XVII
THE rich trot of funeral horses died imperceptibly away.
Looking out somewhat furtively from beneath her veil, Mrs. Sixsmith could observe only a few farmers conversing together beneath the immemorial yews of S. Irene.
It was over.
There was nothing left to do but to throw a last glance at the wreaths.
“From the artists and staff of the Source Theatre as a trifling proof of their esteem”—such the large lyre crushing her own “Resurgam.” And there also was the Marys’ with their motto: “All men and women are merely players. They have their exits and their entrances.” And the “Heureuse!” tribute by the sexton’s tools—she craned—was YvondedeYalta’s, it appeared.
“Yvonde de Yalta!”
Mrs. Sixsmith gulped.
“You grieve?”
Canon Sinquier stood beside her.
“I——” she stammered.
“So many tributes,” he said.
“Indeed, sir, the flowers are extremely handsome.”
“So many crowns and crosses, harps and garlands.”
“One has to die for friends to rally!”
“Were you in her company?”
“I, Canon?... I never was on the stage in my life!”
“No?”
“My husband never would listen to it: he holds with Newman.”
“... I don’t recollect.”
“Besides, I’m no use at acting at all.”
“You knew my poor daughter well?”
“I was her protégée ... that is ... it wasIwho tried to protect her,” Mrs. Sixsmith replied.
“My dear madam.”
“Oh, Canon, why was her tomb not in Westminster where so many of her profession are? I was reading somewhere only the other day there are moreactressesburied there than Kings!”
“It may be so.”
“Here ... she is so isolated ... so lost. Sally loved town.”
“Tell me,” he begged, “something of her end.”
“Indeed, sir——”
“You’re too weary?”
“Oh, Ihatea funeral, Canon! Listening to their Jeremiads.”
“You shall take my arm.”
“Her father was her cult, Canon.... In that she resembled much the irresistible Venetian—Catarina Dolfin-Tron.”
“Sally seldom wrote.”
“Her time, you should remember, was hardly her own.”
“Tell me something,” he insisted, “of her broken brilliance.”
“Only by keening her could I hope to do that.”
“One would need to be a Bion. Or a Moschus....”
“We laid her star-like, in the dress-circle—out on Juliet’s bier ... Mr. and Mrs. Smee and her dresser watched ... Berinthia ... Sylvester ... came. I cannot loose from mind one of the scene-shifters said to me, ‘Howbonny she looked on the bloody balcony.’”
“My poor darling.”
“On the evening of her dissolution, I regret to say there was a most unseemly fracas in the foyer—some crazy wretch demanding back her money, having booked her place in advance; every one of the staff in tears and too unstrung to heed her. Had it been a box, Canon; or even a stall! But she only paid four shillings.”
“Was there anything on my poor child’s mind distressing her at all?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“No little affair...?”
“No....”
“Nothing?”
“Your girl was never loose, Canon. She was straight. Sally was straight ... at least,” Mrs. Sixsmith added (with a slight shrug) ... “to the best of my knowledge, she was!”
“In a life of opportunity....”
“Ah, sh——, sir, sh——!”
“Had my daughter debts?”
“Indeed she had ... she owed me money. Much money. But I won’t refer to that.... Sally owed me one thousand pounds.”
“She owed you a thousand pounds?”
“She was infinitely involved.”
“Upon what could she spend so much?”
“Her clothes,” Mrs. Sixsmith replied with a nervous titter, “for one thing, were exquisite. All from the atelier of the divine Katinka King....”
“King?”
“Sheknew! Puss! The white mantilla for the Balcony scene alone cost her close on three hundred pounds.”
“And where, may I ask, is it now?”
“It disappeared,” Mrs. Sixsmith answered, a quick red shooting over her face, “in the general confusion. I hear even,” she murmured with a little laugh, “they even filched the till!”
“What of the littleingénueshe took to live with her?”
“May Mant? Her sister is sending her to school—if (that is) she can get her to go!”
“It was her inadvertence, I take it, that caused my daughter’s death.”
“Indeed, sir, yes. But for her—she had been setting traps! She and a girl called Tird: a charming couple!”
“Oh?”
“Your daughter and she used frequently totake their meals in the boxes, which made, of course, for mice. There was a well, you know, below the stage.”
“So she wrote her mother.”
Mrs. Sixsmith fumbled in the depths of a beaded pouch.
“There was a letter found in one of her jacket-pockets, Canon,” she said. “Perhaps you might care to have it.”
“A letter? From whom?”
“A young coster of Covent Garden, who saw your daughter at a stage-farewell.”
“Be so good, dear lady, as to inform me of its contents.”
“It’s quite illiterate,” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured, putting back her veil and glancing humorously towards the grave.
“Dear Miss,
“I seed you at the Fisher Mat. on Friday last and you took my heart a treat. I’m only a young Gallery boy—wot’s in the flower trade. But I knows wot I knows—And you’re It. Oh Miss! I does want to see you act in Juliet in your own butey-ful ouse, if only you ad a seat as you could spare just for me and a pal o’ mine as is alright. I send you some red cars sweet and scentyfresh from Covent Market, your true-gone
“Bill.
“Hoping for tickets.”
“Poor lad. Sally would have obliged him, I feel sure,” Canon Sinquier said.
“Alas, what ephemeral creatures, Canon, we are.”
“We are in His hands.”
“She knew that. Sally’s faith never forsook her.... Oh, Canon, some day perhaps I may come to you to direct me. I’m so soul-sick.”
“Is there no one in London to advise you?”
“Nobody at all.”
“Indeed? You astonish me.”
“I’m perfectly tired of London, Canon!”
“Your husband, no doubt, has his occupation there.”
“My husband and I are estranged....”
“You’ve no child?”
“Alas, Canon! I often think ... sometimes ... I would like to adopt one. A little country buttercup! Really ... a dog, even the best of mannered—isn’t verycomme il faut.”
“You seek a boy?”
“Mer-cyno! Nothing of the sort.... You quite mistake my meaning.”
“Your meaning madam was obscure.”
“I imply a girl ... a blonde! And she’d share with me, sir, every facility, every advantage. Her education should be my care.”
“What is your age?”
“From thirteen——”
“An orphan?”
“Preferably.”
“I will discuss the affair presently with my wife,” Canon Sinquier said, turning in meditation his steps towards the wicket-gate.
“Before leaving your charming city, Canon, I should like beyond everything to visit the episcopal Palace: Sally used often to speak of the art-treasures there.”
“Art-treasures?”
“Old pictures!”
“Are you an amateur of old pictures?”
“Indeed I am. My husband once—Paul—he paid a perfect fortune for a Dutch painting; and will you believe me, Canon! It was only of the back view of a horse.”
“A Cuyp?”
“A Circus—with straw-knots in its tail. It used to hang in Mr. Sixsmith’s study; and there it always was! Frankly,” she added,brushing a black kid glove to her face, “I used sometimes to wish it would kick.”
“If you’re remaining here any length of time, there are some portraits at the Deanery that are considered to be of interest, I believe.”
“Portraits!”
“Old ecclesiastical ones.”
“Oh, Canon?”
“Perhaps you would come quietly to dinner. At which of our inns are you?”
“I’m at the Antelope.”
“I know that my girl would have wished our house to be open to you. You were her friend. Her champion....”
“Dear Canon—don’t ... don’t: You mustn’t! She’s at peace. Nothing can fret her. Nothing shall fret her ... ever now. And, you know, as a manageress, she was liable to vast vexations.”
“My poor pet.”
“She’shors de combat: free from a calculating and dishonest world; ah, Canon!”
“We shall expect you, then, dear Sally’s friend, to dinner this evening at eight,” Canon Sinquier murmured as he walked away.
Mrs. Sixsmith put up a large chiffon sunshadeand hovered staccato before the dwindling spires and ogee dome of S. Irene.
It was one of the finest days imaginable. The sun shone triumphantly in the midst of a cloudless sky.
She would loiter awhile among the bougainvilleas and dark, spreading laurels of the Cathedral green, trespassing obtusely now and then into quiet gardens, through tall wrought-iron gates.
New visions and possibilities rare rose in her mind.
With Sally still, she could do a lot. Through her she would be received with honours, into the courtly circles of the Close.
Those fine palatial houses, she reflected, must be full of wealth ... old Caroline plate and gorgeous green Limoges: Sally indeed had proved it! The day she had opened her heart in the Café Royal she had spoken of a massive tureentoo heavy even to hold.
Mrs. Sixsmith’s eyes grew big.
Her lost friend’s father wished for anecdotes; anecdotes of her “broken brilliance”; he should have them. She saw herself indulging him with “Salliana,” wrapped in a white lace mantilla of old Mechlin lace.
An invitation from Canon and Mrs. Sinquier should be adroitly played for to-night: “And once in the house!...” she schemed, starting as a peacock, a symbol of S. Irene, stretched from a bougainvillea shrouded wall its sapphire neck at her as if to peck.
Her thoughts raced on.
On a near hill beyond the river reach, the sombre little church of S. Ann changed to a thing of fancy against a yellowing sky.
From all sides, seldom in unison, pealed forth bells. In fine religious gaiety struck S. Mary, contrasting clearly with the bumble-dumble of S. Mark. S. Elizabeth and S. Sebastian in Flower Street seemed in high dispute, while across the sunset water S. Ann-on-the-Hill did nothing but complain. Near by S. Nicaise, half-paralysed, and impotent, scarcely shook. Then triumphant, in a hurricane of sound S. Irene hushed the lot.
Mrs. Sixsmith fetched a long, calm breath.
It was already the hour he had said.
“And my experience tells me,” she murmured, as she took her way towards the Deanery, “that with opportunity and time he may hope to succeed to Sir Oliver.”
Transcriber’s Notes:Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.Typographical errors were silently corrected.Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book.