"I must say I was very happy on the stage," sighed the Countess of Darlington, lifting the teapot.
The Earl of Armoury's mother threw up her eyes. A shapeless, waddling woman, the duchess, with a sanctimonious voice. There were elderly gentlemen who, remembering Flossie's agility with a tambourine at the old Pavilion, felt reformation to be a sad affair when they looked at her.
"Not 'happy,'" she said piously, "dazzled—only dazzled, dear Lady Darlington. Ladies like you and I can't be happy on the stage. It goes against the grain with you and I."
Lady Darlington pouted. She was provokingly pretty when she pouted. She had pouted at Darlington on the day he met her.
"But Iwashappy," she declared.
"You weren't satisfied in your heart; I'm sure you always felt there was better work to be done?"
"Oh yes, but I hoped to get leading parts in time."
"I mean purer work," explained the duchess, wincing, "social, helpful work."
Lady Darlington laughed. She was prettier still when she laughed. She had laughed at Darlington on the day he proposed.
"No, really not," she said frankly, "I never thought about it for a moment. Do you know, Duchess, I've always wanted to ask you—didn't you ache to go back to it after you married?"
"Oh never," exclaimed the duchess; "I was grateful to Providence for letting me get away from it all. Circumstances made me go into the business, but I was never a pro—I mean to say a 'professional'—by nature. My father, the captain, died when I was quite a child, and I had my dear mother to support."
"M'yes," murmured Lady Darlington, looking at the ceiling. "You were before my time, but of course I've heard.... Perhaps if I had been in the music-hallsIshould have been glad to get away from it all," she added; "I was in the theatres, you know."
"The 'smalls,' I think—I mean to say the 'minor provincial towns?'" said the duchess a shade tartly; "one of Jenkinson's Number II. companies, wasn't it?"
"Lots of people considered it was better than the Number I.," returned Lady Darlington with pride, "and theRotherham Advertisersaid a voice of such diapason as mine wasn't often heard in musical comedy."
"Such what as yours?"
"Diapason. Won't you have some muffin?"
"They always serve me out so," said the duchess, "but Iwillhave just a mossel." She regarded her hostess anxiously; "I hope you aren't going to be mad?" she said.
"I am mad," admitted Rosalind—her name was Rosalind—"mad with the longing for auld lang syne. If I weren't crazy I shouldn't own it, because you can't enter into my feelings a bit, but you're the only woman I meet who ought to be able to understand them. Long? Sometimes for a treat I tell the servants I'm not at home to anyone, and I shut myself up and long the tears into my eyes!"
"You cry for the stage? Oh, but, my dear Lady Darlington, you mustn't give way, you must be firm with yourself. Think, just think, what an example you'd be setting if you took to it again! In our position we have the Country to consider. The middle classes say 'What's good enough for the Aristocracy must be good enough for us.' We have to consider our influence on those in a humbler sphere."
"I'm not going to take to it again," said Rosalind. "How can I? Besides, I don't want so much to act—I've no ambition except to be jolly—it's the life I ache for. I'm dull, dull, dull! I want to be among the people I remember. My heart turns back to Dixie. I wouldn't say 'thank you' to be with actors and actresses in London, in the West-End; they're only imitations of the Lords and Ladies that bore me. I want to be on the road with a Number II. crowd—yes, and a Number III. crowd for preference. I want to arrive in a hole-and-corner town on a Sunday night, and have supper in lodgings, and see stout in a jug again, and call the landlady 'Ma.' Oh, how soul-stirring it would be to call a landlady 'Ma!'"
"Lodgings? Look at your drawing-room, with Louis Cans furniture!" said the duchess admonishingly. "You can't be serious?"
"Serious? I'm pathetic! Of course I should find I had been spoilt for it—the pleasure wouldn't last; the stout would taste sour soon, and I should find the landlady impudent, and the lodgings dirty; I daresay I should wish myself back in St. James' Square before I had been away a month. But I don't want to give up St. James' Square—I only want a week-end sometimes as a tonic. That's all I want, just week-ends. If I could be Rosalind Heath again from Saturday to Monday sometimes, I'd be Lady Darlington all the rest of the year cheerfully enough."
This was the moment when her Idea was born. As the idea had consequences, it is noteworthy that this was the moment. If she could be Rosalind Heath again from Saturday to Monday! She had never debated the possibility; but why not—why not even for a week? She couldn't call herself "Rosalind Heath" again, because everybody in Theatre Land knew that Rosalind Heath had married the Earl of Darlington, but who among a lowly band of players would know her face? She had not been a star. All she needed for the freak was a confidante. What had become of Tattie Lascelles?
Lady Darlington blushed with self-reproach. That she should have to question what had become of Tattie! She sat, after the duchess had departed, remembering days when she and Tattie had been bosom friends. They had shared hopes and lodgings; they had told each other their peccadilloes, and even their salaries. And now she didn't know where Tattie was? Could St. James' Square have made her heartless? How had their correspondence died? ... Ah yes, in Tattie's last letter ages ago she had asked for the sum of five pounds "just for a fortnight." But how monstrous of Tattie to feel constrained because she hadn't sent it back! Who had expected it?
On the seventeenth day of December, when Darlington, looking a ridiculous object, had boomed away in a new car, of which he was inordinately proud, Rosalind stole guiltily into a news-agent's. She would not meet her lord again for a month. Her beautiful eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were flushed. She tendered two pennies to a vulgar man, smoking a clay pipe behind the counter, and asked for theStage. To the happily constituted there can seem nothing calculated to kindle the emotions in the act of buying a twopenny paper in a squalid shop, but Rosalind had a temperament, and temperaments play queer tricks. (See Conrad's.) The tender grace of a day that was dead hallowed the damp copy of a journal in which she had formerly advertised that she was "Resting;" the touch of vanished hands sent little thrills to her heart as her gaze embraced familiar names.
She went back to the drawing-room fire, and read them diligently. Dusk and a footman crept in before she discovered Miss Tattie Lascelles, but that artist's announcement leapt to her with the electric light. Miss Tattie Lascelles informed the kingdom that she was specially engaged to create the part of "Delicia Potts" in the maritime musical farce entitledLittle Miss Kiss-And-Tell, on Blithepoint Pier. The date chosen for this perfectly unimportant production was Monday, December 22nd. Then Rosalind, who was to go to the Marrables in Leicestershire for Christmas, wrote Lady Marrable a note of grieved excuse, and scribbled a letter to Tattie, which began, "Take two bedrooms in Blithepoint, and don't breathe a word to a soul till you see me."
And though the happily constituted may be sceptical again, she felt more joyous than she had done for five illustrious years.
Blithepoint is about thirty-three miles by rail from Sweetbay. It is a grey, bleak place, with the plainest female population in England. On three hundred days of the year the wind is due east, but on the other sixty-five it is southeast, and then the residents go about saying what "lovely weather they're having." Blithepoint is much larger than Sweetbay, and more fashionable. It is also nearly as dull. Nobody is aware how much can be spent on being deadly dull until he has stayed in a Blithepoint hotel. Rosalind was a shade uneasy in the thought that someone among the visitors might recognise her; she knew that at Christmas eccentric Londoners occasionally went down there, and wished afterwards they had been economical and gone to Egypt. But she didn't falter.
She ran away on Sunday the 21st. She had put on her simplest costume, and her portmanteau told no tales. To make-believe to the fullest extent, she travelled in a third-class compartment. Already she was greatly excited. As the train crawled out of Victoria she could have clapped her hands.
When she arrived it was eight o'clock, and a bitter evening. The scramble for luggage kept her shivering on the platform for ten minutes, and then a fly bumped her through the shuttered town. It was the hour of local dissipation; on one side of the favourite thoroughfare the blades of Blithepoint paraded jauntily, crying "Pip, pip" to stolid-faced young women on the other, who took no notice of them. Lady Darlington, reckless for sensations, envied these "roysterers" who could feel devilish gay so innocently.
The cab shaved a corner, and rattled into a neighbourhood of obscure apartment-houses. Her mutinous heart warmed with sentiment, and she forgot how cold her pretty feet were. The cab stopped. She saw the blind of the ground-floor window dragged aside; an impetuous figure appeared, and vanished. The street-door was pulled wide, and a girl with a cloud of hair, and a string of barbaric beads dangling to the waist, flew down the steps and hugged her.
"You trump! You've really come!"
"You duck! How jolly to see you!"
"'Ere, two bob, missie," said the flyman, "when you've done canoodling."
They ran into the parlour, and laughed at each other in the gaslight.
"Take your things off," said Tattie: "let me help you. I hope you'll like the diggings. I wrote to the swellest address I could hear of, when I got your letter."
"But you shouldn't have. What for?"
"Well, for you."
"I wanted everything just as it used to be. That was it."
"How funny! But I don't suppose these will strike you as very swagger after what you've got at home."
"They don't."
"Won't they be good enough?"
"They're heavenly. Oh, Tattie, how good it is to be back! Did anybody bring in my trunk? 'In the Shade of the Palm,' and a Vocal Folio on the piano! And professional photographs on the shelf! Oh, let me see the photographs! 'To Mrs. Cheney from Miss Bijou Chamberlain—wishing you a Merry Christmas.' Who is she?"
"She was here last week—a Variety artist. She seems to have been comfortable, as she gave the landlady her photograph. Are you ready for supper?"
"Stout?"
"Of course."
"In a jug?"
"Well, I thought after what you had come from I had better order Guinness."
For a moment Rosalind looked downcast. "Ah well, never mind," she said; "we'll have it in a jug to-morrow."
They drew their chairs to the ham-and-beef, and the landlady brought in the Guinness.
"Good evening, Ma," said Rosalind, with youth in her bosom.
"Good evening, my dear," said Mrs. Cheney. "You'll be glad of your supper, I daresay, after your journey?" She put comestibles on the table in three paper bags. "I was meaning to tell you, Miss Lascelles, that if you'd like a bit of something hot in the evening when you come back from the show, you can have it. I'm not one to fuss about hotting something up. Sundays we let the fire out, but in the week you can have it and welcome."
"Good business!" said Miss Lascelles. "In some places you 'get it hot' if you ask for it."
"By rights some places shouldn't take professionals," returned Mrs. Cheney. "I've 'eard many tales. Miss Chamberlain—her on the mantelpiece—was telling me that where she was in Brighton they wouldn't allow her to have her uncle in to see her. Such a quiet, ladylike gal, too!"
"Can such things be?" cried Rosalind. "Is a poor girl to be cut off from her own flesh and blood because she's in diggings?"
"Ah, I don't wonder at your asking!" said Mrs. Cheney. "Not, mind you," she added, "but what letting lodgings over a number of years makes one a bit suspicious of uncles. I've known a gentleman brought to these very rooms after the show on three different Monday evenings as the uncle of three different young ladies. And dreadful taken aback he was when he see me each time!"
"I'm afraid those were flighty girls," said Rosalind severely.
"Untruthful they was," said Mrs. Cheney, "and so I told 'em. I say nothing about visitors, I'm not that evil-minded. So long as the lady pays a bit extra for the gas, and the gentleman don't slam the door when he goes, I like to think well of everyone. But I 'ate lies."
She drew the cork, and retired; and Rosalind said, "Well, what about the show, Tat? What sort of part have you got?"
"The part's rather good," said Miss Lascelles.
"Hurrah! What screw?"
"Rotten—thirty-five shillings. I had to take what I could get; I've been 'out' a long time. They're paying awful salaries in this crowd; the chorus only get about fifteen bob, I believe—they're half of them novices."
"I say! Whose crowd is it?"
"It's a Syndicate; nobody ever heard of it before. And the Tenor has such a cold he could hardly speak at the dress-rehearsal last night—goodness knows how he's going to sing to-morrow."
"Who is your principal woman?"
"She has backed out; they've put somebody else into the part at the last minute. And the scenery has still to come down—it's a bit of a muddle all round. I wish I could have got into a better thing, but I was so hard up—you ought to have seen where I was lodging! I tried to get 'shopped' last month as an Extra. That speaks!"
"An Extra? No? Tat! why didn't you write to me?" exclaimed Rosalind reproachfully.
"Oh, I don't know. I heard the 'great' Miss Hayward wanted thirty Extra-ladies to go on in the ball scene. It was twenty-five bob a week—she wanted picked women—it would just have done me. Lil Rayburn lent me her little squirrel coat and a black velvet hat. I tell you I looked a treat when I went down! There were three hundred and forty girls waiting; we were sent across the stage thirty at the time. The great Hayward sat in the stalls, with her pince-nez up. 'You!' she said, pointing; 'the one in the squirrel coat!' So I went to her. 'I think you'll do,' she drawled; 'you know what the money is?' 'Twenty-five, Miss Hayward,' I said, 'isn't it?' 'No, a guinea,' she said, 'it doesn't matter toyou.' 'Thank you,' I said, 'I've got to keep myself out ofmysalary—Ihaven't got a man, and a flat!' Potter, the agent, was in an awful stew—'Oh, you shouldn't have spoken to Miss Hayward like that!' 'Tohell!' I said."
"Cat!" cried Rosalind. "Because you were well-dressed?"
"Yes; and if I had gone shabby, she wouldn't have noticed me at all.... You know I've been in the Variety business since you saw me?"
"The music-halls! You haven't?"
"Straight! I was one of the Four Sisters Tarantelle. Jolly good money—I got five pounds a week when we worked two shows a night; I never got less than three ten. I can't get it on the stage."
"Why did you give them up? But the tips are very heavy, aren't they?"
"They weren't heavy forme, I didn't tip anybody except the dresser. Chloe made the engagements, so Chloe could pay the tips. Trust this child! What does make you sick in that business is the comedians, with the red noses and the umbrellas—they're always after you. There was a little brute in one show—his wife was in the bill, too; she did sentimental ballads. Well! how he could let her travelIdon't know. Itwasher last week, but she wasn't fit to be working so long, we almost expected any night—— And there he was after me all the time! 'I shall write to you, Tattie—I see you go to Balham, and Walham Green next week!' 'Who gave you leave to call me "Tattie?"' I said; 'you low cur, I wish I was a man, to give you a good hiding!' I did pity his wife. She never spoke to me—she used to pass me in the wings with her head turned away; I suppose she thought I was as bad ashewas. I said to her one evening when she was ill, 'Can I get you anything, Miss——' I forget what her name was. 'No, I thank you, Miss Tarantelle,' she said—like that; wouldn't look at me! Iwasso sorry for her. Poor little woman, what a life!"
Rosalind shuddered. After a pause, she said:—
"You're well out of it, dear."
"Except for the money. I expect I'll go back to it as soon as I can. I had a contract for a year—they wanted the option of renewing for another year."
"Theywere to have the option?"
"Yes—all on their side; I didn't think it was good enough to sign that. So I said I'd like to, but I was going to be married at the end of the summer."
"You weren't really?"
"Not much! No marriage for me—not in the Profession anyhow!—but lots of them think a contract doesn't bind you any more if you marry. Lil Rayburn put me up to that dodge. She lent me her song when the Tarantelles wanted me—it was a great concession: her big success! Whenever she doesn't want to sign an option and is afraid to refuse point-blank, she looks bashful and says she's going to be married at the end of the summer. She has been going to be married 'at the end of the summer' for the last nine years!" They turned to the fire, and lit cigarettes—Rosalind's; she had remembered to put a hundred in her trunk.
"'What is the use of loving a girlIf the girl don't loveyou?'"
hummed Tattie. The song was just published. "Theyarefine cigarettes!
'What is the use of loving a girlWhen you know she don't want yerto?'
Of course, you have the best of everything now. It does seem curious."
"My having the best of everything?"
"No, your wanting the worst.
'What if she's fair beyond all compare,And what if her eyes are blue——'
Fancy living in your style, and coming to rooms like these for fun!"
"Oh, Tattie," said Rosalind, "that's just what I did come for! I haven't any fun at home."
"But I thought in Society they had no end of a good time?"
"So they do, in a way, but it's the wrong way for me—I never rehearsed for it, I'm not easy in the part; I wasn't meant for high-class comedy. And I miss you—I've no pal now."
"I've missedyou, I can tell you! Oh, the tour after you left, wasn't that damn dull! The girl I lived with was so 'off'—common. Well, you can tellI'ma perfect lady—I just said 'damn'—but I usedn't to, did I? Remember? Good-hearted girl, but she was so horrid at table. And under that silk blouse—all anyhow! Not that I like to see a girl with too smart underlinen, I always think it looks fishy; but hers was—well, if she had been run over one day when we were out, I'd have been ashamed to own her!"
"Let's go and look up some of the Company, shall we?" said Rosalind. "What name had I better have?"
"What's the matter with 'Heath?' There are plenty of 'Miss Heaths' about."
"Yes, but you're sure to let the 'Rosalind' slip, and that will give me away. Introduce me as 'Miss Daintree.' Do you know where any of the women are staying?"
"We'll find them on the pier. We always make for the pier on Sunday evenings when there's a concert; it's something to do. I suppose I'm to say you're in the Profession?"
"I'm an actress out of an engagement," assented Rosalind, throwing her cigarette in the fender. "Make haste, or we shall be too late!"
The boards ofLittle Miss Kiss-and-Tellwere big outside the pier. At the turnstile Miss Lascelles nodded towards them, saying, "In the Company." The man answered, "All right, Miss; come in through the gate, then." At the pay-box of the theatre she showed her card, saying, "Can you oblige me with a couple of seats?" The business manager answered, "With pleasure, my dear."
The gas-stoves glowed redly, and the theatre was much better warmed than the majority of theatres in London. They sat down in the third row of the stalls, and listened to a dispirited soprano who was supposed to be singing "The Holy City." She was not really singing "The Holy City;" from beginning to end she articulated not a word save "Jerusalem." She simply kept her mouth ajar and wailed the air; but she was successful.
There were only about twenty people in the crimson velvet seats, and most of these wereKiss-and-Tellpeople. The others were very young men, in caps, who bore the sacred music on Sunday evening for the sake of an advance view of the girls who were to perform on Monday. The very young men watched the arrivals with much interest, and if the ladies in the stalls were unattractive, it was said in a Blithepoint club on Sunday night that the piece on the pier to-morrow was no good.
When the dispirited soprano had finished, the actresses applauded her warmly, in the hope of cheering her up; and the sixpenny balcony rattled its umbrellas, in the hope of getting a song more than it had paid for. Then one of the actresses murmured to Miss Lascelles, "How badly she holds herself, doesn't she?" and Miss Lascelles presented "Miss Daintree."
Rosalind soon discovered that nobody was sanguine ofLittle Miss Kiss-and-Tellbeing well received, and—having forgotten something of the world she was revisiting—it surprised her to note the light-heartedness of the professionals, who tottered on the brink of disaster. They were all pitiably poor, they were likely to fall out of employment at the worst time of year; but they said gaily, "Oh well, let's hope for the best! It may be all right at night. It's no use looking on the black side of things." And most of them were totally dependent on their salaries, though that was not the belief of the very young men who endured "The Holy City."
Only Miss Jinman, a large, elderly lady who spoke in a bass voice, was pessimistic. Years ago she had sung in parts of dignity, and hectored first-rate touring companies; to-day she was engaged for an amorous old woman in Turkish trousers, whom the low comedian was to pelt with insults as often as she came on the stage.
"I don't think the piece will last a month," she said to Rosalind, in her lugubrious bass. "It isn't amusing at all. Vulgar, very vulgar! I may be too critical; I'm used to such high-class things, as you know—my notices as 'Buttercup' were immense—but I call it a 'rotter.' I see a frost, a killing frost, my dear! I keep my opinion to myself"—she was disseminating it with gusto—"I don't want to give the others the hump, but I see us all out of a shop till the spring comes."
"Oh, you're always croaking, Miss Jinman," snapped a black-eyed girl with golden hair. "Give us a chance, do!"
"A chance?" returned Miss Jinman heavily. "Chit, you have no chance. It's only kindness to tell you so."
"Thanks for being so kind!" said the girl. She had not been long on the stage. Her married sister kept "Dining Rooms" in Holloway, and less than a year ago the "artiste" had served as waitress there and been ordered to "'Urry up with that there Yorkshire-pudden."
"You will never do any better than you're doing," affirmed Miss Jinman. "And I could say as much to others present if I hadn't too much consideration for their feelings. To more than one!" she added significantly. "Look atme, with all my experience! AndIam clever, andIcan sing; my notices as 'Buttercup' were immense. And where am I now? On a pier with amateurs—amateurs and novices. I don't know what the Profession is coming to—it's a very different thing to what it was whenIwas in my prime!"
"I expect most things have woke up a bit since then," said the golden-haired brunette; "the bringing in of railways must have made such a difference."
"Small-part people were taught to respect the principals," said Miss Jinman sternly. "Minxes kept their places."
"It's a pity you couldn't keep yours," said the dark one with the golden locks. But harmony was restored during the next selection by the band.
There was a little sleet blowing when the audience straggled homeward. The lights of the Belle Vue Hotel were not put out yet, and carelessly, Miss Jinman observed that the people inside must be warmer thanshewas. Rosalind took the hint. It is only in the lowest ranks of the theatrical profession that the ladies refresh themselves in bars; a second-rate provincial actress would wither the person who invited her; but Miss Jinman and Miss Lascelles had adapted their manners to their company, and it was a very humble Company indeed. So they went into the Lounge, and sat down.
Another professional lady came in, and inquired generously, "Are you drinking, girls?"
Miss Lascelles said, "Yes, we've got port wine."
"Serve you right," said the other lady, with a pretty wit.
Though she was on the high road to Prague, Lady Darlington was relieved to see that the clock pointed to five minutes to ten. When the Lounge closed, the party shook hands with her heartily, and hoped they would meet her again in the morning. Distressingly ill-bred of them to drink port in a smoky bar—not at all the sort of thing I can ask you to condone. But some of the sirens who had lolled in velvet fauteuils were financing on coppers until the first week's treasury was paid, and tea and bread-and-butter was all they had had to support their internal economies during the day. How amused the very young men in the stalls would be at my simplicity in believing it!
Since the last chapter went away to be typewritten I, myself, have been in the theatre on Blithepoint Pier. A pantomime was being performed. The seat I was in yielded me a view of more than I had paid to look at; I could see the Prompt entrance, which is the place where they signal for the sunset and the moonbeams and where the players come to peep at the doings on the stage. Last night a young woman came there. She wore a brief, blue skirt, and a silver crown, and for the nonce an unlovely wrap hung over her whitened back and bosom, since you may get rheumatism in the Prompt entrance, as well as moonbeams. Before the footlights two comic men were bawling a duet; I knew they were comic because they had made their faces so repulsive; and the spirit moving her, the woman broke into lazy dance steps to the refrain. In the glare, and the distance she was pretty. As I watched, I felt instinctively for the hand of Rosalind; I knew the craving that was in her blood, and turned to meet her gaze. If she had been there, I think she would have liked me. I said, "Those who saw that would understand Rosalind; the tawdry figure dancing in the draught says everything!" That was why I brought the picture at home, to show it to you ... but somehow, all at once, I doubt whether you will understand any better than you did.
However I beg you to believe that on the morrow Rosalind accompanied Tattie Lascelles to a rehearsal with infinite zest. She had no right to accompany her, but a discussion was in progress when they arrived, and she passed unchallenged. Mr. Omee, the local manager, who stood in the pit, was talking to Mr. Quisby, the travelling manager, who stood on the stage. It appeared that owing to the pressure of Christmas traffic, the railway company had failed to dispatch the scenery.
"Well, but who has been to the station? What do they say?"
"I tell you the fools at this end don't know anything about it."
"What the bleak Helvellyn's the good of bringing the piece without any scenery?"
"Isn't there any scenery in your theatre?"
"I've told you what cloth you can have, my boy. That's the best we can do."
"It's no use offering us Hyde Park Corner when we want a blooming mosque! ... Well, let's have a look at it!"
Mr. Omee shouted for "Bates."
There was a lull, and then from unseen heights a voice announced that Bates had just "stepped outside."
Mr. Omee ramped in the pit.
The shouts for "Bates" were resumed—the rafters rang with the name of "Bates"—and after some minutes a discomfited working man slouched onto the stage, to be received with a volley of abuse. He was understood to retort that he was unable to be in two places at once, and parties who expected it might find someone else to do the work, that was the straight tip. Those nearest to him also learnt that he had a poor opinion of the job at its blessed best.
"Let's have that Hyde Park cloth," commanded Mr. Omee. "Come on, look alive, man—hurry up!"
"WhatIwant to know," grunted the low comedian, "is 'ow I'm to get that wheeze of mine into that song. That's what's bothering me."
"What song?" inquired Miss Lascelles.
"What song! Why, 'All the Winners.' I was going to say the Blithepoint football team was 'all the winners' in the match on Saturday, and now I'm told that Sweetbay beat 'em. My luck again! That queers my wheeze."
"Why not say," suggested Rosalind, "that thenext timeSweetbay is rash enough to play them, Blithepoint will be all the winners?"
"Wot ho!" said the low comedian, brightening. He added promptly, "Of course that's what I was thinking of doing! But I must see if I can get all that cackle into the tune. Where's the conductor of the blooming band?"
Presently the cloth was displayed. It was no faithful representation of Hyde Park Corner, but it was still less like a mosque, and the players stood about, and sneered, and muttered contemptuous criticisms. Miss Jinman said that in all her experience she had never known such disgraceful mismanagement before. She was to figure in her Turkish trousers in this scene, and she pointed morosely to the omnibuses painted outside the hospital.
"Clear the stage, please!" cried Mr. Quisby. "We'll just run through Miss Vavasour's scenes. Come on, Miss Vavasour—we don't want to be here all day!" He told her this indignantly, as if the delay in lowering the cloth were directly attributable to her. She was the girl who had been suddenly promoted to the leading part.
The manager of the theatre lounged from the pit into the stalls, where Rosalind sat now too. He chewed his cigar, and there was gloom on his face. This should have been a week of large receipts, but the outlook was unpromising.
Miss Vavasour was rendered additionally nervous by the fact that she had not had time to learn the lines. She advanced constrainedly, and said in a timid voice—
"'We are alone at last! Oh rapture!'"
"Speak up, my dear!" said Mr. Quisby. "Say it as if you meant it. 'Rapture!' Do a bit of a caper there, befetching!"
"'We are alone at last!'" repeated Miss Vavasour, with a mechanical jump. "'Oh rapture!'"
"Oh rats!" said the manager of the theatre. He turned to Rosalind—"Can she sing?" he asked.
"She sings even better than she acts," said Rosalind innocently.
"Good Lord!" groaned the manager. "Well, what are they waiting for now?"
It was the cue for an embrace, and Miss Vavasour was hanging forward to be clasped in the Tenor's arms, but the Tenor had a request to make—
"Mr. Quisby," he said, disregarding her, "I think it would be better if somebody read my part. I don't know how I shall get through to-night as it is—my cold is so severe."
"Oh, my sufferings!" muttered the manager of the theatre. "Now the Tenor's got a cold. This is going to be a great draw, this show is!"
"Don't you think you could just 'walk through' the 'business,' my boy?" Mr. Quisby asked. "The girl's a bit uneasy in the love scenes—she'll be all over the shop to-night if she don't know what you're going to do."
"I am really very ill," insisted the Tenor feebly; "I'm not fit to rehearse, I ought to be in bed."
"Oh, all right then," answered Mr. Quisby. He beckoned to the prompter. "Here, read the lines—give Miss Vavasour her cues. Do get on, Miss Vavasour, we shall be in the theatre till Doomsday if you don't wake up! 'We are alone at last'—go back, please."
"'We are alone at last. Oh rapture!'" faltered Miss Vavasour for the third time, with the mechanical jump.
"That's marked 'Kiss,'" said the prompter. He was a slovenly man with a dirty face.
"I know it is," snapped Miss Vavasour. "Do let's get to the next line!"
"I was 'elping yer," said the prompter, aggrieved. "If yer don't want no 'elp, sye so!" He read, "'My Prize! My Pearlikins!'"
"'Sometimes,'" continued Miss Vavasour, simulating maiden modesty. "'I wonder if it's all a dream.Whydo you love me? You might have married Delicia, who has millions—Iam a very poor girl.'"
"You're a very poor actress too," said Mr. Omee under his breath.
"'Why do I love yer, sweetheart?'" mumbled the prompter. "'Your question reminds me of what the apple-blossom said to the moon.'"
"Band cue!" shouted Mr. Quisby. "Have you got that, there in the orchestra?—'The Apple-blossom and the Moon,' song! Go on, Mr.—er—Song over. Get on with the lines."
"Excuse me!" exclaimed the Tenor, reappearing. "That's a cue for the limelight. I don't think it has been marked; I didn't get it at the dress rehearsal."
"Oh yes, it is marked," declared the prompter; "Imarked it." He referred resentfully to the typescript. "'Moonlight'! There it is, in its proper plice."
"Its proper place ison me," said the Tenor.
"Well, we'll see it's all right to-night," said Mr. Quisby, with impatience. "If you're so ill, you had better get home and rest your voice, hadn't you?"
"I should be only too glad to be at home," rejoined the Tenor stiffly. "I just called attention to the matter for the sake of the scene.... Interests of the Show at heart!"
"Where do I speak from now, Mr. Quisby?" murmured Miss Vavasour.
"You're on the balcony, my dear—up left. 'And now ta-ta, my Romeo'! Get on with it, get on!"
"One moment, Miss Vavasour!" put in the Tenor, coming back. "You mustn't speak too soon, there; I expect an encore! Take your cue from me."
She nodded helplessly. "'And now ta-ta, my Romeo.'"
"''T is not the nightingale, let's have a lark!'" read the prompter. "'Come out to supper!——
'For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my 'ead——'"
"Come to cues!" said Mr. Quisby, stamping.
"'When 'e bestrides the liezy-piecing clouds,And siles upon the bosom of the air,'"
gabbled the prompter.
"'Bosom of the air'!" bellowed Mr. Quisby. "Pick up your cues, Miss Vavasour, for Gawd's sake!"
"I beg your pardon, I didn't hear it, Mr. Quisby," she stammered.
"Well, then, listen, my girl! What do you suppose we're here for? 'Bosom of the air'—caper down centre. Lightly—lightly! Great Scot! not like that. You come down like a sack o' coals."
"The girl has no experience," remarked Miss Jinman in a deep undertone to all about her.
"Go back," shouted Mr. Quisby. "'Bosom of the air,' now again! What have you to say as you run down?"
"I forget," she whimpered.
"What's the line, Mr.—er—you?"
"I—I'm just looking to see," said the prompter.
"Looking to see?" yelled Mr. Quisby, furiously, throwing up his arms. "Upon my life and soul it's maddening! What's your business, what are you engaged as, what is it you're supposed to be?Areyou the prompter, or are you not? Good — ——— is it asking too much of a man with the book in his hand to follow the lines? I've got the whole weight of the production on me, I've done the work of twenty men, I'm wearing myself out—and nobody takes the trouble to study a part, or to read the 'scrip! Ladies and gentlemen, the ensanguined rehearsal is dismissed, while the prompter looks for the line!"
"'Supper? Oh, it will be a merry evening!' read the prompter, sulkily.
"Very well then! Now, Miss Vavasour! let's have it."
"I think it's v-v-very hard on me," said Miss Vavasour, beginning to cry; "I've only had the p-part three days."
"Come, come, do your best! You've nothing to cry about, I've been very patient with you. 'Supper? Oh, itwillbe a merry evening!' Trip downpretty; speak as you come."
"Veryhard on me," she sobbed; "I think it's m-m-most unfeeling!"
"Bring me a chair!" called Mr. Quisby to no one in particular. "Look here, my girl, I'm going to see you do it if we have to stop on the stage till the doors open. Understand? If I keep you here till the curtain rises, I'll see you do it! 'Bosom of the air!' Now take it up sharp."
"A bit ofallright, keeping the Company 'ere to see a novice taught her business, Idon'tthink," grumbled the low comedian.
Miss Vavasour, still sobbing, drooped to where the balcony was to be imagined. She sniffed violently, and, with an effort at sprightly grace, scuttled down the stage again.
"'Supper? Oh, itwillbe a merry evening!' she quavered.
"It'll be a merry evening to-morrow—about sixpence in the house!" growled the manager of the theatre. He caught Rosalind's eye. "Are the rest of you as good as this, my dear?" he said bitterly.
"Oh yes," said cheerful Rosalind, "I think you'll like us all!"
Presently Miss Lascelles wanted to see where she was to dress, and with a heartful of memories Rosalind explored with her. The pencilled lists of names on most of the doors were lengthy, but Miss Lascelles was to share a room with no one but Miss Vavasour this week, so she was jubilant, and had been in no hurry to annex a gas-burner. As a rule the ladies scamper on Monday morning to secure the best places.
The room was very comfortably furnished.
"Oh my!" said Miss Lascelles, enraptured.
"Oh dear!" said Lady Darlington, disappointed. "Why, there's a full length mirror! Where's the single washstand for five people? Where's the one chair, broken? Why, you've got two rugs! This is a blow, Tattie!"
Miss Lascelles was doing coon steps before the mirror. "Is the rehearsal hateful enough for you?"
"It's a dream of delight," said Rosalind.
But even she was rather tired of it when it finished at five o'clock.
It was nearly half-past five when they reached their lodging, and they were glad to hear from Mrs. Cheney that "the kittle was on the bile." At a quarter to seven Miss Lascelles had to hurry to the theatre again.
Rosalind went later. The wind had risen, and on the pier she had to fight against it. The lamps streaked a heaving sea. The little wooden theatre was fairly full, and a few Christmas trippers in the balcony were comporting themselves with less decorum than prevails in Blithepoint as a rule. Knowing what she knew of affairs behind the curtain, Rosalind heard the whistles with misgiving. She feared that if the whistlers found the entertainment meagre, they were likely to create entertainment for themselves.
However, they listened to the opening chorus with polite attention. It was surprising how attractive many of the chorus ladies had become. They represented the seamen of the BattleshipDeadly Oyster, and wore sailors' jackets and trousers made of silk—or a material that passed for it. Some of the seamen also wore paste necklaces. They sang that there was "No life so jolly as Jack's," and when one watched their saucy gambols, and remembered that they were actually paid to be there, it looked as if there could be no life so jolly as a chorus girl's.
As it happened, the first to provoke dissatisfaction was the Tenor. He had been refused permission to beg indulgence for his cold, but resolving that the Audience should understand that they were not hearing him to advantage, he kept laying his hand on his chest, with an air of suffering. It made him a depressing figure; and when he exclaimed, "'Beware, my temper's hot!'" a humourist in the balcony cried, "How's your poultice?"
A man in the pit said "Hush!" but several persons giggled, and the humourist was stimulated to further witticisms. Other humourists began to envy him his successes; as the piece proceeded, the interruptions were frequent. Once the low comedian attempted a repartee, but it came too late in the evening to turn the scale; the malcontents had grown spiteful, and as a rejoinder he was hissed. His companions stared at one another haggardly. "Behind," they stood quaking, dreading the cues that would recall them to the stage.
At every exit they came off gasping, "The brutes! the pigs! Oh, what awickedhouse it is!"
The "house" would have been astonished at the emotion displayed, at the "extraordinary sensitiveness of such people." To the Stalls there were "Just a few noisy young fellows upstairs who made jokes." Indeed it seemed a long time between the jokes to the Stalls; they wore an air of superior detachment, but they were secretly amused. Only Rosalind understood. Rosalind felt faint.
Miss Lascelles had been accepted by the Balcony while they were still good humoured, and she was among those who escaped contumely; but Miss Jinman's record availed her little. Derisive cheers greeted her every entrance, and a lifetime on the boards could not save her from the sickness of the senses which attacks a player who is being "guyed." As for Miss Vavasour, she trembled as if she had ague when a youth mimicked her high notes in her solo, and on her bloodless face, while she sang, the make-up stood out in patches, like paint on the cheeks of a corpse. At the conclusion of the song she clung hysterically to Tattie Lascelles in the wings.
When the end was reached, the Audience rose murmuring that it was a "silly piece," and "not worth going to"—they "shouldn't think it would be a success!" No one but Rosalind suspected the despair that was hidden by the curtain.
She made her way to the stage-door. Tedious as the performance had been, a number of young men had preceded her, and were assembling to address the chorus ladies when they came out. (Thirty were waiting there that night when the Chorus came out at last.) An old woman—a dresser—was hurrying in with two glasses containing whisky from the refreshment room. One of the young men asked her jauntily if she would take a message for him to "the sixth girl on the right." She said she was in a hurry, and pushed the door open. As the door-keeper wasn't there, to be obstructive, Rosalind followed her inside.
Many of the players were in the flaring passage. They had not begun to doff their costumes yet; they were lingering in groups, a tinselled, nerveless crowd with harassed eyes. Miss Vavasour sat crying on a clothes hamper; Miss Jinman was waiting weakly for her whisky. As it appeared, her gaze fell on the huddled girl; "Here, have half of this, child!" she said gently. The brunette with golden hair exclaimed, "No, no, take yours, Miss Jinman; Queenie can have half of mine!" Everybody kept casting anxious glances in the direction of the stage, where voices could be heard disputing.
"Poor old Tat!" murmured Rosalind.
Now Miss Lascelles, as we know, had had less than the majority to unhinge her, but so infectious was the atmosphere, so easily swayed are some of these "extraordinarily sensitive" people of the theatre, that as Rosalind's arm was slipped round her waist, she immediately burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
"Cheer up," said Rosalind. "It'll go all right after a few more rehearsals."
"I shall be b-better directly," gulped Miss Lascelles. "D-don't mind me. I'm a fool, but I can't help it; I'm broke up!"
"We're all of us broke up," groaned Miss Jinman. "Did you ever see such a house as it was? In all my experience I never saw anything like it! What were they saying as they came out? Do you think we shall go on, my dear?"
"Isha'n't be kept, anyhow," wailed Miss Vavasour. "Mr. Quisby's been bullying me as if it was all my fault. I shall be out of a shop again! And I did hope I was settled till the spring—I don't know what I shall do, I'm sure!"
"Where is he?" inquired Rosalind.
"That's him, quarrelling with Mr. Omee there," said Miss Lascelles. "Mr. Omee says he won't let the piece go on to-morrow night."
"Not go on?"
"They say he says so," put in the demi-blonde. "That's all gas—he'd have to shut the theatre; he won't do that."
"If you askme," said the low comedian, taking part in the conference gloomily, "it puts the kybosh on the tour. We may as well pack up our props, and git. There's no good health forMiss Kiss-and-Tellafter to-night's show."
"Git?" demanded Miss Jinman, "Git where? I shall have my rights; I've got a contract."
"Take it to your Uncle's!" said the low comedian. "See what he'll lend you on it. If you ask me, the Syndicate's a wrong 'un. If we strike it lucky, we'll get our fares; and if we don't strike it lucky, we can travel on our luggage. I see it sticking out a foot!"
A shudder ran through the players. They gathered about him dumbly.
"We can all claim a fortnight's salary in lieu of notice," asserted Miss Jinman, rallying. "That's the Law. It's the Rule of the Profession."
The company perked up a little. They turned their eyes to Miss Jinman.
"So I've been led to believe," said the low comedian. "And in such circs the pros always get it, Idon'tthink! Claim? Oh, we can claim! We'll all get fat claiming, won't we? You're better off to claim from the Post Office than from a Syndicate—at all events you do know where St. Martin's le Grandis."
The company collapsed.
"The long and the short of it," he continued, "is that we're out with a stumour of a piece.Whydidn't it go? Is there anything wrong withus? No! a jolly clever crowd, if you askme. The piece has got no stamina—" "stamina" was not the word he used—"that's what's the matter; and that 'Iyde Park Corner cloth settled us. I'll lay anyone 'ere ten to one that the tour dries up, and the Syndicate does a guy. 'Oo's Quisby?"
"Quisby?" they gasped. "'Who's Quisby?'"
"Quisby!" repeated the low comedian emphatically; "I say, 'Oo's Quisby? I'll lay anybody 'ere ten to one that Quisby calls us to-morrow to say he ain't responsible. Now? I wish all Syndicates were in 'ell."
The dispute between the powers had ended, and suddenly the prompter's voice rang through the passage. He bawled, "Everybody on the stige, please! Principals and Chorus are wanted on the stige!"
The eyes met for a moment, and then the players trooped away, with sinking hearts. The cold, bare stage was in shadow, for the floats and battens had been extinguished, and the only light was shed by a single burner of the T-piece. By the T-piece Mr. Quisby stood, his back to the dark emptiness of the auditorium. The prompter was still heard calling in the distance;—
"Everybody on the stige, please! Principals and Chorus on the stige!"
Shivering, they flocked there, some in their plumes and spangles, others already in their shabby street clothes; many were in a state of transition—the faces daubed with grease, the undergarments and naked necks revealed by hasty ulsters. Nobody spoke. When the last comer had scrambled to the crowd, all looked at Mr. Quisby. The suspense that held them mute was pitiable.
Outside, the thirty young men had collected to accost the merry chorus girls.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Quisby, "there will be no performance to-morrow." He forced a hearty air. "I'm going to talk to you like a pal. Things look a bit rocky, but we must hope for the best. I won't disguise from you that there may be no tour. Now you all know as much asIdo—theremaybe no tour. Whether there is, or not, I've no doubt we shall all get what's due to us. I hope we shall, I'm sure—God knowsIcan't afford to lose what they owe me!" He made a slight pause, to let this sink. "As soon as I hear from London what the Management intends to do, we'll put our heads together again. You worked nobly to-night, nobly—one and all! Some of you ought to be in London, getting your thirty, and forty, quid a week! If the thing's a frost, it won't be the fault of the artists, and I mean to let the Management know it!"
"What Management?" cried the low comedian. "'Aveyouleft off being manager all of a sudden?"
"Ladies and gentlemen, as you're all aware, the Management is a Syndicate," Mr. Quisby proceeded with difficulty. "If this wasmycrowd, I should talk very different. Do you know what I should say if this was my crowd? I should say, 'Between you and I, I'm a bit doubtful of the piece—that's straight!—but I've got a first-class company of artists, and by George I mean to keep 'em!' I should say, 'If I can't pull this piece together, then I'll cast the whole blessed crowd for another!' That's what I should say ifIwas manager. But I'm not. No, I'm one of you. We're all in the same boat. I'm engaged at a salary, like yourselves. Still"—he smeared the perspiration round his lying lips—"still it's always darkest before dawn. There's a silver lining to every cloud, and we may find as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. Mr. Omee won't have the piece, and—er—you're all to clear your props out of the theatre first thing in the morning; but there are plenty of other theatres in the kingdom! We must stick together. Where there's a will, there's a way! We must stick together, like Englishmen in the hour of trouble all the world over, and—er, er—be loyal to the show! Ladies and gentlemen—Boys and girls!—Mr. Omee is waiting to see me in his office. That's all."
"Well, he couldn't have spoken any fairer," many of the poor, wretched women said to one another as they lagged through the forsaken streets.
Indeed it was Mr. Omee whom the Company censured—Mr. Omee who had been inhuman enough to banish a worthless performance from his theatre. "Never," said Miss Jinman, "in all her experience had she known artists to be so grossly insulted." Mr. Quisby's position might be ambiguous, Mr. Quisby might be shirking his responsibilities; not to put too fine a point upon it, Mr. Quisby might be a rogue. But he had paid them compliments—and Mr. Omee had shut his doors against them. Mr. Omee was the innocent person whom they execrated and reviled.
In the quarter where the "professional apartments" of Blithepoint are most numerous, the landladies looked anxious in the morning. On every doorstep in Corporation Road, and half way down Alfreton Terrace, the news was known by nine o'clock. The lodgers were obliged to fence with searching questions at breakfast, and many of the houris heating curling-tongs in the parlour-fire were told that it would "save trouble if they got in their dinner themselves."
Towards midday the Company straggled off the pier with baskets and parcels, and the baggageman was busy collecting the clothes-hampers. The boards ofLittle Miss Kiss-and-Tellhad gone from the turnstiles, and later, bill-stickers came along and splashed up advertisements of a stopgap. The rejected comedians stood on the Parade and eyed the work morosely. They had hoped the theatre would have to be closed. Miss Jinman said, "It was very strange, to say the least; she didn't understand how the bills had been printed since last night! It looked toheras if Mr. Omee had beenplaying them false from the start!"
Then striking proof of Mr. Omee's perfidy was forthcoming, his brutal nature was revealed to the full—he offered to make the stranded performers by whom he had lost money, a present of their fares if they liked to return to their homes. "Ah," said the Chorus, "thatshows what a dirty trick he served us!" "He has exposed his handthere," said Miss Jinman; "wants to get us out of the town!"
And Mr. Quisby, who meant to pay them nothing, but was endeavouring to make use of them in Slocombe-on-the-Swamp the following week before he decamped, told them there was a reviving prospect of a three months' tour.
So not more than a third of the Company profited by Mr. Omee's generosity, and the others warned them that they were being very unwise.
And by this time the tidings of the disaster had spread from Corporation Road and Alfreton Terrace as far as the Grand Hotel, where it provided languid amusement, and the plight of the players was known to all the visitors on the Front. Including Conrad.
But it was not until Friday, December 26th, that one of those incidents which may occur to anybody associated him with the matter.
It had been misty since morning, and towards the close of day the fog deepened. When he left a house where he had been lunching with a man, he took the wrong turning. So far as he was able to see at all, he saw that he had blundered into a neighbourhood which was strange to him. A humble neighbourhood, apparently, with nothing of a watering-place about it. This being Boxing-day, the little shops to which he came were shuttered, and owing to the weather, few people were abroad. He wandered amid dim desertion. Then as he paused, hesitating, two girls emerged suddenly from the fog, and stopped before him.
"Oh!" exclaimed one of them, "could you tell us where Gandy's the greengrocer's is?"
"I am so sorry," said Conrad, "I can't. Can you direct me to the Parade?"
She answered absurdly that he was "coming away from it," though he was standing still. "It's over there," she said; "you go down there, and take the first on the left, and keep straight on. You can't miss it."
"Ihavemissed it," demurred Conrad. "Thank you for rescuing me. I wish I could direct you to Gandy's the greengrocer's in return."
The other girl had not spoken yet, but now she said—
"Oh, never mind, thanks, we shall find it; they say it's quite near. But it's too dark to make out the names."
It was also too dark to make out her features, but her voice was delicious, and if the fog didn't flatter her, she was dowered with the eyes that he most ardently admired. He was all at once sensible of a keen interest in the whereabouts of the greengrocer's.
"That seems to be a shop at the corner; I'll go over and see what it is!" he said promptly. But it was a general dealer's, and he came back not displeased.
"Bother! Wemustfind it!" cried the first girl.
"May I come and help you?" he asked.
"Oh, you can come if you like," she said; and added as a pure concession to formality, "It's awf'ly kind of you."
So they all proceeded through the fog.
"It's such a nuisance everything being shut to-day," the first girl went on. "That's why we want Gandy's—they say Gandy's live there, and might oblige us. We can ring 'em up."
"Fruit?" he inquired.
"No," she said; "flowers—violets. We want some for the concert to-night. Are you going?"
"Certainly I am," said Conrad. "What concert? I haven't heard about it?"
"Oh well, it was only settled this morning. We're giving a concert at the Victoria Hall—The Little Miss Kiss-and-TellCompany. It's to help us all. Mr. Quisby—our manager—only let me know just now. I'm going to sing a 'flower-song,' and I want some 'button-holes' to throw among the Audience; I can't do the song without."
"Throw one to me," said Conrad.
"I will," she promised. "We ought to get some people in, as it's bank holiday, don't you think so? And if the show 'goes,' we can have the hall again to-morrow. The tickets are only sixpence and a shilling. Did you see us on the pier?"
"No," he said, "I wasn't here then—I was just too late. How many tickets can you let me have?"
"Oh, you'll get them at the door! we haven't got any. You'll really come, won't you?"
"I'll come if I miss my dinner to get there," he vowed. "WhereisVictoria Hall?"
"It's—I don't know the name of the street. It's near the station. Anybody'll tell you. We begin at eight o'clock."
This was all very well, but the Girl of the Voice had not spoken again, and he wished she would say something.
"Shall I hear you sing, too?" he asked, looking across at her. He looked across at her just as they approached a lamp-post, and his most sanguine hopes were realised. He found her adorable.
"No,Iam not in the programme," said Rosalind.
"Here's a policeman!" cried Miss Lascelles. "Can you tell us where Gandy's the greengrocer's is?" she begged again.
The constable did not know, and, official though useless, took a long time to say so. More intelligently he remarked that it was "Nasty weather for Boxing-day," and Conrad gave him a half-crown. The next instant they deciphered the name of "Gandy" themselves.
"What a stupid policeman!" exclaimed Rosalind, pouting. She pulled the bell, and glanced at Conrad. Conrad happened to be glancing at her. "Your troubles are nearly over," she said with a smile.
"I am not impatient," owned Conrad.
There were descending footsteps, and a woman opened the door.
He said ingratiatingly, "I am sorry to disturb you, but we're trying to get some flowers. Can you let me have some?"
"Flowers?" said the woman. She had a vacant stare.
"A few bunches of violets," Rosalind explained.
"Y-e-s," murmured the woman. She made a long pause. "We 'aven't got no flowers now," she said. "N—no. I'm sorry we can't oblige you."
"Can you tell us where we can get some?" put in Miss Lascelles sharply.
"No——no, I couldn't say, I'm sure," faltered the woman.... "There's Peters' opperzite—p'rapstheymight be able to oblige you."
"Do you know where there's a florist's?" questioned Conrad.
"Florist's?" She shook her head. "N—no, I can't say as I do—not one as is likely to be open to-day."
"Let's try Peters'!" they said; and scurried across the road.
Here they pulled without effect; the bell yielded to them immoderately, but no tinkle came. They regarded one another, discouraged.
"You had better leave us to our fate," sighed Rosalind.
"Are you dismissing me?" His tone was reproachful.
"Releasing you," she said, in her best St. James' manner.
"My chains are flowers," said he ornately.
"I wish you'd give 'em to me!" said Tattie Lascelles.
"You shall have them before we part. Ladies, I have an inspiration! You know the way to the Parade—let's go down there and get a fly. Then we've nothing more to do—the responsibility's the flyman's. We'll take him by the hour, and make him drive us about Blithepoint till we find a florist's. Is it carried?"
"Unanimously!" cried Rosalind. "Right about face, quick march!"
And there was a belated fly dozing by the pier. When the man had recovered from his astonishment at being hailed, he grew quite brisk, and developed ideas. He suggested "Mitchell's," and drove them to a fashionable florist's in the Mall. Nothing could have been happier. Mr. Mitchell accepted their apologies, and lit the gas as amiably as if bank-holidays were of no importance. Bountifully he brought forward his best for them, and his best was as beauteous as it was expensive.
The warm, perfumed air was agreeable after the fog, and Rosalind among the azaleas was divine. (There are few keener pleasures than taking out a nice woman, and spending money on her; and it is unnecessary that one should go out fond of the woman—it's so easy to get fond of her in the process.) "Oh no, really!" she protested—and she meant it, for Miss Lascelles was already laden—"No, none for me, really!"
"Just these," pleaded Conrad; "they're so pretty—it's a shame to leave them behind." He put them in her hands.
"I'd like you to see some roses I've got here, sir," said the proprietor; "it's not often you can see roses like those."
"Exquisite," assented Conrad.... "And just a few roses, won't you?"
"Well one, then," she said succumbing.
"We'll have some roses!" commanded Conrad magnificently. "And those look nice—those lilies-of-the-valley. You might give us some lilies-of-the-valley, will you?"
"I'll have nothing else," she told him in her first undertone. The woman's first undertone is so sweet.
"A few?" he entreated. "Yououghtto wear lilies-of-the-valley! I wish you were going to sing to-night."
"Do you?"
"I shall see you there, sha'n't I?"
She nodded. "Yes, I shall be in 'front.'"
"I'm so glad I met you!"
He thought of taking them in to the hotel to tea, but her companion's toilette had been very hasty.
The fly was as fragrant as a flower show when they drove away. She buried her fair face in the blossoms he had given to her. It's permissible, but it may stir the man's imagination. It stirred Conrad's; he had rarely wanted a kiss from a woman so much. In the scented dusk, as their gaze met, her eyes were luminous—like stars.
The fly rattled into Corporation Road, and he wondered whether she was going to ask him if he would 'come in.' The fly stopped.
"Au revoir," he said. "Victoria Hall? I have the name right?"
"Won't you come and help us put the flowers in water?" she suggested.
It was of interest to see her without a hat. When she took off her coat he was captivated. He stayed about ten minutes, and the other girl didn't go out of the room. Both went to the door with him when he left.
"Eight o'clock, then?" he said.
"Eight o'clock."
"Whom shall I ask for if I don't see you?"
"'Miss Daintree;' but you're sure to see me."
"You won't be late?"
"No, I shall be there when it begins. Good-bye—and thanks!"
"Oh!—Good-bye."
He saw her smile to him again from the step—and the cab turned.
"What a lark! I say, isn't he mashed on you! Do you like his moustache? Hasn't he got lovely teeth?" exclaimed Tattie in the passage.
"Y-e-s.... He's rather nice," said Rosalind.