“Not for the world,” cried Mrs Ingram laughing. “Why shouldn’t you be happy, Meriel dear? I am sure we all wish you a short quest, and a rich harvest! And what does Norah want?”
Mrs Ingram’s voice was a trifle apologetic as she looked towards where Norah Boyce sat, turning her head from side to side to listen to the pronouncements of her fellow guests, sometimes serious, sometimes smiling, but always with that little wistful pucker of the brows which of late had become a settled expression. It seemed at the moment as if it would be more sensible to inquire what Norah did not want, for a very harvest of last straws had combined to break her back within the last two years. She was an orphan, but having been possessed of a moderate, but comfortable income (five hundred a year to wit), had contrived to lead a sufficiently full and agreeable life during the half-dozen years which had elapsed since she had left school. She paid visits, she travelled abroad with congenial friends, she had a room at a ladies’ club, and stayed frequently as paying guest with such of her friends as were not overburdened with this world’s wealth. Everyone was pleased to entertain a pretty, particularly sweet-tempered girl, and to receive five pounds a week for the privilege, for there was no meanness about Norah, she looked upon money simply as a means to an end, spent lavishly, and was as ignorant as a doll as to the investments from which her income arose. She knew by reference to her bank-book that a cheque for about a hundred pounds was due in December, and was convenient for Christmas gifts, and that another—about fifty—arrived in time for the July sales. She knew that her receipts varied, but that, of course, was the result of a Liberal Government, and would come right with its fall from power! On one occasion a cheque never came at all, and it appeared that something had gone wrong in America, and that it never would come any more. Norah felt very indignant with her trustee, and was convinced that the loss was entirely his fault. She asked pathetically what was the use of having a trustee, and felt very Christian and forbearing, because she was quite civil to him when they next met,—from all which it will be gathered that Norah Boyce was a survival of the old-fashioned, unworldly, more or less helpless young women of a past generation. She had not been trained either to work, or to think for herself; her education had not specialised on any one subject; her value in the wage-earning market was exactly nil, and before the end of her twenty-fifth year her income had fallen to nearly the same point.
It had been a year of calamity. Everything went wrong. A European war sent down the prices of stocks and shares. A railway strike at home swallowed up dividends; a bank failed; water leaked into an oil well, and dried up on a rubber plantation. Norah had no time to recover from one disaster before another burst upon her; while she was still sorrowfully digesting the fact that a summer remittance was not to hand, intelligence arrived that as regarded autumn payments, the trustee regretfully pronounced no dividends. In short, Fortune, having smiled upon the young woman for twenty-five years, had now turned her back with a vengeance, until eventually she was face to face with the fact that in future her work must be to earn, rather than to spend.
Mrs Ingram had played her usual part of confidante and consoler during the year of upheaval, and the invitation had been given with the intention of allowing “the poor little dear time to think.” It would not be tactful to exclude her from the general questioning that had sprung out of New Year confidences, but in her heart the hostess shrank from putting the question.
“And what do you want, Norah? I think it’s your turn!”
Contrary to expectation Norah did not look at all perturbed. She shrugged her shoulders, and cried instantly, “Oh, Work, of course! Plenty of work. At once. With a handsome remuneration, paid quarterly in advance! It sounds very moral and praiseworthy, but it isn’t a bit. I’m not fond of work; I’d a great deal sooner go on amusing myself in my own way. I’ve never had one scrap of longing to be a bachelor girl, and live on my own, and cook sketchy meals on a greasy stove. I detest food in the raw, and should never be able to eat it, after contending with it in its earliest stages. I’d live on tea and nuts. But it’s a got-to! I must earn money, so I must work. The trouble is to discover what I can do... I can think of thousands of things that I can’t... I can—with care—make five shillings go about as far as an ordinary person’s half-crown, so I’m not exactly suited to be a housekeeper. I couldn’t trim a hat to save my life, but I can alter one quite well. I’m clever at it. It’s generally accomplished by first sitting on it, and then putting it on in the dark. You wouldn’t believe how smart it can look! Do you think there’d be any chance of selling the patent? Or could I advertise in a fashion paper—‘Lady remodels hats to latest mode. Send orders for two and six to N.B.’? ... I can’t write a book, or paint a picture, or teach a child over three, or nurse, or massage, or type, or keep a beauty parlour—or—or—or anything that working women do do! I might offer myself to the Educational Society, as a horrible example of how a girl ought not to be brought up, and be exhibited on the platform at lectures. The work would be light, and I could wear pretty clothes, but I don’t think it would be respectful to my parents. I think I must be a ‘nice old-fashioned girl,’ but there’s no demand for old-fashioned girls to-day. Nobody wants them!”
“I don’t agree with you there, Norah. I think there’s a big demand,” Mrs Ingram said quickly, and from the men present came a deep murmur of agreement. No one present was in love with Norah Boyce herself, but all were in love with her type. She would make a charming wife, a delightful mother. To the end of her life she would probably have difficulties with cheques, and remain hopelessly mixed on political questions, but she would be a genius in the making of a home!
“You’ll find your right niche, dear, I’ve no doubt of that. You mustn’t allow yourself to despair before you begin your search.” Mrs Ingram continued smiling. “Your ambition, at any rate, is a thing in which we can all help. Please everybody remember Norah, and let her know at once if you hear of a suitable post! I think we must make a strong point of her disposition. Such a very sweet temper ought to be priced above rubies.”
“I’ll sell it cheap at three pounds a week!” said Norah ruefully, and there was a merry outburst of laughter. It died quickly, however, and a general expectation made itself felt, the echo of which sounded in Mrs Ingram’s voice.
“Only one more confession, and we have gone through our list. Lilith is hiding, as usual, but she shall not escape. Come out of your corner, you silent sprite, and tell us what gift you would ask of the Fates to-night!”