Enid rose and replied, “Only the truth, darling. Come and dance with me.”
“I’m going to dance with Greenfingers,” said Mark.
The girl gave a hoot of laughter and moved away.
Bel found herself dancing with Mark, and then with one of Mark’s friends—a small neat man in a brown lounge suit.
“Do you like this sort of thing?” he asked.
“Not awfully,” replied Bel.
“I hate it,” he said. “I came to have a look at Desborough’s pictures. I didn’t know it was a party or I wouldn’t have come.”
“I’m not used to parties.”
“That’s obvious. You look dazed. I’m going away in a few minutes; I’ve got to be up early.”
Somehow it had not occurred to Bel that she could escape, but of course there was nothing to prevent her, so she found her host and said goodbye.
“Goodbye!” exclaimed Mark in surprise. “But the party is only just beginning. Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“I’ve got an awful headache,” declared Bel, quite truthfully. “I think it’s the heat—or something.”
“Poor darling! Yes, you look a bit rotten. I had better take you home.”
“Oh Mark, you can’t! I mean it’s your party. I can go home myself——”
“They won’t miss me,” said Mark laughing. “We needn’t worry. They’ll all be quite happy without me.”
It was true, of course. The party was well under way and the guests would not notice his absence, but all the same it did not seem right to Bel. She tried to explain this, but Mark took her by the arm and piloted her safely to the door.
*
4
It was bliss to escape from the hot overcrowded studio and the intolerable noise. They went down the stairs together and out into the quiet street. Mark was still holding Bel’s arm.
“What a lovely night!” he exclaimed. “Look at the stars! Do you know about the stars, Bel?”
“A little,” she replied. “That’s Orion, isn’t it? But we mustn’t dawdle. You’ll have to go back, won’t you?”
“Why do we have parties?” said Mark with a sigh.
Bel did not know the answer so she was silent.
They went up the stairs of number 27 and Bel opened the door of her flat. It looked peaceful and homelike; it was quiet and cool. It had never seemed more pleasant.
“Thank you, Mark,” she said, turning to him and holding out her hand. “Thank you for having me to your party.”
“You didn’t enjoy it a bit, did you?” said Mark anxiously. “You were upset about something—I could see that. I suppose it was Enid. What was Enid saying to you?”
“Enid?”
“Yes, she was sitting beside you on the settle—a dark girl with a long nose. What did she say?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
“She’s a menace,” said Mark earnestly. “She’s a predatory female. You needn’t take any notice of what she says.”
“Oh, I didn’t.”
“What did she say?” asked Mark, somewhat unreasonably.
Bel had not intended to tell him, but she found herself saying, “Oh, just that she wouldn’t have thought I was your cup of tea.”
“Oh, she did, did she!” Mark exclaimed. “That’s what she thought! Well, she was mistaken. It’s Enid who isn’t my cup of tea—nor any of that crowd. Of course I like running about with them and having fun but they aren’t really my sort—if you know what I mean.” He hesitated and then added softly, “You’re different, Bel.”
“Different?”
“Yes, you’re my sort of person. You’re a darling.”
She was too breathless to speak—and anyhow she did not know what to say. They stood for a few moments in silence. Mark was holding both her hands so she could not move.
“I must go back,” said Mark at last. “You’re tired, Bel.”
“Yes, awfully tired,” she whispered.
“Go to bed, darling.”
“Yes.”
“Sweet dreams,” said Mark. “I’ll be seeing you——” He bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead and turned away.
She stood at the door and watched him running down the stairs.
Chapter Four
The next morning was so fine that Bel decided to take a picnic-lunch and have it in the garden near the office. She was still suffering from the effects of the heat and noise of last night’s party and felt she wanted as much fresh air as she could get.
Mr. Brownlee was a little late in arriving so Bel went straight into his room and began to open his letters. Some were urgent and required his personal attention but others were merely routine and could be dealt with by Bel herself. As she sorted them out and made notes for his perusal she realised that she knew a good deal about the business and about Mr. Brownlee’s methods—and, this being so, she realised that Mr. Brownlee was quite justified in wanting her to be here to help Mr. Wills while he was away. She had said she would, of course, but she had said it reluctantly. Now, quite suddenly, she saw that it was really a compliment and she should have shown more appreciation.
There was no opportunity of speaking to him that morning for he came in late and several people were waiting to see him so Bel worked away industriously and left some notes and letters on his desk. Then she took the bag containing the Thermos flask of coffee and the sandwiches and went out to have her lunch.
It was a delightful day, sunny and warm; the garden was deserted except for flocks of sparrows. Bel sat down upon the iron seat and opened her bag. She was happy. There was a strange feeling of excitement inside her. The party had been quite frightful, but afterwards going home with Mark had been—nice. She remembered all he had said—every word—and he had kissed her. It was quite a small kiss, and of course it meant nothing, but still . . .
Aunt Beatrice would not have approved. Aunt Beatrice had been very much against anything of that sort. Easy kissing made a man think less of you. But I couldn’t help it, thought Bel. I didn’t know he was going to kiss me, so how could I have prevented it?
Bel had just reached this point in her reflections when she saw Mr. Brownlee walking towards her across the grass. There was a notice which said, keep off the grass, but Mr. Brownlee was paying no attention to it. She wondered how he had found her. Perhaps he had followed her when she left the office; perhaps he wanted to speak to her about one of the letters which she had left on his desk for him to sign.
“Was the letter all right?” she asked anxiously.
“The letter?”
“The one to Mr. Anderson.”
“Oh—yes—quite all right,” said Mr. Brownlee vaguely.
It was obvious that he was not thinking about the letter but, if not, why had he come? She wondered whether she ought to offer him some sandwiches; it seemed rude to go on eating without offering some to him. She looked at him doubtfully. “Have you had lunch——” she began.
“Don’t worry about me, Miss Lamington. I’m lunching with Mr. Copping at his club, but not till one-thirty. I’ll just sit down here for a few minutes if you don’t mind.”
Miss Lamington did not mind. She could hardly have objected for the garden did not belong to her. It was free to all.
“What a nice quiet place!” said Mr. Brownlee, looking round with interest. “You’d never think you were in the middle of London. It’s a sort of back-water.”
“Haven’t you been here before?”
“I didn’t know it existed.”
For a few moments there was silence. Bel continued to eat her sandwiches and drink her coffee. The sun shone brightly and the sparrows twittered in the trees.
At last Mr. Brownlee said, “Mr. Copping wants his son to come into the firm. I’m all for it, but Wills isn’t too keen. Keep this under your hat of course, Miss Lamington.”
“Of course.”
“We’re having a chat about it today—at lunch. That’s the object of the exercise.”
Bel nodded
. She said, “Why doesn’t Mr. Wills——”
“Oh you know what he is! He likes everything to go on exactly the same—no change; but it’s a good thing to have young men to carry on. Besides young Copping has every right to come into the firm. It was his great grandfather who founded the business.”
“Then Mr. Wills can’t object, can he?”
“Not really. He can only make things rather unpleasant,” said Mr. Brownlee smiling.
Bel had an urge to say, “That won’t be anything new,” but she managed to control the impulse.
There was another silence—a companionable sort of silence—there was nothing embarrassing about it. Mr. Brownlee lighted a cigarette. At last he said, “Do you often come and have lunch here?”
“Quite often in fine weather. I like fresh air,” explained Bel. “As a matter of fact I was at a party last night—you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife—so I felt I wanted fresh air even more than usual.”
Mr. Brownlee looked at his secretary in surprise. There was nothing surprising in what she had said, but there was something very surprising in the way she had said it. There was a warmth in her—a sort of glow—which was quite unusual. Miss Lamington had been his secretary for nearly four months but he had never really seen her until this moment. She had been his secretary—an exceedingly good secretary—he had never had such an intelligent secretary nor one who could be relied upon so absolutely; he had never had a secretary who was so interested in her work that she would stay on quite cheerfully as long as he wanted her. Miss Storey had been extremely efficient but she was constantly asking to get off early to meet her young man. Miss Lamington never wanted to get off early. Perhaps she hadn’t a young man to meet, but if so it was rather astonishing because she was very attractive.
Mr. Brownlee looked at her and, for the first time he saw her not as his secretary but as a young woman. Yes, she was very attractive indeed. He liked her well-shaped head with the brown hair brushed back from her forehead in a smooth shining wave. Her eyes were grey and widely spaced, her mouth was rather large but curved delightfully. Her skin was smooth and unblemished as the skin of a child.
“You look—different—today,” said Mr. Brownlee impulsively.
Bel smiled and replied, “So do you, Mr. Brownlee.”
“I’m different?”
Bel nodded. He had taken off his hat and the breeze had ruffled his thick hair. He was human and vulnerable and ever so much younger.
“Can you explain it?” he asked, looking at her and smiling.
“Nobody is the same person to more than one other person,” suggested Bel.
“I know what you mean,” said Mr. Brownlee. “And, what’s even more strange, people vary according to time and place. For instance I’m one sort of person in the office and quite another sort of person when I’m at home with my mother at Rose Hill.”
Bel laughed. She said, “Here and now you’re quite a different sort of person altogether. The Mr. Brownlee I know is a law-abiding citizen.”
“What have I done?” he exclaimed in mock dismay.
“That notice says, keep off the grass.”
“So it does,” he agreed, smiling. “And I can’t even say I didn’t see it—because I did—but the grass in this curious backwater of yours is so unkempt that it scarcely merits the name and I didn’t think it would mind my walking on it. That’s the explanation of my unlawful conduct.”
“Poor grass!” said Bel. “I’m sure it would much rather be growing in the country.”
Mr. Brownlee nodded.
“Sometimes I play a game with myself,” continued Bel. “I watch people coming into the garden and bet myself twopence whether they’ll walk round by the path—as law-abiding citizens should—or ignore the notice and walk on the grass. I can usually tell by their appearance which they’ll do.”
“You thought I would go round by the path?”
“I was sure of it.”
“So you’ve lost twopence!”
She smiled. “But fortunately only to myself.”
“Wouldn’t it be more amusing to play the game with other people?”
“I daresay it would, but I don’t know any other people, you see.” This was not quite true, of course, and as Bel was a very truthful person she hesitated and then added, “At least I didn’t until ten days ago.”
“That sounds rather mysterious.”
“It isn’t really. You can live in London for months without getting to know a single creature. Nobody looks at you, nobody sees you; it’s as if you were invisible.”
Invisible; it seemed fantastic to Mr. Brownlee for he had never been invisible. He had a number of friends. He met them in the train and exchanged greetings with them. He was a well-known figure at the Golf Club . . . but he saw that Miss Lamington really meant what she said (she was perfectly serious) and of course when he considered the matter he realised that Miss Lamington had been invisible to him—until this morning.
“But you aren’t invisible any longer?” he suggested.
It was a question, really, but Bel did not answer it. She had finished her lunch by this time and was scattering the remains of her sandwiches for the birds. Mr. Brownlee watched her. He would have liked an answer to his question. Something had happened to his secretary. Something had made her visible; something had lighted a lamp inside her so that she was lit up with an inward glow.
Bel turned her head suddenly and saw that Mr. Brownlee was looking at her in an unusual sort of manner—but perhaps that was just because they were both feeling a bit different today. She remembered that she had something rather important to tell him.
“Oh, Mr. Brownlee,” she said. “It’s very nice of you to want me to stay on and help Mr. Wills when you’re away.”
“You said you would.”
“I know, but I should have thanked you. I see now it was really a sort of—well, a sort of compliment.”
“It is a compliment,” he replied smiling.
“I was just wondering about Miss Snow. I mean she’s his secretary of course. D’you think she’ll be annoyed about it?”
“I don’t see why she should be,” Mr. Brownlee said. “Of course she’ll go on doing her usual work for Mr. Wills. My idea is that you should use my room and carry on with your work—keeping the ledgers and dealing with matters which normally would be my affair. You know as well as I do that there are all sorts of matters which Mr. Wills knows nothing about. I want you to keep in touch with Nelson at Copping Wharf. I’m telling him to ring you up if there’s anything he wants; he doesn’t get on with Mr. Wills.”
Bel knew this already. She nodded.
“I’ll write to you,” he continued. “You’ll be interested to hear how things are going.”
“Yes, of course I shall.” She hesitated and then added, “I’m a bit worried about Miss Snow. I wouldn’t like her to think——”
“She never thinks.”
“Never thinks!”
“Never,” said Mr. Brownlee seriously. “Miss Snow is a very efficient machine. She suits Mr. Wills but she wouldn’t suit me. She comes at the right time and does what she’s told and goes away when the clock strikes the hour for her release. She has a face like a wooden effigy and takes not the slightest interest in the affairs of the firm. ‘Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null’—that’s Miss Snow.”
Bel was laughing. She said, “Oh, I think you’re doing her an injustice.”
“I don’t think so,” declared Mr. Brownlee. He had an impartial air—the air of a wise judge—but his eyes were twinkling.
Soon after this he rose and said he must go, adding that it would not do to be late for his lunch with the Senior Partner.
“Oh, by the way,” he added. “Mr. Copping will come in more often while I’m away. He’ll deal with the foreign letters.”
*
2
Mr. Copping, the Senior Partner, was a delicate man, tall and gaunt with thick silver hair and very light blue
eyes. He was devoted to the interests of the firm—which had been founded by his grandfather—and, although he was unable to come to the office regularly, he did a good deal of business at home. Papers were sent to him for his perusal and no major decisions were made without his consent.
One afternoon, when Bel was alone in Mr. Brownlee’s room typing some letters, Mr. Copping walked in and looked round.
“Brownlee out?” he enquired.
“He’s at a meeting, sir,” replied Bel. “I’m expecting him back in about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll wait,” said Mr. Copping, sitting down in Mr. Brownlee’s chair. He looked at Bel and added, “You’re new, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
Bel had seen him, of course, but that was different. She explained that she had come to the firm as a typist but was now Mr. Brownlee’s secretary.
“More interesting?” he asked.
“Oh yes, much more interesting,” replied Bell emphatically.
“Seeing how the wheels go round, eh?”
“Yes.”
“D’you ever go down to the wharf?”
“Oh yes, often. I love it. Mr. Nelson showed me all over the warehouses one day—and the picture in his office of the China Clipper——”
Mr. Copping nodded. “My grandfather built the wharf. It was quite small to begin with—didn’t need so much room in those days—my father took in more ground and expanded it considerably, but that wasn’t enough. I’ve had to put up two new warehouses . . . so it goes on.”
“Your son is coming into the firm, isn’t he?”
“Oh, you know all about it, do you?” said Mr. Copping, looking at her and smiling.
“Mr. Brownlee told me. I think it’s splendid. Four generations of Coppings!”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Copping. “Four generations of us. It covers a good deal of history:—from China Clippers sailing round the Cape to modern ships steaming through the Suez Canal. Jim will carry on the tradition. He’s a good lad—a bit scatterbrained perhaps, but I daresay he’ll settle down. Can’t expect an old head on young shoulders. The main thing is he’s keen on the old firm. Interested in it, you know, always has been. Spends hours down at the wharf watching the ships come in.”
Bel Lamington Page 3