At last Marcus lost heart and went home. Mrs. Brownlow and Margaret were not busy. They had plenty of time for an interview. They began at once to ask Marcus questions about his visit.
“What did you do all the time?”
“Oh, nothing in particular.”
“Did you bathe?”
“Yes.” He had bathed once.
“Did Caldwell bathe?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Margaret was surprised. “I thought you wouldn’t be friends with anyone who wasn’t keen on bathing.”
“He just didn’t want to,” Marcus retorted. “Why should he if he didn’t want to?”
“Oh I don’t know,” Margaret responded. “It seems funny not wanting to in weather like this.”
“What’s Mr. Burnaby like?” Mrs. Brownlow inquired. “Is he nice?”
“He’s all right,” Marcus replied. He hesitated, blushed and found that they were looking at him expectantly. “He asked me to be his secretary,” he said.
“Oh!” Mrs. Brownlow exclaimed, and then, “Well, I think you might have told us sooner.”
“His secretary! You!” Margaret repeated in tones of amazement.
Marcus bristled. “And why not, I’d like to know?” he demanded defiantly. “And how could I tell you sooner? Amn’t I just in?”
“It sounds more like a job for a girl,” Margaret observed nastily. “You wouldn’t think of becoming a male nurse instead?”
“Margaret, don’t be objectionable,” Mrs. Brownlow reproved her sharply. “Important men nearly always have men for secretaries—members of Parliament for instance. It might be quite a good opening. Disraeli’s secretary was made a lord.”
“Do you think Marcus will be made a lord?”
Marcus glared at her furiously and Mrs. Brownlow frowned. “Does your father know?” she asked.
Marcus shook his head. “I called at the office, but he was busy and couldn’t talk to me.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Brownlow sighed. “I’m afraid he’s working too hard. You know we always hoped he’d be able to retire at sixty-five—but trade’s so bad. It’s a pity you couldn’t go into the office and take some of the weight off his shoulders.”
Marcus sighed too. He didn’t want to go into the firm and his father wasn’t particularly anxious to have him. The prospects in the wholesale tea trade were bad. Cheap packet teas were capturing the market. The older type of trade, where grocers bought tea by the chest, was dwindling. Marcus said nothing: it had all been discussed before, time after time.
When dinner was over Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow went into the drawing-room and the door was shut.
“Cabinet meeting,” Margaret commented, leading the way to the morning-room where they all usually sat. She dropped into a chair and picked up Good Housekeeping. Marcus sat down on the window seat with his feet up and a cushion on his knee. He had hidden the Daily Mail here before dinner and now he fished it out.
Margaret looked up. “Cunning,” she remarked.
Marcus paid no attention.
He read Looking at Life and an article on tennis by Stanley Doust. After that he stopped reading and gazed out at the garden. It had been raining and would probably rain again during the night. Meanwhile it was fine, though the sun was not shining. Everything looked fresh, and from time to time a bird sang. It sang very tenderly, very sweetly, and Marcus was moved. He remembered how he had always hated going away to school at the end of the holidays, how he had always longed to come back to just this, the peaceful garden, the quiet house, his own bed upstairs . . . .
Presently Mrs. Brownlow came in. “Daddy would like to talk to you,” she told Marcus. “He’s in the drawing-room.”
As Marcus got up she smiled at him. Marcus smiled back rather doubtfully. She might mean, “I’ve told Daddy to let you go if you really want to,” but he rather thought it was, “I know I can trust you to be a good boy and listen to reason.”
He went along the passage, crossed the hall, and opened the drawing-room door. His father was standing in a bay window on the right of the room looking out at the garden. He turned round when Marcus came in, and smiled, though not quite in the same way as Mrs. Brownlow. He looked old and tired. His smile was either an apology for these things, or an effort to conquer them. At any rate it aroused Marcus’s sympathy. He wanted to please his father, to be kind to him. “Well,” Mr. Brownlow said, “your mother tells me you’ve been offered a job.”
“Yes,” Marcus answered, and immediately his awe of his father returned. He was suddenly on his guard. He remembered he had a battle to fight.
“And what is the job?” Mr. Brownlow asked. “I’d like to know a little about it.”
“He wants me to be his secretary.” Marcus knew that Mr. Brownlow was already aware of this. What he wanted was to find out what Marcus’s work would consist of, what his prospects would be, what salary he was offered. Marcus could only answer the last of these questions. About the others he was determined to be as uncommunicative as possible. His expression became sullen and slightly hostile.
Mr. Brownlow gave a little sigh. He sat down at one end of the sofa. Marcus sat down at the opposite end. Neither of them leaned back. Their attitudes were identical. They were the same height: they had the same eyes. The father was slightly potbellied, but his knees showed bonily through his trousers and the veins on the backs of his hands were blue. The son was slighter, but his limbs were rounded and his face was plump. An onlooker might have fancied that he was seeing the same person in youth and in age.
“Have you any idea what sort of work you’ll be expected to do?”
Marcus stared at the carpet. He knew that his father was looking at him kindly and expectantly. He didn’t want to tell a lie. He felt angry with Mr. Burnaby, resentful of the way he had spoken—as if salary were the only thing his father would think about. Why, so far it hadn’t even been mentioned. Marcus’s gaze shifted to his shoes: they were brown and rather dusty. Half-unconsciously he rubbed first one and then the other on the carpet. Then he pulled up his socks which had dropped down round his ankles. He scratched his right leg and pulled out one or two hairs. He rolled them between his finger and thumb and dropped them one after the other on the floor. A carpet was made up of a lot of little hairs, he reflected. Most of them were quite loose: you could pull them out quite easily.
“Did he give you no idea of what your work would be—what you would actually have to do?” Mr. Brownlow persisted patiently.
“He just said he wanted me to be his secretary,” Marcus answered. “I suppose I’d have to do secretarial work.”
Mr. Brownlow began to pick at the skin round the nail of one of the fingers of his right hand. The movement made a faint click-clicking, like the thripping of a grasshopper in slow motion. From outside came the sound of raindrops, spattering on the leaves of the bushes in the shrubbery.
“Has he a secretary now?” Mr. Brownlow demanded at last. “Or, has he had a secretary till recently?”
“He didn’t say.” Marcus looked up. He was pleased that to this question at any rate he could give a candid and straightforward response. “There wasn’t a secretary there,” he added.
“The reason I’m asking these questions is that we know very little about him,” Mr. Brownlow explained. “We’ve heard of him of course, but I’d like to know more about him before letting you accept this offer. What is his offer, by the way? I suppose you did find that out.”
Marcus smiled. “Three hundred a year to begin with,” he announced, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible.
“Oh!” Mr. Brownlow exclaimed, making no attempt to hide his feelings. “That’s a very large sum for a boy of your age.” He gazed at his son, trying perhaps to discover virtues which had hitherto escaped him. “Thre
e hundred a year!”
“He said it would be increased from time to time,” Marcus went on with a certain smugness, “as, as. . . .”—he searched for the right phrase—“as I got more valuable you know.”
Mr. Brownlow could only repeat his “Oh!” in a tone of slightly increased astonishment.
And Marcus, now that he had reached what seemed, for the moment at least, to be safer ground, felt more communicative. “I don’t think he understands much about money,” he volunteered. “I mean perhaps he doesn’t realize the value of it. I mean the chauffeur and the maids all looked very content.”
Mr. Brownlow laughed and scratched his head. “If they’re paid on the same scale I suppose they would be satisfied,” he agreed. “It’s most unusual—I mean that sort of generosity in a millionaire—but I think you can take it that anyone who has made a fortune like that knows the value of money better than you or I. It would be a pity to start off with a false impression. We’ll just have to take it that for some reason he’s set his heart on getting you to do the job.” Mr. Brownlow’s smile vanished and a frown took its place. “The trouble is that a man who makes an offer like that is very often capricious. He won’t make allowances for inexperience. In six months’ time he may want to dismiss you and in the interval you might have a somewhat unpleasant time. However, six months isn’t very long. I don’t suppose you’d come to any harm and the experience might be useful to you.”
“He said I could come on a month’s trial,” Marcus suddenly remembered, and felt that the battle was nearly won.
“Oh did he?” Mr. Brownlow responded. “Well perhaps we might let you do that. You should be able to get an idea in a month. We’ll see.”
“You mean I can go?” Marcus said. “I can write and say I’m coming?”
“I think I’d better write,” Mr. Brownlow told him. “There are one or two things I’d like to know before we agree to anything definite. After all you are our only son, and we’d like to make sure you get a good start in life. We knew, of course, that you would very likely leave home some day, but we didn’t expect that it would be quite as soon as this.” He reflected for a little, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. “Do you know if he offered the job to Caldwell?”
Marcus’s gaze returned suddenly to the carpet. “I don’t think he did.”
“That would have seemed more natural,” Mr. Brownlow continued slowly. “I can’t help feeling that there’s something about this I don’t understand. It’s partly your manner, I’m afraid. I think you are quite open and quite truthful, but you have a habit of looking at the ground when you’re answering questions. It’s a bad habit and you should try to get out of it. Little things like that count for a great deal in life. When you’re speaking to people look straight at them, and speak straight out. Don’t mumble.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Marcus said, still looking at the ground, and mumbling more than ever. Then he looked up. “Yes, Daddy,” he repeated more loudly.
“That’s better,” Mr. Brownlow commented encouragingly. “I said”, he went on, “that I thought it would have been more natural if he had offered the job to Caldwell. Caldwell, I suppose, is his heir or one of his heirs. He might easily have wanted him to learn how he managed his affairs so that they would be properly attended to after his death. However, I know these rich men do very often have secretaries. The trouble is I don’t see what prospects the job offers.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Mr. Brownlow stood up and Marcus knew that the interview was over. He was afraid to ask what decision his father had made. “Would you go and tell your Mother that I’m writing a letter and will be along in half an hour or so.” He went over to his desk in the corner and switched on the electric light which hung over it.
Marcus did not see the letter which he wrote at the time, but years later he did see it. This is a copy of it:
Dear Mr. Burnaby,
I have just heard from my son of the very kind and generous offer which you have made to him. Before advising him to accept it or refuse it, however, I feel it my duty to make certain enquiries. The salary you have suggested seems completely satisfactory, much higher indeed than I should have expected to be paid to a boy of his age. Unfortunately Marcus seems to have no idea of the kind of work he will be expected to do.
I am afraid that in some ways he is very unformed and rather young for his age. This, of course, is a fault which time will cure, but both his mother and I had hoped that he would remain at home for a few years longer, until his character had matured a little and he was more fit to go out into the world on his own account. At present he is rather too impressionable, and before agreeing to let him go, we should like to be sure that his future surroundings and the influences with which he will come in contact will be beneficial both mentally and morally. I should therefore esteem it a favour if you could grant me an interview either here in Belfast, or in Dublin, or if necessary I could travel to Portmallagh and see you either there, or at your own house. I should be only too glad to make whatever arrangements are most suitable to you.
I hope you will not consider this an impertinent letter, but you can no doubt understand the feelings of a mother and of a father. Marcus is our only son and his welfare is of very great importance to us.
Yours truly,
T. M. Brownlow.
This letter was written in the most perfect copper plate—every down stroke heavy, every upstroke light. Mrs. Brownlow read it over that night and in the morning it was posted.
CHAPTER XVII
MR. Burnaby’s reply arrived by the first post on Friday. He said that he was coming to Belfast at the end of the following week and would call at Mr. Brownlow’s office on the Thursday morning.
“We’ll have to have him out for lunch,” Mrs. Brownlow declared, when she heard this news. A thoughtful expression came over her face. “Let me see now. I suppose tomato soup would do to begin with. Nearly everybody likes tomato soup and Nancy makes it very nicely.”
“He mightn’t want to come to lunch,” Marcus put in uncomfortably.
The others looked at him suspiciously, and he blushed. “What that means, I suppose,” Mrs. Brownlow observed, “is that you don’t want him to come.”
This was exactly what it did mean, but Marcus was afraid to admit it. His motives were confused and he would not have ventured to try to explain them.
“It’s just I thought he mightn’t want to,” he repeated lamely. “I mean being a millionaire and all that. I mean I expect he’s frightfully busy seeing people and all that sort of thing.”
“I believe even millionaires have to eat,” Mrs. Brownlow returned drily, “but perhaps you’re afraid we wouldn’t be grand enough for him.”
“Oh no, it’s not that,” Marcus said hurriedly. “He doesn’t live grandly at all himself.”
“Well, what is it then?” Mrs. Brownlow asked.
“It’s just I thought he mightn’t want to,” Marcus mumbled for the third time.
“Tch!” Mr. Brownlow made a clicking noise with his tongue. He disliked evasive answers.
“He can easily say, ‘No thank you,’ if he doesn’t want to come,” Margaret pointed out brightly.
Marcus looked at her. He remembered Burnett at school saying how lucky he was to have a sister. Burnett had no sisters himself of course.
He tried to decide why he didn’t want Mr. Burnaby to be asked to lunch. It wasn’t that he was afraid of whatever impression his family might make on Mr. Burnaby. Rather he was afraid of what his mother might find out from Mr. Burnaby. It would never do for him to be lured into telling her the real nature of the work which he and Marcus were going to do. If once that came out Marcus would certainly not be permitted to go and he didn’t think he would have sufficient courage or ruthlessness to defy his parents and go without permission
. In any case he was not of age.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t prevent the invitation being sent, and in due course it was accepted. Then Marcus decided to write a letter to Mr. Burnaby on his own account. He wrote it on Monday morning in the Linenhall Library while he was waiting to go to his classes.
Linenhall Library.
Monday.
Secret.
Dear Mr. Burnaby,
I hear you are coming to lunch with us on Friday. I expect Mother will try and get out of you what exactly our work will be. Please don’t tell her, whatever happens—or Daddy either—because if you do they won’t let me go. They don’t approve of spiritualism or spirits or anything like that. They think it’s the Devil. So please be careful.
Don’t reply to this letter. I don’t get many letters and they might want to know what it was.
Yours sincerely,
M. Brownlow.
On the envelope he put the words “Strictly Private” and underlined them twice.
When Friday came Marcus was in an extremely unsettled state. In the morning he went to his classes as usual: but he got off early and was at home when his father and Mr. Burnaby arrived for lunch. They came in Mr. Burnaby’s car, and Marcus, who had been looking out for them, was pleased to see that they both seemed to be in good spirits. He had intended to meet them as they got out of the car, but a momentary attack of shyness made him hold back. It was not till they were in the hall that he came forward to shake hands.
The Burnaby Experiments Page 12