Grey Mask

CHAPTER XIII

Margot Standing wrote again to her friend Stephanie at the pension.

Oh, Stephanie, I do wish you were here! I haven’t got anyone to talk to, and it’s so frightfully dull.You can’t call Mr. Hale a person to talk to, because he does all the talking himself, and everything he says is simply deadly. He says I shan’t have any money at all unless there’s a will, or those certificates turn up. And he says he’s sure there isn’t a will because of what poor Papa said to his father. And yesterday he said he was sure there weren’t any certificates, because there was a letter from Papa to say so. And he said not to worry, because perhaps Egbert and I could come to some arrangement, and that that would be much the best thing. But I’ve made up my mind to go out and earn my living. I think it’s rather romantic to earn one’s living and to be a penniless orphan instead of a great heiress. I think it’s frightfully romantic to be a penniless orphan, and in books they always have a frightfully exciting time. But great heiresses get married for their money, so I think it’s much better not to be one. Don’t tell anyone, but I answered an advertisement, and I got an answer, and I’m going to someone who wants a nice-looking girl for a secretary. I was afraid I might be too young, but he wrote and said he liked them young and wanted to know what colour my hair was and a lot of things like that. So I sent him the little snap-shot Mademoiselle took last term, and he said he was sure I should suit him, and I’m going there tomorrow. I haven’t told anyone. And-this is the most secret part of all, and what you’re most particularly not to tell anyone. And please tear this up, because you know you do leave letters about, and it’s most frightfully secret. I’m not calling myself Margot Standing, because I don’t want anyone to know where I am-Egbert, I mean, or Mr. Hale, or anyone. So I’m calling myself Esther Brandon. Don’t you think it’s a frightfully good name and very romantic? I didn’t make it up-I found it. I was really looking to see if I could find those certificates or anything about my mother. There is a big box full of old things in one of the attics. I wanted to use the things for dressing-up on holidays, and when I asked Papa, he said “No” in a most frightful voice, and Mrs. Beauchamp said I oughtn’t to have asked, and she expected the things belonged to my mother. So I thought I’d look and see if I could find anything. But there were only dresses-awfully funny and long, with frills and huge sleeves and lots and lots of little bones. I can’t think how they breathed. And right at the bottom there was an old green desk. It had M.E.B. on the lid in gold letters, and I thought it was going to be frightfully exciting. But it wasn’t, because it was empty. The only thing that was in it was a twisted screw of paper that had got wedged in under a little drawer at the side. I got it out, and it had Esther Brandon written on it like you sign your name. It looked like a little bit torn off the end of a letter. I thought it was a frightfully romantic name, and I expect it must have been my mother’s name because of E.B. on the lid of the desk. When I wanted a name to go and earn my living with, I thought I’d be Esther Brandon. But you’re not to tell anyone at all. And mind you tear this letter up at once, and tear it up small-not like the people in books who leave bits about, and the villain puts them together and finds out all the things they don’t want him to know.

When Miss Standing had finished her letter, she threw a wistful glance at the empty chocolate box and wandered into the drawing-room. She was not prepared to find her cousin Egbert there, and if she had been a shade less bored, she might have retreated unobserved. As it was, even Egbert was someone to talk to, and she was perhaps a little curious as to what he was doing standing in one of the drawing-room chairs and gazing fixedly at the picture farthest from the door.

He turned round when he heard her, but remained standing on the chair.

“It’s no more a Turner than I am!”

“What isn’t?”

“That picture isn’t.” He laughed rather rudely. “My uncle’s geese were all swans. He didn’t know enough to pay the prices he did. Of course he wouldn’t ask me, but I could have told him from the very beginning that that wasn’t a Turner.”

“It’s awfully ugly anyway,” said Margot.

Egbert gave a snort and jumped down from the chair.

“Ugly? Who cares whether it’s ugly or not? If it was a Turner, it would be worth thousands of pounds. But it isn’t a Turner, and it isn’t worth a thousand pence.”

“Good gracious, Egbert, what does it matter? You’ll have simply piles of money anyhow.”

“It’s not a question of money. Besides-”

“You will have pots-won’t you? I shouldn’t think you’d know what to do with it.”

Egbert looked annoyed.

“Nobody ever has too much money,” he said. “Besides there won’t be so much as you seem to think, by the time the death duties are paid and one thing and another.”

“Good gracious!” said Miss Standing again. “You’re frightfully sure you’re going to get it. Suppose I’ve just found a will, or one of those certificates Mr. Hale keeps bothering about-what would you do then?”

Something just flicked across Egbert’s face-fear, and something uglier than fear. Margot, without understanding why, felt her breath come quicker; she wanted to run out of the room and bang the door. Instead she repeated her question:

“What would you do?”

“Have you found anything?” said Egbert in a different voice; and again Margot would have liked to ran away.

“I might have found something. There was an old box that belonged to my mother.”

He came a step nearer.

“Was there? What was in it? What did you find?” Margot went back a step.

“I found some old dresses. They must have been very uncomfortable to wear.”

“What else did you find?”

“I found a desk. Wouldn’t you like to know what was in it?”

“Papers?” said Egbert.

Margot laughed. She couldn’t think why she felt frightened.

“You’re talking nonsense!” said Egbert pettishly. “I don’t believe there were any papers.”

“Perhaps there weren’t.”

“You’d have shown them to Mr. Hale fast enough.”

“Perhaps I should, and perhaps I shouldn’t.”

“Nonsense! Look here, I want to talk to you.”

“You are talking to me.”

“I want to talk to you about something special. You’re only chaffing about that desk, you know. There’s no chance of a will turning up now, and your father’s own letter makes it quite clear that it’s no use your buoying yourself up thinking you’ve got any claim on his money. But, as I said to Mr. Hale, there’s no reason for you to worry, because I’m willing to go shares.”

Margot opened her eyes very wide indeed.

“Shares!”

“Well, that’s just a way of putting it. It wouldn’t really be shares of course, but it would come to just the same thing as far as you were concerned. I mean if a girl’s got plenty of pretty frocks and some pocket-money, and a good home, and a car-I don’t say it wouldn’t run to a car-well, she doesn’t want anything more-does she?”

“She might.”

“She wouldn’t. Why should she?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean if we were married,” said Egbert.

Margot gave a little shriek:

“If who was married?”

“We. I said if we were married.”

Margot stared at him.

“Good gracious, Egbert. What a frightful idea!”

“It wouldn’t be frightful at all-it would be a very good provision for you.”

Margot giggled.

“It would be frightful!” She giggled again. “Are you proposing to me?”

“Yes, I am.” There was very little of the ardent lover about his tone.

“I’ve never been proposed to before. I didn’t know it would be like this.”

“You ought to take it seriously. It would be a very good thing for you.”

Margot retreated towards the door. Something was making her feel frightened all the time.

“No, it wouldn’t. I should hate it-I should hate it most frightfully. I’d rather marry anyone-I’d rather marry Mr. Hale or old Monsieur Declos who taught us drawing and took snuff-I would really!”

“I suppose you’re joking. You won’t have a penny if you don’t marry me-not a single penny.”

Something came with a rush into Margot’s eyes-hot, wet, smarting.

“I don’t want a penny, and I’d rather marry an organ-grinder!” she said.

This time she did run out of the room and bang the door.