Uncle Paul, however, approved, and Uncle Paul was a valuable ally. Uncle Paul was Mrs. Staveley's and Lady Collum's brother: a man of about sixty who had lived with his parents as long as they lived and then had taken rooms in Bayswater with a housekeeper. Naturally shy and unambitious, and made more shy by an unconquerable stammer, he had never gone into any business but remained home-keeping and retired, famous in the family for his mechanical skill. If a doll's house were required, Uncle Paul made it. His jig-saw puzzles had been marvels of difficulty before the term jig-saw was invented. With his lathe and other tools he added little improvements to most of the pieces of mechanism that shops carelessly put forth.
But his masterpieces were ships, possibly because his father had been a shipowner and much of Paul's odd time as a boy and youth had been spent in prowling about the vessels in harbour. The sea itself had no attraction for him; he was the worst of sailors; but by everything to do with ships he was fascinated.
From making models for young friends and testing them, he had come to sailing them himself, and was one of the most assiduous frequenters of the Round Pond, with the long wand of office proper to all Round Pond habitués who have Masters' Certificates.
That was his principal outdoor recreation. The only other motive that could take him from his abode was his love of music, instrumental rather than vocal, and the Queen's Hall knew few figures more intimately than this tall spare man, with a slight stoop, a pointed grey beard and highly magnifying gold-rimmed spectacles.
It has never been satisfactorily determined whether the saying about the darlings of the gods dying young means young in years or young in heart. But if it ought to run "Those whom the gods love are still young no matter when they die," then Uncle Paul was one of the elect.
"I think," he said, after listening to the outline of "The Beck and Call" project—and you must understand that whenever Uncle Paul spoke, it was with great difficulty, the words sometimes keeping distressingly out of reach for agonizing moments (during which, like so many sufferers from this impediment, he refused all assistance) or rushing out pellmell—"I think," he said, "it's a good scheme. Very amusing at anyrate. You will meet such lots of odd people. And you will be doing something. I don't mean," he added hastily, "that you have not been busy up to now. We have all admired the way you kept house and devoted yourself to your father. But that was routine. Now you will be in the world and having adventures." He sighed. "What fun!" he said.
Ben amplified, and in the course of the story of the genesis of her plan mentioned Mrs. Lintot's remark that she would willingly pay an annual subscription for these vicarious London services.
"Yes," said Uncle Paul, "that's of the highest importance, a guarantee. Now what you have got to do is to write to all your friends explaining your scheme and offering to be at their service for a year at, say, three guineas each, and asking them to write to all their friends about it too, like one of these snowballs one reads of, or the American officer's prayer. Anybody living far out of London ought to find it well worth three guineas, and three guineas is nothing. Lots of them may drop off after the first year, but it would give you a start. If you get only sixty or seventy annual clients to begin with, that would ensure your rent. Some of these people would probably get their money's worth over and over again, even if others didn't. At the end of the year, youmight have to raise the subscription, but in the first year you will be making your name and you can afford to be generous. I shall put down three guineas myself, but what for, I haven't the vaguest notion at the moment; and if I get no return I shan't grumble—for the unusual reason that it will be my own fault."
"I should hate to take three guineas from you," said Ben. "You couldn't possibly make so much use of me as that, and I'd rather do it for nothing."
"Hush!" said Uncle Paul. "Don't say such things. The dangerous words 'for nothing' must disappear from your vocabulary the moment you go into business."
"How horrid!" said Ben. "But I defy you to think of anything you could want from me. When you've got Mrs. Crosbie eating her head off, how could you need 'The Beck and Call'?"
"We'll see," said Uncle Paul. "Here's my cheque anyway. I want to be your first client."
In the choice of business premises Ben showed not a little sagacity. I know, for I was with her.
She began by consulting a firm of house-agents, which, like so many of those necessary but unsatisfactory organizations, appeared to consist of twins—Messrs. Charger & Charger. What the evolution of a house-agent is, no one has ever discovered, but an addiction neither to industry nor to strict veracity seems to be an essential to their perfected state. All house-agents have youth and eloquence and make an attempt at social ease. The effrontery that accompanies the sale of motor-cars is never quite theirs: they do not actually puff tobacco smoke at their customers while leaning against the wall with their hands in their pockets, but they probably would like to.
Whether we saw either of the principals—either Charger or Charger—we never knew; but the place was full of glib young men who employed the first-person-singular in their conversations, each of whom in turn might have beenCharger or Charger, but all of whom probably were not.
It was by disregarding their suggestions that Ben gradually arrived at a decision.
"I am thinking," she said, "of opening an office where advice can be sought on all kinds of domestic problems, and I want it to be in a wealthy residential district but not in a main street."
"Not in Piccadilly?" the young man asked.
"No,notin a main street," said Ben.
"I have a very desirable upper part in Lower Regent Street," he said.
"Notin a main street," Ben replied.
The young man turned over the pages of a register.
"How would you like Long Acre?" he inquired.
"Would you call that a wealthy residential district?" Ben replied.
"What about the Strand?" he asked.
"Notin a main street," said Ben. "Besides, surely it must be in a part where women shop? The Strand is mostly full of men and tourists, isn't it? I know I personally have never been there except to a restaurant or a theatre."
"That's true," said the young man. "Ashopping quarter. I understand. Somewhere off Oxford Street, you mean."
"Well, what have you got there?" Ben asked.
"I'm afraid I haven't anything," he said. "Or South Audley Street?"
"Yes," said Ben, "that's much better."
He looked through his register again.
"No," he said, "there's nothing there. But"—brightly—"what about the upper part of a garage near the Imperial Institute? I can recommend that most highly."
It was then that we came out.
Taking our fate into our own hands, we spent the afternoon in walking in likely places, and at last came upon an old book shop in Motcombe Street, which is near Knightsbridge and between the distinguished and far from poverty-stricken squares of Eaton and of Lowndes. At the side of the shop was a signboard in white and light green on which were the agreeable words:—
THEBOOKLOVERS'REST
In the window were rows on rows of volumes, old and less old, some opened at the title page and others at delectable coloured plates.
The shop was evidently new, judging by thepaint; and from a window above it a notice emerged stating that the upper part was to let and was suitable for offices.
As we approached, a small and intensely waggish black spaniel dashed out of the door with all the excitement that such dogs manifest when their masters are coming too, and a moment later a fresh-looking young man in a tweed suit, without a hat, sauntered from the shop, crossed the road and surveyed the premises with a pleased proprietary eye. After a brief space he called "Patrick!" and there came to the doorway another young man, who had a more studious air and, we noticed, limped. The first young man said nothing but slightly extending both hands, elevated his thumbs to a vertical position.
"Good," said the lame one, and then all three retired to the recesses of the shop.
Meanwhile Ben's mind was working very quickly. Motcombe Street, she remarked, was only a few yards from the two great Knightsbridge drapers, and Sloane Street with all its millinery and boots and dressmakers was close by. If two young men thought it a good enough spot to establish themselves as second-hand book sellers, might it not be equally or even more suitable for our purposes? And especially so if she could induce a Knightsbridge or Sloane Streettradesman, or both, to allow her to put up a finger-board. At any rate, the rooms must be looked at.
In the course of the conversation that followed, Ben said that the only real drawback was that there was no private door. The upper part could be reached only through the shop. But neither Mr. Harford, the young man with the dog (whose name appeared to be "Soul"), nor Mr. St. Quentin, the young man with the limp, thought this a very serious objection.
"Ifyoudon't mind," said Mr. Harford, "we shan't. You will probably have more customers than we, and we shall try and bag some of them."
"Yes," quoted Mr. St. Quentin, or Patrick, "'and those that came to scoff remained to pray.' In other words, if they can't get a governess or a chauffeur from you, they may stop on the way down to buy a cookery book from us."
"That's too one-sided," said Ben. "Equally why shouldn't people who can't find anything they want on your shelves, be sent upstairs to see what I can do for them?"
"Of course," said Mr. Harford. "Only yesterday, for example, we had an old boy from America. Americans, it seems, want either first editions of Conrad and Masefield, or something to do with Dr. Johnson. This was a Johnsonian,but he was also in need of a service flat. Now if you had been here I should have pushed him up and you would have fleeced him."
"Yes," said Mr. St. Quentin, "and then there was that rummy old bird this morning. She wanted a novel. Anything to pass the time, she said. But when she came to look round, there was nothing that she hadn't read or that she wanted to read. Dickens was too vulgar and Thackeray was too cynical. Meredith was too difficult and Hardy too sad. Trollope was too trivial and George Eliot too bracing. Wells was too clever and Bennett too detailed. Galsworthy was too long and Kipling too short. And so on. She ended by offering me a fiver for Jack's spaniel, which she called a 'doggy.' After I had repulsed the offer she asked me if I could tell her the best play that had a matinée to-day. The world's full of these drifters. Now if you had been here, I should have steered her to you."
"To waste my time?" Ben asked.
"Not a bit of it. She was rolling in money; all she needed was a directing mind, such as I am sure yours is. What she wanted was to get through the day, and you would have helped her, and business would result. As a matter of fact, she did buy something; she bought 'Tom Brown's School Days,' for the curious reason, into which Iwas far too wily to enquire further, that her dear father was at Winchester."
"One little point, Miss Staveley," said Mr. Harford. "You are setting up an advice bureau. Won't you give us your opinion on our signboard: do you think it reads all right?"
"It seems to me most alluring," said Ben; "unless possibly the word 'Rest' might lead people to stay too long."
"Well," said Mr. St. Quentin, "as a matter of fact we had a tussle over that and Jack won. I was for just 'Bookbuyers' Corner.'"
"Very pretty," said Ben.
"Yes," said Mr. Harford, "but as I very properly and acutely pointed out, this isn't a corner."
"Still—" Ben began.
"No," said Jack, "a corner's a corner."
"Very well," said his partner, "I give in; but what do you think he wanted on the sign as we now more or less have it? You won't credit it, Miss Staveley. Catch hold of something while I tell you."
"Ah, shut up," said Jack.
"He wanted 'Ye' instead of 'The.'"
"No!" said Ben, in horror.
"He did," said Patrick: "he actually and infernally did. Like a tea shop. He's not altogether a bad-looking man; he would have takenquite a decent degree but for the War; he has played cricket for his county; he induced me to become his partner; and yet he wanted 'Ye' instead of 'The.'"
"Can this be true?" Ben asked.
"Well, I stick to it," said Jack. "We are out to make a living and I know what people are. You might lose a few highbrows by saying 'Ye' but you'd get a bigger following generally. Still, Patrick here wouldn't give way. Well," he made an exaggerated gesture of fatalism, "we know what the reason will be if we're bankrupt, don't we, old Soul?" and he patted the waggish spaniel.
"And," said the lame one, "I haven't told you the worst. He came down one day with a design lettered by one of his architect friends,
'YE OLD BOOKE SHOPPE'
in which 'shop' had twoP's and anE. I haven't fully recovered yet——"
"It would have meant great business," said Jack, defiantly. "There's a fascination about that double P and that final E that lots of people find irresistible. No matter, the die is cast. By the way," he added to Ben, "I suppose you're calling yourself something?"
"I was thinking of 'The Beck and Call,'" said Ben. "I wanted a signboard rather like yours."
"Make it 'Ye,'" said Mr. Harford, "and you'll be a millionaire."
"No," said Ben. "I couldn't face my friends. It's bad enough as it is."
"And you'll take our upper part?" Mr. St. Quentin asked.
"I can't say at the moment," said Ben. "I must consider. But if I don't it will probably only be because I don't think either of you is serious enough to be my landlord."
But after the lawyers had done their worst with it, Ben signed an agreement.
In assembling her staff Ben experienced a certain amount of luck in stumbling upon Miss Peterson.
Miss Peterson was one of those plain, capable but not originative women whose destiny it is to work loyally for others. And Ben was just the kind of other for whom they work with the most zeal and fidelity. From Miss Peterson's position as keeper of the outer office and the door, she came to be known as Jan, which was short for janitress, and but for her "The Beck and Call" would probably not have lasted a month. With her untiring devotion to buttress it, it turned the corner.
Jan arrived early and left late, and, what is more, refused to go out for lunch, but ate it furtively at her desk. Whether men eat too much lunch or women too little is a question that has never been settled; and as they are totally different creatures there is probably no need for any comparisons. Suffice it to say that Jan could not be induced to improve her scanty and hastyrepast, and seemed to be fairly healthy on it. A certain element of self-sacrifice or even mortification was necessary to her happiness; she was a mixture of watchdog and nun. If ever she permitted herself a luxury or accepted an invitation to a party of pleasure, she did it as though performing a penance. Such was her own humility and her innate conviction that this is a vale of tears, and ought to be, that every happiness or delight was a cause of suspicion and surprise. Praise-God-Barebones and his companions planted the English soil deeper than they knew.
The only other member of the staff, at first, was a precocious London boy, certainly no Puritan, who was known by his own wish as Dolly. His real name was Arthur, which his friends, all as Cockney as himself, soon converted to Arfur, not only because that was their general tendency but because his surname Crowne set up an additional allurement to do so. Arfur Crowne in course of time was reduced, on the lines often followed in the evolution of nicknames, to 'arf a dollar, and from this it had been an easy gradation to Dolly.
Dolly's age was sixteen, and he was small for it. He was also old for it, in so far as dress and knowledge of the world, or at any rate of London, were concerned. He always wore a bowlerhat and carried a cane, and in his possession, on view but never known to be worn, was a pair of smart tan gloves. In addition to an exhaustive acquaintance with London's houses of variety, even in the outlying districts, football heroes, cricket heroes, cinema stars and probably winners on the flat, Dolly could give you in a moment the number of the bus you needed for any route.
Where he got the money to visit so many places of entertainment, no one at first knew; for his wages could not well be large and there was no reason to suspect him of dishonesty. But he was so regularly in funds as to lead to the suspicion that he had private means and was working at "The Beck and Call" for a wager. So Tubby Toller maintained. And, as he said, it would be very dull to find out where the money came from, for one of the compensations in this dreary life of ours is the opportunity we get for wondering how other people can afford it.
But later the secret came out, for Mr. Harford gave it away. Mr. Harford's range of interests on the pleasant planet on which he found himself was, I ought to say, sufficiently wide to include the too often pathetic efforts to come in first on the part of those untrustworthy but beautiful animals with noble heads, glossy coats, and four slender legs on which most English men, andmany English women, "have something" every day. It was Dolly's special privilege to meet in his lunch hour mysterious acquaintances with special information about the "three-thirty," and this information Mr. Harford was delighted to receive. Now and then, of course, the horse "went down," but in the main the two confederates did very well.
Dolly's post was by the telephone in the outer office, which, on occasions, could be connected with another instrument on Ben's desk; but his dominating desire and ambition was, by his own knowledge and discretion, to render any such connexion unnecessary. So far from sharing Jan's willingness to lunch in, Dolly was off, with his gloves and cane, immediately the clock struck one—to the Ritz or Savoy, according to Jack Harford. He was never late in returning, but sometimes stood on the step finishing a cigarette until the hands pointed to two.
Mr. Harford and Dolly may have been almost on an equality, but it was one of the jokes at "The Booklovers' Rest" that Dolly was too aristocratic to have any friendly relations with the boy—Ernie Bones—who opened and shut that abode of culture, and carried to the post such parcels as were dispatched, and once a month stuck stamps on myriad catalogues. But thereare grades, right through the social scale, and Dolly stood on a plane far above Ernie's.
Ernie had never worn or carried gloves in his life. They would have looked as strange on him as a monocle in the eye of a London roadmender.
Aunt Agatha had of course to be told. Aunt Agatha was the widow of Sir Davenport Collum and Ben's mother's sister. Her opinion on any subjects whatever doesn't really matter, but Ben would not have been happy to have left her in ignorance.
"You mustn't think me narrow-minded," Aunt Agatha said, "because I'm not. Whatever else I may be, I'm not narrow-minded. But I really do think you might have chosen something better to do than to be a maid-of-all-work or a Jack-of-all-trades at the command of anyone with the money to pay your fee. You—you demean yourself. We should have dignity."
"Yes, aunt," said Ben, "but one must maintain oneself first. There is no dignity without independence."
"But surely—don't you remember Landseer's picture?" inquired Lady Collum.
"No, aunt. That was 'Dignity and Impudence,'" Ben replied.
"Yes, so it was. I had forgotten. And, afterall, the words are very much alike. I can see it now. We had an engraving in the hall at home. Two dogs. Well, dear, as you were saying?"
"I was saying, aunt," Ben resumed, "that dignity without independence is only a shadow. What I want is to make my own living and 'The Beck and Call' seems to be a way. At any rate, it is worth trying."
"A horrid phrase," said Lady Collum. "'Beck and Call.' Why, it suggests dependence and nothing else. Servility even. You belong to every one but yourself; you will be London's errand girl."
"But if I don't mind that, what then?" Ben asked. "And besides, I shall reserve the right to select my jobs."
"Beggars," said Aunt Agatha, "cannot be choosers. There's a proverb to that effect and I am a great believer in proverbs. An apple a day—ah! how true!"
"Yes, aunt, but how miserable you would be if anything kept your own darling doctor away! And I believe it's really an onion, as a matter of fact."
"Onions undoubtedly are very healthy," said Lady Collum. "But what were we saying? Oh, yes. This office of yours. 'The To and Fro.' Where is it to be?"
"'The Beck and Call,' aunt," Ben corrected. "I have taken two rooms over an old book-shop in Motcombe Street."
"Taken them!" exclaimed Lady Collum, in horror. "I had no idea it had gone so far as that. What is the use of my giving you any advice if the deed is done? It's like locking the garage door after the car has been stolen."
"But I don't think I was asking you to advise me," said Ben. "I was merely telling you about it, because I thought you would like to know, and in case you knew of anyone who might want to make use of me."
"Oh dear! Oh dear!" exclaimed Lady Collum. "To think that it's all settled! You're plighted to it now."
"Yes, aunt," said Ben. "The die is cast. There is no looking back. We begin next Monday."
"Plighted!" murmured Lady Collum, dreamily. "What a beautiful word it might be! Can be. Why, my dear, don't you marry some nice man instead of opening offices?"
"Well, aunt, for one reason, no one that I cared for sufficiently has asked me," said Ben smiling.
"Then you have had a proposal or two?" said Lady Collum, eagerly. "I'm glad."
"Not very serious ones," Ben told her. "Only from Tommy Clinton."
"Oh, him!" said Aunt Agatha. "And yet you're very pretty," she went on. "What's the matter with the other young men? Let's see, how old are you?"
"Twenty-two," said Ben.
"That's a little late for the young ones," said Lady Collum, "or much too early. Hasn't any nice older man asked you?"
"No, aunt," said Ben, "and I don't know that I want one either. Marriage isn't everything. I can imagine an amusing business being far more entertaining than a husband. But surely you see," she went on more seriously, "that now that father's married again I must be independent. I can't possibly go on living at home."
"Ah, yes," said Lady Collum. "Of course. Poor child, yes. The cruel and ugly stepmother, my heart bleeds for you."
"But dear Aunt Agatha, she isn't cruel, and she isn't ugly," said Ben. "And I like her."
"That's your sweet nature," Lady Collum replied, "or her artfulness. And what about poor little Toby?" she resumed. "His home closed to him. I can't think what your father was about. Surely at sixty-three he might have continued to face life alone and then everything would behappy still, and poor little Toby not at the mercy of this heartless woman and you not driven out into the world to start 'The Hide and Seek.'"
"'Beck and Call,' aunt," Ben corrected. "And I haven't been driven out; I was glad to go."
"So you say," said Lady Collum. "But it's your kind heart. Anyway, it's that motherless child I'm thinking most about—poor Toby."
"But, aunt, dear," said Ben, "Toby is hardly ever at home. He's at Oxford until the vacation, and then he stays with friends. And he's six feet tall. It's far too long since you saw him. I assure you he's in no need of such sympathy."
"Poor child, poor child!" Lady Collum murmured. "It is dreadful when the cuckoo displaces the young meadow-pipits. I saw it on a film. Dreadful! My poor little Toby!"
"Well," said Ben, rising to go, and abandoning the struggle with preconceived ideas (always a stubborn one), "you'll send to me if you want any shopping done while you're down in the country, won't you?"
"Of course I will," said Aunt Agatha. "I'll do all I can for you. Let's see, what is the place called?—'Mind the Step'?"
"'Beck and Call,' aunt," said Ben.
"Of course. How funny I should have said 'Mind the Step.' And yet how natural!" sheadded, sighing deeply, "for I am always thinking about her. The step! What a tragedy for all of you! How could your father have done it! Well, youwillmind her, won't you? They're all hard and all cunning. I know. I've read about them. And deceitful. And they are always saving and stealing, and stealing and saving, for their own children."
"But, dear aunt, you are so wrong about this," said Ben. "Belle is the kindest thing. And she hasn't got any children of her own."
"So she says," was Lady Collum's last dark utterance.
Whether or no Ben's landlords made a special point of being on the premises at the hour of her arrival I can't say, but certain it is that they were always there to wish her good morning, and an element of rivalry as to which would wish it first was not absent. It is also certain that they esteemed highly the privilege of having such an agreeable tenant.
Every one has a favorite snatch of song, which can be sung unconsciously and bears no relation whatever to the mental status of the singer. This was Jack's, droned to an Irish melody:—
Good morning, O'Reilly,You are looking well.Are you the O'ReillyWho keeps this hotel?Are you the O'ReillyThey speak of so highly?Good morning, O'Reilly,Youarelooking well.
Good morning, O'Reilly,You are looking well.Are you the O'ReillyWho keeps this hotel?Are you the O'ReillyThey speak of so highly?Good morning, O'Reilly,Youarelooking well.
Good morning, O'Reilly,You are looking well.Are you the O'ReillyWho keeps this hotel?Are you the O'ReillyThey speak of so highly?Good morning, O'Reilly,Youarelooking well.
Good morning, O'Reilly,
You are looking well.
Are you the O'Reilly
Who keeps this hotel?
Are you the O'Reilly
They speak of so highly?
Good morning, O'Reilly,
Youarelooking well.
At quiet intervals all day this ditty reached Ben's ears from the ground floor, until it became themotifof her employment, and shecaught herself at all kinds of odd moments murmuring it too. In fact, "Good morning, O'Reilly, youarelooking well," was the password between Mr. Harford and herself. Mr. St. Quentin was less frivolous: his humour was of the sardonic variety; but he too had snatches of song, which also passed into Ben's repertory, chief of which was that sweet but mournful Scottish lullaby:—
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,My Bonnie lies over the sea,My Bonnie lies over the ocean,Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,My Bonnie lies over the sea,My Bonnie lies over the ocean,Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,My Bonnie lies over the sea,My Bonnie lies over the ocean,Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,
My Bonnie lies over the sea,
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,
Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.
As book sellers the two friends seemed to Ben to lack method and even knowledge, but she hesitated to judge them because she knew so little herself, and she could not but be conscious that her own business was an unprofessional affair. In fact, they were all amateurs.
Her suspicions as to her neighbours were first aroused by a visit from Mr. Harford one morning. He was carrying a volume, and his normally careless countenance registered perplexity if not despair.
"Please help me, Miss Staveley," he said. "Patrick's out and I've no notion what this book is worth. It isn't marked. There's a blighter after it downstairs, and he looks as if he might bea dealer himself, in which case it's probably valuable."
"It's no use asking me," said Ben. "You might as well ask your dog."
"But you're so clever," said Mr. Harford. "Tell me how it strikes you as a stranger. Hold it in your hand."
"No," said Ben. "I shan't even guess. Why don't you tell him it was on the shelves by mistake and isn't for sale?"
Mr. Harford looked at her with admiration.
"By Jingo!" he said, "that's brilliant!
Youarethe O'ReillyThey speak of so highly
Youarethe O'ReillyThey speak of so highly
Youarethe O'ReillyThey speak of so highly
Youarethe O'Reilly
They speak of so highly
and I don't wonder."
On another occasion Mr. St. Quentin was heard laboriously ascending the stairs, impeded by his poor wooden leg. He had begun with a wonderful artificial limb, fitted with springs and other contrivances, but, like so many other mutilated men, had given that up for a simple stump.
"Look here, Miss Staveley," he said, "I'm in a deuce of a fix. There's a poor devil downstairs who's brought in a bundle of books worth ten pounds, and he asks if I'll give ten shillings for them. What am I to do?"
"Behave like a gentleman," said Ben. "I should say, behave like yourself."
"Yes," said Patrick, "I want to. But I'm a book seller as well. I hope I'm not the sort of man to take advantage of ignorance, especially when it's mixed up with destitution; but, after all, business is business and one can't be buyer and seller too."
"I think that's rubbish," said Ben. "Of course you can. Every dealer is, but that's always the excuse. It makes me blush."
Patrick looked at her as though in the hope that he might miss none of the heightened colour when it came.
"All the same," he said, "the other day when I wasn't in, Jack gave a fellow a fiver for a book which was only worth sixpence, owing to some missing pages which he didn't detect."
"I don't see that that has anything to do with the present matter," said Ben. "Surely each transaction is separate."
"Yes," said Patrick, resignedly. "You're right. I'm a swine. How I hate business! None the less," he went on, "this business is only half mine; half is Jack's. I've got to do the best I can for both of us. Of course, I shan't give only a measly ten bob; but the point is, how much more ought I to give?"
"What could you get for the books?" Ben asked.
"They ought to fetch fifteen pounds," said Patrick.
"How soon can you sell them?" Ben asked.
"One never knows," said Patrick. "It might be to-morrow, it might be next year."
"That's rather important," said Ben, automatically using words that she didn't know she possessed; "because it might mean locking up capital. I think you ought to give him something between their value to you if you could sell at once and their value if you have to keep them in stock for a year. Say seven pounds ten."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Patrick. "You're the Queen of Sheba." And he plodded down again.
"I don't pretend to be able to advise you, Miss Staveley," said Patrick that evening. "I'm not clever enough. But whenever you're in any difficulty, come into the shop and we'll try the 'Sortes Virgilianæ.' It can be very comforting, and it always succeeds."
"Sortes Virgi——" Ben asked. "I suppose that's Latin, and I don't know any. I've had a rotten education."
"Oh, no," said Patrick, "I don't suppose you have. I expect you know lots of things that goodclassical scholars are utterly ignorant of. You can read and play music at sight, I'm sure?"
Ben admitted it.
"I knew you could. I call that the most miraculous thing in the world—putting one's fingers down on the notes accurately without any practice whatever. I'm sure Porson couldn't do that, even if he did drink ink. Jack can do it too, confound him! It's the one accomplishment I have always longed for, and I could never even whistle. But the 'Sortes Virgilianæ'—that was a game of chance and an appeal for guidance—every copy of Virgil an oracle, you know. It was like this. You were in a hole. Very well, you opened your Virgil at random and you took the first words that caught your eye as an inspired message. But nowadays people don't confine themselves to Virgil: they take any book. Let's try it. What is your perplexity at the moment?"
"Well," said Ben, "I suppose it would have something to do with getting clients, being able to be of any use to them when I did get them, and being able to pay you your rent."
"We'll try," said Patrick, taking a book at random from the shelf behind him, without turning round, and opening it. He looked at the page and laughed. "There you are," he said, pointing to the passage.
The book was "The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám" and the page was that on which was the quatrain containing the line:—
So take the cash and let the credit go.
So take the cash and let the credit go.
So take the cash and let the credit go.
So take the cash and let the credit go.
"But there isn't any cash to take," said Ben.
"No," said Patrick, "but how does it go on?
Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum.
Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum.
Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum.
Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum.
That is the answer of the oracle. In other words, don't worry, take long views and if anyone has to suffer, let it be us and not you."
"But what is the drum?" she asked.
"The drum is Jack and me," said Patrick. "Your horrible, avaricious landlords."
"Someone to see you, Miss Staveley," said Jan, with a flustered face, suddenly opening Ben's door. "I'm sorry," she added quickly and in a lower tone, "but I couldn't do anything else."
"This way, sir," she went on, to someone in the outer office, behind her, and in a moment who should be in the room but Colonel Staveley.
"Father!" exclaimed Ben.
"Well, why not?" replied the Colonel, but he looked anything but at ease. "Mayn't a father visit his daughter?"
"Of course, father, and I'm very pleased to see you. But it's so unexpected. I hope nothing's wrong. Please go on smoking."
"Thank you," said the Colonel, who had been careful not to throw his cigar away, although he had been holding it in such a manner as to suggest that he had done with it, but absent-mindedly had forgotten to drop it. He put it back to his lips with a sigh of relief, sat down and, with a searching eye, looked round at the files of letters and the folios and other signs of business.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
"Not so well," said Ben, "and not so badly. We are making both ends meet so far. But it's very hard work. There's so much to do, seeing people all day, that I never have an evening free. It's then that the real task begins—writing letters, making up the books and all the rest of it. Still I like it more than not, and it's interesting too. One never knows what the next minute may bring. Always something unexpected. You, for example."
"I'm sorry," said her father, bluntly. "I was hoping you might be tired of it and be willing to come back."
"Please don't think of that," said Ben. "I shouldn't do that, whatever happened. There are lots of other things to do if this fails or gets too difficult. But it won't."
"All right," said the Colonel. "Then perhaps you'll look on me not as a father but as a client. Do you say client or customer?"
"Whichever you like," said Ben.
"Client, then," replied the Colonel. "What I want is a cook. Not an ordinary cook, but a damned good cook. You know. A cook who sees that beef is underdone and mutton well done. A cook who sends any meat but the very best back to the butcher. A cook who doesn't stuff appletarts with cloves and slices of lemon. A cook who keeps time. Belle—Belle is fine, she's splendid, but she doesn't understand."
Ben laughed. "I wonder how bad your cook is," she said. "You know, father, you're not the easiest creature to cater for. And—and does Belle know you're here?"
"Yes," said the Colonel, "I told her."
"All right," said Ben. "I'll do what I can. But, remember, you'll have to pay. Everything's dearer than it used to be. What does the present cook get?"
"I think it's fifty," said her father.
"Well, you'll have to go higher than that, for a good one. Very likely to eighty."
The Colonel groaned. "If I must, I must," he said. "Life isn't worth living as it is."
"I'll send one along," said Ben.
"You're a good girl," said the Colonel. "I'm proud of you."
"Wait just a moment, father," said Ben, as he rose to go. "You haven't given me the address of a milliner yet."
"A milliner? What milliner?" the Colonel inquired.
"Where I am to get a hat," said Ben.
"You are talking in riddles," said the Colonel. "I know nothing of any hat. With a businessblooming like this I should say you could get your hats wherever you wished. In Paris even."
"I thought perhaps you had a special shop in mind," said Ben.
"I haven't an idea what you're referring to," said her father.
"Don't you remember?" Ben replied. "You said that if ever you entered my office you would give me a hat."
"Did I? I had forgotten. Of course if I said so, it shall be done. I'll ask Belle about a shop and let you know. What an infernal memory you have!"
Ben was as good as her word, and a new cook arrived at Hyde Park Gardens and gave satisfaction.
It is sometimes amusing to watch disapproval dissolving into esteem, mortification being transformed to pride. Not long after the new kitchen régime was in full swing the Staveleys gave a dinner party, at which the Colonel had on his right hand old Lady Philligree (widow of the famous magnate who had the big place at Moreton-in-the-Marsh). Lady Philligree is known to like her food as much as most people, and, in default of anything else to say to her host, or possibly because the topic came nearest her heart,she commented with intense appreciation on the entrée they were consuming.
"I'm glad you like it," said the Colonel. "The fact is, we have a new cook and she's a treasure. It doesn't do to extol one's own family, but I don't think I am breaking any social law very seriously when I say that I got her through my daughter. Ben, you know. Well, Ben, like so many of these headstrong, foolhardy girls to-day—since the War you know—insisted on breaking away from home and starting a domestic agency. 'The Beck and Call' she calls it. In Motcombe Street; quite close to Knightsbridge. Well, although it is not the best form for fathers to boast, I must say she's wonderful. No sooner did I ask her for a cook than she got me this one. She ought to make a fortune, she's so capable. Clearheaded, cool, with a charming manner, though again I say it as shouldn't. 'The Beck and Call' she calls it. In Motcombe Street, close to Knightsbridge. Over a book shop."
And when, during the latter part of the feast, after half-time, Mrs. Carruthers, on his left, paid a compliment to the savoury (anentente cordialeof chicken's liver and mushroom) the Colonel made practically the same reply to her.
When we are deploring the inconsistency of human nature and the speed with which friendcan become foe, let us not forget that, under other circumstances, the transition from adversary to advertising agent can be equally swift and complete.
Ben brought me occasional reports of her progress and whatever other news there might be; and I looked forward to these visits.
"We've been having the oddest applications," she said. "You have no idea how helpless people can be. They want advice on everything."
"The astonishing thing," I replied, "is that you can give it on such a variety of subjects."
"I don't know that I can," she said, "but I try to. And if one is fairly emphatic, it seems to satisfy them. I suppose decisiveness is very comforting. I see them positively adding an inch or two to their stature when I just say 'Yes' or 'No,' without any qualifications to dilute those excellent words. It's extraordinary how few people seem to have any initiative. And if one can't answer a question oneself," she went on, "one probably knows someone who can. I am requisitioning all my friends. Some day I shall put an awkward client on to you."
"I hope you will," I said.
"It isn't only that they ask ridiculous things,"Ben confirmed, "but they so often want something more, for nothing. 'Now that Iamhere, they say, 'perhaps you could tell me this.' Only to-day a woman who had come about Spanish lessons for her daughter asked me, as she was leaving and had paid, what to do with a cook who stole. I asked her if she could cook well, and when she said 'Yes,' I told her to keep her, even if she stole diamonds and pearls. But it was nothing but odds and ends. 'Odds and ends are replaceable,' I said, 'but a cook isn't. The whole world wants cooks at this moment. Besides,' I said, 'to take odds and ends isn't stealing at all—to a cook. We all have our code, and a cook's code permits her to take odds and ends and smuggle them out of the house, where she would be a pillar of honesty in the midst, say, of money or jewellery.' Every one is dishonest somewhere. My father, I'm sure, is scrupulous in most ways, but he boasts that he always does railway companies if he can. The best parlourmaids take cigarettes. The nicest people pocket matches. If you want to know something about petty purloinings by what are supposed to be the elect, ask the secretary of any women's club. And I'm told that in quite crack men's clubs the nailbrushes have to be chained.
"We have every kind of question and fromevery nationality," she went on. "A little Japanese woman came in the other day to know how to get lessons in English—at least, not exactly lessons. What she wanted was someone to read English books aloud with her. Nottoher;withher. They were to sit side by side so that she could follow the pronunciation. She knew English perfectly, but had some of the words most comically wrong. But how natural! Indeed I don't know how foreigners ever get our words right. This little Japanese pet was completely puzzled by 'July,' for instance. She used the word as if it rhymed with 'truly.' And why not? We say 'duly' and 'unduly' and 'unruly' and 'Julius' and 'Juliet.' And then we say, 'July.' It's too absurd."
"And could you help her?" I asked.
"As it happened, I could. I remembered an old friend of ours who was only too glad to do it, and she has been writing since to thank me for giving her the opportunity of meeting anyone so charming."
"What I want to know," I said, "is how the dickens do you know what to charge?"
"There are several ways," said Ben. "There's a fixed tariff for certain things, and there's so much a quarter of an hour for interviews. For shopping I charge a fee. A time-chart is keptand they pay so much an hour and for cabs. But I don't do that for strangers, or, at any rate, not for anyone without an introduction.
"Most people," she continued, "want either servants or rooms; and I send them on to registry offices or house-agents, and share the commission. I couldn't as a regular thing go into either of those businesses myself. There would be no time left.
"Let me think of some of our recent applications," she said. "Oh, yes! A South African woman came in yesterday to know something about London churches. She was to be here for six months and wanted to take sittings somewhere; could I tell her the best preachers? They must be evangelical or, at any rate, low. Anything in the nature of ritualism she couldn't endure.
"And then," she went on, "there was a widow from Cheltenham who wanted advice about dogs. What was the best kind of dog for a lady living alone? She had noticed that the dogs of most ladies of her own age—that is to say, elderly—were very disobedient; but that would be no use to her. She did not want a dog that had to be led. I said that the most popular dog with elderly ladies at the moment was a Sealyham orWest Highland. White, in any case. But I doubted if they were very obedient.
"She asked whether I thought a lady dog or a gentleman dog the more suitable. Really, people are marvellous."
"And how did you charge her?" I asked.
"I didn't. I said that the matter was off my beat, and gave her the address of a dog-fancier.
"She thanked me and went away, and ten minutes later left a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers.
"Then they want to know the best musical comedy; the name of a play that it would be all right to take auntie to; the place to buy the best linen sheets; whether or not one has to dress in certain restaurants; what time the National Gallery opens; how long a car takes to Hampton Court; how to get Sunday tickets for the Zoo; and where one has the best chance of seeing the Prince of Wales.
"But what most of them want," said Ben, "is what they call apied-à-terre. You've no idea what hosts of people there are who would be happy if they only had a foot to the earth!—in other words, a week-end cottage. The simplest place in the world, where they can rough it, you know; return to nature, shake the horrible city off! But when we come to particulars there must alwaysbe a tennis lawn, hot water laid on, bathroom and so forth. Sometimes they insist on a telephone. I could let twenty of these places a week; and there's nothing so difficult to find! As it is, most of the real country folk, the cottagers proper, have been dispossessed in order that their homes may be converted for week-end purposes.
"Another thing we are always being asked for is a man and his wife. But they are difficult to get, too, because if the man's any good, the wife isn't, and if the wife is capable, the man drinks.
"But most of them," she added, "I don't see at all. Jan or Dolly disposes of them; and of course they don't pay. But we can't be rude to them. And after all, if you call your office, 'The Beck and Call,' you are rather, as Dolly says, 'arstin' for it.' In fact, Dolly wants us to make a charge for everything. He produced some placards the other day, which he had spent all Sunday on, to be hung up. One was for his own desk with:—
LONDON QUESTIONSANSWERED TO THEBEST OF OUR ABILITY2/6 EACH
on it.
"And one was for Jan:—
GENERAL INFORMATIONGIVEN2/6 EACH REPLY
"And for my door:—
MISS STAVELEYINTERVIEWSAT THE RATE OF 10/6FOR QUARTER OF AN HOUROR LESS
"But I wouldn't let him put them up. 'No,' I said. 'Save them for when you set up in business for yourself.'"
"'Me?' he said. 'Not 'arf. I'm going to be a bookie.' And I expect he is. 'I'd be one now,' he said, 'if I had any capital. That's all you want—a little capital to begin with. The rest is like shelling peas.'"
"'But in that case why are you here?' I asked him. 'Oughtn't you to be in a bookmaker's office?'"
"'I dare say I ought,' he said. 'But I prefer this job at the time.'"
"'Why?' I asked."
"'Because, to tell you the brutal truth, miss,' he replied, 'I like you.'"
"No," said the girl. "I don't think anyone would do but Miss Staveley herself."
She was a pretty girl, somewhere in the last teens, but at the moment she was flushed and nervous and looked tired out.
"Do you know her personally?" asked the loyal and wary Jan.
"I could hardly say 'know,'" replied the girl, "but we met at a dinner-party once. At Lady Toulmin's. Perhaps you would tell her?"
"You are quite sure it is nothing that I could do?" Jan inquired.
"Quite," said the girl.
"But Miss Staveley is very busy," Jan persisted. "We haven't got through the letters yet. Indeed, we're not really open. You must let me know what you want to see her about."
"I'm sorry," said the girl, "but that's impossible. Do please give her this card"; and Jan succumbed.
Ben, in her fortress, examined the card. "MissViola Marquand," she read. "What is she like?" she asked.
"Very young," said Jan. "And very pretty. Says she met you at dinner once at Lady Toulmin's. Her furs cost a hundred if they cost a penny. One of those gold mesh bags. No rouge, though. She seems excited and worried."
"And she won't say what she wants?"
"No," said Jan. "Not to me. Not to underlings. The boss or nothing."
"Well," said Ben, "show her in; but keep an eye on the time. She oughtn't to be here more than ten minutes. Interrupt us then."
Miss Marquand entered shyly. "It's very kind of you to see me," she said, "and I have no right to bother you like this; but I'm in great trouble and I remembered how much I liked you the only time we met. Do you remember?"
"Yes," said Ben. "I remember now."
"And I was hearing that you had opened an advice bureau, and so I have made so bold as to come to you, because no one wants advice—help, rather—more than I do."
"Well," said Ben, "tell me."
"It's very simple," said the girl. "I have got to pay two hundred pounds and I haven't a penny."
"Bridge?" Ben asked.
"Poker," said the girl. "I can hold my own fairly well at bridge, but poker is too much for me. I've done with it. Can you tell me what to do? I'm at my wits' end, Miss Staveley. It's terrible."
"You poor thing," said Ben. "But, you know, this isn't my line at all. I'm here for ordinary cases, such as finding houses and chauffeurs and all that kind of thing. This isn't my line at all. Have you no one at home to confide in?"
"Oh, no," said the girl quickly. "No one. That would be impossible."
"Your father?"
"My father!" the girl exclaimed, with dilating eyes. Then she laughed. "You don't know my father."
"But surely you must have friends?"
"I don't seem to have any friends quite of that sort," said the girl. "There are plenty of people I know, but some I wouldn't ask a favour of for the world, and the others either wouldn't have any money or wouldn't lend it. I've been going over their names again and again and they all seem wrong."
"Isn't there the family lawyer?" Ben asked. "He wouldn't give you away, even if he wasn't too sympathetic. And it's part of his business to raise money."
"The family lawyer!" the girl exclaimed, almost angrily. "You don't suppose I should bother you if I could go to him? Oh, forgive me if I sounded sharp," she said. "But I'm all out. I never slept a wink last night. But of course I couldn't go to him—he and father are much too thick. And if father knew of this, I don't know what would happen. You see it happened once before. Not so badly, but badly enough."
"Ah!" said Ben. "And you gave a promise?"
"Yes," the girl admitted. "And I meant to keep it. But this time I swear I will. What I want you to do," she went on, "is to be so kind as to tell me how money is raised. Couldn't I borrow it?"
"I'm sure you could," said Ben. "But the rate of interest would be very high, and how about paying it back?"
"Yes," said the girl, ruefully. "That's just it. I thought of that."
"And you'd have to give some security," said Ben.
"Yes," said the girl. "I thought of that too. Everything's against me."
"What about selling some jewellery? Or better still," Ben asked, "that mesh bag?"
"It would be noticed at once," said the girl. "No, I've thought of all those obvious things.And if I were to pawn, I should still have to find the money to redeem. No, it was because I had come to the end of thinking that I came to you. If you can't help me I—well, I don't know what."
She looked utterly broken.
"Well, I must think about it," said Ben, at last. "Give me till to-morrow morning and come then. But, remember, as I said, this isn't my real work, and if I am useless you mustn't grumble. Some things are too difficult."
"How kind you are!" said the girl. "I oughtn't to have worried you about it. I can see that now. But I was in such a mess. Good-bye till to-morrow, and if you can't do anything, you can't, and I must—— Well, I don't know what I must do."
Ben, left alone, thought, she tells me (to my great pride) first of me. But I was abroad and without an address. It was a matter, she felt, that must be discussed with a third person. And it was complicated by the girl having already given a promise.
By lunch-time she seemed no nearer any course of action, but on her way through the shop suddenly remembered Patrick's oracle.
"What was that way of getting guidance called?" she asked him. "When you told me not to bother about ever paying my rent?"
"Was it as definite as that?" he asked. "I'd forgotten." He laughed. "The 'Sortes Virgilianæ,'" he went on. "Every one his own diviner. If you're in a difficulty, try it again. Take any book at random and read where it opens."
Ben put out her hand and found that it had alighted upon "Coleridge's Poems."
"Now open it and glance quickly," said Patrick.
Opening it, Ben's eyes came instantly upon "The Ancient Mariner."
"Do I have to read the whole page?" she asked.
"No," said Patrick. "The title is enough. Isn't it helpful?"
"I don't see how," said Ben, and she left the shop.
"It's never failed yet," he called after her. "Either up or down, it's bound to work."
At intervals during the rest of the day Ben repeated the words "ancient mariner," "ancient mariner," "venerable salt," "antique navigator," "senile sailor." Nothing suggested anything. Perhaps, she thought, it means the sea. But what could the sea do for Miss Marquand? She couldn't—no, impossible—have meant to suggest committing suicide; and certainly she was not going to run away: that was not a solution to this kind of problem. Facing the music here.
Ancient mariner, ancient mariner.... Ben racked her brains to think of any elderly naval men that she might know. There was her father's friend, the Admiral, old Sir Albert Ross; but he was dead. Nor had he possessed a very sympathetic or understanding mind. The quarter-deck manner. "Damn it," he would have said, "you've got to take your punishment. People who play cards for stakes they can't afford get nopity from me." Well, the Admiral was dead, anyway.
Ancient mariner, ancient mariner. What was the next thing to a real mariner? Why, a longshoreman, a boatman on the river. And the next thing to the real sea? The Thames. Ought she to go down to the docks and see what happened there? But why the Thames? Why not a lake? There were boats on the Serpentine, close by, and this was a lovely evening and the attendants would certainly be there and one of them might be old. In fact they were sure to be old. And in conversation something useful might occur.
Ben was on her way to the Serpentine when she thought of the Round Pond, and in a second Coleridge's meaning flashed upon her. Of course. Why hadn't she thought of it at once? Uncle Paul. Uncle Paul was the only ancient mariner in her acquaintance: Uncle Paul with his toy boats, and, even more, Uncle Paul with his kind old heart and wise if simple old head. She would go to see him directly after dinner. Of course!
Uncle Paul, if he had known of Ben's approach, could not have been employed more suitably, both for her and for Coleridge, for he was rigging a ship. A three-masted schooner. And he looked quite old enough to be called ancient.
"Well, my dear," he said. "How nice of you to call!"
He moved away from the model and fetched the cigarettes.
"Please don't stop, Uncle Paul," said Ben. "I shall be much happier if you go on with your work. In fact, you must. And it isn't nice of me to call, really. Because I've come for advice. To bother you."
"Don't apologize for that," he said. "People like to be asked for advice. It's flattering."
Ben told him the whole story—without names—while his busy fingers were deftly binding spars and threading cordage through tiny blocks.
"And she struck you as being all right?" he asked at the end. "You felt the thing to be genuine? She really seemed to mean it when she said that this time it really was the end of her gambling?"
"Absolutely," said Ben.
"She must be helped," said Uncle Paul, and he went to his desk and wrote a cheque for two hundred pounds made out to his niece. "Give her this. But see that she pays it back to you, no matter in how small instalments, beginning with her next allowance. I'm afraid she must deny herself a lot of little luxuries; but that will be good for her. Yes," he said, "she ought to gowithout all kinds of things she's used to. But you'll talk to her like a mother and tell her so, of course."
"A mother!" Ben exclaimed. "Why, I'm not more than three years older."
"Age has nothing to do with it," said Uncle Paul.
"You are the sweetest thing," said Ben, as she folded the cheque and put it in her bag. And she hurried home.
"Well," said Patrick, putting his head in at Ben's door the next afternoon, "did it work?"
"To perfection," said Ben.
"It's a wonderful method," said Patrick.
"I prefer it to all others," said Ben. "And, by the way, I've got a new assistant. A Miss Marquand. We're getting on, you see."