Mary in the little Battersea lodgings was at breakfast when her George's telegram arrived. She puckered over its mystery; shaped events this way and that, but could make of them no keyhole that the message would fit and unlock.
She flew among the higher improbabilities: George, she conjectured, had misrepresented this stony-hearted uncle; last night had told all to Mr. Marrapit, and Mr. Marrapit had warmed to her and bade him fetch her to Herons' Holt. She ripped George's description of his uncle from about the old man; dressed Mr. Marrapit in snowy locks and a benign smile; pictured him coming down the steps with outstretched hand to greet her. She heard him say, “My daughter”; she saw him draw George to her, lock their hands; she heard him murmur, “Bless you, my children.”
This was a romantic young woman. A poached egg was allowed to grow cold as she trembled over her delectable fancies.
But a glance at the telegram pulled her from these delicious flights; bumped her to earth. “Think can get you situation here.” “Situation” drove the fatherly air from Mr. Marrapit; once more rehabilitated him as her George presented him—grim and masterly.
Further conjecture altogether drove Mr. Marrapit from the picture. What situation could be offered her in the Marrapit household? Why should “here” mean Herons' Holt? It must mean at a house in the district.
Upon the magic carpet of this new thought my Mary was whirled again in an imaged paradise. She would be near her George.
High in these clouds she ran to her bedroom for her hat; but with it there descended upon her head a new thought that again sent her toppling earthwards. Characterless, and worse than characterless, how was she to get any such delightful post? My Mary started up the street for the Agency, blinking tears.
At Battersea Bridge a new thought came sweeping. She clutched on to it; held it fast. Into her tread it put a spring; to her chin gave a brave tilt. If everything failed, if of the telegram nothing came, why, at least she had the telegram!—was making for the Agency under a direct command from her George. The thought swelled her with confidence and comfort. How warm a thing it was to feel that she did not face the world alone! Her George's arm was striking for her, her George's hand was pointing a terse command. “Go to Agency.” She was obeying him; she belonged to him.
II.
Mary had intended to wait outside the Agency until her George should arrive and explain his mysterious message. But she was scarcely at the building when Miss Ram, also arriving, accosted her—took her upstairs. Miss Ram quite naturally regarded the meeting as evidence that Mary had come for help. Mary, in a flutter as to George's intentions, could but meekly follow.