'_Telegraph_, mum,' said a voice.
Victoria started up from the big armchair with a suddenness that almost
shot her out of it. It was the brother of the one in Portsea Place and
shared its constitutional objection to being sat upon. It was part of
the 'sweet' which Miss Briggs had divided with Mrs Bell when their
grandmother died.
'Thanks, Miss Briggs,' said Victoria. 'By the way, I don't think that
egg is quite fresh. And why does Hetty put the armchair in front of the
cupboard every day so that I can't open it?'
'The slut, I don't see there's anything the matter with it,' remarked
Miss Briggs, simultaneously endorsing the complaint against Hetty and
defending her own marketing.
'Oh, yes there is, Miss Briggs,' snapped Victoria with a sharpness which
would have been foreign to her some months before. 'Don't let it happen
again or I'll do my own catering.'
Miss Briggs collapsed on the spot. The profits on the three and sixpence
a week for 'tea, bread and butter and anything that's going,' formed
quite a substantial portion of her budget.
'Oh, I'm sorry, mum,' she said, 'it's Hetty bought 'em this week. The
slut, I'll talk to her.'
Victoria took no notice of the penitent landlady and opened the
_Telegraph_. She absorbed the fact that Consols had gone up an eighth
and that contangoes were in process of arrangement, without interest or
understanding. She was thinking of something else. Miss Briggs coughed
apologetically. Victoria looked up. Miss Briggs reflectively tied knots
in her apron string. She was a tall, lantern-jawed woman of no
particular age; old looking for thirty-five perhaps or young looking for
fifty. Her brown hair, plentifully sprinkled with grey, broke out in
wisps over each ear and at the back of the neck. Her perfectly flat
chest allowed big bags of coarse black serge to hang over her dirty
white apron. Her hands played mechanically with the strings, while her
water-coloured eye fixed upon the _Telegraph_.
'You shouldn't read that paper, mum,' she remarked.
'Why not?' asked Victoria, with a smile, 'isn't it a good one?'
'Oh, yes, mum, I don't say that,' said Miss Briggs with the respect that
she felt for the buyers of penny papers. 'There's none better. Mine's
the _Daily Mail_ of course and just a peep into _Reynolds_ before the
young gent on the first floor front. But you shouldn't have it.
_Tizer's_ your paper.'
'_Tizer_?' said Victoria interrogatively.
'_Morning Advertiser_, mum; that's the one for advertisements.'
'But how do you know I read the advertisements, Miss Briggs?' asked
Victoria still smiling.
'Oh, mum, excuse the liberty,' said Miss Briggs in great trepidation.
'It's the only sheet I don't find when I comes up to do the bed.
_Tizer's_ the one for you, mum; I had a young lady 'ere, once. Got a job
at the Inverness Lounge, she did. Married a clergyman, they say. He's
divorced her now.'
'That's an encouraging story, Miss Briggs,' said Victoria with a twinkle
in her eye. 'How do you know I want to be a barmaid, though?'
'Oh, one has to be what one can, mum,' said Miss Briggs sorrowfully.
'Sure enough, it ain't all honey and it ain't all jam keeping this
house. The bells, they rings all day and it's the breakfast that's bad
and their ain't blankets enough, and I never 'ad a scuttle big enough to
please 'em for sixpence. But you ain't doing that, mum,' she added after
a pause devoted to the consideration of her wrongs. 'A young lady like
you, she ought to be behind the bar.'
Victoria laughed aloud. 'Thanks for the hint, Miss Briggs,' she said,
'I'll think it over. To-day however, I'm going to try my luck on the
stage. What do you think of that?'
'Going on tour?' cried Miss Briggs in a tone of tense anxiety.
'Well, not yet,' said Victoria soothingly. 'I'm going to see an agent.'
'Oh, that's all right,' said Miss Briggs with ghoulish relief. 'Hope
yer'll get a job,' she added as confidently as a man offering a drink to
a teetotaller. At that moment a fearful clattering on the stairs
announced that Hetty and the pail had suddenly descended to the lower
landing. Liquid noises followed. Miss Briggs rushed out. Victoria jumped
up and slammed her door on the chaotic scene. She returned to the
_Telegraph_. The last six weeks in the Castle Street lodging house had
taught her that these were happenings quite devoid of importance.
Victoria spread out the _Telegraph_, ignored the foreign news, the
leaders and the shocking revelations as to the Government's Saharan
policy; she dallied for a moment over 'gowns for debutantes,' for she
was a true woman, and passed on to the advertisements. She was getting
quite experienced as a reader and could sift the wheat from the chaff
with some accuracy. She knew that she could safely ignore applications
for lady helps in 'small families,' at least unless she was willing to
clean boots and blacklead grates for five shillings a week and meals
when an opportunity occurred; her last revelation as to the nature of a
post of housekeeper to an elderly gentleman who had retired from
business into the quietude of Surbiton had not been edifying. The
'Financial and Businesses' column left her colder than she had been when
she left Mrs Holt with nearly thirty-seven pounds. Then she was a
capitalist and pondered longingly over the proposals of tobacconists,
fancy goods firms, and stationers, who were prepared to guarantee a
fortune to any person who could muster thirty pounds. Fortunately Miss
Briggs had undeceived her. In her variegated experience, she herself had
surrendered some sixty golden sovereigns to the persuasive owner of a
flourishing newsagent's business. After a few weeks of vain attempts to
induce the neighbourhood to indulge in the news of the day, she had been
glad to sell her stock of sweets for eighteen shillings, and to take
half a crown for a hundred penny novelettes.
Victoria turned to the 'Situations Vacant.' Their numbers were
deceptive. She had never realised before how many people live by fitting
other people for work they cannot get. Two thirds of the advertisements
offered wonderful opportunities for sons of gentlemen in the offices of
architects and engineers on payment of a premium; she also found she
could become a lady gardener if she would only follow the courses in
some dukery and meanwhile live on air; others would teach her shorthand,
typewriting or the art of the secretary. All these she now calmly
skipped. She was obviously unfitted to be the matron of an asylum for
the feeble-minded. Such experience had not been hers, nor had she the
redoubtable record which would open the gates of an emporium. An
illegible hand would exclude her from the City.
'No,' thought Victoria, 'I'm an unskilled labourer; that's what I am.'
She wearily skimmed the agencies; as a matter of habit noted the demand
for two companions and one nursery governess and put the paper aside.
There was not much hope in any of these, for one was for Tiverton, the
other for Cardiff, which would make a personal interview a costly
business; the third, discreetly cloaked by an initial, suggested by its
terseness a companionship probably undue in its intimacy. The last six
weeks had opened Victoria's eyes to the unpleasant aspects of life, so
much so that she wondered whether there were any other. She felt now
that London was waiting for her outside, waiting for her to have spent
her last copper, when she would come out to be eaten so that she might
eat.
Whatever her conceit might have been six months before, Victoria had
lost it all. She could do nothing that was wanted and desired everything
she could not get. She had tried all sources and found them dry.
Commercialism, philanthropy, and five per cent. philanthropy had failed
her. What can you do? was their cry. And, the answer being 'nothing,'
their retort had been 'No more can we.'
Victoria turned over in her mind her interview with the Honorary
Secretary of the British Women's Imperial Self Help Association. 'Of
course,' said the Secretary, 'we will be glad to register you. We need
some references and, as our principle is to foster the independence and
self-respect of those whom we endeavour to place in positions such as
may befit their social status, we are compelled to demand a fee of five
shillings.'
'Oh, self help, I see,' said Victoria sardonically, for she was
beginning to understand the world.
'Yes,' replied the Honorary Secretary, oblivious of the sneer, for his
mind was cast in the parliamentary mould, 'by adhering to our principle
and by this means only can we hope to stem the tide of pauperism to
which modern socialistic tendencies are--are--spurring the masses.'
Victoria had paid five shillings for this immortal metaphor and within a
week had received an invitation to attend a meeting presided over by
several countesses.
The B. W. I. S. H. A., (as it was called by its intimates) had induced
in Victoria suspicions of societies in general. She had, however,
applied also to the Ladies' Provider. Its name left one in doubt whether
it provided ladies with persons or whether it provided ladies to persons
who might not be ladies. The Secretary in this case, was not Honorary.
The inwardness of this did not appear to Victoria; for she did not then
know that plain secretaries are generally paid, and try to earn their
salary. Their interview had, however, not been such as to convert her to
the value of corporate effort.
The Secretary in this case was a woman of forty, with a pink face, trim
grey hair, spectacles, amorphous clothing, capable hands. She exhaled an
atmosphere of respectability, and the faint odour of almonds which
emanates from those women who eschew scent in favour of soap. She had
quietly listened to Victoria's history, making every now and then a
shorthand note. Then she had coughed gently once or twice. Victoria felt
as in the presence of an examiner. Was she going to get a pass?
'I do not say that we cannot do anything for you, Mrs Fulton,' she said,
'but we have so many cases similar to yours.'
Victoria had bridled a little at this. 'Cases' was a nasty word.
'I'm not particular,' she had answered, 'I'd be a companion any day.'
'I'm sure you'd make a pleasant one,' said the Secretary graciously,
'but before we go any further, tell me how it was you left your last
place. You were in the . . . in the Finchley Road, was it not?' The
Secretary's eyes travelled to a map of London where Marylebone, South
Paddington, Kensington, Belgravia, and Mayfair, were blocked out in
blue.
Victoria had hesitated, then fenced. 'Mrs Holt will give me a good
character,' she faltered.
'No doubt, no doubt,' replied the Secretary, her eyes growing just a
little darker behind the glasses. 'Yet, you see, we are compelled by the
nature of our business to make enquiries. A good reference is a very
good thing, yet people are a little careless sometimes; the hearts of
employers are often rather soft.'
This was a little too much for Victoria. 'If you want to know the
truth,' she said bluntly, 'the son of the house persecuted me with his
attentions, and I couldn't bear it.'
The Secretary made a shorthand note. Then she looked at Victoria's
flashing eyes, heightened colour, thick piled hair.
'I am very sorry,' she began lamely. . . .
What dreadful things women are, thought Victoria, folding up the
_Telegraph_. If Christ had said: Let _her_ who hath never sinned. . .
the woman would have been stoned. Victoria got up, went to the
looking-glass and inspected herself. Yes, she was very pretty. She was
prettier than she had ever been before. Her skin was paler, her eyes
larger; her thick eyebrows almost met in an exquisite gradation of short
dark hairs over the bridge of the nose. She watched her breast rise and
fall gently, flashing white through the black lacework of her blouse,
then falling away from it, tantalising the faint sunshine that would
kiss it. As she turned, another looking-glass set in the lower panels of
a small cupboard told her that her feet were small and high arched. Her
openwork stockings were drawn so tight that the skin there also gleamed
white.
Victoria took from the table a dirty visiting card. It bore the words
'Louis Carrel, Musical and Theatrical Agent, 5 Soho Place.' She had come
by it in singular manner. Two days before, as she left the offices of
the 'Compleat Governess Agency' after having realised that she could
not qualify in either French, German, Music, Poker work or Swedish
drill, she had paused for a moment on the doorstep, surveying the dingy
court where they were concealed, the dirty panes of an unlet shop
opposite, the strange literature flaunting in the showcase of some
publisher of esoterics. A woman had come up to her, rising like the
loafers from the flagstones. She had realised her as between ages and
between colours. Then the woman had disappeared as suddenly as she came
without having spoken, leaving in Victoria's hand the little square of
pasteboard.
Victoria looked at it meditatively. She would have shrunk from the idea
of the stage a year before, when the tradition of Lympton was still upon
her. But times had changed; a simple philosophy was growing in her; what
did anything matter? would it not be all the same in a hundred years?
The discovery of this philosophy did not strike her as commonplace.
There are but few who know that this is the philosophy of the world.
Victoria put down the card and began to dress. She removed the old black
skirt and ragged lace blouse and, as she stood before the glass in her
short petticoat, patting her hair and setting a comb, she reflected with
satisfaction that her arms were shapely and white. She looked almost
lovingly at the long thin dark hairs, fine as silk, that streaked her
forearms; she kissed them gently, moved to self-adoration by the sweet
scent of femininity that rose from her.
She tore herself away from her self-worship and quickly began to dress.
She put on a light skirt in serge, striped black and white, threading
her head through it with great care for fear she should damage her
fringe net. She drew on a white blouse, simple enough though cheap. As
it fastened along the side she did not have to call in Miss Briggs;
which was fortunate, as this was the time when Miss Briggs carried
coals. Victoria wriggled for a moment to settle the uncomfortable boning
of the neck and, having buckled and belted the skirt over the blouse,
completed her toilet with her little black and white jacket to match the
skirt. A tiny black silk cravat from her neck was discarded, as she
found that the fashionable ruffle, emerging from the closed coat,
produced an _effet mousquetaire_. Lastly she put on her hat; a lapse
from the fashions perhaps, but a lovable, flat, almost crownless, dead
black, save a vertical group of feathers.
Victoria drew her veil down, regretting the thickness of the spots,
pushed it up to repair with a dab of powder the ravage of a pod on the
tip of her nose. She took up her parasol and white gloves, a glow of
excitement already creeping over her as she realised how cleverly she
must have caught the spirit of the profession to look the actress to the
life and yet remain in the note of the demure widow.
Soho Place is neither one of the 'good' streets nor one of the 'bad.'
The police do not pace it in twos and threes in broad daylight, yet they
hardly like to venture into it singly by night. On one side it ends in a
square; on the other it turns off into an unobtrusive side street, the
reputation of which varies yard by yard according to the distance from
the main roads. It is dirty, dingy; yet not without dignity, for its
good Georgian and Victorian houses preserve some solidity and are not
yet of the tenement class. They are still in the grade of office and
shop which is immediately below their one-time status of dwellings for
well-to-do merchants.
Victoria entered Soho Place from the square, so that she was not too ill
impressed. She walked in the middle of the pavement, unconsciously
influenced the foreign flavour of Soho. There men and women stand all
day in the street, talking, bargaining, quarrelling and making love;
when a cab rattles by they move aside lazily, as a Neapolitan stevedore
rolls away on the wharf from the wheels of a passing cart.
Victoria paused for a second on the steps. No 5 Soho Place was a good
house enough. The ground floor was occupied by a firm of auctioneers; a
gentleman describing himself as A.R.I.B.A. exercised his profession on
the third floor; below his plate was nailed a visiting-card similar to
the one Victoria took from her reticule. She went up the staircase
feeling a little braced by the respectability of the house, though she
had caught sight through the area railings of an unspeakably dirty
kitchen where unwashed pots flaunted greasy remains on a liquor stained
deal table. The staircase itself, with its neutral and stained green
distemper, was not over encouraging. Victoria stopped at the first
landing. She had no need to enquire as to the whereabouts of the
impresario for, on a door which stood ajar, was nailed another dirty
card. Just as she was about to push it, it opened further to allow a
girl to come out. She was very fair; her cheeks were a little flushed; a
golden lock or two fell like keepsake ringlets on her low lace collar.
Victoria just had time to see that the blue eyes sparkled and to receive
a cheerful smile. The girl muttered an apology and, smiling still,
brushed past her and lightly ran down the stairs. 'A successful
candidate,' thought Victoria, her heart rising once more.
She entered the room and found it empty. It was almost entirely bare of
furniture, for little save an island of chairs in the middle and faded
red cloth curtains relieved the uniform dirtiness of the wall paper
which once was flowered. One wall was entirely covered by a large poster
where half a dozen impossibly charming girls of the biscuit box type
were executing a cancan so symmetrically as to recall an Egyptian
frieze. The mantlepiece was bare save for the signed photograph of some
magnificent foreign-looking athlete, nude to the waist. Victoria waited
for a moment, watching a door which led into an inner room, then went
towards it. At once the sound of a chair being pushed back and the fall
of some small article on the floor told her that the occupant had heard
her footsteps. The door opened suddenly.
Victoria looked at the apparition with some surprise. In a single glance
she took in the details of his face and clothes, all of which were
pleasing. The man was obviously a foreigner. His face was pale, clean
shaven save for a small black moustache closely cropped at the ends; his
eyes were brown; his eyebrows, as beautifully pencilled as those of a
girl, emphasized the whiteness of his high forehead from which the hair
receded in thick waves. His lips, red and full, were parted over his
white teeth in a pleasant smile. Victoria saw too that he was dressed in
perfect taste, in soft grey tweed, fitting well over the collar and
loose everywhere else; his linen was immaculate; in fact nothing about
him would have disgraced the Chandraga mess, except perhaps a gold ring
with a large diamond which he wore on the little finger of his right
hand.
'Mr Carrel?' said Victoria in some trepidation.
'Yes, Mademoiselle,' said the man pleasantly. 'Will you have the
kindness to enter?' He held the door open and Victoria, hesitating a
little, preceded him.
The inner room was almost a replica of the outer. It too was scantily
furnished. On a large table heaps of dusty papers were stacked. An
ash-tray overflowed over one end. In a corner stood a rickety-looking
piano. The walls were profusely decorated with posters and photographs,
presumably of actors and actresses, some highly renowned. Victoria felt
respect creeping into her soul.
Carrel placed a chair for her before the table and resumed his own. For
the space of a second or two he looked Victoria over. She was a little
too conscious of his scrutiny to be quite at ease, but she was not
afraid of the verdict.
'So, Mademoiselle,' said the man gently, 'you wish for an engagement on
the stage?'
Victoria had not expected such directness. 'Yes, I do,' she said. 'That
is, I was thinking of it since I got your card.'
'My card?' said Carrel, raising his eyebrows a little. 'How did you get
my card?'
Victoria told him briefly how the card had been thrust into her hand,
how curious it was and how surprised she had been as she did not know
the woman and had never seen her again. Then she frankly confessed that
she had no experience of the stage but wanted to earn her living and
that . . . She stopped aghast at the tactical error. But Carrel was
looking at her fixedly, a smile playing on his lips as he pulled his
tiny moustache with his jewelled hand.
'Yes, certainly, I understand,' he said. 'Experience is very useful,
naturally. But you must begin and you know: _il n'y a que le premier pas
qui coute_. Now perhaps you can sing? It would be very useful.'
'Yes, I can sing,' said Victoria doubtfully, suppressing 'a little,'
remembering her first mistake.
'Ah, that is good,' said Carrel smiling. 'Will you sit down to the
piano? I have no music; ladies always bring it but do you not know
something by heart?'
Victoria got up, her heart beating a little and went to the piano. 'I
don't know anything French,' she said.
'It does not matter,' said Carrel, 'you will learn easily.' He lowered
the piano stool for her. As she sat down the side of his head brushed
her shoulder lightly. A faint scent of heliotrope rose from his hair.
Victoria dragged off her gloves nervously, felt for the pedals and with
a voice that trembled a little sang two ballads which had always pleased
Lympton. The piano was frightfully out of tune. Everything conspired to
make her nervous. It was only when she struck the last note that she
looked at the impresario.
'Very good, very good,' cried Carrel. '_Magnifique._ Mademoiselle, you
have a beautiful voice. You will be a great success at Vichy.'
'Vichy?' echoed Victoria, a little overwhelmed by his approval of a
voice which she knew to be quite ordinary.
'Yes, I have a troupe to sing and dance at Vichy and in the towns,
Clermont Ferrand, Lyon, everywhere. I will engage you to sing and
dance,' said Carrel, his dark eyes sparkling.
'Oh, I can't dance,' cried Victoria despairingly.
'But I assure you, it is not difficult,' said Carrel. 'We will teach
you. There, I will show you the contract. As you have not had much
experience my syndicate can only pay you one hundred and fifty francs a
month. But we will pay the expenses and the costumes.'
Victoria looked doubtful for a moment. To sing, to dance, to go to
France where she had never been, all this was sudden and momentous.
'_Voyons_,' said Carrel, 'it will be quite easy. I am taking four
English ladies with you and two do not understand the theatre. You will
make more money if the audience like you. Here is the contract.' He drew
a printed sheet out of the drawer and handed it to her.
It was an impressive document with a heavy headline; _Troupe de Theatre
Anglaise_. It bore a French revenue stamp and contained half-a-dozen
clauses in French which she struggled through painfully; she could only
guess at their meaning. So far as she could see she was bound to sing
and dance according to the programme which was to be fixed by the
_Directeur_, twice every day including Sundays. The _syndicat_ undertook
to pay the railway fares and to provide costumes. She hesitated, then
crossed the Rubicon.
'Fill in the blanks, please,' she said unsteadily. 'I accept.'
Carrel took up a pen and wrote in the date and _cent cinquante francs_.
'What name will you adopt?' he asked, 'and what is your own name?'
Victoria hesitated. 'My name is Victoria Fulton,' she said. 'You may
call me . . . Aminta Ormond.'
Carrel smiled once more. 'Aminta Ormond? I do not think you will like
that. It is not English. It is like Amanda. No! I have it, Gladys
Oxford, it is excellent.'
Before she could protest he had begun writing. After all, what did it
matter? She signed the document without a word.
'_Voila_,' said Carrel smoothly, locking the drawer on the contract. 'We
leave from Charing Cross on Wednesday evening. So you have two days to
prepare yourself. _Monsieur le Directeur_ will meet you under the clock
at a quarter past eight. The train leaves at nine. We will take your
ticket when you arrive. Please come here at four on Wednesday and I will
introduce you to the _Directeur_.'
Victoria got up and mechanically shook hands. Carrel opened the door for
her and ceremoniously bowed her out. She walked into Soho place as in a
dream, every pulse in her body thrilling with unwonted adventure. She
stared at a dirty window pane and wondered at the brilliance it threw
back from her eyes.