, dear; only ninety words a minute.'
'_That's_ not business. Advertise yourself, _a la_ Cyrus Hitchcock! Say
boldly, "I write shorthand." Leave the world to ask, "How fast?" It will
ask it quick enough without your suggesting it. Well, my idea is this.
Florence is a town teeming with English tourists of the cultivated
classes--men of letters, painters, antiquaries, art-critics. I suppose
even art-critics may be classed as cultivated. Such people are sure to
need literary aid. We exist, to supply it. We will set up the Florentine
School of Stenography and Typewriting. We'll buy a couple of
typewriters.'
'How can we pay for them, Brownie?'
[Illustration: THERE'S ENTERPRISE FOR YOU!]
I gazed at her in despair. 'Elsie,' I cried, clapping my hand to my
head, 'you are not practical. Did I ever suggest we should pay for them?
I said merely, buy them. Base is the slave that pays. That's
Shakespeare. And we all know Shakespeare is the mirror of nature. Argal,
it would be unnatural to pay for a typewriter. We will hire a room in
Florence (on tick, of course), and begin operations. Clients will flock
in; and we tide over the winter. _There's_ enterprise for you!' And I
struck an attitude.
Elsie's face looked her doubts. I walked across to Mrs. Evelegh's desk,
and began writing a letter. It occurred to me that Mr. Hitchcock, who
was a man of business, might be able to help a woman of business in this
delicate matter. I put the point to him fairly and squarely, without
circumlocution; we were going to start an English typewriting office in
Florence; what was the ordinary way for people to become possessed of a
typewriting machine, without the odious and mercenary preliminary of
paying for it? The answer came back with commendable promptitude.
DEAR MISS,--Your spirit of enterprise is really remarkable! I have
forwarded your letter to my friends of the Spread Eagle
Typewriting and Phonograph Company, Limited, of New York City,
informing them of your desire to open an agency for the sale of
their machines in Florence, Italy, and giving them my estimate of
your business capacities. I have advised their London house to
present you with two complimentary machines for your own use and
your partner's, and also to supply a number of others for disposal
in the city of Florence. If you would further like to undertake an
agency for the development of the trade in salt codfish (large
quantities of which are, of course, consumed in Catholic Europe),
I could put you into communication with my respected friends,
Messrs. Abel Woodward and Co., exporters of preserved provisions,
St John, Newfoundland. But, perhaps in this suggestion I am not
sufficiently high-toned.--Respectfully, CYRUS W. HITCHCOCK.
The moment had arrived for Elsie to be firm. 'I have no prejudice
against trade, Brownie,' she observed emphatically; 'but I do draw the
line at salt fish.'
'So do I, dear,' I answered.
She sighed her relief. I really believe she half expected to find me
trotting about Florence with miscellaneous samples of Messrs. Abel
Woodward's esteemed productions protruding from my pocket.
So to Florence we went. My first idea was to travel by the Brenner route
through the Tyrol; but a queer little episode which met us at the outset
on the Austrian frontier put a check to this plan. We cycled to the
border, sending our trunks on by rail. When we went to claim them at the
Austrian Custom-house, we were told they were detained 'for political
reasons.'
'Political reasons?' I exclaimed, nonplussed.
'Even so, Fraeulein. Your boxes contain revolutionary literature.'
'Some mistake!' I cried, warmly. I am but a drawing-room Socialist.
'Not at all; look here.' And he drew a small book out of Elsie's
portmanteau.
What? Elsie a conspirator? Elsie in league with Nihilists? So mild and
so meek! I could never have believed it. I took the book in my hands and
read the title, 'Revolution of the Heavenly Bodies.'
'But this is astronomy,' I burst out. 'Don't you see? Sun-and-star
circling. The revolution of the planets.'
'It matters not, Fraeulein. Our instructions are strict. We have orders
to intercept _all_ revolutionary literature without distinction.'
'Come, Elsie,' I said, firmly, 'this is _too_ ridiculous. Let us give
them a clear berth, these Kaiserly-Kingly blockheads!' So we registered
our luggage right back to Lucerne, and cycled over the Gotthard.
[Illustration: PAINTING THE SIGN-BOARD.]
When at last, by leisurely stages, we arrived at Florence, I felt there
was no use in doing things by halves. If you are going to start the
Florentine School of Stenography and Typewriting, you may as well start
it on a proper basis. So I took sunny rooms at a nice hotel for myself
and Elsie, and hired a ground floor in a convenient house, close under
the shadow of the great marble Campanile. (Considerations of space
compel me to curtail the usual gush about Arnolfo and Giotto.) This was
our office. When I had got a Tuscan painter to plant our flag in the
shape of a sign-board, I sailed forth into the street and inspected it
from outside with a swelling heart. It is true, the Tuscan painter's
unaccountable predilection for the rare spellings 'Scool' without an _h_
and 'Stenografy' with an _f_, somewhat damped my exuberant pride for the
moment; but I made him take the board back and correct his Italianate
English. As soon as all was fitted up with desk and tables we reposed
upon our laurels, and waited only for customers in shoals to pour in
upon us. _I_ called them 'customers'; Elsie maintained that we ought
rather to say 'clients.' Being by temperament averse to sectarianism, I
did not dispute the point with her.
We reposed on our laurels--in vain. Neither customers nor clients seemed
in any particular hurry to disturb our leisure.
I confess I took this ill. It was a rude awakening. I had begun to
regard myself as the special favourite of a fairy godmother; it
surprised me to find that any undertaking of mine did not succeed
immediately. However, reflecting that my fairy godmother's name was
really Enterprise, I recalled Mr. Cyrus W. Hitchcock's advice, and
advertised.
'There's one good thing about Florence, Elsie,' I said, just to keep up
her courage. 'When the customers _do_ come, they'll be interesting
people, and it will be interesting work. Artistic work, don't you
know--Fra Angelico, and Della Robbia, and all that sort of thing; or
else fresh light on Dante and Petrarch!'
'When they _do_ come, no doubt,' Elsie answered, dubiously. 'But do you
know, Brownie, it strikes me there isn't quite that literary stir and
ferment one might expect in Florence. Dante and Petrarch appear to be
dead. The distinguished authors fail to stream in upon us as one
imagined with manuscripts to copy.'
I affected an air of confidence--for I had sunk capital in the concern
(that's business-like--sunk capital!). 'Oh, we're a new firm,' I
assented, carelessly. 'Our enterprise is yet young. When cultivated
Florence learns we're here, cultivated Florence will invade us in its
thousands.'
But we sat in our office and bit our thumbs all day; the thousands
stopped at home. We had ample opportunities for making studies of the
decorative detail on the Campanile, till we knew every square inch of it
better than Mr. Ruskin. Elsie's notebook contains, I believe, eleven
hundred separate sketches of the Campanile, from the right end, the left
end, and the middle of our window, with eight hundred and five distinct
distortions of the individual statues that adorn its niches on the side
turned towards us.
At last, after we had sat, and bitten our thumbs, and sketched the Four
Greater Prophets for a fortnight on end, an immense excitement occurred.
An old gentleman was distinctly seen to approach and to look up at the
sign-board which decorated our office.
I instantly slipped in a sheet of foolscap, and began to type-write with
alarming speed--click, click, click; while Elsie, rising to the
occasion, set to work to transcribe imaginary shorthand as if her life
depended upon it.
The old gentleman, after a moment's hesitation, lifted the latch of the
door somewhat nervously. I affected to take no notice of him, so
breathless was the haste with which our immense business connection
compelled me to finger the keyboard: but, looking up at him under my
eyelashes, I could just make out he was a peculiarly bland and urbane
old person, dressed with the greatest care, and some attention to
fashion. His face was smooth; it tended towards portliness.
He made up his mind, and entered the office. I continued to click till I
had reached the close of a sentence--'Or to take arms against a sea of
troubles, and by opposing, end them.' Then I looked up sharply. 'Can I
do anything for you?' I inquired, in the smartest tone of business. (I
observe that politeness is not professional.)
[Illustration: THE URBANE OLD GENTLEMAN.]
The Urbane Old Gentleman came forward with his hat in his hand. He
looked as if he had just landed from the Eighteenth Century. His figure
was that of Mr. Edward Gibbon. 'Yes, madam,' he said, in a markedly
deferential tone, fussing about with the rim of his hat as he spoke, and
adjusting his _pince-nez_. 'I was recommended to your--ur--your
establishment for shorthand and typewriting. I have some work which I
wish done, if it falls within your province. But I am _rather_
particular. I require a quick worker. Excuse my asking it, but how many
words can you do a minute?'
'Shorthand?' I asked, sharply, for I wished to imitate official habits.
The Urbane Old Gentleman bowed. 'Yes, shorthand. Certainly.'
I waved my hand with careless grace towards Elsie--as if these things
happened to us daily. 'Miss Petheridge undertakes the shorthand
department,' I said, with decision. 'I am the typewriting from
dictation. Miss Petheridge, forward!'
Elsie rose to it like an angel. 'A hundred,' she answered, confronting
him.
The old gentleman bowed again. 'And your terms?' he inquired, in a
honey-tongued voice. 'If I may venture to ask them.'
We handed him our printed tariff. He seemed satisfied.
'Could you spare me an hour this morning?' he asked, still fingering his
hat nervously with his puffy hand. 'But perhaps you are engaged. I fear
I intrude upon you.'
'Not at all,' I answered, consulting an imaginary engagement list. 'This
work can wait. Let me see: 11.30. Elsie, I think you have nothing to do
before one, that cannot be put off? Quite so!--very well, then; yes, we
are both at your service.'
The Urbane Old Gentleman looked about him for a seat. I pushed him our
one easy chair. He withdrew his gloves with great deliberation, and sat
down in it with an apologetic glance. I could gather from his dress and
his diamond pin that he was wealthy. Indeed, I half guessed who he was
already. There was a fussiness about his manner which seemed strangely
familiar to me.
He sat down by slow degrees, edging himself about till he was thoroughly
comfortable. I could see he was of the kind that will have comfort. He
took out his notes and a packet of letters, which he sorted slowly. Then
he looked hard at me and at Elsie. He seemed to be making his choice
between us. After a time he spoke. 'I _think_,' he said, in a most
leisurely voice, 'I will not trouble your friend to write shorthand for
me, after all. Or should I say your assistant? Excuse my change of plan.
I will content myself with dictation. You can follow on the machine?'
'As fast as you choose to dictate to me.'
He glanced at his notes and began a letter. It was a curious
communication. It seemed to be all about buying Bertha and selling
Clara--a cold-blooded proceeding which almost suggested slave-dealing. I
gathered he was giving instructions to his agent: could he have business
relations with Cuba, I wondered. But there were also hints of mysterious
middies--brave British tars to the rescue, possibly! Perhaps my
bewilderment showed itself upon my face, for at last he looked queerly
at me. 'You don't quite like this, I'm afraid,' he said, breaking off
short.
I was the soul of business. 'Not at all,' I answered. 'I am an
automaton--nothing more. It is a typewriter's function to transcribe the
words a client dictates as if they were absolutely meaningless to her.'
'Quite right,' he answered, approvingly. 'Quite right. I see you
understand. A very proper spirit!'
Then the Woman within me got the better of the Typewriter. 'Though I
confess,' I continued, 'I _do_ feel it is a little unkind to
sell Clara at once for whatever she will fetch. It seems to
me--well--unchivalrous.'
He smiled, but held his peace.
'Still--the middies,' I went on: 'they will perhaps take care that these
poor girls are not ill-treated.'
He leaned back, clasped his hands, and regarded me fixedly. 'Bertha,' he
said, after a pause, 'is Brighton A's--to be strictly correct, London,
Brighton, and South Coast First Preference Debentures. Clara is Glasgow
and South-Western Deferred Stock. Middies are Midland Ordinary. But I
respect your feeling. You are a young lady of principle.' And he
fidgeted more than ever.
[Illustration: HE WENT ON DICTATING FOR JUST AN HOUR.]