I
She was regarding, ruefully, the condition of her white satin shoes.
They were articles which the ladies of the ballet had to provide for
themselves. Twice she had sewn on fresh uppers, and now both uppers and
soles had gone. Clearly it was a case in which a new pair would have to
be bought. And yet, this week, money seemed shorter than ever. She
wondered if skilful patching would not make them do till treasury. And,
while she wondered, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in."
Polly Steele was the only visitor who ever came her way. She took it
for granted that it was Polly now--though why Miss Steele should be so
ceremonious as to knock she did not stop to think. She was continuing
to consider the question of the possibility of repairing the shoes when
a voice behind her caused her to spring to her feet with a start.
"Pardon--Miss Lizzie Emmett?"
Standing in the doorway was an individual who was dressed in a fashion
in which gentlemen in the immediate neighbourhood of Hercules Buildings
were not accustomed to dress. His clothes were beautiful, he wore
patent leather shoes, his tie was a marvel, he carried a glossy silk
hat in a well-gloved hand. He became his costume--so tall and so
slender; with a little beard cut to a point; a charming moustache, the
ends of which curled gracefully upwards. The vision was such an
unexpected one that Lizzie, forgetful, for the moment, of her manners,
stared at the stranger with bewildered surprise. "I'm Liz Emmett." The
stranger bowed and smiled.
"In that case, Miss Emmett, I believe that I have the honour of being
the bearer of a little parcel for you. I trust that the contents may
have the pleasure to meet with your approbation--also the source from
which it comes."
He advanced into the room--the poor, scantily-furnished, untidy, tawdry
little room!--holding out to her a small, neatly-fastened package. She
took it with what was almost an air of sullen indifference, evincing
neither curiosity nor satisfaction. "I don't know you." Again a bow and
a smile.
"That is my misfortune, which I hope is on the high road towards
amendment. My name is Philippe Rossignol. It may be that the day is not
far distant when mademoiselle will come to look upon me as a friend--as
a very good friend indeed--eh?"
There was something in the fellow's obsequious bearing which savoured
of impertinence--something which it seemed as if the girl resented.
"I shouldn't think that you'd ever be a friend of mine. You don't look
as if you was my sort."
The smile became more pronounced, and also more insulting.
"Not your sort? I pray that I have not so much ill fortune."
He paused, as if for her to speak. She spoke.
"I don't care for foreigners. Can't abide 'em. Never could."
The man drew himself up as if she had struck him. The smile lingered
about his lips, though something very different was in his eyes. He was
silent, as if considering what to say. His words, when they came,
ignored her unflattering remark.
"The abode of mademoiselle is a little difficult to discover, unless
one happens to know just exactly where it is."
"No one asked you to discover it, as I know of, so I don't see what
odds that makes to you."
The girl's insistent rudeness seemed to occasion the stranger not only
surprise, but something else as well, something approaching to
curiosity. He observed her with more attention, as if she suggested a
problem to his mind which was of the nature of a puzzle. She was young,
strongly built, healthy. Beyond that, so far as he could see, she was
nothing. She had neither face nor figure. Her movements were ungainly,
her features were, emphatically, plain. Her dress was not only
poor--worse, it was in execrable taste. She seemed to have decked herself
in as many colours as she conveniently could, none of them being in
sympathy with her complexion. Her manners were those of a woman of the
people, her voice was a female Cockney's. Metaphorically, M. Rossignol
shrugged his shoulders; to himself he said,--
"What there is attractive in her is for him to decide; for my part, I
would rather that it were for him than for me. It is a folly even for a
fool, even such a fool as that!"
Aloud he bade the lady farewell. "I have the pleasure of wishing
mademoiselle a very good day."
As he backed towards the door he favoured her with a bow which could
scarcely have been lower had she been an empress. She let him go
without a word or sign of greeting. It was only when he had vanished,
and the sound of his footsteps had ceased upon the stairs, that she
found her tongue.
"Greasy foreigner, nasty, sneering beast! Coming shoving his nose in
here as if he was somebody and me the dirt under his feet. I'll show
him! If he'd stayed much longer, a-trying it on with me, I'd have give
him one for himself, and helped him to the door. What's this, I'd like
to know." She glanced down at the package she was holding, as if
suddenly remembering it was there. She read the address which was on
it. "'Miss Lizzie Emmett, 14 Hercules Buildings, Westminster.' He's got
my address all right, though how he's got it is more than I can say.
What's inside? Feels as if it was something hard." She made as if to
open it. Then in a fit of sudden petulance she threw it from her, so
that it landed on the bed which was at her back. "I'm not going to
trouble myself about his rubbish. I never set eyes on him in all my
life before--who's he, I'd like to know. If ever he shows himself
inside my place again, I'll start him travelling." She resumed her
consideration of the vexed question of the shoes. "I can't get no more
till Saturday, so they'll have to do, and that's all about it. I'll
fake 'em up with cardboard, same as I did once before, and if anybody
notices it, why, they'll have to."
Seating herself on the only chair the room contained she began to cut,
with a pair of scissors, pieces out of the lid of a cardboard box,
which was yellow on one side and white on the other. She was not deft
with her fingers, nor quick. The job promised to be a long one, and not
remarkable for neatness when done. As with hunched shoulders she
pursued her task of cobbling, for a second time there came a knock at
the door.
"Now who's that? If it's that bloke back again, he'll get what for."
This, _sotto voce_; then, aloud, "Is that you, Polly?"
It was not Polly, as the voice which answered showed.
"Does anyone live here named Emmett?"
The visitor this time was a woman. Lizzie eyed her with as much
surprise as she had eyed the man; certainly she was every whit as much
out of place in Hercules Buildings as he had been. Like him, she was
tall and slender, and beautifully dressed. Lizzie's feminine gaze,
taking in the details of her costume, dimly realised its costliness.
"May I come in?"
"If you like you can."
Apparently the stranger did like. She closed the door behind her,
standing, for a moment, to regard Miss Emmett. Then her look wandered
about the room. She wore a big hat, to which was attached a veil which
was so thick as almost to entirely obscure her features. But one
realised, from something in her attitude, that what she saw filled her
with amazement.
"I think that I may have made a mistake."
"I shouldn't be surprised but what you had."
"Is it a Miss Lizzie Emmett who lives here?"
"Yes--Liz Emmett--that's me."
"You!" The astonishment in the speaker's voice was unequivocal, and not
complimentary. One understood that she was studying Lizzie from behind
her veil as if she could scarcely believe her eyes. Her speech
faltered. "Excuse me, but are you in the profession?"
A hint of defiance came into Lizzie's tone. She was beginning to
suspect that her visitor might be something in the district-visiting
line.
"I'm in the ballet at the Cerulean Theatre--that's what I am!"
The stranger seemed to shiver as she heard; as if the answer removed
from her mind the last traces of doubt, leaving her, instead, with a
feeling of uncomfortable certainty. Turning towards the tiny fireplace,
she began to trifle with the odds and ends which were on the
mantelshelf. Then, once more confronting Lizzie, with a deliberate
movement she raised her veil.
"Do you know me?"
"I can't say as how I do."
"I am Agnes Graham."
Lizzie was moved to genuine emotion. She rose from her chair in a
flutter of excitement. She became more awkward than ever.
"Think of me not knowing you! I ought to, seeing how often I've seen
your picture. I beg your pardon, Miss Graham, I'm sure, but won't you
take a chair?"
"Thank you, for the present I'll stand." She eyed the other
steadfastly; it seemed as if the more she gazed the more her wonder
grew. "I'm afraid that I have come to you on a foolish errand, and that
you will laugh at me before I've done, if you don't do worse."
"Laugh at you, Miss Graham. That I'm sure I won't."
"May I ask, Miss Emmett, if you know anything of my private history?"
"Me!" The inquiry might have conveyed a reproach, Lizzie's denial was
uttered with so much earnestness. "I don't know nothing at all about
you, miss, except what's in the papers."
"Except what's in the papers!" Miss Graham smiled, not sunnily. "In
that case you know more about me than I do about myself. Still, I am
disposed to inflict on you a fragment of personal history. You might
not think it, but, in spite of what is in the papers, I'm a dreamer."
"Indeed, miss? I'm a dreamer too."
The words were spoken so simply that it seemed difficult to suspect the
speaker of a second intention. Miss Graham, however, shot at her a
sudden doubting glance. Her tone became harder.
"I trust, for both our sakes, that our dreams do not run on the same
lines. I have always dreamed of a home; of a harbour at last; of peace
at the end; of a time when I shall be able to take my seat among the
best, with a mind at ease. It may sound odd, but I have always looked
forward to making a good marriage."
"I should think, miss, that you might have done that over and over
again."
"I might, but I haven't. But lately I have thought that I might. I am
sick of the stage, sick to death!"
She gave a little passionate gesture. In her voice there was a ring of
sincerity.
"I shouldn't have thought, miss, that you would ever have been sick of
the stage."
"You wouldn't have thought! What do you know of it? You!" She cast a
look at Lizzie which was as scornful as her words. Then glanced at the
empty rust-worn grate. Then again met Lizzie face to face. "I will be
as frank with you as I would ask you to be frank with me. I have
dreamed--I use the word advisedly!--I say that I have dreamed of being
Countess of Bermondsey."
"Countess of Bermondsey! I'd like to lay, miss, that you could be
anything you please!"
Miss Graham's lips were drawn close together.
"Are you laughing at me?"
"Laughing at you! Me, miss! I shouldn't think of doing such a thing."
"Then may I ask you to be as candid as myself? Before this my dream
might have been something more solid than a dream, if it had not been
for you."
"For me!"
Lizzie was open-eyed and open-mouthed.
"Pray don't let us play the actress off the boards. Don't you think we
might confine that sort of thing to our hours of business?"
"But I don't understand you, miss. Do you mean that you might have been
the Countess of Bermondsey if it had not been for me?"
Miss Graham's eyes were as keen and cold as the other's were hot and
eager.
"I see that a denial is trembling on your lips. Pray don't trouble
yourself to utter it. Is that the sort of person you are? I assure you
that, in this case, at least, you make a mistake; for unfortunately I
speak from knowledge." She stopped, then resumed with a strain of
passion in her voice which, almost with every word, became more
strenuous. "The Earl of Bermondsey, as, doubtless, you are aware,
although for reasons of your own you may feign ignorance, has, for some
time, been a friend of mine. I had reason to believe that he might
become more, until, recently, the outward tokens of his friendship
waned. I looked for the reason. I found it. He has, lately, become an
assiduous patron of the Cerulean Theatre. This morning I taxed him with
it. He offered no denial. I asked him for the lady's name. He
floundered--as you may be aware his lordship is an adept at
floundering--and, as he floundered, a piece of paper fell from his
pocket on to the floor. I picked it up. On it was a lady's name and her
address. I asked if she was the attraction at the Cerulean. He owned
that she was. He said things of her," the speaker's voice quivered,
"which I do not care to recount at second hand to you. 'Lizzie Emmett,
14 Hercules Buildings, Westminster,' was on the paper, and it was of
you those things were said."
"Me!"
The actress moved slightly away from the fireplace, speaking with a
strength of feeling and an eloquence of gesture which, had she been
capable of such efforts on the stage, would have gained her
immortality.
"It may be sport to you--I daresay it is, there was a time when I used
to think that sort of thing was sport--but it is death to me. Death! He
has as good as promised that I shall be his wife. I have staked
everything upon the fulfilment of his promise. Nothing can compensate
me for his breaking it. I won't try to make you understand why--you
mightn't understand me if I tried! But if he does, I'll go
under--under! If you only knew what I've endured since he's begun to
tire, you'd pity me. I'm here to ask you to pity me now. We're both
women--be generous--I'll be sworn it's not of much consequence to
you--be good to me. If you'll only send him back to me, help me to be
his wife, there's nothing I won't do for you, in reason or out of
reason. I swear it. I'll put it down in black and white in any form you
like!" With trembling hands she caught hold of Lizzie's shabby sleeve.
"But don't be cruel to me--don't be cruel!"
Lizzie shrunk away from her.
"You're making a mistake, Miss Graham, a big mistake!"
"Don't say that, for pity's sake, don't say that! Show mercy to me, as
one day you may want some other woman to show mercy to you."
Lizzie withdrew herself still farther from the other's eager pleading.
"You've got it all wrong, I'm not the girl you're taking me for. I
don't know no Earl of Bermondsey, nor yet no Earl of anything, and I
don't want to."
"Why should you deny it?"
"Because it's the truth. I'm straight, I am, and I always have been,
and I always mean to be, and if any of your toffs came playing it off
on to me he'd get a bit more than he quite wanted."
The girl's tone and manner carried conviction even to her hearer.
"Is it possible that he is known to you under some different name? Tell
me, what friends have you?"
The singularity of the request did not seem to occur to Lizzie. The
reply came as promptly as if the question had been a commonplace.
"Friends? Do you mean fellows? The only fellow that ever was a friend
to me, and he's only a sort of a one, is Joe Mason, what's carpenter up
at the theatre; he's no earl. Ask yourself the question--do I look the
sort of girl an earl would take up with?"
Miss Graham felt that she did not--had felt so all along; not although
the earl was possessed of such peculiar tastes as was the one in
question.
"You might look different on the stage--one can make oneself look like
anything there."
"I might and I mightn't. As far as I know no one ever took me for a
beauty even on the stage, not even Joe Mason."
The girl's eyes twinkled with laughter, as if the bare possibility of
such a thing struck her as comical. Her visitor returned to the
fireplace. She made a little troubled movement with her hands.
"I wish you would be frank with me. You must know something of him,
even if you don't know him, else how came your name and address to be
in his pocket, and why should he claim your acquaintance?"
"It beats me fair, it does. I never gave it him, that's certain.
There's a muddle somewhere."
"Is there anyone else of your name at the theatre?"
"If there is I never heard of it, and I've been there now getting on
for two years. There's no one else of that name in the ballet, that I
do know."
"Have you ever acted for him as a go-between? Just think! I'll tell you
what he looks like. He's quite young, only twenty-two; short, rather
stout, light hair parted on the side, no moustache, red face, blue
eyes; and when he's at all excited he speaks as if he had a plum in his
mouth."
Lizzie shook her head.
"If he's like what you say he's not a beauty, but, so far as I know, I
never set eyes on him; and as for being a go-between, either for him or
for anybody else, I'd scorn to do it."
Agnes Graham's glance returned to the empty grate. She seemed to be
reflecting.
"I believe you. You sound honest, and you look it. But that there's a
mystery somewhere I'm persuaded. I'm in a desperate strait, and I want
you to do something for me. I'll pay you for it well."
"I don't want your pay."
The other went on unheeding.
"I want you to use your eyes, and to find out who it is at the Cerulean
he is after. That there is someone I have the best of reasons for
knowing. When you have found out I want you to tell me. And if you
won't do it for pay, do it out of kindness."
Lizzie hesitated.
"I'm not fond of spying, and I'm not fond of them as is, but as he
don't seem to be using you well, if I do find out who he's playing it
off with--though, mind you, I don't see how I'm going to--still, as I
say, if I should happen to find out, why, I'll tell you, straight!"
"Thank you."
Agnes Graham held out her hand, in order that, by grasping it, the girl
might ratify the bargain. And she did.
When she was again alone, Liz Emmett was lost in wonder. As she had
said, she also was a dreamer and, as became a dreamer, had her heroes
and her heroines. Theatrical heroines hers, for the most part, were;
not, that is, the creations of the dramatist's fancy, but their
flesh-and-blood enactors. The popular actress was the ideal creature of
her waking visions. Who, on the contemporary stage, was more popular,
in her own line, than Agnes Graham? There was a time when Lizzie had
been more than half inclined to bate her voice when uttering her name.
Even to this hour she had regarded her with a kind of reverence. Now
this idol, whom the public voice had set upon such a lofty pedestal,
had actually been to visit her; had come unceremoniously into her room
and filled it with her presence, with, for purpose, such an errand.
The errand was not the least strange part of this strange happening.
Agnes Graham, famous as she was beautiful, in the theatrical firmament
a bright particular star, had supposed that she, Lizzie Emmett, was her
rival for the heart, and possibly the hand, of an earl; a belted earl,
as she remembered to have seen it printed somewhere. The thing was most
confounding. How could such a notion have got into the air?
Lizzie, taking down the oblong shilling mirror from the nail on which
it hung, surveyed her face in it relentlessly. She was conscious of her
imperfections, and indifferent to them. She had supple limbs, was
fairly quick upon her feet, sufficiently smart at rehearsals, equal to
the average _figurante_. She was aware that, when so much was said,
about all was said. She had neither good looks nor cleverness, was no
scholar, nor wished to be, had a rough tongue, a quick temper, and a
clumsy, if a willing, hand. And Agnes Graham had imagined that she had
out-distanced her in the affections of a belted earl! Was ever idea
more ludicrous? As the ridiculous side struck Lizzie she began to
laugh; she continued laughing till her merriment threatened to become
hysterical.
As it approached a climax she caught sight of the package which she had
thrown upon the bed. She checked herself.
"Then there was that foreign bloke. I wonder what rubbish is in that
paper of his."
Putting down the looking-glass, she took up the parcel. She cut it open
with her scissors with a contemptuous air. Inside was a leather case.
She paused to examine it. She had seen others like it in the windows of
jewellers' shops. Pressing a spring, the top flew open. As it did so
she gave a sort of gasp. On a bed of satin reposed a necklace of
shimmering crystals. They gleamed and glistened like drops of dew. The
pupils of her eyes dilated. She spoke in a whisper.
"Diamonds? They can't be diamonds?" She had seen diamonds in shop
windows and on other women. "They can't be real."
Suddenly she gave utterance to an exclamation which the squeamish would
have called an oath and a vulgarity. Presently she joined to it a
snatch from the slang of the streets.
"This cops the biscuit."
She was staring, with wide-open eyes, at a strip of pasteboard which
was in the centre of the necklace, so that it was surrounded by a
stream of light. It was a gentleman's visiting-card. On it was engraved
"Earl of Bermondsey." She glared at it, as if she fancied that her
seeing sense must be playing her tricks. Her voice, when she spoke, was
vibrant; in it there was a curious ringing.
"Well, if this don't take the blooming barrowful, straight it does.
'Earl of Bermondsey'! If that ain't the bloke she was a-talking of. If
this ain't a case of Queer Street, I'm a daisy!"
She picked the card up between her finger and thumb gingerly, as if she
was afraid it might burn her. She turned it over; on the reverse
something was scribbled in pencil. Not being skilled in reading
illegible handwriting, it was with difficulty she deciphered it: "With
Mr Jack Smith's compliments."
"And who may Mr Jack Smith be, I'd like to know, when he's at home.
Anyhow, one thing's certain sure, this little lot ain't meant for me. I
don't know nothing about no Jack Smith, nor yet about no Earl of
Bermondsey neither, and I don't want to; and as for oily foreigners, I
can't abide 'em. I'll just take the entire boiling to Miss Graham.
Perhaps she'll be able to twig the bloke's little lay; it's more than I
can."