XXIV
Tobed—to dream, but not to sleep. The situation that shaped itself so fantastically to Girlie’s mind in the tardy hours of a long and wakeful night was almost more than she could bear. Here was the last straw. Playing with human souls is a perilous game. In drifting at another’s bidding into such a position she had not reckoned upon the cost to herself. She was not of the stuff of which the real adventuress is made. The whole affair was really an outrage upon her deepest instincts. She had neither the cynicism, the native impudence nor “the sense of the theater” to keep the thing going. Somewhere about the hour of four, when the night was at its darkest and her courage was very low, she resolved to make an end. With remorse inflicting such torments upon her there seemed nothing else to do. She spent the rest of the night feverishly planning a way out. None there was, alas, that could hope to spare her the tragic weight of humiliation, and worse than humiliation she had so honestly earned; but as far as possible she must defend herself against a public exposure.
Until getting-up time came she strove with this problem. But she was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. Daylight stealing into the cellof the condemned could not have been more unwelcome than the faint rose of dawn creeping through the blinds of King Edward’s bedroom. Girlie did not know how to face another day. The matutinal cup of tea, brought to her at eight o’clock by a very trim housemaid, found her in an abject state of “nerves.” She had reached the conclusion by this time that her only hope lay in immediate flight. By some miracle Mr. Jupp had not yet denounced her, but she felt sure it could only be a question of hours. And even if the miracle went on and he still refrained from doing so, the position into which she had allowed herself to drift with Lord Duckingfield was quite unendurable. She was now haunted by the thought of this good and simple man for whom she had a real regard.
Yes, she must get away. But where could she go? To The Laurels? Only too clearly did she realize that there was nothing to hope for from that quarter—at any rate if she flagrantly disobeyed her instructions. Besides in her present state of mental and moral weakness she really went in fear of her Evil Genius.
After a time her mind began to run upon an aunt in Scotland. Now that she had wantonly forfeited her only means of getting a living, that austere dame, an elder sister of her mother’s, whom she remembered but faintly, was the only relation or friend to whom she could turn. Her recollection of Aunt Alice was dim and it was not agreeable. Aunt Alice lived a longway off, she was the wife of a struggling doctor with a large family of her own, and the best her niece could hope for was an astonished and grudging welcome. Still there seemed no alternative now.
Wrought upon by the need for action, Girlie got out of bed and took her purse from the left hand drawer of the dressing table. In a state of nervous excitement she hunted for the address of Aunt Alice. Presently she was rewarded with the sight of an old letter bearing the postmark “Inverness.” Her heart sank. She knew nothing of Inverness, except that it was somewhere in the north of Scotland.
Further examination of the inside of the purse revealed that her means of getting to Inverness amounted to just two pounds, five shillings and ninepence. Such a meager sum, even if it allowed her to get so far, which at the present cost of travel was very doubtful, would provide absolutely nothing to live upon. That fact alone seemed to make the project hopeless. For one weak instant, in the face of this rebuff, her mind reverted to Lady Elfreda’s jewels, to which she had access. But the thought—if thought it could be called—was at once dismissed. Not for a moment could any scheme of that kind be entertained. All the same she indulged in a forlorn little sigh as the fact came home to her once more that nature had not designed her for the adventuresspur sang.
In spite, however, of such a lack of means her mind continued to run upon Inverness. Throughout an uncomfortable,appetiteless breakfast the thought of that distant haven obsessed her. She managed to nibble a piece of toast under the eye of the attentive and solicitous Lord Duckingfield, who had so assiduously helped her to this simple fare with a comment upon its meagerness. This morning, as every morning, he was the soul of kindness and courtesy. But she was quite unable to talk to him; in fact, she did not dare to look in his direction. It was a great relief when at last she was able to carry Bradshaw to the good log fire in the hall.
There, upon the scene of the previous evening’s tragi-comedy she delved further into the problem of transporting herself from Clavering St. Mary’s to the north of Scotland.
One important fact in regard to a very long and tortuous journey was soon established. The sum of two pounds five shillings and ninepence rendered the project hopeless.
Bradshaw in hand, she was still trying to meet a not unexpected facer, when a voice of rather delicately reproachful curiosity came from over her shoulder. It was that of the hostess and Girlie felt a tremor of guilty dismay.
“Not thinking of leaving us, are you, Lady Elfreda?”
Quickly and nervously Girlie replied that she was not.
“Of course you’re not,” Mrs. Minever laughed. “Untilafter Tuesday at all events. You have only three days now.” Mrs. Minever laughed a second time, perhaps a shade sardonically. “How relieved you’ll be! I am sure you have found us very dull. But when you get to Amory Towers you’ll be able to play piquet with Mrs. Lancelot. I hope you are a good player. Mrs. Lancelot, I believe, is very proud of her piquet.”
The yellow chrysanthemum lady was a little inclined to quiz. She was the soul of good nature, but Girlie’s aloof detachment from her surroundings invited criticism. The manner of the chief guest was so constrained, so unnatural, that the only explanation was “side.” Evidently this daughter of Lord Carabbas had such a sense of her position that she did not find it easy to mix with other people on terms of equality. Yet when the worst had been said of the yellow chrysanthemum lady she was really the least censorious of women. Besides, she was not in a mood for chaff this morning, no matter how fully it was deserved or how much the occasion called for it. Mrs. Minever, in point of fact, was graver this morning, more resolutely serious than the guest had yet seen her. In Mrs. Minever’s own words, “a very provoking thing had happened.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Minever in a fluttered tone, “you must please tell your maid to be sure and keep your jewels under lock and key. One of my rings—a rather valuable one—has disappeared. And you heard what Mrs. Lancelot said yesterday? I’m afraidthere is not the slightest doubt that a gang of burglars is at work in the neighborhood.”
Readily enough Girlie promised to keep her jewels under lock and key.
“Of course it may be some one in the house. We are always changing our servants. My husband is consulting the police.”
Girlie’s heart sank. She did not need to be very wise or very clever to foresee the bearing such a circumstance would have upon her flight. If she bolted now, without ostensible cause, the mere fact would be terribly against her. Even as it was, when her imposture was revealed, she felt sure it would go hard with her; yet with these deeper grounds for even blacker suspicion, she was likely to be faced with a charge she was wholly unable to meet.
Her nerve was badly shaken, but this new turn of events gave her a sudden distaste for the half-formed plan. Beyond the crude fact that she simply lacked the money to undertake the journey there was now an even stronger reason why she should continue to stand her ground.
All the same the standing of her ground promised to be a soul testing process. It was by no means certain that her courage would hold out. For one thing the mere sight of Lord Duckingfield had the power to involve her in a perfect orgy of conflicting emotions. If the look of him, gravely polite, rather anxiously formal, meant anything, he was clearly waiting for hisanswer. Why had she not had the strength of mind to let him know the previous evening that he sought the impossible? What was the good of having perceptions and fine feelings, if one did not act in accordance with them?
Then as if the unhappy affair of Lord Duckingfield was not enough, there was the perennial question of Mr. Montagu Jupp. Why he had not denounced her already, heaven alone could tell!
The Deputy was far from suspecting the simple truth that it had not yet begun to dawn upon Montagu that this was not the lady he had met. Having drawn the long bow so freely himself he was not able to criticize her closely; his own impression of the youngest girl of “old man Carabbas” was decidedly vague. Still it was to be supposed that a whole day devoted to the ill-starred “Lady of Laxton” would have done much to enlighten him. As a matter of fact it did not. For Girlie, at the nadir of her fortunes, was now inspired with the courage of despair. Moved to a strange recklessness by the sheer weight of her woes, she rose beyond the level of herself.
This unexpected result was due in part, no doubt, to Mr. Montagu Jupp. That gentleman certainly knew his business. And at rehearsals he had a way with him. Not only had he the art of smoothing tempers and generally “oiling the wheels,” but the secret was his also of evolving order out of chaos. The incompetence of Sir Toby and the insubordination of severalmembers of the cast had produced such a hopeless tangle in the improvised theater in the east wing of the house that for the time being even the inefficiency of the leading lady had been overshadowed. But as soon as Montagu set his hand to the plow “The Lady of Laxton” took a decided turn for the better.
Very well that it was so. There were but three days now to the performance in the Assembly Rooms at Clavering, and by all the portents “the most dismal fiasco of modern times,” in the gloomy and mordant words of Garden was in prospect. But Montagu was no common man. He had a faculty for “sizing things up,” moreover he knew how to get them done. Privately he was of opinion that Sir Toby’s masterpiece beat all records in the way of sheer ineptitude, but wild horses would not have dragged it out of him. Besides he had been too long and too intimately associated with the English theater in all its aspects to let a little matter of that kind upset him. None knew better than he what could be really achieved in the way of human imbecility. And after all, as Montagu argued with himself, the players were but a scratch company of extremely amateurish amateurs, while the audience at the best he described as “C3 Provincial.”
Girlie was not a “quick study,” but she was an extremely conscientious one. Long hours of application had made her absolutely word perfect in her part. And there indeed she had a decided “pull” over the others. Not one made the least pretence of being wordperfect; several of them could hardly be said to have looked at their lines. For instance, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling was a particularly flagrant offender; but one and all were animated by a robust conviction that “they would be all right on the night”—in this case on Tuesday afternoon.
By comparison with these temper-trying people, Girlie shone. She really did know her words, and although her manner of delivering them left much to be desired, she was docile, intelligent, almost painfully anxious to learn, so that on a first acquaintance and superficially regarded, Mr. Jupp was inclined to consider her “the pick of the lot.” But as he confided to Garden, over a pre-luncheon cocktail, “She was not exactly a Siddons.”
In truth, however, Mr. Jupp, although he was far from guessing the fact, had already exercised a kind of hypnotic influence upon the leading lady. His natural gift “of bringing out the best in people” had had an even greater effect upon Girlie than upon the less impressionable members of the cast. Unconsciously she had at once responded to the magnetic influence of this king among “producers.” And yet the process may not have been wholly unconscious after all.
The poor Deputy was at the end of her tether. Not knowing which way to turn, not knowing what to do, convinced that at any moment the fate she so richly deserved must overtake her, she threw in all her reserves. She abandoned herself entirely to the businessof the hour. Not daring to look before or after, she was like one under sentence of death. Before being cast forever into outer darkness, her courage seemed to make one last spasmodic flare.
In the course of that day there were two long rehearsals. But Girlie threw so much spirit into her acting and she was on such terms with the words of a diffuse and thankless part, that for the time being her tragic inefficiency was veiled. By comparison with the casual, imperceptive, bored people whose duty it was to play up to her, the leading lady actually shone.
“Yes, old bye—the best of the bunch,” Montagu confided to the incredulous Garden over a well-earned whisky and soda during an interval for tea. “Not saying much of course. She can’t act for sour apples but she doestry.”
“But, my son”—Garden the incredulous, to whom sooner or later all secrets were revealed, knew only too well the weakness of his man—“that ass over there said that you said this little filly could play all the ingénues off the West End stage.”
“Did I?” Mr. Jupp spoke with the innocence of a rather large size in cherubs, whom he so much resembled.
“You did.”
“Well, old bye,” Montagu fondled a pendulous chin, “one says so many damn silly things in the course of a lifetime, doesn’t one?”
Garden was fain to admit that it might be so, butof all the foolishness ever perpetrated Montagu Jupp’s original dictum upon Lady Elfreda’s acting was “the terminus.”
All the same, to the general astonishment, including that of Sir Toby that hardened optimist, by the end of a long and strenuous day the stock of Lady Elfreda was showing a decided tendency to rise. Those who had worked with the leading lady at her worst, and a pretty hopeless worst it had seemed, could not understand the change. They resented the excellence of her memory—she actually knew all her stupid words by heart!—yet beyond everything else they resented the new air of intelligence that had come upon her.
The spirit and the interest she had been able to display in response to the demands of Mr. Montagu Jupp told heavily against her now. The others bitterly recalled her long week of silence, of indifference to her fellow guests, of her strange ignorance of every subject on which their tongues had run. They were now forced to conclude that all this had been a pose. It was a new form of “side.” Moreover it was a form so subtle that it was very difficult to meet. Lady Elfreda’s pretense of not knowing anything about anything was pure affectation in the eyes of those whose aim in life was to know everything about everything and not be ashamed of saying so. And they would not be able to forgive it. It was a subtle way of “scoring them off.”
“Sidey little cat, I hate her,” thus Mrs. Spencer-Jobling in the depths of her heart. “Anyway, onTuesday, with a bit of luck, I think I ought to be able to kill her big scene in the third act.”
A mad world! As soon as Lady Elfreda began to show signs of leading her comrades out of the slough of despond in which for a whole week they had been engulfed, her unpopularity crystallized into virile personal dislike. Henceforward, among the ladies of the house party at any rate, she was never mentioned by name; she was always referred to as the S. L. C.