Part 9 (2/2)

She went slowly up the Strand deliberating--she had one pound. This would keep her for some time--until she found something to do; but she must busy herself at once to find this vague something.

She knew where there was a small registry office for domestics in a street in Bloomsbury. Mrs. Grimm had on one occasion procured a servant from it, and Mary, who had always entertained some vague idea of running away at some time or other--the sole hope that buoyed up her youth--had treasured up the address.

So she went to this place and found there a motherly old lady in blue spectacles, who happened not to be one of those grasping hags who keep so many of the inferior cla.s.s of registry offices, defrauding poor servant girls of their hard-earned wages.

Mary told her wants--she wished a place as housemaid, or even maid-of-all-work if the family was a small one.

The old lady looked kindly at the girl, explained the system on which her business was conducted, and opening a large ledger asked:

”Your name, my dear?”

”Mary Barnes.” The answer came out readily enough considering that it had not occurred to her before to choose a new name.

”Your address?” continued the dame, who transcribed the answers in a deliberate round hand in the book before her.

This staggered Mary, and unable to draw on her imagination quickly enough, she blurted out her father's address.

”Ah indeed,” said her interlocutor, ”Mrs. Grimm; I once provided her with a girl--let me see--three years ago I think; and how long have you been in her service?”

”Two years, ma'am.”

”As housemaid?”

”Yes, ma'am.”

”That is very good, my dear; and why are you leaving her?”

To this query her reply was a fairly truthful one, though she stammered over it a good deal.

”The work was too hard; my step----Mrs. Grimm was very unkind, indeed cruel.”

”Yes,” went on the old lady thoughtfully, ”yes, I remember her. She appeared a disagreeable woman--very much so indeed; that's how I haven't forgotten all about her, what with the many hundreds of mistresses I see--and let me see, you are still living with her you say?”

”Yes, my month is not up for three days yet,” replied Mary, who was now getting into a good glib way of lying--small blame to the poor thing.

”Will she give you a good character?”

”Oh yes.”

”Well, I do think I know of a place for you, a very kind lady living alone with only her crippled son; she wants just such a one as you seem to be. She's a friend of mine. I know her well, and if you do well by her, she'll do well by you, my dear. Here is her address; you can go and see her for yourself,” and she wrote on a piece of note-paper the address, which was somewhere in the direction of Maida Vale.

Mary thanked her and went out. How vexed she was that she had been such a fool as to be surprised into giving her father's address. It would be no good going to the place after that. Fancy her employer writing to her stepmother for her character, and she laughed aloud at the idea, to the great scandal of an old maid and two pug dogs who were pa.s.sing her at the moment of this indecent ebullition.

But on second thoughts Mary decided that she would go to the address. If the lady in question was really so kind, might she not take her without a character? Why not tell her the whole story and throw herself on her generosity? Anyhow, she would call and see what she could make of it--there could be no harm in that.

Poor Tommy Hudson would have hardly liked to know how little he was in this girl's thoughts this day, genuinely grateful though she was.

<script>