Mord Em'ly/Chapter 18

paid another visit to the registry office, where her name and a shilling had been recorded with some desire to see if the unexpected happened. Her vague hopes were that she might obtain an engagement at some distant dining-rooms, where she could remain in hiding until Wetherell had forgotten her; that accomplished, she could think about Australia and Henry Barden. One of the waiting-rooms at the registry office was filled with anxious-eyed matrons, waiting the arrival of the perfect domestic; and it seemed as though the perfect domestic was a little late in arriving, for some of the matrons had been there so long that they were now taking a light lunch in the form of sandwiches; the jealousy with which they had previously eyed each other was now being changed for recitals of troubles with servants. In the outer office a spectacled lady stood beside a desk; several grim-looking general servants were seated conversing, and sometimes rehearsing in their minds speeches and attitudes to be adopted in forthcoming interviews with possible mistresses. On a green baize-covered board several cards headed "Wanted" were fixed with drawing-pins, and Mord Em'ly looked down these before addressing the spectacled lady. As she did so, she listened to the sibilant whisperings of the young women on the wooden form, from whose conversation it appeared that the average servant was a martyr, with right and truth and justice on her side; whilst the average mistress was a tyrant, with abhorrent methods concerning the removal of dust from furniture, and fiendish ideas in regard to hours of return on Sunday evenings. One or two of the girls were, it appeared, successful revolutionists, who had been in fierce contests, and had emerged from them crowned with victory. Mord Em'ly noticed that in the account of past battles to which she listened, the mistress was always represented as possessing a weak voice in a minor key; the reciter herself always possessed defiant and estimable tones.

"Let me see," said the spectacled lady, climbing on a high chair, and turning the leaves of a large book. "What's your name again? Oh, I remember. Of course! Last place dining-rooms in the neighbourhood."

"You've hit it," said Mord Emly. "Got anything of a similar character?"

The spectacled lady shook her head.

"We get no call for 'em," she said.

"What 'ave you got a call for, then?"

"What you want is rather what we call low-class business," went on the spectacled lady, "and, reely, we don't profess to touch it. Our clients are all rather superior; in fact, there's a lady waiting now to see a country girl, whose husband, I may tell you in confidence, is on the vestry, and gets his name in the local paper week after week. Very well, then! She wouldn't care to rub shoulders with a woman that keeps an eating-house, would she? You see my meaning?"

"I asked you what you had got a call for," pointed out Mord Em'ly, "but you didn't answer."

"I can't see what advantage there is," went on the spectacled lady, "in having your evenings free, or every Sunday free, which is what such a lot of you seem to hanker after. See how often it's wet on a Sunday! See how dark it gets in the evenings when the winter comes on Better by half have  a comfortable kitchen to sit in by yourself, and read an improving book."

"I tasted that once," said Mord Em'ly.

"Ah, but you're older now, perhaps. The older you get the more contented you get."

"The life wouldn't suit me not one little bit, but—how much should I get?"

"You're rather a short girl."

"Well, well," said Mord Em'ly, with impatience, "they don't pay you accordin' to your 'ight, do they?"

"A handy general," said the spectacled lady, "can always earn good money."

"Would I get away from 'ere?"

"Most of our clients are in the immediate vicinity."

"Where's that?"

"I mean," explained the spectacled lady condescendingly, "that they all live near."

"That's no good to me."

"Some of you young women don't know what you do want," snapped the spectacled lady.

"We know what we don't want."

"If you'd got common sense, you'd take one of these places that I offered you before. You say you're fond of children; why not make an appointment with that lady who's got thirteen?"

"It's an unlucky number."

"You say you aren't afraid of work; why don't you try that place where there's four Board School mistresses living together?"

"Thanks," said Mord Em'ly drily, "I've met samples of 'em."

"You say you want a respectable place; why not see the lady at Brockley who has an American organ in the house? You say you— Stand aside, please, for a few moments." The spectacled lady slipped briskly down from her high chair as the street door opened, and a tall, determined young woman entered. "Good-morning," said the spectacled lady to the new-comer ingratiatingly. Extraordinary weather for the time of year, isn't it. I see the papers prophesy—"

"Is she here?" asked the new arrival brusquely. "I don't want to waste my time."

The proprietress hurried into the waiting-room; and Mord Em'ly, looking at the brusque, strong, tall, young woman, recognised her as Dorothy Lane, whom she had succeeded as story-teller at Faith Cottage. Dorothy Lane shook hands, and said that if the lady who wanted to see her was not there, they wouldn't catch her (Dorothy) kicking her heels half the day, and this she was prepared, upon provocation, to tell them. Obviously, Dorothy was a valuable young woman, and one not unaware that her services were in demand. The spectacled lady brought out a mild young matron, and the other ladies-in-waiting peered nervously through the half-opened door of the waiting-room.

"This your name?" asked Dorothy, opening the examination.

The young matron answered apologetically in the affirmative.

"How many children are there?"

"No children."

"What time do you 'ave dinner?"

Information given. Miss Lane rather taken aback by finding nothing to grumble at, and not quite prepared, in consequence, to following up the examination.

"You'll find the other servant very easy to get along with," suggested the young matron timidly.

"So you say," said Dorothy, without relaxing the grimness of her manner. "I shall 'ave to settle that for meself. Every other Sunday out, of course."

"Yes. Of course."

"And two days a month."

It was usual, mentioned the young matron, with respect, to give one day only, and—

"Then," said Dorothy, taking up her muff, "we needn't trouble each other any longer. Coming my way, Mord Em'ly?"

The young matron, in an agony of fear, begged that Dorothy would not go. She was extremely anxious (said the young matron unnecessarily), extremely anxious to effect an engagement. They had been without a cook for so many days, and she felt quite sure they would suit each other.

"I shall suit you," said Dorothy, putting her muff down again; "question is whether you'll suit me. Girls that 'ave been in county families don't grow on every tree."

The young matron sighed, and seemed to intimate that she wished they did.

"I'll come to you for a month on trial, at the figure mentioned, and we can see then what happens."

The young matron was so much obliged. It was such a load off her mind; she could meet her husband now, when he came from the city, with a light heart. She went to the desk to speak to the spectacled lady.

"I like to begin," explained Dorothy to Mord Em'ly, "as I go on. They don't browbeat me. I've got a three years' character from my last place in the country, and that puts me in a position of being able to pick and choose a bit. Also, I've got a tidy bit in the bank at the Home, and that gives anybody a feeling of independence, mind you. Ever since I've been in service I've posted off half me wages to the Home, and it's mounted up."

"D'you ever go there now?"

"Sometimes."

"You're one of 'em that's pulled through all right. They broke you in thoroughly."

"They did you more good than you give 'em credit for," said Dorothy.

"Me?" With surprise. "Why, I ran away from the place."

That's nothing. You only did that to show off. Do you mean to argue that you would 'ave been just what you are now if you'd been left running about with your old gang at Walworth, and getting into mischief? Why, if you 'adn't gone there you'd a—"

"We needn't talk about that now. Did you get a good place when you left?"

"Rather! Trust me!"

"It's well to be you."

They talked of Ronicker, and Dorothy shook her head severely. Dorothy said that she could get a place for Mord Em'ly without much trouble; and Mord Em'ly was about to tell her of Wetherell, when Dorothy mentioned that the worst blunder that a girl could make was to get mixed up with a parcel of young men. One or two had cast sheep's eyes at her (she said), and she had pretty soon let them know what was what. Dorothy, full of information in regard to Mord Em'ly's contemporaries of the Home, informed her that this one was getting on fairly well down in Somersetshire, but was trying to get a place in London; that that one stepped into trouble at the very first place she had, and went, as Dorothy expressively put it, jolly well all to pieces. Some of the elder girls were married; one of these had been so fortunate as to attract the heart of a publican in Norwood, and it was reported that she wore a pale blue silk; another had married a dairyman, and had become in prosperity so stout that she had to make her exit from the shop sideways.

And there were some of whom Dorothy spoke in an indignant undertone.

"Is the 'Ome still full?"

Still full. The supply of child-girls of irregular habits had not decreased, and Dorothy thought that behaviour was just about the same as in the old days. Did Mord Em'ly remember the time when they put thistles in old Mother Wingham's bed? And when they tied a piece of string across the entrance of the gates for the special benefit of the chaplain? Lord! what a cropper on the gravel he did go.

"I was 'appier, then," remarked Mord Em'ly, with a sigh, "than I ever shall be again."

"Nonsense!" said Dorothy.

"It's a positive fact."

"Don't you believe it," argued Dorothy. "There's plenty of happiness in the world if we only take care not to miss it."

Mord Em'ly was distinctly encouraged by this chat with Dorothy, and she was laughing at some reminiscence of the Home as they came out of the registry office. Her laugh stopped quickly when she saw Wetherell standing outside by the doorway.

"Now then, now then, now then," said Mr Wetherell fiercely. "None of your 'alf larks, mind. I've given you fair warning, don't forget that."

Mord Em'ly caught at Dorothy's arm, and Wetherell followed them for the space of a few shops.

"Fail to be there this evening," he said, in a low voice; "Treat me with as much consideration as though I was a lump of wood; get up to any dodgery-fraudery business, and I'll foller you, my gel, I'll foller you wherever you go! I've got the gentleness of a dove, I admit," said Mr. Wetherell, as he prepared to leave them; "but mind you, I've also got the eye of a 'awk, and the temper of a eagle."

A man who had been one of Wetherell's comrades stood in a doorway, watching him curiously, and Wetherell, noticing this, changed his intention, and walked along by their side for a space. He looked back in a nervous way over his shoulder as he went, and growled in an undertone to himself. Presently, he left them suddenly, and went off, without another word, through a by-street.

"Who's he?" demanded Dorothy.

"Only a man," replied Mord Em'ly.

"I guessed that. What's he got to do with you? I don't like his style."

"He's got rather a queer manner about him," said Mord Em'ly, half excusingly.

"Looks to me like a wrong 'un, and it wouldn't take me long to tell him so neither."

"We're none of us perfect."

"He ain't, I'll take my affidavey. Why, 'pon me word, if meeting him hasn't made you turn white. Come in here and have a cup of tea."

"You're a good sort, Dor'thy."

There's plenty of the other kind about," said Dorothy Lane acutely. "The market's overcrowded with 'em."

They went into a restaurant, and two cups of tea thawed Mord Em'ly's reserve. She explained the circumstances to Dorothy as she had explained them to Miss Gilliken, and Dorothy listened with her set features undisturbed until Mord Em'ly had finished.

"Well," said Dorothy, "I must be off. Where's me muff?"

"But," protested Mord Em'ly, with astonishment, "surely you've got some advice to give me. Surely you're not going off without—"

"I've got a lot of advice I could give you," said Dorothy, with much seriousness, "but the more I gave you the more you wouldn't take. You've got a bit of obstinacy about your disposition, Mord Em'ly, and a bit of don't care, and a bit of I don't know what all, and advice would do you no good. All the same you're a good girl, Mord Em'ly, and I wish you luck."

"Can't you—can't you tell me how you'd act yourself?"

"I could," said Dorothy, "but I ain't going to. Seems to me it'd be safer not. Your mother's gone, didn't you say?"

"She's gone."

"Very well, then," said Dorothy. "Try and do what, if she's looking down at you, won't worry her."

Near Old Kent Road Station they said good-bye. Within the shadow of one of the columns supporting the railway arch which spanned the road stood Wetherell. He followed Mord Em'ly until she neared the house of the sergeant's wife, when he walked more quickly, and came close to her.

"Always watching over you," he said, with fierce geniality. "Kind of regular guardin' angel, ain't I?"

She trembled and went into the house.