IV.
In two clever bows Miss Ram without a word greeted George; indicated a chair.
George sat down. “I want,” he began—“that is, my uncle wants, a lady-help—”
“Name, please,” rapped Miss Ram, opening the ledger.
George gave it; stretched a leg to indicate a confidence he did not feel; pitched his voice to aid the presentment. “When I say lady-help—”
“Address, please,” said Miss Ram with a pistol-snap.
George withdrew the signs of confidence with a jerk. He gave the information. Then waited Miss Ram to give him a lead. He had twice been shot; was in no desire again to expose his person.
Miss Ram fixed her small black eyes upon him. She said nothing. The intrusion of a young man into matters essentially domestic she strongly disapproved. Under “D” in “Aphorisms” this woman had a trenchant note touching this matter. “D. Domesticity. Domesticity,” said this note, “is the offspring of all the womanly virtues. The virtues impregnate the woman, and domesticity is the resultant child. Absence of a single womanly trait aborts or debilitates the offspring. Men have nothing whatever to do with it, and nothing is more abominable than a man who meddles with domestic matters.”
The rays of Miss Ram's disconcerting eye pushed George steadily backwards from the rock of such small confidence as remained to him. Assailed by the inquiring bows with which she now interrogated his further purpose, he slipped from it, plunged wildly into the sea of what he required, and for five minutes beat this way and that, hurling the splash of broken sentences at Miss Ram's unbending countenance.
Beginning a description of Mr. Marrapit's household, he floundered thence to a description of the required lady's duties; abandoning that unfinished, splashed to a description of the manner of person for whom he sought.
It was his object to paint a character and appearance as near to his Mary's as he could master; to induce Miss Ram to suggest her as likely candidate for the post. He could not introduce his Mary to his uncle unless she came under the auspices of some recognised institution.
So he floundered on.
Miss Ram did not move. His struggles grew less; he caught at haphazard words; flung them desperately; at last relapsed; sat sweating.
Miss Ram poked him with a questioning bow. He did not stir.
With a further bow she accepted his defeat; handed him a pink paper. “Now, kindly fill up this form. State precisely what you require. Write clearly, please.”
George obeyed. Miss Ram studied the answers to her printed interrogations; opened her ledger. “I have several suitable ladies.” She started to read a list. “Miss Minna Gregor; aged 25; daughter of the late Humphrey Gregor, stockbroker; three years' character from Mrs. Mountsaffron of Charles Street, to whom she was lady-help and from whom an excellent reference may be obtained.”
“Too old,” said George.
Miss Ram frowned; returned to the ledger. “Miss Ellen Hay; aged 20; daughter of Lieutenant Hay, late R.N. For two years with Mrs. Hoyle-Hoyle of Knightsbridge.”
George squeaked, “Too young.” He had not anticipated this ordeal.
Miss Ram read on. At the fifteenth name George was in desperate agitation. His list of objections was exhausted. Each protest had narrowed his field.
“This is the last upon my books,” Miss Ram severely told him. “She fills all your requirements. None of your objections applies. You will certainly engage her.”
“I feel sure I shall,” George brightly said. If this was the last name it must be Mary.
“I am glad to hear that,” Miss Ram announced. “You are hard to please. This is a most admirable young woman.”
George leaned forward with an expectant smile. Miss Ram read: “Miss Rosa Brump—”
George's smile died. An “Eh?” was startled out of him.
“Brump,” said Miss Ram testily. “Brump. B-r-u-m-p, Brump.”
George said “Oh!”; ran a finger around the inside of his collar.
Miss Ram read on, emphasising the Brumps with the suggestion of a ball bouncing from rock to rock:
“Miss Rosa Brump; aged 21; daughter of the late Selwyn Agburn Brump, barrister-at-law. Companion to Miss Victoria Shuttle of Shuttle Hall, Shuttle, Lines, until that lady's death. The late Miss Shuttle dying suddenly, Miss Brump has no reference from her. What that reference would have been, however, is clearly evidenced by the fact that in her will Miss Shuttle bequeathed 'to my faithful companion Rosa Brump,' her terra-cotta bust of the late Loomis Shuttle, Esq., J.P., inventor of the Shuttle liquid manure.”
Miss Ram wagged a finger at George. “That speaks for itself,” she said.
George did not answer. He was in a confusion of fear. This terrible woman would force Miss Brump upon him. He was powerless in her hands. He was in chains.
“Does it not?” poked Miss Ram.
“Rather,” said George. “Oh, rather.”
“Very good. I congratulate your uncle upon obtaining this estimable young woman. She should call here in a few minutes. You can then make final arrangements. Meanwhile, this form—”
George hurled himself free from this hypnotic panic. Anything must be done to shake off this intolerable Brump.
“One moment,” he said. “I had forgotten—”
“Well?”
“What colour is Miss Brump's hair?”
“Her what?”
“Hair. Her hair.”
“How extraordinary! Brown.”
George effected an admirable start. He echoed: “Brown? Oh, not brown?”
“Certainly. Brown.”
George mournfully shook his head. “Oh, dear! How unfortunate! I'm afraid Miss Brump will not suit, Miss Ram. My uncle—extraordinary foible—has a violent objection to brown hair. He will not have it in the house.”
“Unheard of!” Miss Ram snapped. “Unheard of!”
George rubbed together his sweating palms; blundered on. “None the less a fact,” he said impressively. He dropped his voice. “It is a very sad story. He had fifteen brothers—”
“Fifteen!”
“I assure you, yes. All were black-haired except one, who was brown—the first brown-haired child in the history of the house. 'Bantam' they used to call him when they were girls and boys together—'Bantam.'”
“Girls! You said brothers!”
“Ah, yes. Girls as well. Twelve, twelve girls.”
“Twelve girls and fifteen boys!”
“I assure you, yes. A record. As I was saying, the brown-haired child, he took to drink. It is most painful. Died in a madhouse. My uncle, head of the family, reeled beneath the stigma—reeled. Vowed from that day that he would never let a brown-haired person cross his threshold.”
George wiped his streaming face; sat back with a sigh. Miss Brump was buried.
Miss Ram's next words caused him to start in his seat.
“But your hair is brown.”
My contemptible George, all his lies now rushing furious upon him, put his hand to his head; withdrawing it, gazed at the palm with the air of one looking for a stain.
“How about that?” rapped Miss Ram.
George gave a wan smile. “It is my misfortune,” he said simply—“my little cross. We all have our burdens in this life, Miss Ram. Pardon me if I do not care to dwell upon mine.”
With a bow Miss Ram indicated sympathy; decorously closed the subject.
George gave a little sigh. With a simulation of brightness he proceeded: “You are sure you have no other lady?”
“I have one,” said Miss Ram. “She would not suit.”
“May I be allowed to judge?”
Miss Ram turned to the ledger. “'Miss Mary Humfray.'”
George started. “It is nothing,” he explained. “One of those shivers; that is all.”
Miss Ram bowed. “'Miss Mary Humfray; aged 21; only child of the late Colonel Humfray, Indian Army; references from former employer not good, but with extenuating circumstances.'”
“I think she might suit,” George said. “She—she—” he groped wildly—“she is the daughter of a colonel.”
“So were four others.”
George wiped his brow. “The—the only daughter.”
“You consider that a merit?”
“My uncle would. He has curious ideas. He is himself an only child.”
Miss Ram stared. George had the prescience of trouble, but could not find it. “Oh, yes,” he said, “oh, yes.”
“Fifteen brothers and twelve sis—”
George saw the gaping pit; sprang from it. “Has an only child,” he corrected. “Has, not is.”
Miss Ram glared, continued: “What of the absence of character?”
“I imagine the fact of being an only child would override that. You said there were extenuating circumstances?”
“There are. I personally would speak for the young lady.”
Excitement put George upon his feet. “I thank you very much, Miss Ram. I feel that this lady will suit.”
“You have asked nothing about her. With the others you were unusually particular.”
“I act greatly by instinct. It is a family trait. Something seems to assure me in this case.”
Miss Ram gazed searchingly at George; answered him upon an interested note. “Indeed!” she spoke. “Remarkable. Pray pardon me.” She drew “Aphorisms” from its drawer; hesitated a moment; with flowing pen wrote beneath “I.”
She turned towards George. “Pray pardon me,” she repeated. “What you tell me of acting by instinct greatly interests me as a student of character. In this little volume here I—allow me.” She emphasised with a quill-pen. “I. Instinct. Instinct is the Almighty's rudder with which He steers our frail barques upon the tempestuous sea of life at moments when otherwise we should be quite at a loss. Some of us answer quickly to this mysterious helm and for example something seems to tell them in the middle of the night that the house is on fire, and they get up and find it is. Let those who don't answer quickly beware!”
“That's awfully well put,” said George. “Awfully well.”
For the first time Miss Ram smiled. “You would wish to interview the young lady?” she asked. “Fortunately she is present. Kindly step to the Interview Room.”
She led the way. With thundering pulses George followed. His Mary rose. Miss Ram introduced them.
George rolled his tongue in a dry mouth; passed it over dry lips. He had no words.
“Have you no questions?” Miss Ram asked severely.
For a third time since he had entered this building, panic broke damply upon George's brow. He blew his nose; in a very faint voice asked: “Your age is twenty-one?”
Upon an agitated squeak his Mary told him: “Yes.”
“Ah!” In desperation he paused: caught Miss Ram's awful eye; was goaded to fresh plunge. “Ah, one-and-twenty?”
In a tiny squeak Mary replied: “Yes.”
He shuffled in desperation. “When will you be twenty-two?”
“In February.”
“Ah! February.” This was awful. “February.”
Miss Ram's eye stabbed him again.
“February. Then you must be twenty-one now?”
“Tch-tch!” sounded Miss Ram.
“Twenty-one,” George stammered. “Twenty-one—”
From the other room at that moment Miss Porter called.
“I am required,” said Miss Ram, “elsewhere. I will return in a moment.” She passed out; closed the door.