Mame had quite made up her mind that she would not receive an
invitation to the wedding reception at Clanborough House. Why should
she? That the girl would prove as good as her word was not on the
cards. Such a promise was no more than a slick Londoner’s way of
showing how much she was in it, without really being quite so much in
it as she showed.
After all, however, it is a funny world. And this was Mame’s
reflection, when rather late the following afternoon, the little maid,
whose name was Janet, handed her a large, square, important-looking
envelope that had just come by post. At the sight of the coronet on the
back and the general air of quality Mame’s heart gave a jump.
The unexpected had happened. Her Grace the Duchess of Clanborough
requested the honour--requested the honour, mark you!--of the company
of Miss Amethyst Du Rance at the marriage of the Marquis of Belfield
with her niece Miss Van Alsten at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, at three
o’clock on Thursday, April 6, and afterwards at Clanborough House,
Mayfair.
It was very odd. But it was distinctly thrilling. There was no need
to be so humble after all. The girl evidently was interested in Miss
Du Rance and had gone out of her way to do her a service. And Miss
Du Rance did not mind owning that she had been a little too ready to
suspect her of not being on the level.
With a sensation of deep but quiet triumph Mame listened now to the
tabbies faintly purring over their teacups. It called for self-control
not to ask the arch-puss, who gave herself out a bishop’s niece, upon
whom Mame had an especial down, whether she was going to the ceremony
at St. Margaret’s or to the reception at Clanborough House, or whether
she meant to do both?--although privately quite sure that the old stiff
was going to do neither. Happily she remembered a text of the village
preacher in the grim days when she had to endure him every Sunday: “Be
not exalted lest ye be cast down.”
In spite of a glow in the centre of her being, the warning in those
words could not have been more salutary. So fully had Clanborough House
been dismissed from Mame’s thoughts that she had already made up her
mind to quit London as soon as possible. In fact, she had just informed
Mrs. Toogood that she would not require a room beyond Saturday; and
she had decided to go immediately after breakfast to-morrow morning,
Wednesday, to book a second-class berth in the _Vittoria_, which was to
sail three days later for New York.
The invitation to Clanborough House looked like changing all that. It
rather set Mame on the horns of a dilemma. A girl truly wise would
stick to the plan she had made, the voice of prudence told her.
Clanborough House would probably mean another fortnight in London;
it would involve her in a new hat and other expense; and if she was
not careful such a hole would be cut in her purse that alarmingly
few dollars would remain in it by the time she found herself back on
Broadway.
These reflections gave Mame a jolt. A lot of use an invite to
Clanborough House, if the price of it brought you to your uppers. Aunt
Lou’s legacy would be gone, along with the hundred and ten dollars she
had been able to save. Her job would be lost. And in a place like New
York it was no certainty that she would get another at short notice.
She had heard it described by those who should know as the cruelest
place on earth for persons who were up against it.
These were problems. Invitation in hand, Mame fiercely considered them.
Should she? Or should she not? The famous highbrow William Shakespeare,
according to the office calendar whose mottoes she had by heart, the
famous highbrow William Shakespeare had made the statement that “there
is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to
fortune.”
It might be so. That was true, no doubt, for some. But again, for
others it was quite likely not to be true. Circumstances alter cases.
William Shakespeare was writing in the spacious days of Queen Elizabeth
when there were not so darn many go-getters around. In his time there
were not more people than jobs and all the seats in the public parks
of the big cities were not overflowing with those who couldn’t raise
the price of a meal.
A problem, sure. On the one hand, prudence, foresight, a
looking-before-and-after; on the other, ambition, hope, adventure, all
the worth-while things. Such a chance would never recur. And if she had
brain enough to use it in the right way, there was no saying where it
might lead.
Mame spent a very restless night. But somewhere in the small hours,
when her mind was at its most lucid, she took the momentous decision to
follow her star.
If she turned back now, with the gates of her kingdom opening wide, she
never deserved to see them again. “Stick it, Mame.” That had always
been her slogan, even in the cold hour of sun-up before the day’s work
began or over a guttering candle after it was done, when secretly she
gave her whole mind to the hard and dry study of stenography.
It was that power of giving her whole mind to things that in the end
had won freedom. If she had taken a line of least resistance or been
afraid to go all out for the things she wanted, she would still have
been doing chores upon the farm. No, she must stand up to her luck. And
if the worst came she could go home steerage.
Full of new resolve, Mame’s first act was to inform Mrs. Toogood that
she proposed to stay on at least another week. Then, after an elaborate
calculation of ways and means, she set out on a tour of Oxford Street.
A new hat she must have. When in Rome, etc. No use looking a frump
at Clanborough House. She would be mixing with class. And if she was
careful how she dressed and she watched her step all the time, the
folks might not be able to tell her from real.
A quiet mode was best suited to Miss Amethyst Du Rance. After much
observation of herself and other people, that was her conclusion. Like
most of her countrywomen she had a flair in the matter of clothes. New
York and London had taught her their value. Already she was getting to
know the worth of the mysterious attribute, style.
The girl she had met at the Carlton was a revelation of what style
could do. It was a far better thing than mere looks. But Mame’s
ambition was to have both. And if she could only fulfil it, there was
no reason, so far as she could see, why she should not unlock the most
exclusive doors in Britain.
At all events, it should not be for want of trying. If the invite to
Clanborough House meant anything it was that she had found a bonanza.
The girl must be a regular high-flyer, and for some mysterious reason,
which Mame could not fathom, she was willing to be a fairy godmother.
It was up to Mame to prove her own mettle. Here, at last, was a chance
to pull the big stuff.
Many hours in Oxford Street were necessary before Mame’s prudence could
decide just how much to be bled. She had to get home, if, in spite of
Clanborough House, the stars in their courses played her false. After
she had duly paid for the hat on which she had set her heart, and a
captivating fox so near real that she fell for it at the last moment,
she was quite alarmed by the narrow margin of safety.
At the end of the day she wrote an urgent letter to the editor of the
Cowbarn _Independent_. She told him how disappointed she was not to
have had a line all the time she had been in Europe. And she hinted
that a few dollars in exchange for the fifteen columns she had already
sent him would be welcome.
But what was the _Independent_ anyway? At best a fourth-rate sheet, a
small-town rag. She would forget it. The time had surely come to fly at
higher game.
She tore up the letter to Elmer Dobree. His treatment was so mean he
was not worth a twopenny stamp. Let her get into touch with the big
live papers of New York, Philadelphia, Chicago. Yes, the idea was good.
She was full of good ideas, yet they didn’t seem to click.
What was wrong? Her stuff was O. K., she was sure. Full of jazz, unlike
what other columnists were pulling. Yet editors didn’t fall. In New
York she had not been able to get them so much as to look at what she
wrote; it was the same in London. Influence was what she needed. Paula
Ling was a one for influence. She believed in it all the time. But it
had a mystic quality. Nobody knew just what it was or how you came by
it.
Personality was the key. Modern journalising was like being in
vaudeville or in the movies. You had to do stunts; you had to be a good
mixer; able if necessary to jolly an editor into taking an interest
in you; above all, you had to be up in the art of what in London they
called dressing the shop window.
As slowly she tore up the letter to Elmer P. she sighed deeply. Even
he had deserted her. Well, never say die, that was still her motto.
She must hang on by the eyelids to the bitter end. But she felt so
sore with one whose friendship she had built on that she snatched his
photograph from her bedroom chimneypiece and consigned it to her trunk.
The stronger for the deed, she then resumed that optimistic pen which
had yet to earn a dime in Europe and began a carefully diplomatic
letter to Paula Wyse Ling.
Out and out go-getter though Paula was, Mame valued her friendship.
To be sure, it had only been manifested in small and considered ways.
Paula was essentially a girl who didn’t give without taking; if she
shared her bread with you, she would expect you to share your jam with
her. But Mame didn’t blame her for that. Paula, too, had had a long
way to go. She had started out at sixteen without a buck from what she
alluded to as “a comic village in the State of Maine.” By sheer grit
and the power of sticking it she had earned enough by her pen to spend
two years in Europe. And now since her return home she was pulling five
hundred a month, with every prospect of going bigger.
Diplomacy was needed to handle the Paula Lings of the world. Mame kept
this truth before her as her pen drove steadily on. She painted a rosy
picture of her life in London. If not exactly what these Cockneys
themselves would call “a Brock’s Benefit,” in other words, a firework
display, she was already beginning to fix the half-nelson on various
editors of distinction who paid a fair price per col. Also she was
getting around a good deal with the worth-while folks. Her friend the
Duchess of Clanborough had just sent her a special invite to a wedding
ceremony and to the reception afterwards, which the King and Queen had
promised to attend. Some marquis or other was going to marry a Miss Van
Alsten; but Paula was likely to know as much about it as she did, as
the Miss Van Alsten in question belonged to New York.
Here it was that diplomacy entered with both feet. New York being
just naturally interested in the marriage of one of its queens with a
British blood-peer, Mame would be glad to do the show from the inside,
with a full description of who was there, how they looked, what they
wore, and so on; and if Paula could fix it her end with some editor or
some syndicate of editors, she would be happy to divide the cheque.
Time being money, she hoped Paula would save on it by promptly cabling
terms.
As Mame cast an eye over this letter, it seemed an inspiration to write
Paula Ling and offer her fifty-fifty of the dough. If Paula couldn’t
place the first-hand account of next week’s marriage, it was not
likely there was one alive who could. With a sly smile Mame addressed
the envelope to Paula’s apartment on Sixty-seventh Street. Then she
slipped out and placed it carefully in the little red pillar box at the
British Museum end of Montacute Square.