I BEGIN MY ADVENTURE
THE letter went, and we waited for a reply: Madge feverishly, I
apathetically, and Colin with a good deal of unhappy anticipation: he
hated the whole business. I know the poor boy made frantic efforts
during those days to earn some extra money, and he did manage to secure
some overtime from a fellow-clerk who did not want it. But of course it
was very little.
“If I could only rake up enough to send you for a fortnight to
Frankston!” he said one evening. “That would be absolute rest for you;
far better than slogging at alleged ‘light duties’ in some strange
house. I can’t stick the idea of your going away to work, Dor.”
“But I’m quite able to work—truly, old boy,” I told him. “It was only
the long hours in school that knocked me up, and the rush every
morning.”
“And that will be just the same after the holidays,” he growled. It was
quite amazing to hear Colin growl: he had always been so cheery over our
misfortunes, and had never once shown that he minded his own bitter
disappointment. “If only I could earn enough to keep you at home! I
believe it would be more sensible if I worked as a dock labourer: I’d
make more money then, and my own expenses would be hardly anything.”
“Yes, and then a strike would come along, and you would go out with your
Union, and we should be worse off than ever,” I said practically. “I
wish you wouldn’t talk such absolute nonsense. I only needed a rest,
which I’m getting now. Don’t I look ever so much fitter already?”
“You do look a bit less like a scarecrow,” he admitted. “But I know that
you’re not getting the nourishing things the doctor ordered, and you
ought to be right away from Melbourne. January in Prahran isn’t going to
be any sort of a picnic for you.”
“When I have finished that bottle of Burgundy you brought home yesterday
you won’t know me,” I said. “Just you wait, and don’t worry. Something
may turn up at any time; and meanwhile, I’m going to spend every day in
the Gardens or on the beach. Isn’t it lucky that it costs so little to
get to them?” But all my well-meant efforts failed to cheer him much. He
got into a way of looking at me, with his forehead all wrinkled with
worry, that made me positively ache for a favourable answer from the
advertisement lady. Without telling him or Madge, I went into Melbourne
and spent a weary afternoon going round the registry-offices in search
of a holiday job in the country. But no one seemed to have the least
desire for my services except as a “general.” There, indeed, I could
have had my pick of hungry employers, only I didn’t dare to meet
them—with the prospect of facing Colin afterwards.
Christmas came and went, and we gave up all idea of getting any answer
to my letter. It was a very small Christmas we had—just sandwiches and
a thermos of coffee in a quiet corner of the Botanical Gardens, watching
the dabchicks in the lake, and building all sorts of castles for the
future. We made a solemn compact that no one should worry during the
day, and Colin kept to it nobly and played the fool all the time. So it
was really a very jolly Christmas, and we all felt better for it.
On Boxing Day Colin wanted to spring-clean the flat; but at that point
Madge and I felt we must put our collective feet down, and we did. So we
packed the basket again, and went to one of the nearer beaches—one
where it is still possible to find quiet corners in the scrub: and we
bathed and picknicked, and enjoyed watching Colin smoke the cigarettes
we had given him for Christmas—after Father died he had given up
smoking, declaring that it made his head ache. It was beautiful to see
how peaceful he looked. Altogether, the Earle family agreed that it was
probable that a good many people had not enjoyed the holidays as much as
we did.
And the next day came the answer to my letter—just as we had given up
all hope.
It arrived by the evening post, which was late. Colin had come home, and
we knew what it was by the way Madge came clattering along the corridor
and burst into the flat. She waved a thick white envelope round her
head.
“It’s her!” she shouted. “I know it is!”
“I wish Madame could hear you,” I said. “Is it for me?”
“Of course it is. Doesn’t it look opulent and splendid! Hurry up and
open it, Doris, or I’ll explode!”
My fingers were a little shaky as I tore open the envelope and read the
letter aloud:
“DEAR MISS EARLE,—
“I have received several letters in answer to my advertisement,
but, after consideration, yours seems the most suitable. I
require a lady in my home for a few weeks, to take off my hands
some of the duties of caring for a house-party, and to assist in
looking after my younger children during the absence of their
governess, who is away on holiday. As the employment is light, I
offer a salary of £1 per week, and would pay your travelling
expenses to and from Melbourne.
“I have hesitated in accepting your application because you are
very young.”
“I _told_ you so!” breathed Madge disgustedly.
“However, your testimonial is excellent; and the teaching
experience to which it alludes should enable you to control the
children. I trust that you are firm and tactful.”
“Firm and tactful!—I like that!” uttered Colin. “Will she let you
control the little beasts with a stick?”
“Be quiet—there’s more yet. ‘My house is large, and I keep
three maids. A dinner-dress is advisable, should you have one.
If you decide to come to me, I should like you to leave
Melbourne on the second of January.’” And she was mine
faithfully, Marie McNab.
“Born—or christened, rather—plain Mary, I’ll bet,” was Colin’s
comment. “What’s the enclosure?”
The enclosure was the “references exchanged”: a vague sort of assurance
from the clergyman in Wootong that Mrs. McNab of “The Towers” was all
that she ought to be. Colin remarked that it seemed to deal more with
her religious beliefs than her ideas on feeding-up tired assistants,
which latter was the point on which he was more curious; but he supposed
it was all right. And then he and Madge sat and looked at me, waiting
for me to speak.
“I think I’ll go,” I said, when the silence was becoming oppressive.
“There can be no harm in trying—and, thank goodness, it doesn’t cost
anything.”
“The old cat might have offered you a bit more screw,” said Madge, with
that extreme elegance of diction which marks the college girl.
“Apparently she’s wading in wealth—three maids, and lives in Towers,
and has a crest as big as your head on her notepaper. Flamboyant
display, I call it. How about striking for more pay after you get
there?”
“Not done,” said Colin. “Doris doesn’t belong to a Union. I say, Dor,
have you got enough clothes for living in Towers?”
“Oh, they’ll do, I think,” I answered; “there’s some advantage of being
in half-mourning. I shall have to fix up a few little things, but not
much. Shoes are the worst; I do need a new pair. My brown ones are put
away; old Hoxon can stain them black for me.”
Madge sighed.
“I hate blacked-up brown,” she said. “And they were such pretty shoes,
Dor.”
“I can get new ones when you are a learned professor,” I told her,
laughing. “And you’ll be that in a year or two, if you leave off slang.
Gloves are an item—thank goodness we take the same size, and I can
borrow from you!”
Madge echoed my gratitude. She hated gloves.
“And you may have my big hat,” she said—“it’s just the sort of hat you
may need in the country. And my dressing-jacket; I’ll bet that will
impress the three maids!”
“My dear, I’m not going to rob you in that wholesale fashion,” I said.
“Also, I don’t contemplate parading before the staff in my
dressing-jacket—in the servants’ hall, I suppose. Possibly there is a
chauffeur, too!”
“Well, he’d love it,” Madge grinned. “All chauffeurs have an eye for
clothes; and it’s such a pretty blue. I wish you could wear it in to
dinner. What _will_ you wear for dinner, by the way, my child?”
“I’ll have to get out my old lace frock. It’s quite good, and I can make
it look all right with a little touching-up. Then there’s my black
_crêpe de Chine_: so suitable and dowagerish. Mrs. McNab will approve of
it, I’m sure. I know I could control the children well in black _crêpe
de Chine_!”
In which I spoke without knowing the Towers children. The words were to
come back to me later.
“What a mercy we’ve got decent luggage!” said Madge. “I’d hate you to
face battlemented Towers and proud chauffeurs with shabby suitcases.”
I echoed her thankfulness. Father had brought us up to think that there
was nothing like leather; our trunks, even as the Bechstein piano, were
among the few relics of a past in which money had never seemed to be a
consideration. It was comforting to think that one need not face the
unknown McNabs with a dress-basket.
Then Colin spoke.
“You’ve made up your mind to go, then, Doris?”
I looked at him. I knew how he hated it all.
“Don’t you think it is best, old boy?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” he said half savagely. He got up, looking for his
hat. Presently the door of the flat banged behind him.
I was glad when the next few days were over. They went with a rush, for
I was terribly busy: even if you are in half-mourning, and you think
your clothes are pretty well in order, you are sure to find heaps to do
when it comes to going away. Madge helped me like an angel; worked early
and late, took all the housekeeping off my shoulders, and found time to
do ever so many bits of mending. Between us, we just managed enough
clothes; as Madge said, it was very fortunate that her only wish was to
live the simple life during the holidays; but I felt horribly mean to
take her things. Still, I did not see what else to do. One must be clad.
We puzzled a good deal over what I should and should not take. Music had
not been mentioned by Mrs. McNab, but it seemed as well to put in a
little; and I found corners for a few of my best-beloved books, in case
the Towers should be barren in that respect. I looked longingly at my
golf-clubs, not used for eighteen months, with all their lovely heads
tied up in oily flannel. But I decided they were not in keeping with my
situation. I had an instinctive belief that my light duties would not
include golf. My tennis racket went in—but well at the bottom of my
trunk, where I thought it highly probable it would remain throughout my
stay at The Towers.
I packed on New Year’s night, with Colin and Madge both sitting on my
bed, offering flippant advice. Colin had spoken very little since Mrs.
McNab’s letter had come, and I knew he was making a violent effort to
“buck up.” Not that he had not always been a dear; but he could not bear
the idea of my going to strangers in such a way. He had come home on New
Year’s Eve with the loveliest pair of shoes for me. I don’t know how he
had managed to buy them—and they were such good ones, too, the very
sort my soul loved. I nearly cried when he gave them to me; and he
patted me on the back, very hard. He made me go to bed as soon as the
packing was over, and Madge brewed cocoa and made toast, with a
spendthrift lavishness of butter. We all had a midnight supper on my
bed. I often thought of that light-hearted supper in the days that
followed. It was very cheerful, and we drank the health of everybody,
including Mrs. McNab and the cat.
It was all a rush next morning. The carrier came very early for my
trunk, and I rushed round making final preparations and packing my
little suit-case. There seemed ever so much to say at the last moment.
Madge was quite cross with me because I stopped when I was putting on my
hat to tell her how to thicken soup. Just as I was ready to make a dash
for the train, to my joy Colin appeared—he had got an hour off from the
office, and had raced home to carry my things for me and save me any
trouble. They put me into the train at Spencer Street, and Colin
recklessly flung magazines and sweets into my lap. I have always said
that few could adorn riches better than Colin—his ideas are so
comfortable.
Then they hugged me vigorously, and the guard shouted “Stand clear!” and
the train started.
Colin ran alongside the window as long as he could.
“Mind—you’re to come back at once if it isn’t all right,” he said
authoritatively. “You understand, Doris?” I nodded—I couldn’t speak.
Then the porter yelled angrily at Colin, and he dropped back. I leaned
out until the train went round the curve, while he and Madge stood
waving on the platform.
I cried a little at first—I couldn’t help it. I had never been away by
myself before; it was so suddenly lonely, and they had been such dears
to me. It was not pleasant, either, to picture little Madge going back
to the flat by herself, to tidy up; then to spend all the afternoon,
until Colin came home, over dull old lesson-books. And I knew Colin
would miss me: we were such chums. I was missing him horribly already.
After awhile I cheered up. The thing had to be, and I might as well make
the best of it, and remember that my whole duty in life, according to
Madge, was to get fat. The country was pretty, too: it had been a wet
season, and all the paddocks were green and fresh, and the cattle and
sheep looked beautiful. Fate had made Father a doctor, but he had always
said that his heart lay in farming, and I had inherited his tastes. To
Colin and Madge a bullock was merely something that produced steak, but
to me it was a thing of beauty. It was so long since I had been for any
kind of a journey that the mere travelling was a pleasure. Mrs. McNab
had sent money for a first-class fare, which we all thought very decent
of her: she had explained in a stiff little note that she did not
approve of young girls travelling alone second-class. Colin had snorted,
remarking that he had never had the slightest intention of letting me do
so: but it was decent, all the same. I sent her a brainwave of thanks as
I leaned back in comfort, glad to rest after the racket of the last few
days. I did not even want to read my magazines, though a new magazine
was unfamiliar enough to us, nowadays, to be a treat. It was delightful
to watch the country, to do nothing, to enjoy the luxury of having the
compartment to myself.
That lasted for nearly half the journey. Then, just as the engine
whistled and the train began to move slowly out of a little station, a
porter flung open the door hurriedly, and some one dashed in, stumbling
over my feet, and distributing golf-clubs, fishing-rods, and other loose
impedimenta about the carriage. The porter hurled through the window
other articles—a stick, a kit-bag, an overcoat; and the new-comer,
leaning out, tossed him something that rattled loudly on the platform.
Then he sat down and panted.