Mary Minds Her Business Part 11

"No."

"...I can. I can speak it, and read it, and write it, and think it....

Now don't you think that if a girl can do that--if she can learn thousands and thousands of new words, how to p.r.o.nounce them, and spell them, and pa.r.s.e them, and inflect them--how to supply hundreds of rules of grammar--and if she can learn to do this so well that she can chat away in French without giving it a thought--don't you think she might be able to learn something about the language and rules of business, too, if they were only taught to her? Then perhaps there wouldn't be so many helpless widows in the world, as you said just now, at the mercy of the first glib sharper who comes along."

This time it was the judge's turn to think it over.

"You're an exceptional girl, Mary," he said at last.

"No, really I'm not," she earnestly told him. "Any girl can learn anything that a boy can learn--if she is only given a chance. Where boys and girls go to school together--at the grammar schools and high schools--the girls are just as quick as the boys, and their average marks are quite as high. It was true at college, too. The girls could learn anything that the men could learn--and do it just as well."

As one result of this, Judge Cutler began giving Mary lessons in business, using the inventory as a text and explaining each item in the settlement of the estate. He also taught her some of the simpler maxims, beginning with that grand old caution, "Never sign a paper for a stranger--"

It wasn't long after this that Uncle Stanley called at the house on the hill. He talked for a time about some of the improvements which were being made at the factory and then arose as if to go.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," he said, turning back and smiling at his oversight. "We need a new director to take your father's place. When I'm away Burdon looks after things, so I suppose he may as well take the responsibility. It's a thankless position, but some one has to fill it."

"Yes," murmured Mary, "I suppose they do."

"They do," said Uncle Stanley. "So I'll call a stockholders' meeting right away. Meanwhile if you will sign this proxy--"

But just as quietly Mary murmured, "I'd like to think it over."

They looked at each other then--those two--with that careful, yet careless-appearing glance which two duellists might employ when some common instinct warns them that sooner or later they will cross their swords.

Uncle Stanley was the first to lower his eye.

"The law requires three directors," he said in his more usual grumpy voice, "or I wouldn't have bothered you. I'll leave it and you can sign it and send it down this afternoon."

But Mary did neither. Instead she went to see Judge Cutler and when the stockholders' meeting was finally called, she attended it in person--holding practically all the stock--and Judge Cutler was elected to fill the vacancy.

Uncle Stanley just managed to control himself. It took an effort, but he did it.

"We've got to elect a president next," he said, trying to make a joke of it, but unable to keep the tremor of testiness out of his voice. "Of course I've been here all my life--if that counts for anything--and I am now serving in the more or less humble capacity of vice-president--but if the judge would like to throw up his law business and try the manufacturing end instead--"

"No," smiled the judge, lighting a bombsh.e.l.l--though Uncle Stanley little guessed it--"I think the position calls for some one younger than I am.

Besides, my name is Cutler, whereas for eight generations this concern has been headed by a Spencer.

"You know, Mr. Woodward, lawyers are sticklers for precedent, and it seems to me that as long as there is a Spencer left in the family, that good old name should stand at the head.

"For the office of president I therefore cast my vote in favour of the last of the Spencers--Miss Mary--"

That was the bombsh.e.l.l, and oh, but didn't it rock Uncle Stanley back on his heels!

"Of course, if you want to make a joke of the company," he said at last, sticking out his lower lip till it made a little shelf, although it wasn't a very steady little shelf because it trembled as though from emotion. "'President, Mary Spencer'--you know as well as I do what people will think when they see that on the letterhead--"

"Unfortunately, yes," said the judge, flas.h.i.+ng him one of his hawk's glances but still speaking in his gentle voice. "Still, we can easily get around that difficulty. We can have the letter-heads lithographed 'President, M. Spencer.' Then if our correspondents have imaginations, they will think that the M stands for Matthew or Mark or Michael or Malachi. One thing sure," he smiled at the new president, "they'll never think of Mary."

As in the case of the factory, Uncle Stanley had also been vice-president of the First National Bank. A few days after the proceedings above recorded, the stockholders of the bank met to choose a new president.

There was only one vote and when it was counted, Stanley Woodward was found to be elected.

"I wonder what he'll be doing next," said Mary uneasily when she heard the news.

"My dear girl," gently protested the judge, "you mustn't be so suspicious. It will poison your whole life and lead you nowhere."

Mary thought that over.

"You know the old saying, don't you?" he continued. "'Suspicion is the seed of discord.'"

"Yes," nodded Mary, trying to smile, though she still looked troubled. "I know the old saying--but--the trouble is--I know Uncle Stanley, too, and that's what bothers me..."

CHAPTER XII

At this point I had meant to tell you more of Wally Cabot--most perfect, most charming of lovers--but first I find that I must describe a pa.s.sage which took place one morning between Mary and Uncle Stanley's son Burdon.

Perhaps you remember Burdon, the tall, dark young man who "smelled nice"

and wore a white edging on the V of his waistcoat.

As far back as Mary could remember him, he had appealed to her imagination.

His Norfolk jackets, his gold cigarette case and match box, his air of distinction, his wealth of black hair which grew to a point on his forehead, even the walking stick which he sometimes carried; to Mary's mind these had always been properties in a human drama--a drama breathless with possibilities, written by Destiny and ent.i.tled Burdon Woodward.

It is hard to express some things, and this is one of them. But among your own acquaintances there are probably one or two figures which stand out above the others as though they had been selected by Fate to play strenuous parts--whether Columbine, clown or star. Something is always happening to them. Wherever they appear, they seem to hold the centre of the stage, and when they disappear a dullness falls and life seems flat for a time. You think of them more often than you realize, perhaps with a smile, perhaps with a frown, and generally you dismiss them from your mind with some such thought as this--"He'll get in trouble yet," or "I wouldn't be surprised if he makes a great man some day"--or "Something will happen to that girl yet, if she isn't careful!"

That, in short, was the sort of a character that Burdon Woodward had always been to Mary. For as long as she could remember him, she had a.s.sociated him with romance and drama.

To her he had been Raffles, the amateur cracksman. He had also been Steerforth in David Copperfield--and time after time she had drowned him in the wreck. In stories of buccaneers he was the captain--sometimes Captain Morgan, sometimes Captain Kidd--or else he was Black Jack with Dora in his power and trembling in the balance whether to become a hero or a villain. As Mary grew older these a.s.sociations not only lingered; they strengthened.

Not long before her father died she read in the paper of a young desperado, handsome and well-dressed, who held up a New York jeweller at the point of a gun and relieved him of five thousand dollars' worth of diamond rings. The story was made remarkable by a detail. An old woman was sitting at the corner, grinding a hand-organ, and as the robber ran past her, he dropped one of the rings into her cup.

"Oh, dad," Mary had said, looking up and speaking on impulse, "did I hear you say last night that Burdon Woodward was in New York?"

"No, dear. Boston."

"Mm," thought Mary. "He'd say he was going to Boston for a blind." And for many a week after that she slyly watched his fingers, to see if she could catch him red-handed so to speak, wearing one of those rings! Yet even while she glanced she had the grace to smile at her fancies.

"All the same," she told herself, "it sounded an awful lot like him."

The encounter which I am now going to tell you about took place one morning after Mary had been elected to the presidency of the company. She had just finished breakfast when Burdon telephoned.

"Your father had some private papers in his desk down here," he said. "I was wondering if you'd like to come down and look them over."

"Thank you," she said. "I will."

Josiah's private room in the factory office building had been an impressive one, high-ceiled and flanked with a fire-place which was, however, never lighted. Ancestral paintings and leather chairs had added their notes of distinction. The office of any executive will generally reflect not only his own personality, but the character of the enterprise of which he stands at the head. Looking in Josiah's room, I think you would have been impressed, either consciously or not, that Spencer & Son had dignity, wealth and a history behind it. And regarding then the dark colouring of the appointments, devoid of either beauty or warmth, and feeling yourself impressed by a certain chilliness of atmosphere, I can very well imagine you saying to yourself "Not very cheerful!"