"I forbid you to do it!"
Of course when George said that, with such an air, and in such a tone,
I should have been perfectly justified in making an end of everything.
The idea of his actually ordering me, when we had been engaged scarcely
any time at all, was really too much. But I remembered what was due to
myself and--I think!--behaved beautifully. I was merely crushing.
"You will remember, if you please, that, at present, I am not your
wife. And may I ask if you propose to speak to me like that when I am?"
"I trust that whenever I see you contemplating a false step I shall
always use my influence to endeavour to persuade you not to take it."
"Persuasion is one thing--ordering is quite another."
It all began with the private theatricals in aid of the parochial
charities. Almost for the first time since I had been in the place
people seemed to have found out my existence. It was the rector's
son--Frank Spencer--who was the actual discoverer. I really believe it
was that fact which George did not like. Mr Spencer came and said that
they were going to have theatricals and would I take part in them? I
told him that I had never acted in my life. He declared that they could
not do without me. I explained that I did not see how that could be,
since I had not had the least experience, and, indeed, doubted if I
should not make a complete spectacle of myself and spoil everything. He
replied that it was ridiculous to talk like that--which I thought was
rather rude of him, since he was sure that I should make a
first-rate actress--though I could not even guess what made him sure;
and everybody was certain that the whole thing would be an utter
failure without me--then look how the parochial charities would suffer!
I confess that I did not understand why everybody should take that
view; though, on the other hand, I did not want the charities to
languish on my account, and--well, I may as well own it--I rather liked
the idea. I thought it was not half a bad one. Because I never had
acted was no reason why I never should; at any rate, it occurred to me
that it would be capital fun to try.
So when I informed Mr Spencer that I would consider the matter, I fancy
that I rather conveyed the impression that my consideration might have
a favourable issue.
Then the trouble began. George objected. When I wrote and told him that
I was thinking of taking part in an amateur dramatic performance in aid
of some most deserving charities, which were much in need of help, he
sent me back a letter which rather surprised me. In the course of it he
observed that there was a great deal too much of that sort of thing
about--if that were so then certainly hitherto none of it had come my
way; that not seldom amateur theatricals were but a cloak for something
about which the less said the better--what he meant I had not the least
idea; that they were generally exhibitions of incompetent vanity--which
was not exactly a pleasant remark to make; that he could not understand
how any sane person could wish to be connected with proceedings which,
as a rule, were merely the outcome of a desire for vulgar notoriety. He
concluded by remarking that while he had not the slightest desire to
bias my judgment, of which, as I was aware, he had the highest opinion,
at the same time he hoped that I would consider very carefully what he
had said before arriving at a final decision.
Two days afterwards I met Mr Spencer, and he overpersuaded me. It is
not to be denied that he had a most persuasive manner, and was,
decidedly, not bad-looking; though, of course, that had nothing to do
with it. It was the moving fashion in which he depicted the lamentable
condition of the Coal Club, and the Clothing Club, and the Soup
Kitchen, and that kind of thing, which induced me to promise to do all
that I could for the Good Cause.
Still, when later Mr Spencer informed me that it was suggested that _A
Pair of Knickerbockers_ should be one of the pieces, and I had read it,
and understood that it was proposed I should play Mrs Melrose to his Mr
Melrose, I admit that I was taken aback. It was at this point that
George came on the scene. When he heard, there was quite a storm.
"Do you actually propose to appear upon the public stage attired in a
pair of knickerbockers?"
"Do you call the Assembly Room at the 'Lion' the public stage?" I
asked.
"I do, since anyone will be admitted who chooses to pay at the door."
"I'm sure there's nothing wrong in the piece or the rector wouldn't
allow it to be played."
"The rector! You're not engaged to the rector, you're engaged to me,
and I forbid you to do it."
It was then I made that crushing retort about not being his wife yet.
Still, at the bottom of my heart I felt that there was reason in what
he said. I doubt if any girl ever has looked well--really well!--in
knickerbockers, and I was sure that they would not suit me. I had not
the faintest intention of appearing either in public or private in any
garment of any kind whatever which I knew would make me look a fright.
So I made a great show of my willingness to meet George's wishes on
every possible occasion, and promised that I would not act in _A Pair
of Knickerbockers_. He was delighted, and--well, we had rather a nice
time.
When I told Mr Spencer of my decision I quite expected that he would
not like it. On the contrary, he did not seem to mind in the least;
indeed, he seemed to be almost relieved.
"That decides it!" he exclaimed. "Your refusal is the last straw; it
brings me to the sticking point; now I have made up my mind."
Then he made of me a confidant.
It appeared that he was a dramatist; he had written a play. It was most
interesting. He had sent it to the manager of every theatre in London,
and to a good many out of London too, and not one of them would bring
it out. Which showed that there was something in it.
"Because," as he explained, "it's notorious that a man who's an
outsider, and by that I mean one who wasn't born on the stage, or
doesn't own a newspaper, or fifty thousand a year, or a handle to his
name, has no more chance of getting a decent play accepted than he has
of flying to the moon. If this play of mine was piffle, or the usual
kind of stodge, then it might have a chance of being produced. The mere
fact that it has not been produced, and probably never will be, proves
that it is out of the common ruck."
He looked so handsome as he said this, and so full of scorn for the
people who were incapable of seeing merit when it stared them in the
face, that I felt a wave of sympathy sweep over me.
"Not that it matters," he continued. "In this world nothing matters."
It seemed rather a sweeping assertion. But I understood the bitterness
which called it forth. So, with one fleeting glance out of the corner
of my eye to let him know that there was one who comprehended, I
suffered him to go on. And he went on.
"However, where there's a will there's a way, and when a man's set on
gaining his end it's hard to stop him--if he is a man! There's more
roads lead to Rome than one. My play shall see the light in the same
fashion that many a work of genius has done before. Who knows how and
where Shakespeare's first play was produced? We'll act it at the
'Lion.'"
"How splendid!" I exclaimed.
"Mind you," he added with a modesty which did him credit, "I don't say
that my play's a work of genius."
"But I'm sure it is."
He shook his head.
"Frankly, it's not. In fact, it's a musical comedy in one act."
"But a musical comedy may be a work of genius."
He regarded me with what I felt almost amounted to an air of mystery.
"Did you ever know a musical comedy that was?"
"Yours may be an exception to the rule."
He suddenly seemed to make up his mind to adopt an air of perfect
frankness.
"I know whereabouts my piece is as well as anyone living, and
I give you my word it's not a work of genius. It's a kind of a
go-as-you-please sort of thing; you'll see what I mean when you've read
it."
I did see; or, rather, it would be more correct to say that I did not
see. I told him so when we met again.
"I found it so difficult to make out what it's all about; it seems so
vague. Nothing that anybody does seems to have any connection with
anything that anybody else does."
The way in which he received my criticism was charming; he did not show
the slightest sign of being hurt.
"You think that's a fault?" he said.
"It does appear to be rather a disadvantage. You know when people go to
the theatre they like to have some idea of what they're looking at."
"I suppose they do. The fact is, that that's where the trouble was--I
got stuck. When anyone had been doing anything I couldn't think what
they ought to do next, so I started someone else doing something else
instead. That's why I said it was a kind of a go-as-you-please. You
observe I call it _A Lover's Quarrel_. Don't you think it's rather a
good title?"
"It's not a bad title. But I don't understand which the lovers are
supposed to be, or where the quarrel comes in."
"Perhaps not. You see the title was used in a sort of general sense." A
bright idea seemed all at once to strike him. I was beginning to
suspect that that was a kind of thing which did not strike him very
often. "I tell you what--you've got the dramatic instinct--couldn't you
give me a hint or two? What I want is a collaborator."