Kitabı oku: «A Woman Perfected», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XXIII
A JOBBING SECRETARY

The next morning Nora did not start for Fountain Court with Mr. Gibb; he positively forbade her, explaining that he had certain duties to perform immediately on his arrival which he preferred, and which Mr. Hooper preferred, that he should perform before anybody else appeared upon the scene; so he started at half-past nine, and she followed thirty minutes later. When she reached Fountain Court the door was promptly opened by Mr. Gibb, who called her attention to a curtained recess, with the remark-

"Please hang your hat and coat up there."

Behind the curtain she found three pegs and a looking-glass; which articles, if she had not been too nervous to observe closely, might have struck her as being even suspiciously new. She had no coat on, but she had a hat, which she hung upon one of the pegs, with a breathless feeling, as if the simple action, in that strange place, stood to her as an emblem of the passage she was about to take from the old world to the new; as she hung up her hat, with Mr. Gibb's stony gaze fixed on her coldly from behind, it almost seemed to her that with it she hung up her freedom, and passed into servitude. Nor was this feeling lessened by the unaccustomed, and unnatural, rigidity of Mr. Gibb's bearing; she being unaware of the fact that Mr. Hooper had informed the young gentleman, not ten minutes before she came, that if he did not treat her with the profound and distant respect with which a divinity ought to be treated, the consequences would be serious for him. While she was still touching her hair with her fingers, as a girl must do when she has just taken her hat off, he inquired, with what he felt to be cutting coldness-

"Have you quite finished?"

"Yes, Eustace, I-I think I have-quite, thank you."

"Then Mr. Hooper is waiting to see you; kindly step this way."

She stepped that way, Mr. Gibb moving as stiffly as if he had a poker down his back. She found Mr. Hooper seated at a table which was littered with a number of papers and documents which were of a most portentous looking nature, over one of which he was bending with an air of earnest preoccupation which, it is to be feared, had been put on about thirty seconds before she had entered the room, and would be taken off in less than thirty seconds after she had left it.

"Miss Lindsay has come, sir." As Mr. Gibb made this announcement Mr. Hooper looked up with a start, which was very well done, as if nothing could have surprised him more; he rose, a little doubtfully, as if the professional cares of this world were almost more than he could bear.

"Miss Lindsay? Yes, yes, quite so; Miss Lindsay, of course. I hope, Miss Lindsay, I see you well."

"Quite well, thank you."

She ignored the hand which he extended, possibly in a moment of absence of mind, in a manner which seemed to him to be marked; he trusted Mr. Gibb had not noticed it before he left the room. He continued to be as professional in his manner as he knew how.

"Miss Lindsay-eh-might I-eh-ask you to take a seat?"

"Thank you, sir, I prefer to stand."

Really this young woman was trying; she was reversing the positions; it was she who was keeping him at a distance, not he her; there was something in the way in which she said "sir" which made him wince; however, he was still professional.

"Quite so, Miss Lindsay, quite so-whichever you prefer. Now, Miss Lindsay, here are some papers of a-of an abstract nature; privacy with regard to them is of the first importance; serious consequences might result were their character to become known outside these chambers." The jobbing secretary inclined her head; he thought she did it very gracefully. "Now, what I require are copies of these papers; you understand, copies-perfectly clean copies. How long do you think it will take you to let me have them?"

"There seem to be a good many."

"There are-oh, there are; quite a number; only they are not all of the same character. Now, for instance, how long will it take you to let me have a perfectly clean copy of that?"

He held out what looked like a musty document, consisting of several foolscap pages, covered with close writing on both sides of each page. She turned it nervously over.

"Is it-is it to be typed?"

"Certainly; oh yes, emphatically."

"What-what machine have you?" He mentioned the maker's name; fortunately it was on one of the same maker's machines she had learnt. "I told you that I had not used a machine recently; I fear, therefore, that I may be rather awkward at first, so that I can hardly tell how long it will take me to let you have a perfectly clean copy of this. There-there appears to be a good deal of it."

"There does-oh yes, I admit it, there does-and of course I shouldn't want an absolutely clean copy." She looked at him; there was something in her look which caused him to look away, with some appearance of confusion; he realized that he had made a mistake. "By that I-I should wish you to understand that-that I shouldn't require you to destroy the entire document merely-merely because of one slight error."

She spoke with what seemed to him to be magisterial severity; he felt that there was more than a touch of that severity in her demeanour.

"You said that you wanted perfectly clean copies, and you shall have perfectly clean copies; I quite understand that only perfectly clean copies will be of the slightest use. I hope you do not think that I wish you to put up with indifferent work. I merely wished to point out that I am afraid that I may be a little clumsy at first."

She turned to go.

"The-the typewriter's in the next room."

"I saw it as I came in."

"Pray-pray allow me to open the door for you." But she would not.

"If you don't mind, sir" – the stress upon that "sir"! – "I would rather open it for myself; and I do hope that you won't allow a difference in sex to alter the relations which ought to exist between employer and employed. You wouldn't open the door for Eustace Gibb; I would like you to regard me in the same light as you do him."

No, he certainly would not open the door for Eustace Gibb, but the idea of regarding her in the same light as Mr. Gibb was preposterous; the trouble was that he could only see her through a golden haze. The typewriter was in the next room to Mr. Hooper's, with beyond it the lobby which Mr. Gibb termed his office; the room was known to Mr. Gibb as the waiting-room, though no one had ever been known to wait in it. It was furnished with an old wooden table, and three older wooden chairs, and nothing else. On the table was the typewriter, and a plentiful supply of paper. After about an hour's interval, Mr. Hooper, who felt as if he were a prisoner in his own rooms, began to find himself in a state of fidgetiness which was beyond endurance. It was ridiculous to suppose that he did not dare to venture into the presence of his own jobbing secretary, yet-he did not dare. What was worse, he found himself incapable of smoking in the room next to her, and that in spite of her expressed desire that he should treat her as he treated Mr. Gibb. When the tension had reached a point at which he could stand it no longer, snatching up his hat, he burst into the room with an air of haste, seeming, when he was in it, to realize her presence there with a touch of surprise.

"Miss Lindsay! – oh yes, yes, quite so. And-and how are we getting on?"

The moment he had asked he saw that he had made another mistake. This time there was something on her face which moved him in a manner which really did surprise him. She looked as if she had at least been near to tears, and still was not far off.

"I-I'm not getting on at all well," she said.

"I've not the slightest doubt, Miss Lindsay, that you are getting on much better than you imagine."

"I-I suppose I ought to know how I am getting on."

"But your-yours is such a strenuously high standard."

"I-I've spoilt I don't know how many sheets of paper."

"What does it matter how many sheets of paper you spoil? The more you spoil the better I'll be pleased."

"Will you? Then all I can say is that if I-I spoil many more I shall know that I'm not fit for the situation which you've been so kind as to offer me, and-I shall go."

"Really you must not talk like that." He picked up one of the ominously numerous sheets of paper which lay at her side, all of which had plainly had at any rate some slight acquaintance with the machine. "Now this is not at all bad."

"There are three errors in the first line."

"Are there? So many as that?"

"And five in the second."

"Indeed! you don't say so!"

"And the third line's wrong altogether."

"That only shows that with a little practice you'll regain all your old facility."

"I'm not sure that I ever had any facility; I can see that now; I'm afraid I only used to play at typing."

"Then in that case you shall copy them by hand; I'm disposed to think that perhaps good clear writing is best after all."

"Copy them by hand?" Suddenly a look came on her face which actually frightened him; his words had evidently been to her an occasion of serious offence. "I applied for your situation, Mr. Hooper, in the belief that I could work a typewriter; you gave it me on that understanding. If, now, it turns out that I cannot work a typewriter it would look as if I had applied for your situation under false pretences; do you suppose that I will continue to hold it knowing that to be the case, and that you are paying me for something which it turns out I cannot do? Either you shall have perfectly clean typewritten copies, Mr. Hooper, or I must resign; I will not go through the farce of pretending to occupy a position for which I have been proved to be unfit."

He could have answered her many things, but he answered her nothing; he was afraid. Instead, he shuffled out of the room, excusing himself.

"I've a most pressing appointment, Miss Lindsay." He was longing for a pipe; the appointment was to smoke, all by himself, in the Temple Gardens. "When I return I've no doubt you'll have advanced beyond your expectations. Rome wasn't built in a day; you must persevere, persevere!" In the office Mr. Hooper, placing his hand on King Solomon's shoulder, whispered in his ear, as if anxious not to be overheard, "Mr. Gibb, I am inclined to the opinion that having a divinity on the premises is not all lavender."

To which Mr. Gibb replied, with a sigh, as if he himself was vaguely conscious of a feeling of being "cribbed, cabined and confined" -

"No, sir; that's what I was thinking."

For two days Nora continued to wrestle with the typewriter, and on the third something happened which ultimately resulted in another upheaval of the world for her. She had found the "document" which she had to copy-it was one of those which Mr. Hooper had discovered stuffed up the chimney-not easy to decipher, which perhaps was not surprising; she was puzzling over a part of it which seemed even worse than usual when the office door was opened, and a masculine person came striding in who had not even troubled to remove his hat. At sight, however, of the girl poring over that refractory passage, with her pretty brows all creased, off came his hat; but no sooner was he uncovered than, with something in his bearing which almost suggested that he was unconscious of what he was doing, he stood and stared. The girl glanced up and looked at him. For some seconds there was silence; then, seeming to come to himself with a start, he ejaculated-.

"I beg your pardon; I-I'd no idea!"

He did not stay to explain what he had no idea of, but passed into Mr. Hooper's room beyond. As he entered Mr. Hooper rose from his chair; then stared in his turn, as if this was not at all the kind of person he had expected to see.

"Frank!" he exclaimed. "What on earth has brought you here?"

The gentleman addressed as Frank replied to the question with a statement which was sufficiently startling.

"Jack, I've seen a ghost!"

Mr. Hooper, as was not unnatural, stared still more.

"You've seen what?"

"Of course I don't mean that I've seen an actual ghost, but I feel as if I had."

"What's given you such a very curious feeling at this hour of the morning? And what's brought you here, anyhow?"

The gentleman addressed seemed genuinely disturbed.

"I'll tell you, what's brought me if you'll give me time; I'm in a frightful mess, that's what's brought me; but before I tell you anything, you tell me who-who's that girl in the next room?"

Mr. Hooper's bearing betrayed annoyance, which was perhaps caused by the singularity of the other's demeanour.

"The lady in the next room, whom you speak of as 'that girl,' is-"

There was a tapping; the door was opened; the girl in question entered, the "document" over which she had been puzzling in her hand. She crossed to Mr. Hooper.

"I beg your pardon if I am interrupting you, but there is something here which I cannot make out; I thought that perhaps you would not mind telling me what it is before you become really engaged."

Mr. Hooper took the paper which she held out to him, with a glance towards the gentleman who had just now entered, in which there was a hint of mischief.

"Will you allow me to present to you my cousin, Mr. Frank Clifford? Frank, this is Miss Lindsay."

"Lindsay!" Mr. Clifford was staring more than ever. "Lindsay! Not-not-I beg your pardon, but-would you mind telling me if you are related to Mr. Donald Lindsay of Cloverlea?"

"I am his daughter."

"His-daughter? Thank you; thank you."

He sank on to a chair as one who had been dealt a crushing blow. Nora's bearing was frigid; the stranger's unexpected question had touched in her a chord of memory which hurt her more than she would have cared to say. She returned to Mr. Hooper.

"Can you tell me what that sentence is? One or two of the words seem quite illegible."

He explained, to the best of his ability, which was not much greater than hers. When she had gone back to her own apartment, Mr. Hooper said to his visitor, with what was possibly meant to be an air of politeness-

"May I venture to inquire if that is how you generally behave when you're introduced to a lady, Frank? because if it is I shall know better than to attempt to introduce you to another."

Mr. Clifford's reply was remarkable.

"I told you that when I first saw her I felt as if I had seen a ghost; now I know my instinct was right; I have seen a ghost. If you knew-what I know, and had had to go through what I've had to go through, and still have to go through, you would understand how meeting Donald Lindsay's daughter like this makes it seem to me as if the hand of God had been stretched out of the skies."

CHAPTER XXIV
MR. MORGAN'S EXPERIENCES OF THE UNEXPECTED

It was a shock to Mr. Morgan when he learnt that Miss Harding had quitted Cloverlea without a word to him. At first he could not believe that she had gone; that she could have gone without his knowledge. When belief was forced on him his language was unbecoming. While he was engaged in little matters of a sort which demanded privacy, and which had to do with the safe storage of certain articles which he had brought himself to believe were his own property, a wagonette arrived at the front door, which, the driver explained to the footman who appeared, had come to fetch Miss Harding. The footman, with the aid of a colleague, had borne the young lady's belongings down the stairs; for which she liberally recompensed them with a sovereign apiece; and she and her possessions were safely away before Mr. Morgan had a notion she was going. Mr. Morgan abused the footmen for not having said a word to him; which abuse they, having no longer the fear of him before their eyes, returned in kind. The butler had to console himself as best he could.

"Given me the slip, have you, Miss Harding?" That was what he said to himself. "Very well, my dear, we'll see; I'm not so easily got rid of as you may perhaps suppose. You're a pretty darling, upon my Sam you are!"

As soon as circumstances permitted-at Cloverlea there were a great many things which he thought it desirable that he should do that day-he went out on a little voyage of discovery. He learnt at the local station that Miss Harding had not taken a ticket for her home in the west country; she had not taken a ticket for herself at all, Mr. Nash had taken one for her, and another for himself; they had gone up to London in the same compartment, and both had luggage. This news added to Mr. Morgan's pleasure.

"Dear me, has she? And I meant her to be Mrs. Morgan, and so she would have been if I'd put on the screw when I'd the chance. As my wife she might have come to something; but as his wife-I'll show her, and I'll show him. If she thinks she's going to hand over to him, by way of a dowry, that nice little lot of money, and leave me out; if that really is her expectation she'll be treated to another illustration of the vanity of human wishes. That sweet young wife will have an interrupted honeymoon."

Mr. Morgan called at an inn which it was his habit to honour with his custom in quest of something to soothe his ruffled feelings. There he met a friend, George Wickham, the Holtye head groom. Mr. Wickham had a grievance, in which respect, if he had only known it, he resembled Mr. Morgan. It seemed that he was the bearer of letters which had been addressed to the Hon. Robert Spencer at Holtye, which he was carrying to that gentleman's actual present address, the Unicorn Hotel, Baltash. It was supposed to be Mr. Wickham's "night out"; he wanted to spend his hours of freedom in one direction while Baltash lay in another.

"Might as well have sent 'em by post, or by one of the other chaps; but no, nothing would please the old woman" – by "old woman" it is to be feared that he meant the Countess of Mountdennis-"but that I should go. I had half a mind to tell her I'd an appointment."

Mr. Morgan was sympathetic; he explained that he was going to Baltash, and even carried his sympathy so far as to offer to take the letters for him. The groom hesitated; then decided to take advantage of his friend's good-nature.

"There's thirteen letters," he pointed out, "five post-cards, four newspapers, eighteen circulars, and these parcels, about enough to fill a carrier's cart."

Mr. Morgan laughed.

"I shall make nothing of that little lot," he said. "And I'll charge nothing for carriage."

On the way to Baltash he leaned against a gate to light a cigar; it was one of his peculiarities to smoke nothing but cigars; he held that a pipe was low. When the cigar was lighted he remained a moment to glance at the letters he was carrying. He noticed that one of them was from the London offices of a steamship company; the name of the company was printed on the envelope. While Miss Lindsay had been talking to Mr. Spencer in the copse on the preceding Sunday morning Mr. Morgan had been quite close at hand; the lady had supposed that the noise he made among the undergrowth was caused by a hare or a rabbit; had Mr. Spencer proceeded to investigate the cause of the noise the butler would have been discovered in a somewhat ignominious position. As it was Mr. Morgan, remaining undetected, heard a good deal that was said; among the things he heard Mr. Spencer's story of the letter which Donald Lindsay had sent to him at Cairo, which was only to be opened after the writer's death, which Mr. Spencer had put in his suit-case, and which suit-case Mr. Spencer had lost, containing not only Mr. Lindsay's letters, but also some more intimate epistles from that gentleman's daughter.

Mr. Morgan remembered the story very well; he had a knack of remembering nearly everything he heard, and he managed to hear a good deal. He was struck by the fact that the letter which he held in his hand was from the steamship company by one of whose boats Mr. Spencer had travelled on his homeward journey; it might contain news of the missing suit-case. On the other hand, emphatically, it might not. Still! It is notorious how carelessly some envelopes are fastened. Here was a case in point; the gummed flap only adhered in one place, and there so slightly that Mr. Morgan had only to slip the blade of a penknife underneath and-it came open. It was as he had guessed. The steamship company wrote to say that the missing suit-case had turned up. It had strayed among the voluminous luggage of an American family, where it remained unnoticed until the luggage had been divided up among the members of the family; the explanation seemed rather lame, but it appeared it was the only one that steamship company had to offer. Now the suit-case was at Mr. Spencer's disposition, and the company would be glad to hear what he wished them to do with it.

As Mr. Morgan enjoyed his cigar, and leaned against the gate, and looked up at the glories of the evening sky, he indulged in some philosophical reflections.

"It's an extraordinary world; extraordinary. To think that George Wickham's burning desire to see that red-headed girl of his at Addlecombe should have thrown a thing like this right into my hands. It's quite possible that that suit-case may turn out to be worth more to me than that nice little sum of money with which Miss Elaine Harding erroneously supposes she's going to set her husband up in life. Beyond a shadow of doubt things are managed in a mysterious way."

Mr. Morgan faithfully delivered those letters at the Unicorn Hotel at Baltash, with the exception of one letter; and on the morrow he treated himself to a trip up to town. He took a bedroom at a quiet hotel in the neighbourhood of the Strand, and he sent a messenger boy to the steamship company's office with an envelope. In the envelope was the Hon. Robert Spencer's visiting card; on the back of which was written-

"Your letter duly received; please give suit-case to bearer."

Some one at the office gave it to the bearer; who took it to the hotel, where it was sent up to Mr. Spencer's room; it happened that Mr. Morgan had registered as Robert Spencer. Mr. Morgan opened it with difficulty; none of his keys fitted the lock, which was of a curious make; but he did open it; he was an ingenious man. And when he had opened the suit-case he found that the letter, for whose sake he had taken so much trouble, was not in it. It was a painful shock; he was loth to believe that a man of the Hon. Robert Spencer's character could have played him such a trick; to say nothing of the deceit which, in that case, he must have practised on Miss Lindsay. He turned the contents of the case over and over, subjecting each article to a close examination. No, there was nothing there which in any way resembled the letter which he had heard Mr. Spencer describe. What was almost worse, as showing the lover's utter unreliability, there were none of Miss Lindsay's letters either. Mr. Morgan had distinctly heard Mr. Spencer tell Miss Lindsay that in his missing suitcase were not only her father's unopened letter, but also some letters of hers. What confidence could be placed in the man who, at such a sacred moment, made such a gross mis-statement to the woman whom he professed to love? It was dreadful; Mr. Morgan was pained beyond measure. In the future he would never be able to believe anything he overheard; even though his ear was glued to the keyhole. He was a dispirited man.

He did not return at once to Cloverlea. As a matter of fact he had brought with him to town a number of packages of various shapes and sizes. He had some trouble in removing them from Cloverlea; but he had removed them, having dared Mr. Guldenheim and his friends and minions to do anything to try to stop him. He devoted a few days to the bestowal of these trophies in a safe place. When he did return to Cloverlea he put up at the village inn, whence he kept an eye on the doings of the neighbourhood. Having succeeded in screwing out of Mr. Guldenheim more than was due to him for wages, and in lieu of notice, he attended the sale with melancholy feelings, going so far as to purchase some lots for which he felt a sentimental interest, and which he had reasons for knowing were going for much less than they were worth.

It was only after the sale that he ascertained what he thought was likely to be Miss Harding's present address. He had made regular, and persistent, inquiries at Mr. Nash's office; but nothing had been heard of that promising solicitor by his staff, which consisted of a weedy youth of seventeen summers, with whom Mr. Morgan was on terms of the closest intimacy; until there came one morning a curtly worded request to forward any letters which might be awaiting him to Mr. Nash at an address which he gave. Mr. Morgan saw that address; a couple of days after he called there.

The address was at that charming south-coast seaside resort, Littlehampton, 27, Ocean Villas. Ocean Villas proved to be some quite picturesque cottages fronting both the common and the sea; 27 was, perhaps, the most picturesque of them all. The front door was open in the confiding way one finds at seaside resorts, and which saves the trouble of having to open it; Mr. Morgan, entering, rapped on the floor with his stick. A diminutive maid instantly appeared who, without waiting for him to state his business, instantly broke into breathless speech.

"If you've come after the rooms, sir, if you please Mrs. Lorrimer's not in, but if you'll wait half-a-minute I'll fetch her."

Mr. Morgan explained that he had not come after the rooms; he asked if Mrs. Nash was in.

"Mrs. Nash is out, sir, along with Mr. Nash; I did hear them say they were going to Arundel."

"I'll wait till they return; which are their apartments?"

"This is their sitting-room, sir."

She opened the door of what, for a lodging-house, was quite a pleasant room. Mr. Morgan entered; the maid went; the moment he was alone Mr. Morgan did what he always did do when he found himself alone in a strange apartment, he treated everything it contained to a rigorous inspection, and was still engaged in doing so when the diminutive maid reappeared.

"If you please, sir, I'm going out to do some errands, and if there's anything you want would you mind letting me know before I go; though I really shan't hardly be five minutes before I'm back again."

On the visitor assuring her that he was not likely to require her services during the next five minutes she departed to do those errands; scarcely was her back turned than Mr. Morgan started on what might have been a tour of curiosity through the house. He got no further, however, than the room behind the sitting-room, which proved to be a bedroom; unmistakably the sleeping apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Nash. Against the window stood a large trunk, a lady's; Mr. Morgan tried it; it was locked. He surmised as he eyed it.

"What's the betting that in there isn't that nice little sum of money? I wonder if she's told her loving husband that she's got it, and where it is; if she has I wonder how much he's left her. It might be worth my while to look and see; but I think I can manage to get all I want without what would look to the ignorant eye like dabbling in felony. What's that?" "That" was something which lay on the floor just underneath the bed; something which resembled a letter-case. He picked it up. "I rather fancy that this is the property of my friend Nash. Looks as if it had fallen out of his pocket while he was putting on his coat, and that he hadn't noticed it had fallen; extraordinary how careless some people are about things of that kind. It is a letter-case; let's hope there's nothing in it which he would not like to meet the public eye. What have we here? Papers which, apparently, are of value only to the owner. What's in this?" In one of the compartments of the case was a single paper. Mr. Morgan took it out, unfolded it, read it, not once only, but twice, and again a third time. The contents of the paper seemed to puzzle him; he stared at it hard, rubbing his forehead as he did so, as if he hoped by the mere force of vision to get at its meaning. Then he smiled, as if suddenly a light had dawned on him. "So that's it, is it? To think of his leaving a thing like this lying about on the floor! What a foolish man! I never had a high opinion of Herbert Nash; but that he should leave a thing like this for any one to find, and borrow; dear, dear! I never should have thought it. Let's replace these papers which are of no value to any one but the owner. And the case we'll put upon the mantelpiece; so that he'll see it directly he returns, when he'll understand the risk he's run." The letter-case which he had picked up from the floor he put on the mantelpiece, in plain sight; but the paper which he had taken from it he slipped into a case of his own; and that case he placed in his own pocket. When the diminutive maid returned with a basket full of parcels, she found him lounging on the doorstep. His manner to her was affable; as it nearly always was to every one. "You've been rather more than five minutes, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir, I'm afraid I have; but they kept me at the grocer's."

"Did they? Ah! I don't think I shall wait for my friends to return." He grinned as he said "friends." "Tell them that Mr. Morgan called; Mr. Stephen Morgan, of Cloverlea. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir; Mr. Stephen Morgan, of Cloverlea."

"Exactly. And you can also tell them that I shall call again; I can't say quite when, but I certainly shall call again before they leave Littlehampton. You understand that also?"

"Yes, sir; you'll call again; you can't say quite when, but certainly before they leave Littlehampton."

"That's it; you have it just right. Mind you give them the messages as I gave them you; and here's a shilling for your trouble."

He presented her with a shilling; and left the maid all smiles.