I MAKE A FRIEND
‟I BEG your pardon for tumbling over you in such a way,” he said.
“Awfully rude of me—but I hadn’t time to think. The car went wrong, and
I never thought we’d catch the train—had to sprint the last two hundred
yards. I do hope I didn’t hurt you?”
He was a tall young man with the nicest ugly face I had ever seen. His
hair was red, and he was liberally freckled: he had a nondescript nose,
a mouth of large proportions, and quite good blue eyes. He seemed to
hang together loosely. There was something so friendly about his face
that I found myself answering his smile almost as if he were Colin.
“No, you didn’t hurt me,” I told him. “I would have moved out of the way
if I hadn’t been dreaming—but I had no time.”
“I should think you hadn’t!” he said, laughing. “It was the most
spectacular entry I ever made. But I’d have hated to miss the train.”
I murmured something vaguely polite, and relapsed into silence, bearing
in mind the fact that well-brought-up young persons do not talk in
railway carriages to strange men, even if the said men have fallen
violently over their feet. My fellow-traveller became silent, too,
though I felt him glance at me occasionally. The placid content which
had seemed to fill the carriage was gone, and I began to feel tired. I
read a magazine, wishing the journey would end.
Presently we stopped in a large station, and the red-haired man
disappeared. He was back in a few moments, looking a little sheepish, as
one who is afraid of his reception.
“I’ve brought you a cup of tea,” he said—“please don’t mind. You look
awfully tired, and you’ve a long way to go yet. I read the address on
your suit-case.” He cast a glance towards the rack, and held out the cup
meekly.
My training in etiquette had not covered this emergency, and I
hesitated. But he was so boyish and friendly—just as Colin would have
been—and so evidently afraid of being snubbed, that I couldn’t hurt
him; and also I wanted the tea very badly. It was quite good tea, too,
and the scone that accompanied it was a really superior one.
I felt much better when I had finished, and my fellow-traveller came
back for my cup, which he presented to a porter, for the train was about
to start.
“Girls are so various,” said he, sitting down opposite me, with his
friendly smile. “Some would hate you to offer them tea, and some would
hate you not to, and some would be just nice about it. I felt certain
you belonged to the third lot! It’s such a beastly long way to Wootong,
too: I’m going there myself, so I suppose that might be considered a
sort of introduction. And you looked just about knocked-up. Know Wootong
well?”
“I’ve never been there,” I said. “I’m going to a place called The
Towers.”
“What!—the McNabs?” exclaimed my companion. “But how ripping!—I’m
going there myself. I’m Dick Atherton; Harry McNab and I share rooms at
Trinity. I don’t think I’ve met you there before, have I? No, of course,
what an ass I am: you said it was your first visit.”
“I’m hardly a visitor,” I said. It wasn’t easy, but I thought it best to
have things on a straight footing. “I’m . . .” It came to me suddenly
that I hardly knew _what_ I was. “I’m—a sort of governess, I suppose.
I’m going up, just for the holidays, to help Mrs. McNab.”
“What a shame!” said Mr. Atherton promptly—apparently, before taking
thought. He pulled himself up, reddening. “At least—you know what I
mean. Those kids ought to have some one about six feet, and weighing
quite twelve stone, to keep them in order. They’re outlaws. Anyway, I’m
sure to see an awful lot of you, if you’ll let me. Won’t you tell me
what to call you?”
I told him, and we chatted on cheerfully. He was the most transparent
person possible, and though I am not considered astute—by Colin and
Madge, who should know—it was quite easy to find out from him a good
deal about my new post. I inferred that my appearance might be a shock
to Mrs. McNab, whose previous assistants had been more of the type
graphically depicted by Mr. Atherton—he referred to them simply as “the
cats.” Also, the children seemed to be something of a handful. There
were two, a boy and a girl, besides the brother at Trinity—and a
grown-up sister. It was only when I angled for information on the
subject of Mrs. McNab that my companion evaded the hook.
“She writes, you know,” he said, vaguely. I said I hadn’t known, and
looked for further particulars.
“’Fraid I haven’t read any of her books,” said the boy. “I suppose I
should, as I go to stay there: but I’m not much of a chap for reading,
unless it’s American yarns—you know, cowboy stuff. I can tackle those:
but Mrs. McNab’s would be a bit beyond me. I tried an article of hers
once, in a magazine my sister had, but even a wet towel round my head
couldn’t make it anything but Greek to me. And the Prof. could tell you
how much good I am at Greek!”
“She writes real books, then?” I asked, greatly thrilled. I had never
met anyone who actually wrote books, and in my innocence it seemed to me
that authors must be wholly wonderful.
“Oh, rather! She’s ‘Julia Smale,’ you see. Ever heard of her?”
I had—in a vague way: had even encountered a book by “Julia Smale,”
lent me by a fellow-teacher at Madame Carr’s, who had passed it on to me
with the remark that if I could make head or tail of it, it was more
than she had been able to do. I had found it a novel of the severe type,
full of reflections that were far too deep for me. With a sigh for
having wasted an opportunity that might be useful, I remembered that I
had not finished it. How I wished that I had done so! It would have been
such an excellent introduction to my employer, I thought, if I could
have lightly led the conversation to this masterpiece in the first
half-hour at The Towers. Now, I could only hope that she would never
mention it.
Mr. Atherton nodded sympathetically as I confided this to him.
“I’m blessed if I know anyone who does read them,” he said. “They may be
the sort of thing the Americans like: she publishes in America, you
know. Curious people, the Yanks: you wouldn’t think that the nation that
can produce a real good yarn like ‘The Six-Gun Tenderfoot’ would open
its heart to ‘Julia Smale.’ I’m quite sure Harry and Beryl—that’s her
daughter—don’t read her works. Certainly, I’ll say for her she doesn’t
seem to expect anyone to. She locks herself up alone to write, and
nobody dares to disturb her, but she doesn’t talk much about the work.
Not like a Johnny I knew who wrote a book; he used to wander down
Collins Street with it in his hand, and asked every soul he knew if
they’d read it. Very trying, because it was awful bosh, and nobody had.
Mrs. McNab isn’t like that, thank goodness!”
“And Mr. McNab?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s a nice old chap. Not so old, either, when I come to think of
it: I believe they were married very young. A bit hard, they say, but a
good sort. He’s away: sailed for England last month, on a year’s trip.”
I did not like to ask any more questions, so the conversation switched
on to something else, and the time went by quite quickly. The train was
a slow one, crawling along in a leisurely fashion and stopping for
lengthy periods at all the little stations; it would have been a dull
journey alone, and I was glad of my cheery red-haired companion. By the
time we reached Wootong we were quite old friends; and any feeling that
I might have had about the informality of our introduction to each other
was completely dissolved by the discovery that he had a wholesome
reverence for Colin’s reputation in athletics, which was apparently a
sort of College tradition. When Mr. Atherton found that I was “the”
Earle’s sister he gazed at me with a reverence which I fear had never
been excited by Mrs. McNab, even in her most literary moments. It was
almost embarrassing, but not unpleasing: and we talked of Colin and his
school and college record until we felt that we had known each other for
years. I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry when, after a long run,
the train slackened speed, and Mr. Atherton began hurriedly to collect
our luggage, remarking, “By George, we’re nearly in!” And a moment later
I was standing, a little forlornly, on the Wootong platform.
Two girls were waiting, both plump and pretty, and very smart—perhaps a
shade too smart for the occasion, but very well turned-out. They greeted
my companion joyfully, and there was a little babel of chatter, while I
stood apart, hardly knowing what to do. Then I heard one of the girls
break off suddenly.
“We’ve got to collect one of Mother’s cats,” she said, not lowering her
voice at all. “Seen anything of her, Dicky? She was to come on this
train.”
Mr. Atherton turned as red as his hair. I had already done so.
“S-sh!” he said. “Steady, Beryl—she’ll hear you.” Apparently he thought
I should not hear him, but there wasn’t any escaping his voice. He came
over to me, and conducted me across the platform. “This is Miss Earle,
whom you are to collect,” he told her. “Miss Beryl McNab, Miss
Earle—and Miss Guest.”
Neither girl proffered a hand, and I was wildly thankful for the impulse
that had kept mine by my side. Instead, there was blank amazement on
their faces.
“Then you’ve known each other before?” Beryl McNab said.
“No—I introduced myself on the way down,” explained Mr. Atherton
hurriedly. “Tumbled into Miss Earle’s compartment, and fell violently
over her; and then I found she was coming here. It was great luck for
me.”
“Quite so,” said the elder girl; and there was something in her tone
that made me shrivel. “I needn’t ask if you had a pleasant journey, Miss
Earle. If you’re ready, we can start: the cart will bring your luggage.”
We all went out to a big blue motor, manned by a chauffeur who came up
to all Madge’s forecasts; and whisked away along a winding road fringed
with poplar-trees and hawthorn hedges.
Mr. Atherton made gallant attempts to include me in the conversation,
but there was a weight on my spirits, and I gave him back monosyllables:
I hope they were polite ones. The girls did not worry about me at all.
They chatted in a disjointed fashion, but I was quite ignored. This, I
realized, was the proper status of “a cat” at The Towers; probably a
shade more marked in my case, because I was a young cat, and had sinned.
Deeply did I regret that a friend of the family should have hurtled into
my carriage: bitterly I repented that welcome cup of tea. It seemed
ages, though it was really less than ten minutes, before we turned into
a big paddock, where, half a mile ahead, a grey house showed among the
box-trees fringing a hill.
We skimmed up a long drive, skirted a wide lawn where several people
were having tea under a big oak, and stopped before the hall-door. A
short, thick-set youth in a Trinity blazer, who was tormenting a
fox-terrier on the veranda, uttered a shout of welcome and precipitated
himself upon Mr. Atherton, who thumped him affectionately on the back.
Then there came racing through the hall a boy and girl of twelve and
fourteen, ridiculously alike; and beneath their joyful onslaught the
guest was temporarily submerged. Nobody took the slightest notice of me
until a tall angular woman in a tailor-made frock came striding along
the veranda, and, after greeting her son’s friend, glanced inquiringly
in my direction.
“Oh—this is Miss Earle, Mother,” Beryl McNab said. “She and Dicky came
down together.”
There was evident surprise in my employer’s face as she looked me over.
She gave me a limp hand.
“Then you and Mr. Atherton have met before?” she asked.
Dicky Atherton rushed into his explanation, which sounded, I must admit,
fairly unconvincing. I was conscious of a distinct drop in the
temperature: certainly Mrs. McNab’s voice had frozen perceptibly when
she spoke again.
“How curious!” she said: I had not imagined that two words could make
one feel so small and young. “You have met my daughter, of course: this
is my eldest son, and Judith and Jack are your especial charges.”
The college youth favoured me with a long stare, and the boy and girl
with a short one. Then Judith smiled with exceeding sweetness and put
out her hand.
“I wish you luck!” she said solemnly.
There was a general ripple of laughter.
“Miss Earle will need all the luck she can get if she’s to manage you
two imps,” said Harry McNab, shaking hands. “You might as well realize,
Miss Earle, that it can’t be done: at least no one has succeeded yet in
making them decent members of society.”
Mrs. McNab interposed.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry,” she said, severely. “If you will come with
me, Miss Earle, I will show you your room.” She led the way into the
house, and I followed meekly, my heart in my shoes.
A huge square hall, furnished as a sitting-room, opened at one end into
a conservatory. From one corner ascended a splendidly-carved staircase,
with wide, shallow steps, which formed, above, a gallery that ran round
two sides of the hall. Up this I trailed at my employer’s heels, and,
passing down a softly-carpeted passage, found myself in a room at the
end; small, but pleasant enough, with a large window overlooking the
back premises and part of the garden. Beyond the back yard came a
stretch of lightly-timbered paddock, which ended abruptly in what, I
found later on, was a steep descent to the beach. The shore itself was
hidden from the house by the edge of the cliff: but further out showed
the deep-blue line of the sea, broken by curving headlands that formed
the bay near which The Towers stood. It was all beautiful; in any other
circumstances I should have been wildly happy to be in such a place. But
as it was, I longed for the little back street in Prahran!
Mrs. McNab was speaking in her cool, hard voice.
“This is your room, Miss Earle. Judith’s is next door, and Jack’s just
across the passage. Judith will show you the schoolroom, which will be
your sitting-room, later on. You will generally have your evening meal
there with the children. To-morrow I will take you over the house and
explain your duties to you. You are probably tired after your journey; I
will send you up some tea, and then you had better rest until the
evening.”
The words were kind enough, but the voice would have chilled anyone. I
stammered out something in the way of thanks, and Mrs. McNab went out,
her firm tread sounding briskly along the passage. Presently a neat maid
brought in a tray and put it down with a long stare at me—a stare
compounded equally of superciliousness and curiosity; and I was left
alone in my new home.
[Illustration: “‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea,’ he said—
‘please don’t mind. You look awfully tired.’”
_The Tower Rooms_] [_Page 30_]