Hue and Cry Read online

  The tall, fair, eager girl beside her bent towards Lady Mooring.

  “I recognized her the minute she came on and sang that song. We always used to make her sing it at school. Not at concerts, you know—Miss Martin wouldn’t have thought it proper—but at school singsongs. We both left two years ago—and I’d quite lost sight of her. I went straight out to India to my people. And—oh, do you think I might go behind the scenes and find her?”

  She was gone almost before the smiling permission had been given. Lady Mooring composed herself to listen once more to praise of Mally.

  Miss Leonard found the space behind the scenes crowded with laughing, chattering people, all telling one another how well the play had gone. Mally appeared to be the centre of the group, and the only person who was not laughing and talking was Roger Mooring, who was wrapped in gloom. Not only had Mally defied him, but she had made herself ridiculous by singing a ridiculous song. In making herself ridiculous she had made him ridiculous; he felt convinced that people would laugh. He therefore gloomed furiously and stood apart.

  Mally felt herself touched on the arm, and turned to see and recognize Dorothy Leonard.

  “Dorothy!”

  “Mally!”

  “How on earth——”

  “Mally, where have you been?”

  “Nowhere—absolutely nowhere. Look here, I’ve got to get some of this grease paint off. They’re going to clear away the chairs for us to dance. Come along with me, and we can talk whilst I tidy. I shan’t change—this dress is much too becoming.”

  Upstairs in Mally’s room Dorothy looked at her admiringly.

  “Mally, you’re engaged, aren’t you, to that frightfully good-looking Mr. Mooring? I’m simply dying to hear all about it. Do tell me!”

  Mally pinned up her ringlets out of the way and began to wipe the grease paint off her face.

  “Beastly stuff! I hate it!” she murmured.

  “Mally, tell me all about it. Where did you go when you left?”

  “I went into the depths of Dorset to my Aunt Deborah, and it was deadly dull. Dorothy, you’ve no idea how dull it was—how dull everything’s been until now. Mercifully, Aunt Deborah’s great friend, Mrs. Marsden, had two grandchildren home from India, and she asked if I’d come and teach them in the mornings, just to break them in for school. They were little fiends, but they weren’t dead and buried like Aunt Deborah and old Mrs. Marsden.”

  “Poor Mally! Then what happened? Do go on!”

  “Aunt Deborah died. And she’d been living on an annuity, so I hadn’t a penny. The fiends were going to school, and I was just wondering what was going to happen to me, when Mrs. Marsden said her niece, Lady Emson, wanted a nursery governess, and would I go if she recommended me?”

  Mally turned round, towel in hand, her face pale and shiny.

  “And you went?” Dorothy appeared to be breathlessly interested.

  “Went? Of course I went. I hadn’t anywhere else to go. But it was fairly grim.”

  “Mally!”

  Mally, having removed the grease paint, was applying powder to her little nose. She waved the puff at Dorothy.

  “My child, it was. The che-ild was the limit—mother’s joy, and ‘She’s so sensitive, Miss Lee—you mustn’t cross her.’ Cross her?” said Mally viciously. “If ever there was a child that wanted crossing morning, noon and night, it was darling Enid. Yes, it was grim—it really was. I’d have wheeled her into line all right if I’d been let—but I wasn’t. And Lady Emson is one of those people who look upon a governess as a sort of educational implement, not a human being. Oh, how I hated it!” She began to put on a little rouge very delicately. “What made it worse was that Blanche, the grown-up Emson girl, was just my age and having a frightfully good time.”

  “Oh, poor Mally! But do tell me about Mr. Mooring. How did you meet him?”

  Mally laughed.

  “Oh, he came to stay. He’s a cousin of the Emsons. And he and I fished darling Enid out of a muddy pond together. Frightfully romantic, wasn’t it? And then next day he came up to the schoolroom to ask how she was. And the day after we met by accident in a wood.”

  “Accident! Oh, Mally!”

  “Of course he made the accident,” said Mally composedly. She was darkening her eyebrows. “And then there were some more accidents. And then he said, would I be engaged? And I said I’d try and see if I liked it. And then”—she paused and sparkled—“then there was a most hair-raising row, and I had to go and stay with my cousin Maria, who hasn’t a baked bean in the world, whilst Roger broke me gently to his mother.”

  “Mally, how thrilling!”

  “Some of it,” said Mally, “was almost too thrilling.”

  “And is Lady Mooring all right to you?”

  “Oh, she’s frightfully kind. Every one is. I’m having the time of my life. Jimmy Lake, you know, the villain—there’s something awfully comic about Jimmy being the villain—, he’s a cousin of the Moorings, and he’s like the very jolliest sort of brother. And Colonel Fairbanks—he’s a perfect old dear. And——”

  “And Roger?”

  Mally’s enthusiasm became rather less marked.

  “Well,” she said frankly, “just at this moment Roger and I are in the middle of a quarrel. We generally have about seven a day—quite amusing, you know, and fearfully good for Roger.”

  Dorothy flushed.

  “Oh, Mally, you shouldn’t quarrel! Do go and make it up!”

  “’M—presently. I think that’s just about the right amount of rouge, isn’t it?”

  “You usen’t to rouge at all.”

  “I don’t now, except in fancy dress. Is this right?”

  Dorothy nodded.

  “Mally, do make it up! It’ll spoil the evening if you don’t.”

  Mally turned from the looking-glass, laughing.

  “My child, leave it to me. You don’t know Roger. Quite between ourselves, he’s got to be reformed. At present he’s rather like darling Enid—he mustn’t be crossed. So I make a point of crossing him a million times a day. At intervals it boils up into a quarrel. You’ve no idea what a lot of moral uplift Roger gets out of a quarrel with me.”

  “Oh, Mally!”

  “Oh, Dorothy!”

  “But when are you going to be married?”

  Mally made a face.

  “Not for ages and ages and ages. So if you hear of any one who wants to give a nice large salary to a perfectly untrained person, just be an angel and think of me.”

  “Oh, but Mally——”

  “Well? Come along, we must go down, or Roger’ll think I’ve eloped—he’s in that sort of mood.”

  “No, but Mally, they wouldn’t like you to go out again—the Moorings, I mean. You don’t really want a job, do you?”

  “Yes, I do.” Mally turned serious. “I do really. I won’t marry Roger yet. I—I’m not sure enough. I won’t stay here, and I can’t go anywhere else, so I must, must, must have a job.”

  They were at the head of the stairs as she finished. Quite suddenly she laughed, called over her shoulder, “Race you down, Dorothy,” and took the stairs at a break-neck rush.

  CHAPTER III

  “Mally, I want to introduce Sir George Peterson.”

  Mally looked up and saw a big man with marked features, not exactly handsome, but rather impressive. Silver-gray hair emphasized a florid complexion.

  Dorothy Leonard performed the introduction and rejoined her partner, and Mally found herself dancing with Sir George. He danced well in an old-fashioned way, and talked in a very agreeable manner about the play, the weather, and Mally herself. Presently, when they were sitting out, he said, with a change of manner:

  “Your friend, Miss Leonard, has just told me that you are looking for something to do.”

  Mally nodded.

  “I’m looking for a job. I want one terribly.”

  Sir George smiled.

  “Do you know, that’s rather curious, because in the middle of your play
I turned round to Mrs. Armitage—I came over with them, you know—and I said, ‘Now that’s the sort of girl I want for Barbara.’”

  “For Barbara?” said Mally, rather slowly.

  “I’ve been abrupt. Let me explain. Barbara is my only child. She’s eight years old, and I do not wish to send her to school. I want some one to look after her. My sister, Mrs. Craddock, lives with me and manages the house——”

  “Sir George, I’m not trained. Did Dorothy tell you that?”

  “Yes, she did. That’s the whole point. I don’t want a governess; I want some one who’ll interest Barbara and be interested in her. The fact is the child’s crazy about drawing. By the way, can you draw?”

  Mally spread out her hands in a little gesture of disappointment.

  “No, I can’t—not a line. Oh, what a pity!”

  Sir George’s smile was rather an odd one.

  “If you could draw, you wouldn’t do,” he said. “I just wanted to make quite sure. I hate this craze of Barbara’s. She’s got to be broken of it. But she’s more obstinate than you would think possible.”

  “Don’t you want her to draw?” said Mally in a wondering voice.

  Sir George’s bushy dark eyebrows drew together; something rather frightening looked out of his eyes for one instant. Mally was not easily frightened, but a little danger-signal went off like a flare somewhere in her own mind.

  “No.” The word was very harshly spoken, but next moment he was smiling again. “I want some one who’ll interest Barbara in other things—some one young, and lively, and attractive. When I saw you to-night you struck me as being exactly what I was looking for. I rather gave up hope when I heard you were engaged to young Mooring. Miss Leonard tells me that you will not be getting married just at present, and that meanwhile——” He paused.

  “Meanwhile, I want a job—yes, I do want a job,” said Mally in rather a flat voice.

  The music had begun again. Sir George got up and offered her his arm.

  “Will you think it over, Miss Lee? I don’t ask you to take me on trust. Mrs. Armitage is an old friend; she will tell you anything you care to ask. And as regards salary—well, I’m prepared to give a hundred and fifty to the right person.”

  Mally was speechless. A hundred and fifty a year was wealth. It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened. It was too wonderful; there was bound to be a catch somewhere.

  She broke away from her next partner and caught Dorothy by the arm.

  “Quick, Dorothy, quick! Take me to your aunt. I’ve got twenty million things to ask her.”

  Mrs. Armitage was a comfortable and ample person; there was as much gray satin in her skirt as would have made several frocks for Mally. She sat on three chairs, or at the very least concealed them. She waved Mally to a fourth, against which the tide of gray satin had been stayed.

  “Well, my dear, have you and Dorothy had a nice long talk?”

  “Yes——” Mally was rather breathless.

  “She was so excited when she saw you. Really, she quite pinched me, and she said, ‘Oh, Aunt Laura, I’m sure it’s Mally Lee.’”

  “Yes—Mrs. Armitage——”

  “And you had a good talk about old times. Dear me, how much I should like a talk with some of my old schoolfellows! Philomela Johnson now—I’ve often wondered what happened to her—yes, really quite often.”

  Mally, having no interest in Miss Johnson, broke in. She had a feeling that if she didn’t break in, Mrs. Armitage would begin to tell her all about everybody she had ever known since she first went to school.

  “Oh, Mrs. Armitage, who is Sir George Peterson?” It sounded dreadfully abrupt. She made haste to add, “He told me to ask you. He wants me to go and look after his little girl, and he said you could tell me all about him—and—and please will you?”

  Mrs. Armitage looked a trifle bewildered. She had a great deal of gray hair, which she wore arranged over a cushion after the fashion of twenty-five years before. She put up her hand to her hair and patted it.

  “My dear, to be sure. But I don’t quite follow.”

  Mally restrained her desire to ask twenty million things at once. Her eyes danced, but she said, speaking slowly and demurely:

  “I’m so sorry. I’m in a dreadful hurry, I know—and of course I haven’t explained a bit. Sir George wants some one to look after his little girl—and he thinks I would do—and he said you would tell me all about him.”

  “But, my dear, I thought you were going to be married!” Mrs. Armitage’s kind blue eyes expressed astonishment.

  Mally summoned all her discretion.

  “Not for at least six months,” she murmured. “And please, will you tell me about Sir George?”

  Mrs. Armitage looked a little happier.

  “Well, I’ve known him a long time. At least I’ve known Lena Craddock a long time. We were at school together, and she and I and Philomela Johnson——”

  “Dear Mrs. Armitage, who is Lena Craddock?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Armitage meditatively, “we were at school together. But do you know, I’ve never been quite sure whether we were friends or not. Now her husband was a most charming man—so clever, so amusing——”

  “Sir George spoke of a sister who kept house for him. Is Mrs. Craddock the sister?”

  “Yes, but they are not at all alike—not at all. I know some people admired her, but—no, they are not at all alike. Now Sir George, to my mind, is a very good-looking man—don’t you think so?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Craddock lives with him?”

  “Lena—yes, she lives with him. As I was telling you, I was at school with her—she’s a widow now—and I remember Philomela Johnson liked her better than I did. And of course that’s how I got to know Sir George, who was then quite a young man and just Mr. Peterson.”

  “Yes? That was what I wanted to ask you—what is his profession, I mean. You see I don’t really know a single thing about him.”

  Mrs. Armitage seemed surprised.

  “He’s quite well known. He’s head of a shipping firm. They had terrible losses in the war, and every one thought he was ruined. Something to do with his buying up Spanish ships and their being sunk. I remember Lena was dreadfully upset about it. But somehow or other it all came right, and now he’s much richer than he was before. Lena says little Barbara will be a great heiress. She’s an odd child—mad about drawing. And of course Sir George doesn’t like that.”

  Mrs. Armitage had a comfortable, billowy voice; it was rather rich and deep, and whatever words she used acquired a certain soothing quality.

  Mally broke in with a little vigorous gesture.

  “But why? Why doesn’t he want her to draw?”

  “Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Amitage sounded quite shocked. “After that sad affair of the mother, can you be surprised?”

  “But I don’t know of any sad affair. Please tell me.”

  “My dear, really it was very shocking. Of course you may say that a man of Sir George’s age is foolish to marry a young girl. But it does not excuse her—no, no, no, it really cannot be held to excuse her.”

  Mally felt as if the kind, rich voice were smothering her. She had a dreadfully wicked desire to run a pin into one of the gray satin contours.

  “What did she do that couldn’t be excused?”

  “He was, to be sure, her cousin,” said Mrs. Armitage, “and it would, of course, have been far better if she had run away with him before she married Sir George instead of afterwards.”

  “Much better. Why didn’t she?”

  “He hadn’t any money. Artists never seem to have any money somehow, until quite suddenly when they are knighted, or die, or something like that. And of course Sir George had so much.”

  “She ran away with an artist, and that’s why Sir George won’t let Barbara draw?”

  “My dear, you can’t be surprised. Nella never had a pencil out of her hand. She never had time for him, or the child, or anything. And when she eloped, it was th
e last straw. So you can’t wonder at Sir George’s feelings on the subject—can you?”

  “N-no.”

  There was a little pause. A most curious sensation came over Mally. For the first time since her engagement she wanted to marry Roger and be looked after. She didn’t want to go to London. She didn’t want to find a job. She didn’t, didn’t, didn’t want to look after Barbara Peterson.

  “Philomela Johnson,” said Mrs. Armitage in the tone of one who settles down comfortably to reminiscence, “Philomela Johnson used to say——”

  Mally roused herself, and caught Roger’s eye fixed gloomily on her. Her own implored a rescue.

  She said “Thank you so very much” to Mrs. Armitage and was presently borne away by a young man whose every look and gesture expressed silent reproach. Still under the influence of that curious wave of feeling, Mally looked at him with softened eyes. She wanted him to be nice to her. She wanted him to make her feel that he cared, and that he would stand between her and the world. She said “Roger” with an unusual inflection of timidity.

  Roger continued to dance correctly and silently.

  A sparkle replaced the softness in Mally’s eyes. She said “Roger” again, and then added “darling” and shot a wicked upward glance.

  There was no response.

  She gave a sudden, vicious pinch to the arm she was holding.

  “You needn’t listen if you don’t want to. I thought you might have been interested to hear that I’d been offered a job in London. But if you’re not, you’re not. Don’t say afterwards I didn’t tell you—that’s all.”

  Roger frowned, and the music stopped. When they had found a sitting-out place on the deserted stage, Mally said coaxingly:

  “Oh, Roger, I’m so tired of being quarrelled with! Do be nice, just for a change.”

  “What were you talking about just now? What’s all this nonsense? You’re going to marry me, aren’t you? What do you want with a job?”

  “Of course I should have my work cut out if I married you—shouldn’t I? I just thought perhaps I’d take a holiday first.”

  Roger’s gaze became ferociously intense.

  “What are you talking about?”