The lure

Chapter I

A NNE MOORHOUSE was a tall, thin, coltish girl of twenty-two. There was something undeveloped about her, the dimples and roundness that are unassociated with girlhood were absent ; yet she was not ungraceful in her youthful way, and she had the Moorhouse fashion of carrying the head • — you may see it in the family portraits — and a pair of extraordinary brown eyes. They were intelligent, humorous, orchard-stealing brown eyes; eyes capable of enthusiasm and exaggerations ; brown eyes which promised the womanhood which her leanness denied her.

She wore her clothes well, such as she had to wear, for at the moment of which I am writing the wardrobe which she possessed was attenuated. Miss Barrett, who was the proprietress of the boarding-house in which Miss Moorhouse lived (at twenty-five shillings a week inclusive), declared that the girl looked distinguished. She then usually added she knew for a fact that Miss Moorhouse had a cousin who was a general, and that an aunt who was Lady Moorhouse lived in Hans Crescent. It pleased her to think that she had a well-connected young woman at her house in Gordon Street. The other guests could boast little in the way of relations: there was Mr. Schelling, a German clerk ; Mrs. Lumley, a widow, with an accentuated coiffure, who had been on the stage ; Mr. Hertz, I a Cockney Jewish music-shop assistant; an elderly solicitor, and a daily governess.

Mr. Hertz had an expansive soul, and Anne found him a difficult neighbor at table, for he was easily offended, and she would not have hurt his feelings for the world, though she really could not accept his frequent and pressing invitations to come to Kew on Sunday afternoons and have an eightpenny tea.

But she had an eager interest in her fellow-creatures, and she found the specimens of humanity at the boarding-house amiable and lovable in many ways. Life in London was absorbingly interesting after her quiet existence in a remote Dorset village with a valetudinarian father. But hers was no dilettante's interest in it. At the instant at which I introduce her, her young brows were puckered by the discovery that she had exactly seven pounds and ninepence halfpenny left in the world. Her board, fares and minor expenses cost her about thirty shillings a week at the lowest figure.

“It's simply frightful how quickly a hundred pounds goes,” she reflected, biting at the pencil with which she had made her calculations. “No wonder poor Tony is always in debt. Of course, there was the premium to the college — that was £20 — and some bits of clothes, but, oh, I did think it would last better than that. Lve tried to be economical.”

At first, to be independent had been a splendid adventure. When she entered the College of Journalism, she imagined that as soon as her course was over, she would, as the prospectuses had led her to suppose, embark at once upon a brilliant and well-paid career as editor or writer. But she had left the College seven weeks now, and though she had ascended many office stairs and taken many a fat envelope to the post-office, she had won nothing more hopeful than a sheaf of returned manuscripts and a few kind words from busy men who had not the heart to rebuff her youth too harshly.

“There is always room for clever and energetic people/' Mrs. Courcy, the Principal of the College, had told her, when Anne had inquired about the chances of employment at her office in a small court off Chancery Lane. “And appearance helps, too, as it does in every profession,” she added, taking out a pocket mirror in an absent-minded way and applying a powder-puff to her small nose. She was a very diminutive little woman, possessed of colossal energy and enterprise. The College was only a part of her busy life; she edited several papers herself, and was, in addition, a beauty doctor with an establishment in Bond Street.

Anne found many disillusions awaiting her. “Use the jargon of the moment, and put on an air of omniscience, and you're three-quarters a successful journalist,” Mrs. Courcy told her, and though Anne's sense of honesty was sometimes affronted, and her belief in the printed page forever gone, she gradually began to look upon journalism as a species of game, a stageland where deceptions were legitimatized which would not be tolerated in daily life.

When she left, Mrs. Courcy furnished her with a few introductions.

“I consider you a very promising pupil, a, very promising pupil, indeed/' she said to Anne on one occasion, patting her shoulder, or rather her waist, for she was not tall enough to reach to Anne's poplar-like height.

But day by day and week by week had gone by, and Anne found her quest infinitely more doubtful than she had imagined in the first flush of confidence.

She dropped an envelope upon which she had been making minute financial calculations, and went with an impatient movement to fling the window wide and allow the smell of cooking to escape. Her room was on the topmost floor. The wallpaper was patterned and dingy, the ewer had been riveted, the bedspread was tinged with a gray which told of a long career of visits to cheap laundries. Outside there was a vista of chimney-stacks and slate roofs, of sooty walls and telegraph posts. A dejected cat prowled over the nearest roof in the furtive way of his tribe. A dank tress of ivy, half-killed by the blacks, trailed over the wall of the adjoining yard. The sky, already lowering, was murkied by the smoke-polluted atmosphere.

"If only there were something nice to look at,” thought Anne with a sigh. She had the fastidious Moorhouse love of beauty, a love which had been carried to such fantastic lengths by her father that when he died the estate was heavily mortgaged. What was left over after the wreck was Tony’s; and he needed every penny of it if he were to stay on in his regiment. Anne refused her brother’s offer of an allowance. She had a legacy of £100. The will had been made years ago, and it was obvious that her father had intended to leave her otherwise provided for. But with characteristic inability to seize opportunity he had put off making a fresh will until his affairs had righted themselves; a happy consummation which was never arrived at.

Anne had read an advertisement of “The College of British Journalism for Women,” and her aspirations fired by a prize gained in the local paper for an essay, she paid her fees and entered upon her Fleet Street career with the fine faith of ignorance.

“There’s nothing for it,” said Anne, desperately, brushing some soot from her fingers which had settled upon them during her window-opening operations. *‘I must write to some of mother’s people. Though we’ve never seen them, they’re relations after all, and I could pay them back, even if I had to give up journalism and take to governessing. There’s Aunt Helen — but then Aunt Helen is always in debt herself. So’s Tony; I couldn’t ask him, poor boy. . . Now it’s raining. And I’ve holes in all my shoes. If only the sun were shining, I shouldn’t be so depressed. . . . Yes, come in!”

For there was a tap at the door.

“A messenger boy, mees,” said the voice of Ludwig, the waiter, facetiously known as “Earwig” by Mr. Hertz. “He vaits an answer.”

Anne picked up the pencil which she had dropped upon the floor in her impatient despair, and took the note. It might be an answer to her prayers for work. But her face fell again at the sight of a well-known crest on the envelope.

'Dearest Anne,” read the letter, headed na, Hans Place, W.

“Will you come to tea with me this afternoon? It’s raining, but you can take a taxi, can’t you? Do, there’s a dear child, I particularly want to see you. The Chows are well, and send you lots of pretty black licks.

Your Aunt Helen.”

Anne hunted up some writing paper, and wrote : “Dearest Aunt Helen,

“Please excuse pencil. I’ll come at four. Love to the Chows.

Your affectionate niece,

“Anne.”

“Give that to the boy, Ludwig,” said she.

“What does that line under particularly mean?”

wondered Anne. “She isn’t usually mysterious. Anyway it’s time that I went there to tea, and she’s a dear. How like her to suggest that I should take a taxi. . . I wish my hat weren’t so battered. The wing looks all drowned and dissipated. It is hateful being so ugly and dowdy. Can’t be helped !”

Chapter II

L ADY HELEN MOORHOUSE was a Charming, irresponsible woman of thirty-eight who lived in a happy-go-lucky way, and was usually in debt in spite of an ample income. She had a melting gray eye, and a sympathetic manner which was almost emotional. She threw her whole soul into those speaking eyes while she was talking to a person, and forgot them afterwards. She told Anne with a tender embrace, when her niece had first come to town, that she could count on her for a great deal of help. “You must have useful introductions, darling, of course, and meet the very nicest people. I’ll give a little dinner-party especially for your benefit.”

But these excellent and sincere intentions had all slipped out of her mind, the little dinner-party never came off, and on the few occasions on which Anne had been to the house for tea or dinner, she had met nothing more interesting than a barrister obviously in love with her aunt, one or two fashionable women whose clothes made Anne conscious of her own shabbiness, and Lady Helen’s pet impresario.

Anne bore no malice ; her aunt’s instincts were generous, only she happened to be one of the people with whom intention takes the place of action.

To-day Anne found her in the boudoir off her bedroom, on the chintz-covered sofa, with two disconsolate and unnoticed Chows at her feet, a third sulking by the window, while their mistress’s attention was fixed on a quantity of loose papers on her lap.

“Oh, you dear child, I am glad you’ve come! I’ll ring for tea at once. You adore muffins, don’t you; or is it someone else who does? Anyway, it’s muffins.”

“I do like them,” said Anne, who had never before expressed an opinion on the edible.

“Ah, then it was you. My dear, I’m so glad to see you. I’ll tell you why when you’ve had tea. Down Pooh-bah, down Sing-Sing! Did they feel neglected, the darlings! Well, mumsie’s busy and little dogs mustn’t worry. . . . Anne, you dear thing, you’re thinner than ever. I do hope they feed you at that horrible boarding-house. You should take Sanatogen in milk every day, and meat-jelly. I really must send you some from my chemist’s. . . . Now, one thing more, will you have time to come on with me to a musical At Home at Signor Simonetti’s after we’ve tea’d and talked? If you can, I’ll tell Wilkins to have the motor ready at half-past five.”

“Do you think I’m dressed nicely enough?” asked Anne, frankly.

Her aunt regarded her with instant gravity.

“Well, dear, your coat and skirt are plain and well-

cut, though rather out of date . . . but the hat ”

She paused seriously. “I know! You shall wear one of mine. I’m sure I have one that will suit you. Very well, that’s settled. . . . Just ring for me; one minute . . . Wilkins, the motor at half-past five, punctually.”

“The Chows are looking well,” said Anne, for want of something better to say.

“They’re loves, aren’t they? But they’re very hurt in their mindseses because mumsie’s been too busy to pet them. Oh, my dear, I’ve had such worries! Sugar? No! Cream? Yes! Now, Anne, darling, tell me all about yourself. Do you like this little gown ?”

“It’s very pretty,” Anne replied.

“Drecoll. I think it does suit me. Just a little simple thing, run up for twenty pounds. . . . Do take some muffins, and talk to me about your doings. It is so nice to see you again. I wanted to have asked you to dinner to meet some very influential people last night — Sir Richard Cloudesley, who runs the Something Review, you know. But, darling, I had a woman too many as it was. Somehow there is always a woman too many. I wished that Mrs. Laffan hadn’t been there; to tell you the truth, she was just a tiny bit unmixable. She’s the sort of woman that gets on splendidly with subalterns and pretty boys, and the setting last night didn’t agree with her. I had to put her next to a vegetarian Canon who’s a spiritualist because they were two odds who didn’t pair off, and I knew they wouldn’t take to each other. The others paired beautifully. The whole art of giving dinners, next to food, is to know how to pair. A man cares what he eats, a woman cares what she sits next. Do take another muffin. Oh, my dear, I’m longing to tell you my news, only I’m afraid you’ll think me dreadfully foolish — you’re such a clever child.”

“You are going to get married again,” suggested Anne, remembering the barrister.

“Good gracious, Anne, nothing so foolish as that! I think a happy widowhood is a woman’s greatest blessing. Not that I wasn’t a happy wife, dear, of course ; but widowhood has many advantages. Never be a wife, Anne, be a widow. I wouldn’t marry again for worlds. . . . No, dear, it’s something else. Do have another muffin. They’re so indigestible; I cannot touch them myself. ... Of course, to you it would be nothing at all, but the responsibility is killing me. Anne, I have become an editor ! That is to say, an editress. Or do you say woman-editor ?”

Anne doubted her ears. Her aunt lay back on a cushion with an air of drama. The Chows snuggled up to her expectantly, resenting her callous behavior about the sugar-bowl.

Lady Helen’s pretty gray eyes were like a child’s in their appealing helplessness, and their sense of naughty effect.

“Editress of what?” asked Anne.

“Well, dear, not of a whole paper. But of a page.”

She displayed a miniature dummy magazine. At the top of a blank page, surrounded by an edging of cupids and ribbons was —

“TOY DOGS

“Edited by Lady Helen Moorhouse.”

Then, in smaller print, “An interesting article will be contributed every week by titled experts and owners of prize animals. The editress, Lady Helen Moorhouse, a well-known exhibitor in British dog-shows, will open the series.”

Anne turned the booklet over. On its outer cover of cream parchment was the gilded inscription, The Orb.

“I never heard of it,” said she.

“It’s a new paper, not out yet,” said Lady Helen. “It is to be edited nominally, I believe, by Princess

Y- herself.” She turned over the pages, reading

aloud. “ ‘Miniatures, edited by the Duchess of Soulsby.’ ‘Aeroplaning, edited by the Honorable Rufus Egerton.’ ‘Motoring, edited by Lord Fleet.’ ‘The Collector, edited by Lady Brookwood.’ ”

“Good gracious,” said Anne. “You don’t mean to say that you are going to edit a whole page in the thing.”

“Yes, I am,” replied Lady Helen, with considerable meekness. “I know it’s a frightfully snobbish affair, but then, dear, he’s paying me fifty guineas for my ir first article and two hundred a year. All I have to do is to let my name stand on that page, and write the first article. He will really do all the editing, I mean the technical part.”

“Who’s he?” asked Anne.

“He? Oh, Huntly Goss,, of course. He started the idea. He sees thousands in it. And we’re all so hard up, we’re jumping at it like sheep, one after the other. Lord Fleet has a lot of money in it. So has young Carstairs. And, then, no one can refuse Mr. Goss, at least no woman I ever knew could. You must meet him, Anne, dear. Of course, you will now, that is, if you will only write this article for me. I’ll give you half the fifty pounds for it.”

Anne flushed with excitement, and then hesitated.

“Oh, Aunt Helen, But I don’t know anything about toy dogs.”

“You silly child! I’ll tell you all I know. Mr. Goss has already sketched out roughly what he wants me to say. But, my dear, I never could spell properly, let alone punctuate, and I get so mixed up in the horrid thing, that I really don’t know where I am. I’ve written to Mr. Goss to know if I may get you to help me, and he said, ‘Certainly.’ So there’s nothing to prevent you. Do have some more tea?”

Anne’s eyes shone. Perhaps help would come after all through that least expected channel, her aunt.

“Have you got Mr. Goss’s notes, Aunt Helen, and what you have written?”

“Here’s what I have written,” said her aunt, handing over the crumpled pages in her lap. “I’m sure, Anne, that I’ve never respected people who write so much as at this minute. No, you’ve got the last page. There’s the first. I’m afraid you’ll think it terrible.”

“How many thousand words does he want?” asked Anne, looking up.

“You are clever, Anne! Do you know, I was so surprised when Mr. Goss said he wanted so many thousand words. I always thought writers went on till they wanted to stop when writing an article. Now, let me see, how many thousands of words did he want? — doesn’t it sound long? About three thousand, I believe. Or was it thirteen ? Something with a three. Oh, yes, it was three; here it is, in his letter. But I suppose if you wrote more he’d be grateful.”

Anne laughed.

“If he’s like most editors, he’d be very much annoyed if we gave him too much. You see, it must just fill your page and not poach on any one else’s.”

“That’s tiresome. One doesn’t count one’s sentences in speaking. I am glad you are going to do it for me.”

“I’ll do it if I can said Anne, remembering Mrs. Courcy’s injunction, “Never say you can’t do anything.” “I’ll take it all back with me to-night and tell you to-morrow.”

“Oh, but you will, Anne, won’t you? I shall be lost if you don’t. And besides, I do think getting into touch with Huntly Goss would be so useful to you. It’s such a load off my mind, dear. You sweet Chows, isn’t it nice of Cousin Anne to help your poor distracted mumsie. You shall all have chicken-cream to-night, petsy dogs. And good gracious, Anne, it’s half -past five. We must get ready.”

She swept herself and the dogs together off the sofa, and, putting her arm round Anne’s slim waist, took her into the pink-and-white bedroom. Her maid, summoned by a bell, came in attentively.

“My long chinchilla coat, please*, Henriette. And the toque to go with it, I think. Why, Anne, you’ve taken off your hat! . . . Oh, yes, of course , I remember! You were going to wear one of mine. Henriette, what hat do you think would suit Miss Moorhouse ?”

Henriette looked at Anne with a professional eye.

“That deep tomato turban, with the black plumes, madame, I think. It would suit mademoiselle’s black costume.”

“Yes, lovely!” agreed Lady Helen. The maid arranged the turban deftly, pulling at Anne’s hair with gentle and clever fingers to loosen it over her ears. “It suits you twenty times better than me, Anne. Where’s the hare’s foot, Henriette, I am shockingly pale. . . . My dear child, you must keep that hat; I shall never like myself in it again. You should always wear good hats ; they make all the difference between mediocre and good looks. I’ll give you the address of my milliner, and tell her to give you very special prices. I dare say she’d make you a little toque for three or four guineas. How are your gloves ? Oh, give mademoiselle a pair out of the glove-box, Henriette.”

“Mademoiselle looks charming,” said Henriette.

“Anne, you’d be a beauty if you’d only dress up to your eyes. Do tell me, is there too much powder on this side of my nose? No? Well, do rub a little off, Henriette. Yes, Wilkins, I’m coming.”

Anne wrestled with her aunt’s array of unpeptonised facts till midnight. With the aid of one or two books which she had borrowed from the library, she thought she could write a tolerable article. Huntly Goss’s suggestions, in a clear small hand, helped her enormously. She went to bed in a state of excitement. It had been a very lucky day, she thought — a hat, a pair of gloves, a possible £25 and a promise of a useful introduction. True, the promise came from her Aunt Helen, and as such had to be largely discounted, but, strive as she would to stifle her hopes by past experience, they bubbled up anew in an irrepressible way, for Anne was young. She tossed from side to side on the lumpy mattress, thinking of possibilities, of thfe article, of the Orb , of the Chows, of anything that kept her restless mind from losing consciousness until the thoughts merged into dreams.

On the morrow she awoke with a vague feeling that something pleasant had happened, which crystallized into a remembrance of yesterday. She dressed quickly, and, reaching the dining-room in time for the half-past-seven breakfast provided for those who were obliged to leave the house early, she got to work by half-past eight. Her pen raced over the paper. All the tangled sentences of the night before seemed already unravelled, as though a fairy godmother had been at work in her brain during the night. She wrote the last word before eleven, and, flushed with her achievement, put on the new hat and sallied out to catch a bus.

“That hat does suit you, Miss Moorhouse. You look quite saucy,” said Mrs. Lumley, over the stairs. She had only just emerged from her scented bedroom, many auburn puffs and curls pinned around her flamboyant head. “Got any luck, my dear?”

“I hope I may soon, Mrs. Lumley,” Anne replied.

“That’s right.”

Anne went out into the chilly street. A fine rain was falling, and she almost regretted her hat. But it soon stopped, and she got into the ill-smelling Tottenham Court Road bus, full of draggle-skirted women, her packet of manuscript in her lap.

To her disappointment, her aunt was out when she arrived, and all that Anne could gather was that Lady Helen had taken the Chows with her in the motor at eleven, and was expected back for lunch.

Anne waited, therefore, impatiently. Her aunt arrived at a quarter-past one, just as the girl had given up hope.

“Good child, you've come to lunch. . . . What, you haven't finished that dreadful article already! Really, Anne, you’re wonderful! I’m sure it’s splendid. Come in and eat something first . . . and then you must read it to me. I’ve got nothing to eat, I’m afraid; only a little chicken aspic, and some sweet stuff and a mouthful of soup. You know I eat nothing. Really, if it weren’t for the Chows, who really do eat, I shouldn’t dare to have the butcher call at the house.”

She did tolerable credit to the excellent cold luncheon, nevertheless, and scarcely stopped talking for a moment.

“I know; I will have Wilkins ring up Mr. Goss at once, and tell him you'll bring the article to him this afternoon.”

“But, Aunt Helen, you haven't seen it yet; how do you know that it will do?”

“Of course, it is lovely, darling. I have such absolute confidence in you. And if it doesn’t do — why, nothing I can provide will ever. . . . Ring up Mr. Goss at his office, Wilkins; no — he’ll be lunching, at his house ; no, at his club, and tell him that Miss Moorhouse will call in this afternoon and bring the article I promised. He’ll understand. You will find all the numbers together beside his name.”

Wilkins retreated to use discretion, and the telephone.

He returned, just as Lady Helen was attacking an orange, to report —

“Mr. Goss was hout, my lady, at his house, his hoffice, and the club.”

“What a bother. Well, ring up the office again,

1 6

and tell his secretary, or clerk, or whoever it is, to ask him to ring me up as soon as he gets in. He is such a dear, Anne, you’ll fall in love with him ; all women do. ... I do think oranges ought to be banished from polite tables ; they are so difficult to eat tidily. I like them cut in two, with Maraschino in the middle. . . . What was I saying? Oh, about Huntly Goss. Men never like him much — jealousy, I should think. Then men are so helpless about other men. Say to one man you think another is good-looking, he’ll always reply that the other is rather a conceited ass. And yet they say that women can’t see prettiness in other women! Why, I rave about Lily Elsie, and I always say so every time I go to Daly’s or wherever it is that she is acting. ... I wonder if they’ve remembered the poor darling Chows and their little lunchikins. Wilkins, have they? Oh, that is right. They got drefful hungy after their airing this morning. I’ve promised Mr. Goss that photo of Yum-Yum and her puppies we had taken last spring. Do you remember, Anne?”

“I don’t think I ever saw it.”

“You shall see it at once, then. We’ll have coffee in my little cosy room upstairs.”

“Mr. Goss at the telephone, my lady,” announced Wilkins, three-quarters of an hour later, when Anne had just laid down the manuscript of the article she had been reading aloud to her aunt.

“I’ll go down immediately.” Lady Helen scattered the Chows and went down the stairs lightly. When she returned, she was all smiles; her gray eyes joyous and exultant.

“I’ve told him all about you, dearest ; how cleverly you’ve helped me, and how much you’ve written, and he says he’ll be charmed to see you at four in his office. I shall ask him to dinner soon again. You’d better let Henriette do your hair first; I’m sure that Goss is fastidious and noticing about women, and Henriette does know how to suit you.”

Anne permitted herself to be “arranged” and soon afterwards stepped into her aunt’s motor. She felt nervous and shy. Divested of Lady Helen’s baroque descriptions, this man was nothing more nor less than an editor, a man of business, a person who would judge her on her own untried merits, and Anne’s belief in her own powers had somewhat declined since she had been engaged in mounting stairs in Fleet Street.

Chapter III

T HE offices of the Orb were in somewhat unusual quarters — Brooke Street. They were on the first floor. In the outer office three pretty girls were taking tea in an atmosphere of fresh white-and-gold paint, and eau-de-Cologne. A brand-new Remington typewriter stood in one corner of the room. There was nothing suggestive of journalism except a waste-paper basket brimming to the full. One of the girls rose languidly as Anne entered.

“Mr. Goss? What name shall I say, please ?” “Miss Moorhouse.”

“Have you an appointment ?”

“At four.”

The girl disappeared, to re-issue from the inner rooms a moment later with —

“Mr. Goss is very sorry, but would you be kind enough to wait for a few moments ? The Duchess of Soulsby had an appointment at half-past three, and she is still with Mr. Goss.”

She led the way into the first of the sancta beyond. It was more like a room in Lady Helen’s house than an office. The furniture was Chippendale. Prints hung on the wall, a vase full of fresh roses, in spite of the season, was set on the upholstered window-seat, and a fire blazed in the fire-place. A few leather and parchment-bound volumes lay about on the table, together with the latest magazines.

Anne began to think she must have made a mistake. 18

The occasional sound of a typewriter in the next room reassured her.

Ten minutes later an inner door opened, and a tall, elderly woman in a long sable coat came out, followed by a man in a gray lounge suit of conspicuously perfect fit and taste. The Duchess was still uttering the trailing end of a sentence, in somewhat of a bazaaropening voice —

“And if you assure her that the charity will benefit and that it will involve no personal expense to herself, I am sure she will help you. Good- bye, Mr. Goss; please do not come any further. I see you have some one waiting.”

“But allow me to accompany you ”

“No, no ; I won’t hear of it. Good- bye, Mr. Goss. Till Thursday, then.”

She graciously and importantly, with a consciously kindly smile on the outer office, descended the stairs.

“Good Lord,” murmured Mr. Goss looking after her*“and that woman’s grandfather sold canned pork in Chicago!”

He gazed after her as one gazes after a comet; then, turning suddenly, caught sight of Miss Moorhouse. At the same time Anne saw him for the first time.