XXXIII
IT was rather late in the afternoon when Mame returned to Half Moon Street. She had powlered up and down a bit, had had a cup of tea at the Stores, and had given some time to examining various novelties with an eye to Celimene’s weekly letter. But she was still feeling decidedly miserable.
Lady Violet was out. She generally was at this hour of the day. Mame took off her hat and then sat doggedly down at the typewriter. There was plenty of work to be done; and she decided to go on doing it just as if nothing had happened.
It was not easy, however, to fix her mind on her job. Something had told her that she was going to be “fired”; and probably quite soon. She was really more occupied with what could be saved from the wreck than with the task in hand. But however she looked at the matter, there was no escaping the fact that it was in Lady Violet’s power to ruin her socially.
Unless!
It was also in Lady Violet’s power to ruin her professionally, unless Elmer P. was willing to forgive her for making him look a fool. In any case she would have earned the reputation of being a regular fly-up-the-creek; and she knew enough of her calling by thistime to be aware that such a name was about the worst possible for a newspaper girl.
While Mame was wrestling with these unhappy thoughts Lady Violet came into the room. She hardly ventured to look at the face of her friend. Somehow she was afraid to read her doom, which in her present mood was going to be more than she could bear.
Lady Violet gazed upon the rather woe-begone little figure seated before a piece of mechanism which she herself profoundly disliked. “Hard at it!” The tone was cheery, but it was non-committal. It was impossible for Mame to tell what her feelings were or what the decision was to which she had come.
Mame had very little hope. But, although she was careful not to betray it, she had a certain amount of defiance. As she bent over the machine she felt the eyes of Lady Violet upon her. After all, why should this girl sit in judgment? So far she had only had to play at life. She had never had to wonder where the next crust was coming from; she had never had to drudge at things she hated; she had never really known what it was to be tempted. Boredom, squalor, misery, what did this high-flyer know of these?
Mame was feeling sore. And there was a kind of savage pride in her, which forbade the showing of her heart. She would ask no concession. How could she, without lowering herself in her own eyes? If the sentence was ruin she would accept it. She must find the strength to pack her traps and walk out of that alluring house just as if nothing had happened.
All the same these thoughts hurt so much that her eyes began to fill with tears. They were the first which had gathered there since the weary days of childhood that now seemed very far away. Suddenly quite a large one dripped on to the machine. Mame fiercely brushed it off with her handkerchief. But it was too late. The mischief was done.
There was a pause. It was rather strained and rather odd. And then she woke to the fact that Lady Violet was speaking. Moreover, she was speaking in the gay and whimsical voice that Mame had grown to love.
“Little Puss, I’ve been thinking about things. I’m more to blame than you. One had no right to tempt you like that.”
This aspect of the case had not occurred to Mame. It was a generous interpretation of the matter; it was, also, a diplomatic one which skilfully opened a short way out.
“No, you just hadn’t,” said Mame. “But don’t think I excuse myself. I expect,” she added wistfully, “you’ll never be able to trust me again.”
That was precisely the thought which was now troubling Lady Violet. But she had not the heart to be really hard. There was something brave and big about the child; a gameness, a never-say-die-ness which appealed to one’s sporting instincts. She was immensely worth helping. But to go into partnership with her?—that was a thorny question. One had to be able to trust blindly in such a case.
“No, I’ll say not.” Mame read her thoughts. “And after this I have a kind of hunch that I can’t trust myself.”
Lady Violet looked shrewdly at Mame. She recognised, at any rate, her own weakness, and to that extent there was hope for her. Besides, the particular circumstances need not arise a second time. The next “bonanza” that came along, if she had the least doubt about giving it publicity, let her have the good sense to keep to herself. It was hardly fair to put temptation in the way of one whose genius for news made her so susceptible.
Reflection convinced Lady Violet that this was a case for broad views. A woman who really knows the world does not ask too much of human nature. To be forewarned is to be forearmed. And the childish air of penitence was so appealing that Lady Violet was tempted to put the best face she could on the matter.
Mame, after all, was not fired. Good sense and good will on one side, repentance on the other, did much to heal the breach. The friendship continued; they were able to work together as of yore.
In some ways their respect for each other deepened. The business pact into which they now entered was almost ideal. Mame’s head, from the mundane aspect of dollars, was by far the shrewder of the two. Money meant so much more to her than it did to Lady Violet. She had learned a sharp lesson; also she was “clever as she could stick” and a splendid worker. From abusiness point of view she was undoubtedly a treasure.
Mame, for her part, was quick to perceive that the partner pulled her weight in the boat. Celimene was strongest wherein she lacked. Taste, style, charm, discretion were worth-while things in high-grade newspaper work. Lady Violet had all these. And still better, she had access to sources of information which the ordinary journalist could seldom tap. She was asked everywhere, known everywhere, not in her capacity of Celimene of the LondonCourieror Clio of the New YorkMonitor, but as the daughter of her late father, a distinguished man, of her much-respected mother and by virtue of many highly placed connections. Apart from her skill with a pen, she was a most accomplished diner-out; one of the few real conversationalists of either sex left in London. Witty, informed, she repeated her father’s popularity twenty years before. Powerful friends who remembered and admired him were glad to open their doors and their hearts to her.
There was every reason why the new firm should prosper. And it did. Even if New York was paying “big money” on the strength of the “scoop” in the matter of the Royal engagement, there was reason to think it would not have to regret its enterprise.
“We’ve now to see that we deliver the goods,” said Mame. “Our London Letter’s got to be the best on the market.”
Mame went all out. Little Miss Chicago was to be seen everywhere. She, too, was careful not to associateherself with the LondonCourieror the New YorkMonitor. By now she was established more or less as “the richest thing that ever happened.” The cunning phrase had come to her by a side wind. Even if secretly it wounded her pride, she had a shrewd perception of its value.
That two-edged phrase was her open sesame, as Family was the open sesame of Lady Violet. The world in which she was now beginning to move with some freedom was willing to forgive much for the sake of Pop. Yet absolutely nothing was known at the Embassy about the mysterious Mr. Du Rance. Certain countrywomen of “little Miss Chicago” were indefatigable in their inquiries. But in the end all boiled down to the plain fact that Du Rancepèrewas a homely farmer of hogs who, no doubt, had come into his kingdom rather late in life.
Meanwhile his daughter got about. Even the dance at Clanborough House, on the evening of the second of June, was graced by her presence. Dear Emily, who, as all the world knew, was apt to fuss over the invitations to share her well-considered hospitality, actually sent a card to the naïve little thing when people like the So-and-So’s, who had been established three years in Park Lane, had to go wanting.
One thing must be said for Miss Thingamy. She really was an excellent dancer. Anyhow, dear Violet’s brother, that nice young man in the Pinks, seemed to take as many turns with her as with that charming girl Gwendolen Childwick. She, too, was apartie.But of course, rather “heavy cake.” So that towards the end of a most enjoyable evening—dear Emily’s evenings were always so enjoyable—rumours began to arise of jealous riding. From the purely dancing point of view Miss What-was-her-name could put poor Gwendolen to bed any old time—could fairly tuck her up, as it were, in her little cot. Really no comparison between the two. Trade, of course, both. But who minds trade these days? Besides, Celebrated Three Ply Flannelette is so much more distinguished than Hogs.
That fearful accent, my dear. Quite the wrong kind of American. What a pity that since the War there has been such a lowering of European standards. Don’t you remember, my dear, when you and I first came over, what enormous trouble our parents took that we should do and say nothing to disgrace them? And even then it wasn’t altogether easy, was it? Sad, my dear, to see how things have changed. But as I took the opportunity of saying privately to dear Emily, if that type of American does really get off with an old marquisate there is bound to be a slump in the more respectable English titles.