TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 April 1938, Page 12

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

CHAPTER I (Continued.) He was going back to Germany the next day—she had met him actually on his last night in Cambridge—and she had no idea that she wouE ever see him again. Greatly to her surprise, and not a little to her embarrassment, he sent a lovely bunch of dark-red roses to her at the College. To it was fastened his card bearing the words: “Auf Wiedersehen.” She was working too hard, and life was too full, to bother overmuch about stray, talkative young men. The roses .were pleasant and when a day or so later they were faded she pitched them, without emotion, into the wastepaper basket. But life, as Mary Rossiter was to discover, often hold sequels to stories we think are ended. A week or so later there was a letter from the young German. He was with his regiment in the Black Forest. A long, argumentative letter which amused her. Unfortunately, she lost it and was unable to reply, even if she had wished, so that at least cannot be regarded as much of a sequel. There were other adventures during her years at Cambridge, but none of them made any deep impression on her. Indeed, the young men with whom she came into contact struck her as being far less amusing and vital than her work. Not that Mary Rossiter was a prig, but she was passing through a phase common to the modern girl of intelligence'. She had definitely passed from the schoolgirl stage and the woman behind her grey eyes was quietly taking stock of life. She was very curious about it all, and, perhaps, a little suspicious. They were happy years she spent in Cambridge, and, like all happy years, went too quickly. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. A magical age, particularly spent in the mellow atmosphere of an ancient university. Her father, however, seemed more aloof, more inclined to retire into his own peculiar world as the holidays came and went. Sometimes she felt almost as if he were a stranger. He discussed her work and her future as if his interest were impersonal. “I don't understand him,” Mrs Balding said to her. “I’ve been his housekeeper six years now and 1 know him no better than when I came. You can’t touch him anywhere.” “He is . . odd,” Mary admitted. “He’s very good to the poor,” the housekeeper went on. “Some of them trade on his kindness. But he’s worried, Miss Mary. He’s doing things on the Stock Exchange. I don’t understand it, but he’s worried. The other night I heard him walking out and talking to himself. It quite frightened me.” Once, Mary tried to talk to him, to persuade him to confide in her, but the clam-like quality in his nature rendered intimacy between them impossible and left her with the feeling that his life was a water-tight compartment . . with the doors closed. On her twenty-first birthday she came into a small legacy left to her by her mother’s sister—a matter of nearly four hundred pounds—and immediately wrote to her father suggesting that he should discontinue her allowance since there were only three more terms. She was not altogether surprised when he accepted her offer, although it was a thing that few fathers in his position would have considered. With the end of her last term at Cambridge, a feeling of melancholy—tinged, perhaps, with fear —came to her. Life, outside.the sheltered calm of Cambridge, appeared a tumultous, hurried affair, and in spite of her education and her gift of languages she had very little real knowledge of it. As Miss Fenton foretold, she took an excellent degree, and besides her own language, spoke French and German fluently and possessed a working knowledge of Spanish. Those with whom she had discussed her future were, almost without exception, not too optimistic over the chances of a woman, however brilliant, in business and with one accord urged her to take up teaching. “You will have no difficulty in getting into a good school —possibly your own old school,” her tutor had said. “There is much to be said for the life. The conditions of work are on the

(Author of “George,” “That Man at Claverton Mansions,” etc.)

whole excellent —certainly better than the ordinary business firm.” “But I have no urge whatever in that direction,” she protested. The tutor shrugged her thin shoulders. “One’s ‘urges’—l use your own word —may not be the wisest guide to a life’s vocation.” But Mary was not so sure. The excitement and thrill of business attracted her. To be the secretary of a really big man—the head of a great international company, say —gradually to obtain a position of power based on her languages appealed to her far more than merely imparting her knowledge to others. “He than can, does; he that cannot, teaches,” was the phrase of the great dramatist, which politeness alone prevented her quoting to her tutor. The house near Wandsworth seemed grubbier and more neglected than ever when finally she came down from Cambridge. “Well, now you’ve learn it all,” her father said that evening at their meal. “Yes. I want a job. I’ve a letter of introduction to Sir Hector Gilroy —from the appointments board in Cambridge.” “Who is he?” “He’s the head of a big firm of South American merchants. Coffee and mahogany and things like that. He wants a personal secretary who speaks Spanish and as many other languages as possible.” “Sounds all right,” he said doubtfully. “Do you speak Spanish?” “More or less. And I certainly do French and German.” “You’ll like the job?” “I think so. It may mean travelling in South America.” “Why not? You don’t want to stick in one place like I’ve done. Might as well be a parsnip.” At that juncture the housekeeper came in and told him he was wanted on the ’phone. Five minutes later she came in again to tell Mary that he had been called out. “That means he’ll be back dear knows when,” Mrs Balding said, with a sigh. Mary decided to spend the evening at a cinema rather than sit alone in that depressing house and the following afternoon kept her appointment at the palatial offices of the South American Products Ltd. Sir Hector Gilroy proved to be an exceedingly ugly little man of fiftyfive or so, with, however, an exceptionally pleasant smile. From the first Mary liked him. “Miss Rossiter?” he said when she was ushered in. “Sit down, please. You’re the fifth young lady I’ve seen this morning. 1 ’ She sat down . . and waited for him to go on. — “I know several things about you,” he said. “One of your Dons happens to be a cousin of mine. You know’ Spanish, I hear?” “Yes. And French and German.” “Quite,” he said. He was watching her carefully; she was aware of the eyes beneath his shaggy eyebrows. “You’ve no experience in business?” he went on. “None. That is a defect I hope to remedy,” she said, with a smile. “Quite,” he said, thoughtfully. “My present secretary is leaving, I believe, because she cannot stand my temper.” “You don’t strike me as being particularly ill-tempered, sir,” she said. “Another factor in her leaving me is that she is getting married. She’s still here, of course, and will show her successor through her paces. The job is an important one. It demands real intelligence. You look intelligent and the Cambridge people certainly spoke highly of you.” “That was kind of them.” “I’m paying a big salary considering your complete lack of experience.” “I shall be dependent on my salary,” she said calmly. “Quite. I'm offering three hundred a year as a start.” “As a start, that will do,” she said evenly. “The one thing against you is your appearance,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “In what way?” “You’re too pretty. Most of the really efficient women on my staff don’t share the defect, I’m happy to say.” “But what has my appearance to do with efficiency? I really thought that ideas of that sort had died out.” “A great deal. For one thing, you will probably follow the example of your predecessor and get married. Then I have all this fuss over again.l dislike changes, particularly in those with whom I have to work." “I have not the slightest intention at the moment of anything of that nature. I can assure you.” “Very well. You can start on the first of the month?” he asked. “Oh, yes.” “Good. Perhaps you would care for a chat with Miss Melchas, my present secretary?” “Thank you.” He pressed a bell and a girl a few years older than Mary came in. “Miss Rossiter, Miss Melchas," the ugly little man said. “Miss Rossiter is taking your job,” he went on. “Take her away and advise her not to. Good morning, Miss Rossiter." He turned to his paper-laden desk

and, with a smile. Miss Melchas turned to the door. “This will be your office," she went on as she closed the door which separated the room from that of Sir Hector. "You're lucky. I half wish I, wasn't leaving now that it’s come to the point." “You’re getting married, aren't you?" She nodded. "I'm going out to Malaya." “He seems an odd sort of man for chief." Mary said. “He’s as good as gold so long as you do your job and you certainly look as if you could," Miss Melchas said. “I’ve no experience!" “You soon will have. It's a job in a thousand. Last year I went out to Rio de Janeiro with Sir Hector and his wife. Of course, one has to work, he pays well, but he does like to get value for his money.” Mary nodded. (To be continued.)