Hue and Cry (3 page)

“Oh, Mally!”

“Oh, Dorothy!”

“But when are you going to be married?”

Mally made a face.

“Not for ages and ages and ages. So if you hear of any one who wants to give a nice large salary to a perfectly untrained person, just be an angel and think of me.”

“Oh, but Mally——”

“Well? Come along, we must go down, or Roger'll think I've eloped—he's in that sort of mood.”

“No, but Mally, they wouldn't like you to go out again—the Moorings, I mean. You don't really want a job, do you?”

“Yes, I do.” Mally turned serious. “I
do
really. I won't marry Roger yet. I—I'm not sure enough. I won't stay here, and I can't go anywhere else, so I must, must,
must
have a job.”

They were at the head of the stairs as she finished. Quite suddenly she laughed, called over her shoulder, “Race you down, Dorothy,” and took the stairs at a break-neck rush.

CHAPTER III

“Mally, I want to introduce Sir George Peterson.”

Mally looked up and saw a big man with marked features, not exactly handsome, but rather impressive. Silver-gray hair emphasized a florid complexion.

Dorothy Leonard performed the introduction and rejoined her partner, and Mally found herself dancing with Sir George. He danced well in an old-fashioned way, and talked in a very agreeable manner about the play, the weather, and Mally herself. Presently, when they were sitting out, he said, with a change of manner:

“Your friend, Miss Leonard, has just told me that you are looking for something to do.”

Mally nodded.

“I'm looking for a job. I want one terribly.”

Sir George smiled.

“Do you know, that's rather curious, because in the middle of your play I turned round to Mrs. Armitage—I came over with them, you know—and I said, ‘Now that's the sort of girl I want for Barbara.'”

“For Barbara?” said Mally, rather slowly.

“I've been abrupt. Let me explain. Barbara is my only child. She's eight years old, and I do not wish to send her to school. I want some one to look after her. My sister, Mrs. Craddock, lives with me and manages the house——”

“Sir George, I'm not trained. Did Dorothy tell you that?”

“Yes, she did. That's the whole point. I don't want a governess; I want some one who'll interest Barbara and be interested in her. The fact is the child's crazy about drawing. By the way, can you draw?”

Mally spread out her hands in a little gesture of disappointment.

“No, I can't—not a line. Oh, what a pity!”

Sir George's smile was rather an odd one.

“If you could draw, you wouldn't do,” he said. “I just wanted to make quite sure. I hate this craze of Barbara's. She's got to be broken of it. But she's more obstinate than you would think possible.”

“Don't you want her to draw?” said Mally in a wondering voice.

Sir George's bushy dark eyebrows drew together; something rather frightening looked out of his eyes for one instant. Mally was not easily frightened, but a little danger-signal went off like a flare somewhere in her own mind.

“No.” The word was very harshly spoken, but next moment he was smiling again. “I want some one who'll interest Barbara in other things—some one young, and lively, and attractive. When I saw you to-night you struck me as being exactly what I was looking for. I rather gave up hope when I heard you were engaged to young Mooring. Miss Leonard tells me that you will not be getting married just at present, and that meanwhile——” He paused.

“Meanwhile, I want a job—yes, I do want a job,” said Mally in rather a flat voice.

The music had begun again. Sir George got up and offered her his arm.

“Will you think it over, Miss Lee? I don't ask you to take me on trust. Mrs. Armitage is an old friend; she will tell you anything you care to ask. And as regards salary—well, I'm prepared to give a hundred and fifty to the right person.”

Mally was speechless. A hundred and fifty a year was wealth. It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened. It was too wonderful; there was bound to be a catch somewhere.

She broke away from her next partner and caught Dorothy by the arm.

“Quick, Dorothy, quick! Take me to your aunt. I've got twenty million things to ask her.”

Mrs. Armitage was a comfortable and ample person; there was as much gray satin in her skirt as would have made several frocks for Mally. She sat on three chairs, or at the very least concealed them. She waved Mally to a fourth, against which the tide of gray satin had been stayed.

“Well, my dear, have you and Dorothy had a nice long talk?”

“Yes——” Mally was rather breathless.

“She was so excited when she saw you. Really, she quite pinched me, and she said, ‘Oh, Aunt Laura, I'm sure it's Mally Lee.'”

“Yes—Mrs. Armitage——”

“And you had a good talk about old times. Dear me, how much I should like a talk with some of my old schoolfellows! Philomela Johnson now—I've often wondered what happened to her—yes, really quite often.”

Mally, having no interest in Miss Johnson, broke in. She had a feeling that if she didn't break in, Mrs. Armitage would begin to tell her all about everybody she had ever known since she first went to school.

“Oh, Mrs. Armitage,
who
is Sir George Peterson?” It sounded dreadfully abrupt. She made haste to add, “He told me to ask you. He wants me to go and look after his little girl, and he said you could tell me all about him—and—and please
will
you?”

Mrs. Armitage looked a trifle bewildered. She had a great deal of gray hair, which she wore arranged over a cushion after the fashion of twenty-five years before. She put up her hand to her hair and patted it.

“My dear, to be sure. But I don't quite follow.”

Mally restrained her desire to ask twenty million things at once. Her eyes danced, but she said, speaking slowly and demurely:

“I'm so sorry. I'm in a dreadful hurry, I know—and of course I haven't explained a bit. Sir George wants some one to look after his little girl—and he thinks I would do—and he said you would tell me all about him.”

“But, my dear, I thought you were going to be married!” Mrs. Armitage's kind blue eyes expressed astonishment.

Mally summoned all her discretion.

“Not for
at least
six months,” she murmured. “And please, will you tell me about Sir George?”

Mrs. Armitage looked a little happier.

“Well, I've known him a long time. At least I've known Lena Craddock a long time. We were at school together, and she and I and Philomela Johnson——”

“Dear Mrs. Armitage,
who
is Lena Craddock?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Armitage meditatively, “we were at school together. But do you know, I've never been quite sure whether we were friends or not. Now her husband was a most
charming
man—so clever, so amusing——”

“Sir George spoke of a sister who kept house for him. Is Mrs. Craddock the sister?”

“Yes, but they are not at all alike—not at all. I know some people admired her, but—no, they are not at all alike. Now Sir George, to my mind, is a very good-looking man—don't you think so?”

“Yes. Mrs. Craddock lives with him?”

“Lena—yes, she lives with him. As I was telling you, I was at school with her—she's a widow now—and I remember Philomela Johnson liked her better than I did. And of course that's how I got to know Sir George, who was then quite a young man and just Mr. Peterson.”

“Yes? That was what I wanted to ask you—what is his profession, I mean. You see I don't really know a single thing about him.”

Mrs. Armitage seemed surprised.

“He's quite well known. He's head of a shipping firm. They had terrible losses in the war, and every one thought he was ruined. Something to do with his buying up Spanish ships and their being sunk. I remember Lena was dreadfully upset about it. But somehow or other it all came right, and now he's much richer than he was before. Lena says little Barbara will be a great heiress. She's an odd child—mad about drawing. And of course Sir George doesn't like that.”

Mrs. Armitage had a comfortable, billowy voice; it was rather rich and deep, and whatever words she used acquired a certain soothing quality.

Mally broke in with a little vigorous gesture.

“But why? Why doesn't he want her to draw?”

“Oh, my
dear!”
Mrs. Amitage sounded quite shocked. “After that sad affair of the mother, can you be surprised?”

“But I don't know of any sad affair. Please tell me.”

“My dear, really it was very shocking. Of course you may say that a man of Sir George's age is foolish to marry a young girl. But it does not excuse her—no, no, no, it really cannot be held to excuse her.”

Mally felt as if the kind, rich voice were smothering her. She had a dreadfully wicked desire to run a pin into one of the gray satin contours.

“What did she do that couldn't be excused?”

“He was, to be sure, her cousin,” said Mrs. Armitage, “and it would, of course, have been far better if she had run away with him before she married Sir George instead of afterwards.”

“Much better. Why didn't she?”

“He hadn't any money. Artists never seem to have any money somehow, until quite suddenly when they are knighted, or die, or something like that. And of course Sir George had so much.”

“She ran away with an artist, and that's why Sir George won't let Barbara draw?”

“My dear, you can't be surprised. Nella never had a pencil out of her hand. She never had time for him, or the child, or anything. And when she eloped, it was the last straw. So you can't wonder at Sir George's feelings on the subject—can you?”

“N-no.”

There was a little pause. A most curious sensation came over Mally. For the first time since her engagement she wanted to marry Roger and be looked after. She didn't want to go to London. She didn't want to find a job. She didn't, didn't,
didn't
want to look after Barbara Peterson.

“Philomela Johnson,” said Mrs. Armitage in the tone of one who settles down comfortably to reminiscence, “Philomela Johnson used to say——”

Mally roused herself, and caught Roger's eye fixed gloomily on her. Her own implored a rescue.

She said “Thank you so very much” to Mrs. Armitage and was presently borne away by a young man whose every look and gesture expressed silent reproach. Still under the influence of that curious wave of feeling, Mally looked at him with softened eyes. She wanted him to be nice to her. She wanted him to make her feel that he cared, and that he would stand between her and the world. She said “Roger” with an unusual inflection of timidity.

Roger continued to dance correctly and silently.

A sparkle replaced the softness in Mally's eyes. She said “Roger” again, and then added
“darling”
and shot a wicked upward glance.

There was no response.

She gave a sudden, vicious pinch to the arm she was holding.

“You needn't listen if you don't want to. I thought you
might
have been interested to hear that I'd been offered a job in London. But if you're not, you're not. Don't say afterwards I didn't tell you—that's all.”

Roger frowned, and the music stopped. When they had found a sitting-out place on the deserted stage, Mally said coaxingly:

“Oh, Roger, I'm so tired of being quarrelled with! Do be nice, just for a change.”

“What were you talking about just now? What's all this nonsense? You're going to marry me, aren't you? What do you want with a job?”

“Of course I
should
have my work cut out if I married you—shouldn't I? I just thought perhaps I'd take a holiday first.”

Roger's gaze became ferociously intense.

“What are you talking about?”

“About my job,
darling.
Sir George Peterson wants me to go and look after his little girl.”

“I suppose you'd like me to think you're serious?”

“Of course I'm serious. And so is he—fearfully, frightfully, furiously serious. Why, my good Roger, he's going to give me a hundred and fifty lovely paper pounds for doing it.”

“Look here, Mally, that's about enough. I won't hear of your doing any such thing.”

Mally's little face became suddenly grave and set.

“Won't you, Roger?”

“No, of course I won't! The whole thing's ridiculous. Who on earth is this Peterson?”

“My employer,” said Mally. “He wasn't going to be, but now he is.”

She stood up, ran down the steps that led from the stage to the ballroom, and turned to say over her shoulder:

“Thank you for making up my mind for me. I'm going to tell him that I'll start work as soon as he likes.”

CHAPTER IV

Mally arrived at Sir George Peterson's London house in the dusk of a January evening. The house was very large and imposing. The square in which it stood was very dim, discreet, and austere. Beyond lay a busy thoroughfare where the common, roaring tide of commercial activity ebbed and flowed; but the square itself was silent.

Mally came into a marble hall that looked chilly and felt warm. A number of uncomfortably posed statues, in the extraordinarily small amount of clothing affected by mythological persons, stood around the walls. She followed a footman up a marble stair with shallow steps and a massive balustrade.

At the turn of the stair a black column supported a bust of Sir George Peterson. Mally met it rather suddenly, and in vivid vernacular admitted to herself that it gave her the pip. Sir George in the flesh was really quite handsome, with his eyebrows, black and rather tufty, his bright dark eyes, red color, and silver hair. But Sir George in white Carrara marble! Mally took two steps at a time to get away from him, and would have taken three if it hadn't been for the footman, who was used to the bust and not disposed to hurry.