Coquette

by Frank Swinnerton

"Nearly," interjected Sally.

"Well, when you came you had seven shillings a week. We're going to make it ten shillings from now. And of course overtime as usual. You understand that I don't want you to talk outside about your wages. At the end of what we call the financial year we may be able to give you more. I can't promise that. But Miss Summers tells me that you are a good and willing worker; and I can tell for myself that you are intelligent. I think it will be worth while for you to stay here; and if you go on as you have begun I shall hope to keep you. Now don't get the idea that you're indispensable. Don't get conceited. But be encouraged by knowing that I take an interest in you. That will do, Sally, thank you...."

"Thank you, Madam," responded Sally, demurely. She stood in an attitude of humility, a tremulous smile of candid satisfaction playing round her mouth.

Nobody in the workroom could have guessed from her manner the turbulence of Sally's emotions. Pleasure, relief, self-confidence struggled within her. She felt an enormous creature surveying a pigmy world; and yet, mechanically, she resumed her sewing at the point where she had left it. The other girls all turned inquisitive faces in her direction. Was it the sack? A row? A rise? Nothing at all? Sally was a baffling creature ... a white-faced cocket. She was deep. That word of Miss Rapson's had entered the hearts of the girls. Sally had heard it; she knew that they felt her superiority, and gaped at it with faint resentment. A flash told her now that they were all on tiptoe, and her nonchalance was a piece of acting which she enjoyed for its effect upon the others. She most mischievously enjoyed her privilege. And she had a new cause for triumph, a double success. She felt herself a schemer, an intriguer, which she was not. She was merely an opportunist, seizing the main chance. Not only had she a secret understanding with Gaga; she had also a secret understanding with Gaga's mother. She was most marvellously Sally Minto. The world was open to her. It was not the extra three shillings a week that intoxicated her: it was the sense of a difficult and engaging future. Her ambition had never been so strong. She turned her thoughts to the miserable room at home, to her mother, to Mrs. Perce. She wandered afield to the dinners with Gaga, to her recent talk with Madam. Not merely wealth, but power, seemed to lie ahead. She saw once more Madam's bad health; the probable exaltation of Miss Summers. If she took care, she would presently lie in the very heart of the business. Its accounts would be under her hand in the evenings; its work visible to her eye in the daytime. Miss Summers liked her and trusted her; she was sure of her own ability, her own shrewdness; without deliberately planning it, she had earned the good-will of the three people who really mattered, so far as her progress was concerned.

What if Madam were away ill? What if she died? Sally trembled at the prospect. She trembled lest some accident should interfere with what was otherwise inevitable. She knew that with Miss Summers she had no rival; her compact with Gaga was secure, unless his weakness betrayed them. Even here, she knew she might rely upon his integrity. Gaga would keep to his word. Sally saw herself installed as bookkeeper—oh, if she were only older! If she were older, if she were twenty-five, she would hold the business in the hollow of her hand. She was already learning how to speak to the ladies who came to give orders; her shrewdness would quickly show her which were good accounts and which required watching; and her work never grew careless. With each perception Sally's brain and her capacity for adapting herself to every circumstance seemed to expand. She was already much older than her years. With a little more experience she would be in a commanding position. But Madam must be ill, Madam must.... Madam must be very ill; and yet not before Sally had made sure of Gaga. Gaga was the key with which she would enter into her proper sphere. He must be her mascot.

With her head bent Sally stitched busily on, never allowing ambition to distract her from the immediate task. Baffled, the girls fell again to their work. That Sally Minto was deep—you couldn't tell what she was doing, what she was thinking. She was deep. Under her breath Sally was humming a tune, a familiar tune. A slow grin spread over her white face, and faded again. Looking up, she caught Miss Summers's eye, and smiled faintly, gratefully, reassuringly. She recognised at once how pleased and proud Miss Summers was at Sally's progress. If her mind had not been so busy, Sally would have felt a little warmth stealing into her heart; but she was not aware of anything except Sally Minto and her plans for worldly advancement. She for this moment saw Miss Summers also merely as an instrument, a plump, pussy-faced woman with an eternally cold nose and a heart quick to respond to the best efforts of her favourite hand.

xv

It was with a jump of excitement that Sally heard, in the following week, that Madam was very ill indeed. Gaga came in the morning with a haggard face, having spent the night by his mother's bedside. He had a few words with Miss Summers, who came out of the room with a comically solemn look upon her plump face. She made no remark to the girls, but at lunch time, when the others were out, or were dispersed in the part of the building where they were allowed to eat whatever they had brought for lunch, Sally stole into Madam's room and found Gaga there, sitting at the desk with his hands covering his face. When Sally approached him he did not seem to have heard her, but continued sitting thus lost in a depressed stupor. Sally knew that there was nobody in the room behind her: they were quite alone.

"Mr. Bertram!" she said, quietly. Still he made no response. Her heart quickened. Was he asleep? Was he—was he dead? She took a further step, and then spoke his name again. There was a slight movement. He was awake, and merely very unhappy and perhaps exhausted. With the slightest feeling of self-consciousness she advanced to Gaga's side, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. She could see the thinning hair upon the top of his head, and the long slim fingers pressed to his temples.

"Mr. Bertram, I'm so sorry," whispered Sally. Her arm slipped farther round his shoulders, and her breast was against his head, so gently pressing there that Gaga was only conscious of the faintest contact. He relaxed slightly, and his hands fell. Two gloomy eyes looked up into Sally's face. She withdrew her arm, standing now beside him, altogether apart.