Five minutes later Miss Amethyst Du Rance and all her worldly goods
were assembled in a small musty bedroom at the top of Fotheringay
House. It smelt of damp. There was no grate or stove or any means of
heating. The floor was shod with a very cold-looking brand of lino.
Only a thin layer of cement divided the ceiling from the tiles of the
roof--so thin, indeed, that the all-pervading yellow fog could almost
be seen in the act of percolating through them.
Mrs. Toogood, who had personally conducted her new guest up three pairs
of stairs, lit the gas and drew the curtains across the narrow window.
She then informed Miss Du Rance that dinner was at half-past seven, but
there would be afternoon tea in the drawing room on the first floor in
about half an hour.
Mame took off her coat and hat, removed the stains of travel from a
frank and good-humoured countenance, re-did her hair and applied a
dab of powder to a nose which had a tendency to freckle; and then she
went downstairs. Stirred by a feeling of adventure she forgot how
cold she was; also she forgot the chill that had gathered about her
heart. London, England, was a long, long way from home. Its climate was
thoroughly depressing and the same could be said of its landladies.
Whether the climate produced the landladies or the landladies produced
the climate she had not been long enough in the island to say.
The light in the drawing room was dim. It half concealed a glory of
aspidistra, lace curtains, anti-macassars and wax fruits. There was
a solemnity about it which by some means had been communicated to a
unique collection of old women who upon sofas and chairs were collected
in a semi-circle round an apology for a fire. Mame could not repress a
shiver as one sibyl after another looked up from her wool-work or her
book and gave the firm-footed and rather impulsive intruder the benefit
of a frozen stare from a glacial eye.
By the time Mame had subsided on the only unoccupied seat within the
fire’s orbit, she felt that a jury of her sex having duly marked and
digested her had come to the unanimous conclusion that she was guilty
of presumption in being upon the earth at all. The detachment of this
bunch of sibyls gave density and weight to the feeling. Their silence
was uncanny. It was only disturbed by the click click of knitting pins
and the occasional creak of the fire.
Mame had been five minutes in a situation which every second made more
irksome, since for the first time in her life she was at a total loss
for speech, when, as Mrs. Toogood had predicted, tea appeared. That
lady, in a _démodé_ black silk dress, which looked like an heirloom,
preceded a metal urn, a jug of hot water, an array of cracked saucers
and cups, some doubtful-looking bread and butter, and still more
doubtful-looking cake. All these things were borne upon a tray by the
prim maid who had first admitted Mame to Fotheringay House.
The sight of “the eats” cheered Mame up a bit. And in conjunction with
Mrs. Toogood’s arrival, they certainly went some way towards unsealing
the frozen atmosphere of the witches’ parlour. A place was found for
the hostess near the fire; the small maid set up a tea-table; the cups
and saucers began to circulate.
Mame was served last. By then the brew, not strong to begin with, had
grown very thin. “Rather weak, Miss Du Rance, I fear,” loftily said its
dispenser. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Mame, for whom that peculiarly British function which the French speak
of as “le five-o’clock” was a new experience, promptly said she didn’t
mind at all. Her voice was so loud that it fairly shattered the hush;
it was almost as if a bomb had fallen into a prayer-meeting. Every ear
was startled by the power of those broad nasal tones.
“This is Miss Du Rance of America.” The hostess spoke for the benefit
of the company. It was not so much an introduction as an explanation; a
defence and a plea rather than an attempt at mixing.
Some of the sibyls glared at Mame, some of them scowled. No other
attention was paid her. Yet they were able to make clear that her
invasion of the ancient peace of Fotheringay House was resented.
Little cared the visitor. Set of old tabbies. Bunch of fossilised
mossbacks. She was as good as they. And better. In drawing comparisons,
Miss Du Rance was not in the habit of underrating herself or of
overrating others. And she was a born fighter.
Was it not sheer love of a fight that had brought her to Europe? She
already saw that London was going to be New York over again: a city of
four-flushers, with all sorts of dud refinements and false delicacies,
unknown to Cowbarn, Iowa. Of course she was a little hick. But
cosmopolitan experience was going to improve her. And cuteness being
her long suit, these dames had no need to rub her rusticity into her
quite so good and hearty.
As Mame toyed with a cup of tea that was mere coloured water and took a
chance with the last surviving piece of “spotted dog,” which had just
one raisin beneath a meagre scrape of butter, her quick mind brought
her right up against the facts of the case. Somehow she wasn’t in the
picture. She must study how to fit herself into her surroundings. That
was what she was there for; to see the world and to put herself right
with it.
When in Rome you must do like the Romans, or you’ll bite granite. Paula
Wyse Ling had sprung that. And Paula knew, for she had travelled. What
she really meant was that Mame Durrance must unlearn most of what she
had learned at Cowbarn, Iowa, if she was going to fire the East.
Cowbarn was the home of the roughneck. But in New York City and London,
England, highbrows swarmed like bees. These places were the native
haunts of that Culture in which Mame had omitted to take a course.
She was soon convinced this was the dullest party she had ever been at.
But it didn’t prevent her mind from working. Never in her life had she
been more cast down. These people made her feel like thirty cents. They
spoke in hushed and solemn voices. If this was Europe it would have
been wiser to stay on her native continent.
Presently the small maid bore away the teapot and the crockery.
With massive dignity the mistress followed her out. The landlady’s
withdrawal seemed, if it were possible, to add new chills to the gloom,
and Mame having reached the point where she could stand it no longer,
had just decided to make a diversion by going up to her bedroom and
unpacking her trunk when a new interest was lent to the scene. A man
entered the room. Mame’s first thought was that he must have a big
streak of natural folly to venture alone and unprotected into this nest
of sleeping cats.
Strange to say, the temerarious male was made welcome. The density of
the atmosphere lessened as soon as he came in. One old tabby after
another began to sit up and take notice; and Mame, while busily engaged
in watching the newcomer, had a feeling of gratitude towards him for
having cast by his mere presence a ray of light upon that inspissated
gloom.
Certainly he was no common man. As well as Mame could tell he was as
old as the tabbies to whom he made himself so agreeable. Yet he was
old with a difference. His abundant hair, which was snow white, was
brushed in a dandified way, and the note of gallantry was repeated in
every detail of his personality. His clothes, though not strikingly
smart, were worn with an air. There was style in the set of his
necktie, and if his trousers might bag a little at the knees they
somehow retained the cut of a good tailor. Also he wore a monocle in a
way that seemed to add grace and charm to his manner and to cancel his
curious pallor and his look of eld.
Mame was at once deeply interested in this new arrival. No doubt he
was one of the blood-peers, of whom she had read. Down on his luck
perhaps, and for all his pleasant touch of swank, he somehow suggested
it. Besides it stood to reason that a real blood-peer, used to the best
that was going, as this old beau plainly was, would not be spending his
time in a dead-alive hole playing purry-purry puss-puss if he were not
up against it.
All the same there was absolutely nothing in his manner to suggest a
shortage of dough. It was so grand that it seemed to banish any vulgar
question of ways and means. To judge by the way he dandled his eyeglass
while he entertained the tabbies with his measured yet copious and
genial talk, he might have been the King of England with his beard off.
When the clock on the chimneypiece struck seven the ladies rose in
a body and withdrew to prepare for the evening meal. Their example
was followed by Mame. She would have liked to stay and get into
conversation with the intriguing stranger, but dinner was in half an
hour and it would take some little time to unpack her trunk in which
was a new one-piece dress she was going to wear. Besides there would be
a chance later in the evening, no doubt, of making his acquaintance.
As it happened this pleasure had to be postponed. To Mame’s
disappointment the old boy did not appear at dinner. But she did not
blame him. The food was meagre and those who ate it were quite the
dullest set she had ever seen. Some of the guests were accommodated
with small separate tables. One of these had been provided for Miss Du
Rance. It was in a draughty corner, exposed to a strong current of air
between two open doors which led to a large and antiquated lift whereby
the meal ascended from the basement.
Mame felt small-town, but she had come to Europe to learn. Even if the
seclusion of a private table had its conveniences she would have much
preferred to mingle with her fellow p.g.’s. She was social by nature.
Besides, she was determined to be a mixer. All these folks had it in
their power to teach her something, duds though they were. Britain
must give up all its secrets to Miss Amethyst Du Rance. Judging by the
dead-beats who swarmed in this fog-bound isle they might amount to
nothing; at the same time one cannot know too much of one’s subject.
For some little time to come the subject for Miss Du Rance was going to
be London, England.
V
The next morning the fog had lifted and Mame set out for Fleet Street.
By Mrs. Toogood’s advice she boarded Bus 26 which passed the end of
Montacute Square; and having made a friend of the conductor, a kindly
and cheerful young man, he promised to let her know when they came to
Tun Court.
He was as good as his word. In about ten minutes he pulled the cord
and popped his head into the bus. “Y’are, miss. Tun Court’s just
opper-site.” And then as a concession to Mame’s accent, which was a
long way from home: “Watch out, missy, when you cross the street.”
Mame with her recent experience of Broadway and Fifth Avenue felt
she could have crossed this street on her head. It was so narrow.
And although there was no lack of traffic it was moving slow with a
remarkable sense of order and alignment. But Mame liked the young
conductor for his briskness and his courtesy; and as she stepped off
the knife-board and with the fleetness of a slender-ankled nymph she
dodged between the delivery vans of the Westminster _Gazette_ and the
_Morning Post_ she winged him a bright smile.
London, so far, was a city of disappointments. Tun Court added to their
number. It was mean, insignificant, tumble-down, grimy. But Mame had
read that Doctor Johnson or some other famous guy had either lived or
died in it. The latter probably. No man would have chosen Tun Court to
live in, unless he had gone off the handle, as the famous, she had also
read, were more apt to do than ordinary folks.
The salient fact about Tun Court, however, had nothing to do with
Doctor Johnson. It was the home of the well-known Society journal _High
Life_. Mame would not have looked to find a paper of repute housed in
this nest of frowsty, mildewed offices in which there was not space to
swing a cat. But she did look and with such poor success that she had
to open her bag and produce the address which Paula Ling had given her
in order to verify it. Yes, it was O.K.: Number Nine, Tun Court, Fleet
Street. Yonder, through that decaying arch, which by some means had
evaded the great fire of B.C. 1666--or it may have been A.D.?--was the
footpath the ancient Romans had laid along the Fleet Ditch; and the
cobblestones upon which Mame stood, which no doubt had been laid by the
Romans also, indubitably rejoiced in the name Tun Court, since straight
before her eyes a sign was up to say so.
The puzzle was to find Number Nine. Tun Court dealt in names, not
numbers. Among the names _High Life_ was not to be found. There was
the registered London office of the _Quick Thinkers’ Chronicle_; also
of the _Broadcasters’ Review_; also of the official organ of the
Amalgamated Society of Pew Openers. These were the portents which
leaped to Mame’s eye, but the one she sought did not seem to be there.
At the far end of the alley, however, where the light was so bad that
it was difficult to see anything, she was just able to decipher the
legend, _High Life_. Top Floor. It was painted on a wall, inside a
doorway.
Mame boldly attacked some dark stairs, very hollow sounding and
decrepit and full of sharp turns, passing _en route_ the outer portals
of the Eatanswill _Gazette_ and other influential journals. The
higher rose the stairs the darker they grew. But at last patience was
rewarded. _High Life_--Inquiries, met the pilgrim’s gaze at the top of
the second pair of stairs; yet had that gaze not been young and keen a
match would have been needed to read the inscription on the wall.
She knocked on the door and went in. A pig-tailed flapper lifted her
eyes slowly from Volume 224 of the Duchess Library.
In her best Broadway manner Mame asked if the editor was in. Miss
Pigtail did not appear to be impressed by the Broadway manner. She made
a bluff at concealing an out-size in yawns, laid aside her novelette
with an air of condescension for which Mame longed to smack her face,
and said, “I’ll take in your name.”
Mame felt discouraged, but she was determined not to let the minx know
it. With an air she took a card from her bag; and Miss Pigtail after
one supercilious glance at it went forth to an inner room whose door
was marked Private.
In about thirty seconds Miss Pigtail reappeared. “This way, please,”
she said haughtily. Mame still had a desire to put one over on the
young madam; but evidently she was coming to business all right.
Seated before a roll-top desk, in a stuffy room twelve feet by twelve,
whose only other furniture were an almanac and a vacant chair, was the
editor of _High Life_. At least Mame surmised that the gentleman who
received her occupied that proud position, even if he did not quite
fulfil her idea of the part. It was difficult to say just where he fell
short, but somehow he did fall short. He was one of those large flabby
men who are only seen without a pipe in their mouths when they are
putting liquids into it. His eyes were tired, his front teeth didn’t
seem to fit, and he had that air of having been born three highballs
below par which some men inherit and others acquire.
The editor of _High Life_ was not a prepossessing man, although the
most striking thing about him, his large moustache, was so wonderfully
pointed and waxed, that Mame felt quite hypnotised by it. However, she
took a pull on herself, made her best bow and elegantly presented Paula
Wyse Ling’s introduction letter.
The visitor was invited to a chair. Then after brief examination of the
envelope the editor made clear that he was not the person to whom it
was addressed. “My name is Judson,” he said, “Digby Judson. I took over
from Walter Waterson about nine months ago.”
“So long as you’re the main guy,” Mame assured him, “it’ll be all
right. I want to connect up with this paper.”
With a slight frown of perplexity Mr. Digby Judson opened Miss Paula
Ling’s letter. “It says nothing about experience,” he remarked mildly.
“And to be quite candid I don’t know Paul M. Wing from Adam.”
“It’s a her,” said Mame matter-of-factly. “Paula Ling’s the name.”
“I beg _her_ pardon, but I don’t know her from Eve.”
Mame had a feeling that she had struck a concealed rock. “Old Man
Waterson would have, anyway,” she said; and with a royal gesture she
indicated her own card, now lying on the editorial blotting pad.
Digby Judson took up the card and laughed. Mame was determined not to
be sensitive, she simply could not afford to be, but that laugh somehow
jarred her nerves. “Cowbarn _Independent_.” He gave her a comic look
from the extreme corner of a bleared eye. “Holy Jones!”
Mame’s heart sank. It was New York over again. This guy was not quite
so brusque, but he had the same sneer in his manner. A sick feeling
came upon her that she was up against it.
“Cowbarn _Independent_! I don’t think you’ll be able to get away with
that.”
It was almost like casting an aspersion upon Mame’s parents. Natural
pugnacity leaped to her eyes. In fact it was as much as she could do
to prevent it from jumping off the end of her tongue. “A lot you know
about it,” she yearned to say, but prudently didn’t.
The editor of _High Life_ toyed with the card and drew a mock serious
sigh for which Mame could have slain him. “When did you arrive in this
country, Miss Du Rance?”
“I landed Liverpool yesterday morning.”
“And may I ask what you propose to do now you’ve landed?”
For all the grim depth of her conviction that she could not afford
to be thin-skinned, she resented the subtle impertinence of this
catechism. Yes, it was New York over again. New York had advised her
to cut out the Cowbarn and already she rather wished she had. But she
had figured it out that London being a foreign city would not guess the
sort of burg her home town was.
All the same her faith in herself was not shaken. It was weak to have
these qualms. Mame Durrance was Mame Durrance if she hailed from
Cowbarn, Iowa, and Abe Lincoln was Abe Lincoln even if he was raised in
the wilds of Kentucky.
She crimsoned with mortification, but took herself vigorously in hand.
“What’ll I do now I’ve landed? What do you suppose I’ll do?”
“Knock us endways, I expect.”
“That’d be too easy, I guess--with some of you.”
Mr. Digby Judson was by way of being a human washout but he liked this
power of repartee. Few were the things he admired, but foremost among
them was what he called “vim.” This amusing spitfire certainly had her
share of that.
“You think I’m a little hick.” It is difficult to be wise when your
temper breaks a string. “But I ain’t. Leastways I ain’t goin’ to be
always. With European experience I’ll improve some.”
“Ye-es, I daresay.”
The dry composure of the editor’s voice caused Mame to see red. “I’m
over here to pull the big stuff. An’ don’t forget it.”
Mr. Digby Judson found it hard to conceal his amusement. He gave his
moustache a twirl and said patronisingly: “Well, Miss Du Rance, what
can we do for you in the meantime?”
“Help me to a few dollars.”
Mr. Judson threw up his hands with an air of weary scorn. “My good
girl, to seek dollars in Fleet Street is like looking for a flea in a
five-acre plot. Never have they been so scarce or so many people after
’em. And pretty spry too, you know. They’ve studied the newspaper
public and can give it just what it wants.”
Mame was undaunted. “A chance to see what I can do--that’s all I ask.”
“What can you do?”
“Suppose I write a bunch of articles on British social life as it
strikes an on-time American.”
“Let us suppose it.” The editor had no enthusiasm.
“Will you print the guff and pay for it?”
This was in the nature of a leading question. Time was needed for Mr.
Judson’s reply. “Rather depends, you know, on the sort of thing it
is.” Out of deference for the feelings of his visitor he did his best
to hide the laugh in his eyes. “You see what we chiefly go for is
first-hand information about the aristocracy.”
Miss Du Rance was aware of that.
“Are you in a position to supply it?”
“I expect I’ll be able to supply it as well as most if I get the
chance.”
“Well,” said Digby Judson, fixing Mame with a fishlike eye, “when you
find yourself included in a party at a smart country house you can send
along an account of the sayings and doings of your fellow guests, a
description of their clothes, where they are going to spend the summer,
who is in love with who and all that kind of bilge, and I’ll be very
glad to consider it.”
Mame thanked Mr. Judson for his sporting offer. “I’m sure you’ll fall
for my junk when you see it. There’ll be pep in it. But of course I’ll
want intros to start in.”
“You have introductions, I presume?” The editor still hid his smile.
Unfortunately Miss Du Rance was rather short of introductions. But she
hoped _High Life_ would be able to make good the deficiency.
_High Life_, it seemed, was not in a position to do so. But it had a
suggestion to offer. Mr. Digby Judson looked through a litter of papers
on his desk. Detaching one from the pile he refreshed his memory by a
careful perusal. Then he said: “There is a vacancy for a housemaid, I
believe, at Clanborough House, Mayfair.”
The news left Mame cold.
“We have influence with the housekeeper at Clanborough House. She is
not exactly a member of our staff, but she receives a fee to keep our
interests at heart. Clanborough House is still a power in the political
and social world. The position of housemaid offers considerable scope
for a person of intelligence such as you appear to be, Miss Du Rance.”
“I? Housemaid! Me?” The voice of Miss Du Rance went up a whole octave.
“Of course,” said the editor, “to be quite candid, you would have
rather to put a crimp in your style. These great houses are decidedly
conservative. But you would find opportunities, large opportunities,
believe me, in such a position for obtaining the information we
require.”
Mame was staggered. The rôle of hired girl, even in a mansion, had not
entered her calculations. “What do you take me for?” She rebuttoned her
gloves, snorting blood and fire. “Don’t you see I’m a lady?”
Mr. Digby Judson gazed fixedly at Mame, stroking his exotic moustache
in the process. “There are ladies _and_ ladies. Frankly, Miss Du Rance,
I can’t promise much success over that course. You see, in this country
at the present time we are overstocked, even with the genuine article.
We are as prolific of ladies in England as they are of rabbits in
Australia. But what we want here is pep and that’s where you Americans
have got the pull. It’s pep, Miss Du Rance, we are out for, and that, I
take it, you are able to supply.”
Mame looked death at the editor. But she said nothing.
“If you’re wise you’ll give ladyism the go by. Better let me see if I
can wangle this billet for you at Clanborough House. A rare chance,
believe me, for a girl like yourself, to study our upper class from the
inside. You’ll be lucky if you get another such opportunity. If you
really give your mind to the job I feel sure you’ll do well.”
“No hired girling for me, I thank you,” Mame spoke in a level voice.
Mr. Digby Judson looked a trifle disappointed. “Well, think it over.
But I am fully convinced of one thing.”
A down-and-out feeling upon her, Mame asked dully what the thing was.
“It’s the only terms on which you are ever likely to find yourself at
Clanborough House or any other place of equal standing.”
Mame bit her lip to conceal her fury. The insult went deeper than any
she had received in New York. As she bowed stiffly and turned to go she
had a sudden thirst for Mr. Digby Judson’s blood.
She had reached the door, its clumsy knob was in her hand when she
turned again, and said with a slow smile over-spreading a crimson face,
“You’ll excuse me asking, won’t you, but do you mind telling me if it’s
_very_ difficult to train canaries to roost on your moustache?”