The Career of Katherine Bush
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"Oh, my!"
"If I get it, I go to my new situation next week. I had a tremendous piece of luck coming across it."
"Well, however did you do it, Kitten?" Matilda demanded.
"I saw an advertisement in the Morning Post– it was quite a strange one, and seemed to be advertising for a kind of Admirable Crichton– someone who could take down shorthand at lightning speed, and typewrite and speak French – and read aloud, and who had a good knowledge of English literature, and thoroughly knew the duties of a secretary."
"Oh! My!" said Matilda again, "but you can't do half of those things, Kitten – we none of us know French, do we!"
Katherine smiled; how little her family understood her in any way!
"I wrote first and said they seemed to want a great deal, but as I had been with Livingstone and Devereux for three years, and accustomed to composing every sort of letter that a moneylender's business required, I thought I could soon become proficient in the other things."
"Well, I never! What cheek!"
"Then I got an answer saying Lady Garribardine liked my communication, and if I proved satisfactory in appearance, and had some credentials, she would engage me immediately, because her secretary, who had been with her for years, had gone to be married – the salary would be ninety pounds a year with a rise, so it's a slight move up, anyway, as I am to be kept, and live in the house."
"You are cocksure of getting it, Katherine?"
"Yes – I mean to – I am going to see her on Saturday."
"And what are your references besides Liv and Dev? Some folks don't like moneylenders."
"I wrote and said I had no others – but they would testify to my capacity. Liv nearly had a fit when I gave my notice – he almost cried to get me to stay on. I like the old boy – he is a good sort, and will tell the truth about me."
"And did they answer?"
"Yes – just to say I was to come for the interview on Saturday."
"They want to see you, anyway – what is the family, I wonder?"
Here Katherine recited the details from Debrett, in which volume she was very proficient.
"An old lady, then," Matilda commented, "and with no children except a married daughter! That will be easier for you – but why is she called 'Sarah'? I often have wondered about that, when I read names in the Flare. Why 'Sarah Lady Something' – and not plain Lady Something?"
"It's when the man in possession is married and you are not his mother," Katherine told her, "and if you are, and still have your Christian name tacked on, it is to make you sound younger. Dev says dowagers are quite out of fashion. Every widow is 'Sarah' or 'Cordelia' now in the high society, and when he first went to business, there were only two or three. Queen Victoria never stood any nonsense."
Matilda was very interested.
"Whatever will you do about your clothes, Kitten? You have nothing nobby and smart like Gladys. She could lend you her purple taffeta if you weren't so tall."
"Oh, I manage all right. I'll have a talk with Gladys to-night; she sees the right sort of people at Ermantine's, and can tell me what to get – and I'll buy it to-morrow in my lunch hour."
"Well, I am just rattled," Matilda admitted. "Then you'll be leaving home quite, dearie?"
"Yes, Tild – and I shan't be sorry except to be parted from you – but I daresay I shall be able to come and see you now and then."
Matilda looked tearful.
"You never were one of us, Katherine."
"No, I know I never was. I often have wondered what accident pitchforked me in among you, always the discordant note and the wet blanket. I hark back to someone, I suppose – I've always determined to get out, when I was ready."
"You never did care for us – never, Kitten."
Katherine Bush remained quite unmoved.
"No, never for the others – but always for you, Tild – and I'll never forget you, dear. There, don't be a donkey and cry – the people at the next table are looking at you."
This argument she knew would calm her sister – who was intensely sensitive to everyone's opinion.
"And supposing they don't take you?" Matilda suggested, in a still quavering voice, "and you've given notice to Liv and Dev – I call it awfully risky."
"Then I will look out for something else – I am determined to make a change, and see a new world, whatever happens."
After supper that evening, Gladys was invited up to the warmed attic with Matilda, an honour she duly appreciated. They all stood in irritated awe of Katherine.
"I want to talk about clothes, Glad," she said, when they neared the tiny fireplace. "I have told Tild I am going about a new berth on Saturday."
This caused the same astonishment and exclamations as Matilda had already indulged in – and when calm was restored, Gladys was only too pleased to show her superior knowledge.
"I don't want to hear about any of those actresses you dress, or those ladies who look like them, I want to know what a real, quiet, well-bred countess, say, would have, Glad."
Miss Gladys Bush smiled contemptuously.
"Oh, a regular frump, you mean – like the ones we can't persuade to have tight skirts when they are first the fashion, or loose ones when it changes – that is easy enough – it is to get 'the look' that is difficult."
"They probably would not engage me if I had 'the look,'" Katherine remarked cynically.
"You'd better have something like we made for Lady Beatrice Strobridge last week, then," Gladys suggested. "One of our hands can copy it at home, but there won't be time by Saturday. You'd better wear your best blue serge and get a new hat for the first meeting."
"Lady Beatrice Strobridge must be the Hon. Gerard Strobridge's wife, my new employer's late husband's nephew. Strobridge is the Garribardine name." Katherine had looked up diligently the whole family, and knew the details of each unit by heart.
"She only got married two years ago," Gladys continued. "She was Thorvil, before – Lady Beatrice Thorvil."
"Wife of the present man's younger brother," quoted Katherine, remembering Debrett. "He is about thirty-five; the present man is forty."
"She is a regular dowdy, anyway," Gladys remarked. "One of those – we have a bunch of them – that wants the things, and yet with their own touch on them, spoiling the style. They come together generally, and do make a lot of fuss over each other – calling 'darlings' and 'precious' all the time – fit to make me and the girls die laughing with their nonsense."
"What is she like – good-looking?" Katherine asked. She only questioned when she wanted specific information, never idly, and it was as well to know everything about her possible new employer's family.
"She would not be bad if she did not stoop so. She hasn't got 'the walk' neither, no more than the 'look'; sometimes she's all right – at least, the things are all right when they go home, but she adds bits herself afterwards, and spoils them."
Here Matilda interrupted.
"Anyway, she is one of the ladies you'll see in your new place, Kitten. I'd certainly have that same dress, it will just show them you are as good as they, if you have an Ermantine model."
But Katherine thought differently. She agreed she would have something in the same subdued style as Lady Beatrice would have chosen, but not the actual copy, and after settling details the other two sisters left her for bed.
When they had gone, she sat by the fire and looked deeply into it, while she thought for a few moments. Then she drew a letter from her blouse and reread it. It was from Lord Algy. A sweet little love epistle. Just to tell her he could not possibly wait for the whole month before seeing her – and was coming up to town the following week – and would not she lunch with him at the old place – and perhaps stay with him again at the Great Terminus? It ended with protestations of passionate devotion.
No – never again – she had tasted of the cup of bliss, and Fate was asking her to pay no price. She must have courage now to renounce all further pleasure. Once was an experience, twice would be weakness – which could grow into a habit – and thence lead to an abyss which she shuddered to think of.
Katherine Bush had never read Théophile Gautier's masterpiece – but there was something in her character, as Lord Algy had remarked, which resembled Mademoiselle de Maupin's.
She went to her little writing-case and got out a sheet of paper, and then, in her firm round hand which looked like a man's, she wrote him these few lines:
Dear Algy,
I want you to forget all about me – I loved our little trip, but I am never going on another. I shall have left Liv and Dev's before you get back, and you won't see me again. With best love always.
K. B.She folded it, put it in the envelope – addressed it and stamped it – then she put it ready to post in the morning.
Her face was white and set. It takes a strong will to renounce tangible present happiness, however profound the beliefs in the future may be.
CHAPTER IV
Sarah Lady Garribardine said to her nephew, Gerard Strobridge, who had been lunching with her on that Saturday:
"You must go now, G. I am expecting a new secretary."
"How will you get on without Miss Arnott, Seraphim? I thought she was irreplaceable."
"So she is – I am interviewing quite a new type – she has been a moneylender's shorthand typist."
Mr. Strobridge raised his eyebrows – and smiled his whimsical smile. His Aunt Sarah always was original.
"Then I'll leave you – Beatrice has at last made up her mind not to chuck the Arberrys, so we motor down at three o'clock."
"Has Beatrice been unusually tiresome?"
"N-no – she has been writing odes all the morning."
"You ought never to have married, G. – You would not have if Alice Southerwood had not become a widow – a man can't always face his obvious obligations."
Gerard Strobridge laughed.
"Then I shall kiss your hand and say farewell until next week – wisest of aunts!"
He suited the action to the word, and left the room just as the butler was about to open the door and announce:
"Miss Bush, Your Ladyship."
He glanced quickly at Katherine – this was the young person who would take the estimable Miss Arnott's place, he supposed. She was quite ordinary looking. – He went on down the stairs.
"Come and sit here in the light, please," Lady Garribardine said, as Katherine Bush came towards her.
It was a very well-arranged Katherine, in the best blue serge – and a new hat – not of Gladys' choosing. The mop of hair was twisted tight without the least pretension to express "the look," – some grey suede gloves – bought in Paris by Lord Algy – were on the wonderful hands which remained perfectly still in their owner's lap.
"How old are you?" asked Lady Garribardine by way of a beginning.
"I was twenty-two last September." There was not a trace of nervousness in Katherine Bush's deep voice – indeed she felt none.
"And what does your family consist of – what is your status in life?" Lady Garribardine felt perhaps she ought to ascertain this before going further.
"We are just middle class. My father was an auctioneer at Bindon's Green where we live. He and my mother are both dead. I have a sister who is a saleswoman at Madame Ermantine's, the others are at home. My eldest brother has taken father's place, the younger one is in a bank."
"And how long have you been at this business?"
"Since I was nineteen – before that I kept the accounts at a pork butcher's."
"Indeed! – And what makes you think you would be capable of filling my situation?"
"It is not very easy to be a competent moneylender's secretary and a shorthand writer."
"No – perhaps not."
"Mr. Livingston and Mr. Devereux will tell you that I did not make a failure of it."
"Really?"
Katherine was silent.
"Really," Lady Garribardine repeated again. "You mean that you think you can pick up things quickly."
"Yes."
"It is certainly an advantage. I hoped to find something exceptional when I advertised."
"Yes, I noticed that – and it was because your advertisement was unusual that I applied for the post."
She rather wondered if she ought to have put in any "Ladyships"; she remembered Hanson, Lord Algy's valet, was very prodigal of such marks of respect – that is what had deterred her. Liv and Dev often used them, too – to new and prosperously connected clients – but she did not wish to be subservient more than was necessary. She would watch and listen – as she had watched about the oysters.
"Can you read aloud?"
Lady Garribardine was fixing her with her flashing brown eyes, which contrasted so unfavourably with the bronze-gold wig she wore so bravely.
"I have never tried. If I did it wrong the first time and you corrected me, I expect I wouldn't do it twice."
"That is something – and your voice is refined – you did not acquire that at the – er – pork butcher's?"
"No, I acquired it by listening to members of the upper classes who came to borrow money – I had a cockney twang like my sisters, I daresay, in the beginning."
"That shows you can learn things."
"Yes, it is only stupid people who can't."
"You are not stupid, then?"
"No, but Mr. Livingston or Mr. Devereux can tell you; either will speak for me."
Lady Garribardine was amused; she digressed a little from her cross-examination.
"You found Jews agreeable to work with?"
"Very. You know where you are with them. They do not pretend, and they are very generous."
"In-deed!"
"Yes – people have a preconceived notion of Jews, I find – quite faulty as a rule – they know what to pay for – they are far less fools than other races. I respect them."
"That is most interesting."
Katherine was silent again.
"Why did you leave them?" – after a pause in which Lady Garribardine was pitilessly scrutinising her possible secretary.
"Because I had learned all that I could there, and I wanted a new vista – "
"And you think you would find it with me?"
"With any lady in your world – you can learn things wherever you go, if you wish to."
"Very true. And how about French – you speak that?"
Katherine Bush reddened a little. A memory came to her of the profound shock that the French of Paris had been to her ear.
"I can write it quite correctly – but I have discovered that my pronunciation is ridiculous." She confessed it quite frankly.
"How did that happen?"
"I taught it to myself – mostly – and then I heard it spoken – and I knew mine would sound wrong."
"Do you think you could overcome that?"
"Yes, if I were in France long enough."
"Have you travelled?"
"No – not really. I have been to Paris for a holiday once – I have only learnt about places."
"And English literature?"
"It is the thing I care most for – I have read a great many books. I read usually until about one in the morning."
"Have you a good temper? You are not uppish, eh?"
"I suppose it depends – I know that when you take money to do a thing you have got to do it, and put up with orders and manners that you would not stand for one second if you were the person paying."
"That is quite a good definition of respectful service."
"It is common sense."
"You appear to have some of that."
Again silence.
"I have not a good temper!" Lady Garribardine laughed – she was greatly diverted.
"I guessed not."
"How?"
"I had to read characters quickly at Livingston and Devereux's – "
"You are observant?"
"I think so – "
"Can you play the piano?"
"I could once, and I had a queer gift for reading the notes – but I have never practised since we had a gramophone – I grew to loathe music."
"That is hopeful – "
Then Her Ladyship got up and went to her writing-table, terribly littered with all sorts of papers. She dived among a conglomerate mass – and picked up two letters.
"Would you oblige me by answering these, Miss – er – Bush? I could then better judge of your capabilities."
Katherine took them; on one envelope was written in a spidery hand in pencil, "Refuse gracefully;" upon the other, "Get out as best can."
She looked for a portion of the blotting pad which was clear enough to use, then she sat down and selected a pen, while she glanced up with her steady wise eyes.
"Has Your Ladyship any particular paper for this sort of thing?" Here was a suitable moment for the use of the honorific she felt.
"Yes, that white paper with the coronet in plain black and the address."
Lady Garribardine sat down by the fire and stared into it. She had not been so interested in a specimen of humanity for years.
Katherine Bush read the letters through carefully and the first one a second time, then she began to write:
To the Secretary of the League for Discouraging Polygamy among the Mohammedans of India:
Dear Sir,
I am asked by Sarah Lady Garribardine, to tell you that while sympathising deeply with the admirable object of your League, she thinks the field over which it must obviously be spread is too vast for a small contribution to be of much avail, and therefore, while thanking you for your interesting papers upon the subject, she is sorry that she is unable to forward you any more substantial help.
I am, dear sir,Yours faithfully,Katherine Bush (Secretary).The other letter ran:
To the Matron of the Nonconformist Detention and Penitential Hostel for Lost Women:
Madam,
I beg to inform you that Sarah Lady Garribardine is leaving town shortly and therefore cannot avail herself of the pleasure and honour of visiting your useful institution. She desires me to express to you her thanks for your invitation.
I remain, madame,Yours faithfully,K. Bush (Sec.).She looked carefully to see what style of address was necessary and wrote out the envelope – and when all was ready she rose and took them to the young-old lady by the fire.
She stood quite still while they were perused, and then smiled inwardly when Lady Garribardine gave a cynical chuckle.
"I think you will do very well, Miss Bush! Please find some stamps, and put them in that basket to be posted – and – er – you can ring the bell – I shall expect you – bag and baggage – on Wednesday next."
This was abrupt, but Katherine Bush felt it was what it should be.
"You do not require the testimony of Mr. Livingston or Mr. Devereux?"
"No – I can judge for myself – er – Good morning."
The bell had been answered almost instantly and so, bowing, Katherine Bush followed the servant down the stairs, and soon found herself in the street, a strange sense of content in her heart.
She knew the West End very well – and walked briskly along Hill Street and so on past Dorchester House – into the Park. All the leaves were off the trees. The November day was beautifully fine and bright and movement was a pleasure.
So the first part of her new game was won at all events.
She reviewed the whole set of impressions she had taken. Firstly, that the house was a fine one – it had "the look," if houses could be said to show this quality. That is, it was beautifully kept and filled with what she guessed from study at the Wallace Collection must be rare and costly furniture. There were some things she thought ugly – but "the look" was often ugly, she knew by experience – from Gladys' verbose descriptions to Ethel and Matilda.
Apart from "the look" it had an air of distinction. It was the abode of denizens of Lord Algy's world – that was evident. The man she had met on the threshold of the morning room door was certainly of his class – and rather nice-looking.
As for her future employer, she was a new specimen to her. Katherine meant what the French call a type, but she did not know this expression.
"She is certainly over sixty," she said to herself. "She is a dark woman naturally, and her hair ought to be grey. The whole thing is spoilt by that silly golden wig – curled tight like Royalty's. She would have quite a nice figure for her age if she were not all pushed up by those old-fashioned corsets. Why had she such big ears and such red hands for so great a lady? Her rings were buried in fat. The circulation was evidently wrong somewhere. As for her voice – it was one of the voices! The female counterpart of the echoes from over the glass screen – and the manner was quite as casual.
"Just as insolent as I shall be when I hold the same sort of place. She was born to it – I shall have acquired it – we both when we are dead will be said to have well filled our situations."
Thus mused Katherine Bush on a November day in Hyde Park – and turning out of Albert Gate suddenly she almost walked into the arms of Lord Algy.
CHAPTER V
"Darling pet! What a delightful surprise!"
"Algy! Where did you spring from?"
Then they both drew quick breaths.
"Come back towards the Serpentine, I must talk to you. Your horrid little note made me feel quite wretched, and I have been to Liv and Dev's to-day, and they refused to give me your address – why were you such a little cat, darling?"
"I was not a cat, Algy."
They had turned and were walking towards the Row.
"I meant what I wrote – I want you to forget all about me. Joys can't go on – I have other things to do, dear."
"But it is perfectly brutal of you, Katherine, when I love you so – and you love me – at least you told me that you did!"
Katherine Bush's heart was beating very fast – would she have courage to keep to her determination now that she saw him face to face?
He looked so extremely delectable, here in the lowering sunshine. He was everything that a woman could desire in the way of a lover.
"I am in the hell of a mess, too," he sighed. "My father has cut up awfully rough about my transactions with Liv and Dev – and I had a bad week at Doncaster. I am in for a regular facer and am obliged to agree to be transferred to the Egyptian army for three years. Everything, even you, are against me."
"No, I am not, Algy." There was quick sympathy and distress in her deep voice. "I hate to think that you are unhappy, and you know that I would help you in any way I could."
"Then be kind to me, darling – and don't say you never want to see me again."
Katherine Bush felt this was a supreme occasion – and that she must not waver. She so longed to comfort him, to let him kiss her and forget all his cares. The cynical side of her character, even at this moving moment, whispered that it was fortunate that they were out of doors!
"When do you start for Egypt?"
"As soon as I can get ready – my mother and sisters are going to winter out there, but probably I shall be sent to the Soudan!"
Katherine had heard that they killed lions or something in that part of the world, she knew that sport meant a great deal in Lord Algy's life.
"You will get some kind of shooting, won't you?" she suggested by way of consolation.
But Lord Algy looked full of misery. They had walked on, taking a side path and were now in sight of two chairs.
"Let us go and sit down," he pleaded. "I want to look at you. I can't, I won't believe, that you don't mean ever to be my own girl any more."
"Algy, I do mean it – just as much for you as for myself."
They had reached the chairs and sat down, Lord Algy pushed his hat to the back of his head; his immaculately brushed hair glistened bronze in the setting sun, and his forehead was puckered with distress. His attractive eyes sought hers with a fond persistence. Katherine Bush was obliged to clench her hands tight in the pockets of her coat.
"Why, what in Heaven's name for? Why must we part?" he demanded fiercely. "Katherine, I have missed you awfully – I have not known what to do with myself – and before this bother fell upon me, I had determined to come up to ask you to marry me – we'd be awfully happy married, darling – like we were in Paris. I have never loved anything half so much as our time together."
"It is dear of you to say that, but I would not marry you for anything in the world, it would spoil everything, destroy a memory that has not got any flaw in it. – Listen to me, Algy – I went with you because I wanted to – I wanted to understand life, and find out what is worth while, and what men are like. I am only at the beginning of existence and I intend to learn most of its meaning before I die. I thought that whatever cold, tiresome path I might have to follow afterwards, to carry out my scheme of things, I would at least have some good hours to remember with you, so I went deliberately – but I never meant to do it again. Let's both be grateful for what we have had and part friends."