CHAPTER IV

POT-HOOKS

"I want to have a talk with you, Murray."

"All right, sister, I 'm at your service."

"Please come over to the seat beyond the shrubbery, where nobody will see or hear. It's not a very suitable place, but it's better than the house this hot night."

"Not a suitable place?" queried Murray, as he followed Shirley across the lawn. "Not so fast, child. It is a hot night, and I 've only just cooled off since dinner. It was insufferable in the office to-day--or would have been if anybody had had time to stop and think about it. Why is n't that romantic seat beyond the shrubbery just the place to talk?"

"Because the talk has no romance about it. The office would be the place for it, only you 've no time to give me if I should come there."

"You excite my curiosity." Murray disposed himself comfortably upon the wide rustic seat, screened from all beholders without and within the grounds, not only by shrubbery and hedges, but by the fast deepening July twilight. "Fire away. Anything gone wrong?"

"Nothing--except me."

"You alarm me."

"Don't joke. I 'm serious."

"I see you are. And that's what alarms me. Seriousness, at eighteen----"

"I 'm nineteen--nearly twenty. And I 'm not only serious--I 'm cross. Murray, I want something to do."

"Haven't you plenty? Jane tells me she could n't get on without you."

"Jane is a dear. And I love to help her. But I want to be doing something--else. I want to amount to something. I want to learn something."

"Miss Cockburn's finishing-school didn't finish then? Is college the bee you have in your bonnet?"

"No, I 'm afraid I 'm too unsettled for that now--I don't know why. Once I spent a whole week trying to convince mother I must go to college instead of to school in England. But I don't want that any more. I want--Murray, please don't laugh when I tell you!"

"Why should I laugh? It's plain you mean business of some sort, and I 'm honoured by your confidence. Go ahead, little girl, and don't be afraid of your big brother."

"Well, then, I want to learn stenography and typewriting." It came with a rush, and after it Shirley sat still, one hand holding the other tightly while she waited for the explosion she expected.

It did not come. Murray turned his head until she could feel that he was looking directly at her through the dim light. He sat up slightly, and thrust his hands deeper down into his pockets--a masculine action which usually indicates concentration of attention. He was silent for a full minute before he spoke. When he did speak, it was in the tone that one man uses to another when the basis of their intercourse is that of mutual respect.

"Would you mind giving me your idea? It's plain you have thought something out to the end. I need to know it from the beginning, if you want any advice worth while."

"I can, now I know that you're not going to knock me down with arguments against it before you know mine for it."

"That would be poor policy. That's the boomerang sort of argument--the one that comes back at one's self. Besides, I've too much confidence in my sister's good judgment to believe that she would fire a proposition like that at me without a reason back of it."

"The reason is easy. I'm restless for something to do. I don't want to be a next season's debutante, and go through a winter like the five Olive has spent. I want to work. I want to fit myself to be independent. If anything should happen to father's money, I don't want to be like the Desmond girls after their father's failure, as helpless as baby birds pushed out of the nest. Olive could n't do a thing. Forrest is just an idler. You have Jane to take care of. But I--I could be learning to support myself."

"The business is in fine condition. We never were so substantial a firm as now. There's very little danger of our going to pot."

"That may be," said Shirley, "though things do happen, Murray, out of a clear sky. But that's not my real reason. My real reason is a genuine, great big longing to amount to something. I never come down to the office without envying the girls I see there. I envy them because they have to do it--because they 're supporting themselves and somebody else by it."

"Do you mean that you would like a position in our office?"

"Oh, would n't I! If I could study and study, and practise and practise, and then some day take a dictation from you or father and bring you a perfect copy, I believe I 'd be--Murray, I 'd be the happiest girl that ever lived!"

"You mean that, do you?"

"I do."

"Have you thought that if you took a position in our office, or in any other, you 'd be shutting out some poor girl who really needs the salary?"

"Yes, I've thought of it. I know that's an argument against it. But, Murray, don't you think the rich men's daughters need employment sometimes quite as much as the poor ones do? Why, I 'm telling you I envy the poor ones!"

"I know; but the fact remains that they need the money, and you don't."

"Are n't you keeping some poor man out of the salary you get by taking the place of father's right hand man?"

Murray laughed. "There's a back-hander for me! But I 'm practically a partner, you know, and a firm can't do without its heads, no matter how many poor fellows would like the job."

"And you have the right to make something of yourself. But I have n't because I should be taking work away from some girl who needs it. I don't want to do that. I 'd work for nothing, or give my salary away."

"Ah, but that wouldn't solve the problem. The girl whose job you took from her would n't accept your salary from you."

"Then, just because a girl's father can support her, must she give up learning how to support herself? And the fun of doing it?"

"What do you expect the family to say about it?"

"Of course they won't like it. Except father. I think he will."

"Possibly, after you have wheedled him and hung round his neck. Well, do you feel you have a right to disappoint mother and Olive, as you will do, if you so much as begin on this course, to say nothing of sticking to it?"

Shirley was silent for a moment. Then she answered, very gently, "I should be sorry for that, of course, but I think I have the right. Devoting one's self to society can't be a duty one owes to one's family, if one does n't feel satisfied with that life. And my learning to earn my own living won't disgrace my family--not in these days of millionaire milliners and violet raisers."

"No, it won't disgrace your family. Instead, it makes one member of it sit up and look at his small sister with a good deal of respect. If you take hold of the thing, you 'll go through with it. I 've not the least doubt of that, for you 're no quitter."

"Thank you. Then will you go with me to talk with father about it?"

"When?"

"Now. He 's in the library."

Murray got up. "You are in earnest," he remarked. "Yes, I 'll go with you. But you 'll find the question will have to be pretty thoroughly threshed out with him before he agrees. He employs none but experts; you 'll have to win your spurs before you can wear them. And good stenographers are born, not made. If you 've got it in you, you 'll succeed; if you have n't, you won't, no matter how hard you try."

He could not see his sister's eyes, but he could read the determination in her voice as she answered that it was the expectation of winning those spurs that made her heart jump just to think about it.

It was a fortnight after this talk, and the longer and more earnest one which succeeded it, that, coming away from the factory one warm July afternoon at an earlier hour than usual, Peter Bell happened upon his young neighbour in a most unexpected place. Far downtown, blocks below the usual shopping district, he saw Shirley Townsend come out of a doorway and start rapidly up the street. She had not seen him, and he was too far away to call to her, so he was forced to quicken his pace almost to a run to overtake her at the next corner before she signalled her car.

She had walked so fast that the best he could do was to run and swing himself aboard the same car just as it got under way. The car was full, and Shirley herself was obliged to stand, clinging to a strap. Peter secured a strap beside her. There was little chance for conversation during the long ride uptown, but Peter's eyes were observant, and he noticed a peculiarity in Shirley's attire.

At an hour in the afternoon when the girls of her sort would all be wearing light frocks and ribbons, Shirley was dressed like the girls in the office he had just left. With a difference--which Peter's eyes also discerned, although he could not have told just where the difference lay. Shirley's white blouse, her blue serge skirt, her sailor hat, her trim shoes, all bore about them the stamp of quality, indefinable, yet not to be denied.

As for her face, Peter thought he had never seen it so alight with life. The smile she had flashed at him was brilliant. He was glad he had caught the car. It was a decided enlivenment of the long ride, monotonous with daily repetition, just to stand beside the trim, swaying figure, and occasionally exchange a word with its possessor. Besides, he was feeling not a little curiosity as to the errand which had taken her to a place where hung the sign of a well-known commercial college.

"It is a hot day, isn't it?" observed Shirley, when he had handed her off the car, and they were walking up Gay Street toward Worthington Square. "Just the day to get into the country. I 'd like a gallop over about ten miles of good roads--just to feel the wind in my face."

"It would be great, would n't it?" agreed Peter.

She looked up at him. "You and Olive don't ride as much as you used to."

"She has n't seemed to care for it for the last year or so."

"Hasn't she asked you to ride Grayback whenever you wanted?"

"She 's been very kind about offering him. But I don't like to go over and order him out myself."

"He 's pining for exercise. So is Pretty Polly, though I had one short canter on her before breakfast. You 've never been out with me on horseback. Perhaps you don't know I can ride."

"I have my eyesight. And as for inviting you to go with me--how can I, when you have the horses? If you 're asking me to go with you--there 's nothing on earth I 'd rather do just now."

"I believe that," thought Shirley, as she ran into the house to change her clothes. "If ever a man looked as if he 'd like to drop his cares and get off on a horse's back, Peter does to-day."

In a few minutes she was crossing the lawn, in her riding habit, crop in hand. Peter met her, himself in riding trim. His face showed his pleasure in the prospect, as he put her up and swung into his own saddle.

"'If wishes were horses,'" he quoted, as they turned toward the Northboro road. "And sometimes they are. An hour ago I was looking out of the office window at the factory, and wishing for this very sort of thing. I ought to see Grandfather Bell. Do you mind if we go that way?"

"I 'm fond of that way. It will give us a good gallop down the old turnpike, and a cool walk through the woods to freshen the horses."

Once out of the city they were off at a brisk trot, talking a little now and then, but mostly busy with thoughts. They had seen so little of each other since Shirley's return that a sense of having begun a new acquaintanceship hampered them both. They had not yet found common ground.

"Now for the gallop," said Shirley, as they rounded a turn and came out upon a long, level stretch of road, with few vehicles in sight.

"This is the spot where your sister lost most of her hairpins, when she took her first ride with me," said Peter, indicating to Grayback that a change of pace was in order. "I don't think she 'd ever had such a dashing get-away before. Off, are you? Well, well, you do mean business, don't you? All right, I 'm with you. But don't expect me to recover the hairpins!" he called, as Grayback picked up the pace Pretty Polly had set.

But both Pretty Polly and her rider were evidently on their mettle, and Grayback, bigger and longer of stride though he was, had to look to his heels to keep up with the little brown mare.

Shirley proved a daring rider, and before she finally pulled Polly down to a canter she certainly had felt the wind in her face with a rush.

When she looked round at Peter, as they entered the mile-long course of wood-shaded road which succeeded the turnpike, she met a brighter smile than she had seen on his face since she came home, two months before. Once more, for the moment, he looked the care-free boy again.

"You may be a pupil of the riding-schools, but you 've taken plenty of road-training since," was his comment. "And not a hairpin loose, so far as I can see."

"That's because I always tie my mop with a ribbon for riding, like any schoolgirl. It's childish, but comfortable. Is n't this deliciously cool in here? And I 've forgotten all about the pothooks already." But having said this, Shirley bit her lip. She had not meant to tell yet.

"Pothooks?" repeated Peter, curiously. "Have you been bothered by pothooks lately?"

"A trifle." She turned away her head, and pointed out a fine clump of ferns, growing on a bank by the roadside.

"Do you want them?" he asked.

"No, no, not enough to get down for. I--said something I did n't mean to, and the ferns offered a way of escape."

Peter was silent, wondering what she could mean.

Then Shirley said, frankly:

"That sounds rude, and I 'm going to tell you."

"Not because something slipped out. I won't even guess at it, unless you want me to."

"I do--now. I think I 'd like to tell you, though not even Nancy knows yet. My family do--but I don't think even they quite realise what it means to me. Perhaps you would."

"I 'd like to try."

"I--have begun to study stenography," said Shirley. "When I've learned it--and typewriting--thoroughly, I 'm to have a place in Murray's office."

She said it with her eyes looking straight between her horse's ears; and she did not see the quick, astonished glance which fell upon her.

Peter made no answer for so long that she turned, wondering and a little resentful.

"I beg your pardon," said Peter. "I believe I forgot to answer. But that was n't from lack of interest. You took my breath away. When I got it back I fell to thinking that I might have expected it of you."

"You might? Why?"

"I 'm not good at telling my thoughts. But I knew you had a mind of your own from the day you first gave Nancy Bell of Gay Street the preference over the little Hille girl of Worthington Square."

"Gay Street was sixteen times more interesting than Worthington Square, always," declared Shirley, frankly.

"How do you like the pothooks?"

"I 'm going to like them, whether they 're likable or not. Just now I 'm in a sort of delirium ever them. Little black quirls and dots and dashes walk through my dreams. I 've just one week of it now, and I 'm fascinated. The only trouble is, I want to get hold of everything at once."

"Hold steady and make sure as you go. Slow accuracy at first is much better than a fast jumble that you can't read yourself. If you like it, and are getting hold of it already, that shows you are going to win out. It's easy to tell, from the start, who 'll make a stenographer in the end and who won't."

"That's what Murray says, and it encourages me. You 've studied it yourself, then?"

"Taught myself in odd hours; thought it might be useful some time, and it has been, many times. I can show you a lot of technical short cuts that will be of use to you, when you 're familiar with the regular method.'

"Oh, thank you--I'll be grateful. Come Polly--you 've cooled off--try a smooth little canter for a while."

At Grandfather Bell's Peter took Shirley down and sent her to roam about the great orchard, while he hunted up the old gentleman and had a talk with him. This consumed nearly an hour, and when they were off upon the road once more, Shirley discovered that the care-free look had vanished from her companion's face, and that his mouth had taken again the grave expression it had acquired after she went away to school.

She let him ride to the edge of the woods, four miles toward home, in the abstracted silence which had fallen upon him; but as they came under the first cool shadows, she brought Pretty Polly down to a walk, and began to talk lightly about Murray and Jane, and the successful way in which Jane had taken up the cares of managing the big house and its affairs. Peter obediently followed her lead, but after a short time she discovered that he gave her his attention only by an effort.

She longed to know what was the matter, for that something had gone wrong with him she was more than ever sure. Two years ago she would have demanded, with the familiarity of long acquaintance, an explanation of any cloud upon his brow, for she and Peter had been as good friends as seventeen and twenty-six may be, when the families of both are united by certain common interests. But somehow nineteen and twenty-eight had not yet recovered quite the old ground of mutual frankness, and Shirley's anxious questions halted upon her lips.

They had another gallop when they came to the smooth stretch, but this time, although Peter said, "That was a good one, was n't it?" his face did not clear.

Just before they reached home, however, he appeared to realise all at once that he must have been poor company, and said so, with a word of regret.

"I don't mind a bit," said Shirley. "One does n't always feel like talking. And I know in your position, you must have a good many cares."

"A few. I 'm afraid I 'm not good at carrying them, since I let myself keep them on my own shoulders, even on horseback. They fell off on the way out, but at the farm they climbed up Grayback's tail again. I 'm sorry, for you 've been jolly company, and I 've honestly enjoyed the ride more than anything that has happened in a year."

"We 'll go again, then, on another half-holiday, and next time we 'll leave Black Care behind altogether. Or, if you will take him along you shall introduce me. Will you?"

Her look was so girlishly sympathetic and inviting, Peter could hardly be blamed for finding a ray of comfort in it, although he only said stoutly:

"That would n't be fair."

"Indeed it would. What are one's friends for? And Black Care does n't like the society of two."

"That's true. But he's not a desirable acquaintance, and I don't mean to introduce him to you. Remember the pothooks--they 'll keep you busy."

He smiled as he said it, but Shirley persisted, more boldly, for she thought she detected the fact that it would be a relief to Peter to tell somebody his troubles, if his conscience would let him.

"I 've seen, ever since I came home, that something was worrying you. It's made me feel badly. Perhaps just telling would make it easier."

"I should imagine it might. I 'll think about it. Meanwhile, thank you for two fine hours. We 're back just in time for your dinner--and my supper. Will you go to the house door, or dismount here at the stable?"

"Here, please. And next Saturday we'll go again, if you really care to."

"I shall think about it through the week. Here you are--you don't half let me help you. Success to the pothooks! Good-bye!"