At the end of the fourth week, after Glory had paid her fee to the
agent, she called on him again. It was Saturday morning, and the
vicinity of his office was a strange and surprising scene. The staircase
and passages to the house, as well as the pavement of the streets far as
to the public-house at the corner, were thronged with a gaudy but shabby
army of music-hall artistes of both sexes. When Glory attempted to pass
through them she was stopped by a cry of, “Tyke yer turn on Treasury
day, my dear,” and she fell back and waited.
One by one they passed upstairs, came down again with cheerful faces,
shouted their adieus and disappeared. Meanwhile they amused themselves
with salutations, all more or less lively and familiar, told stories and
exchanged confidences, while they danced a step or stamped about to keep
away the cold. “You've chucked the slap [* Rouge.] on with a mop this
morning, my dear,” said one of the girls. “Have I, my love? Well, I was
a bit thick about the clear, so I thought it would keep me warm.” “It
ain't no use facing the doner of the casa with that,” said a man who
jingled a few coins as he came downstairs, and away went two to the
public-house. Sometimes a showy brougham would drive up to the door and
a magnificent person in a fur-lined coat, with diamond rings on both
hands, would sweep through the lines and go upstairs. When he came down
again his carriage door would be opened by half a dozen “pros” who would
call him “dear old cully” and tell him they were “down on their luck”
and “hadn't done a turn for a fortnight.” He would distribute shillings
and half-crowns among them, cry “Ta-ta, boys,” and drive away, whereupon
his pensioners would stroke their cuffs and collars of threadbare
astrakhan, tip winks after the carriage, and say, “That's better than
crying cabbages in Covent Garden, ain't it?” Then they would all laugh
knowingly, and one would say, “What's it to be, cully?” and somebody
would answer, “Come along to Poverty Point then,” and a batch of the
waiting troop would trip off to the corner.
One of the gorgeous kind was coming down the stairs when his eye fell on
Glory as she stood in a group of girls who were decked out in rose pink
and corresponding finery. He paused, turned back, reopened the office
door, and said in an audible whisper, “Who's the pretty young ginger
you've got here, Josephs?” A moment afterward the agent had come out and
called her upstairs.
“It's salary day, my dear--vait there,” he said, and he put her into an
inner room, which was tawdrily furnished in faded red plush, with piano
and coloured prints of ballet girls and boxing men, and was full of the
odour of stale tobacco and bad whisky.
She waited half an hour, feeling hot and ashamed and troubled with
perplexing thoughts, and listening to the jingle of money in the
adjoining room, mingled with the ripple of laughter and sometimes the
exchange of angry words. At length the agent came back, saying, “Vell,
vat can I do for you to-day, my dear?”
He had been drinking, his tone was familiar, and he placed himself on
the end of the sofa upon which Glory was seated.
Glory rose immediately. “I came to ask if you have heard of anything for
me,” she said.
“Sit down, my dear.”
“No, thank you.”
“Heard anything? Not yet, my dear. You must vait----”
“I think I've waited long enough, and if your promises amount to
anything you'll get me an appearance at all events.”
“So I vould, my dear. I vould get you an extra turn at the Vashington,
but it's very expensive, and you've got no money.”
“Then why did you take what I had if you can do nothing? Besides, I
don't want anything but what my talents can earn. Give me a letter to a
manager--for mercy's sake, do something for me!”
There was a shrug of the Ghetto as the man rose and said, “Very vell, if
it's like that, I'll give you a letter and velcome.”
He sat at a table and wrote a short note, sealed it carefully in an
envelope which was backed with advertisements, then gave it to Glory,
and said, “Daddle doo. You'll not require to come again.”
Going downstairs she looked at the letter. It was addressed to an acting
manager at a theatre in the farthest west of London. The passages of
the house and the pavements outside were now empty; it was nearly two
o'clock, and snow was beginning to fall. She was feeling cold and a
little hungry, but, making up her mind to deliver the letter at once,
she hastened to the Temple station.
There was a _matinée_, so the acting manager was “in front.” He took
the letter abruptly, opened it with an air of irritation, glanced at
it, glanced at Glory, looked at the letter again, and then said in a
strangely gentle voice, “Do you know what's in this, my girl?”
“No,” said Glory.
“Of course you don't--look,” and he gave her the letter to read. It ran:
“Dear ----: This wretched young ginger is worrying me for a shop. She
isn't worth a ----. Get rid of her, and oblige Josephs.”
Glory flushed up to the forehead and bit her lip; then a little nervous
laugh broke from her throat, and two great tears came rolling from her
eyes. The acting manager took the letter out of her hands and tapped her
kindly on the shoulder.
“Never mind, my child. Perhaps we'll disappoint him yet. Tell me all
about it.”
She told him everything, for he had bowels of compassion. “We can't put
you on at present,” he said, “but our saloon contractor wants a young
lady to give out programmes, and if that will do to begin with----”
It was a crushing disappointment, but she was helpless. The employment
was menial, but it would take her out of the tobacco shop and put her
into the atmosphere of the theatre, and bring fifteen shillings a week
as well. She might begin on Monday if she could find her black dress,
white apron, cap, and cuffs. The dress she had already, but the apron,
cap, and cuffs would take the larger part of the money she had left.
By Sunday night she had swallowed her pride with one great gulp and was
writing home to Aunt Anna:
“I'm as busy as Trap's wife these days; indeed, that goddess of industry
is nothing to me now; but Christmas is coming, and I shall want to buy a
present for grandfather (and perhaps for the aunties as well), so please
send me a line in secret saying what he is wanting most. Snow! snow!
snow! The snow it snoweth every day.”
On the Monday night she presented herself at the theatre and was handed
over to another girl to be instructed in her duties. The house was one
of the best in London, and Glory found pleasure in seeing the audience
assemble. For the first half hour the gorgeous gowns, the beautiful
faces, and the distinguished manners excited her and made her forget
herself. Then little by little there came the pain of it all, and by
the time the curtain had gone up her gorge was rising, and she crept out
into the quiet corridor where her colleague was seated already under an
electric lamp reading a penny number.
The girl was a little, tender black and white thing, looking like a
dahlia. In a quarter of an hour Glory knew all about her. During the
day she served in a shop in the Whitechapel Road. Her name was Agatha
Jones--they called her Aggie. Her people lived in Bethnal Green, but
Charlie always came to the theatre to take her home. Charlie was her
young man.
In the intervals between the acts Glory assisted in the cloak-room, and
there the great ladies began to be very amusing. After the tinkle of
the electric bell announcing the second act she returned to the deserted
corridor, and before her audience of one gave ridiculous imitations in
dead silence of ladies using the puff and twiddling up their front hair.
“My! It's you as oughter be on the styge, my dear,” said Aggie.
“Do you think so?” said Glory.
“I'm going on myself soon. Charlie's getting me on the clubs.”
“The clubs?”
“The foreign clubs in Soho. More nor one has begun there.”
“Really?”
“The foreigners like dancing best. If you can do the splits and shoulder
the leg it's the mykings of you for life.”
When the performance was over they found Charlie waiting on the square
in front of the house. Glory had seen him before, and she recognised
him immediately. He was the young Cockney with the rolled fringe who had
bantered the policeman by Palace Yard on Lord Mayor's Day. They got into
the Underground together, and when Glory returned to the subject of the
foreign clubs Charlie grew animated and eloquent.
“They give ye five shillings a turn, and if yer good for anythink ye
may do six turns of a Sunday night, not ter speak of special nights, and
friendly leads and sech.”
When Glory got out at the Temple Aggie's head was resting on Charlie's
shoulder, and her little gloved fingers were lightly clasped in his
hand.
On the second night Glory had conquered a good deal of her pride. The
grace of her humour was saving her. It was almost as if somebody else
was doing servant's duty and she was looking on and laughing. After all
it was very funny that she should be there, and what delicious thoughts
it would bring later! Even Nell Gwynne sold oranges in the pit at first,
and then some day when she had risen above all this----
It must have been a great night of some sort. She had noticed red baize
and an awning outside, and the front of one of the boxes was laden with
flowers. When its occupants entered, the orchestra played the national
anthem and the audience rose to their feet. It was the Prince with the
Princess and their daughters. The audience was only less distinguished,
and something far off and elusive moved in her memory when a lady handed
her a check and said in a sweet voice:
“A gentleman will come for this seat.”
Glory's station was in the stalls, and she did not go out when the
lights went down and the curtain rose. The play was a modern one--the
story of a country girl who returned home after a life of bitterness and
shame.
It moved her and thrilled her, and stirred the smouldering fires of her
ambition. She was sorry for the actress who played the part--the poor
thing did not understand--and she would have given worlds to pour her
own voice through the girl's mouth. Then she was conscious that she
was making a noise with her hands, and looking down at them she saw the
crumpled programmes and her white cuffs, and remembered where she was,
and what, and she murmured, “O God, do not punish me for these vain
thoughts!”
All at once a light shot across her face as she stood in the darkness.
The door of the corridor had been opened, and a gentleman was coming in.
He stood a moment beside her with his eyes on the stage and said in a
whisper:
“Did a lady leave a seat?”
It was Drake! She felt as if she would suffocate, but answered in a
strained voice:
“Yes, that one. Programme, please.”
He took the programme without looking at her, put his fingers into his
waistcoat pocket, and slid something into her hand. It was sixpence.
She could have screamed. The humiliation was too abject. Hurrying out,
she threw down her papers, put on her cloak and hat and fled.
But next morning she laughed at herself, and when she took out Drake's
sixpence she laughed again. With the poker and a nail she drove a hole
through the coin and then hung it up by a string to a hook over the
mantelpiece, and laughed (and cried a little) every time she looked at
it. Life was so funny! Why did people bury themselves before they were
dead? She wouldn't do it for worlds! But she did not go back to the
theatre for all that, and neither did she return to the counter.
Christmas was near, the shops became bright and gay, and she remembered
what beautiful presents she had meant to send home out of the money
she had hoped to earn. On Christmas Eve the streets were thronged with
little family groups out shopping, and there were many amusing sights.
Then she laughed a good deal; she could not keep from laughing.
Christmas Day opened with a rimy, hazy morning, and the business
thoroughfares were deserted. They had sucking pig for dinner, and Mr.
Jupe, who was at home for the holiday, behaved like a great boy. It was
afternoon before the postman arrived with a bag as big as a creel, and
full of Christmas cards and parcels. There was a letter for Glory. It
was from Aunt Anna.
“We are concerned about the serious step you have taken, but trust it is
for the best, and that you will give Mrs. Jupe every satisfaction. Don't
waste your savings on us. Remember there are post-office savings banks
everywhere, and that there is no friend like a little money.”
At the bottom there was a footnote from Aunt Rachel: “Do you ever see
the Queen in London, and the dear Prince and Princess?”
She went to service that night at St. Paul's Cathedral. Entering by the
west door, a verger in a black cloak directed her to a seat in the
nave. The great place was dark and chill and half empty. All the singing
seemed to come from some unseen region far away, and when the preacher
got into the curious pulpit he looked like a Jack-in-the-box, and it
seemed to be a drum that was speaking.
Coming out before the end, she thought she would walk to the Whitechapel
Road, of which Aggie had told her something. She did so, going by
Bishopsgate Street, but turning her head away as she passed the church
of the Brotherhood. The motley crowd of Polish Jews, Germans, and
Chinamen, in the most interesting street in Europe, amused her for a
while, and then she walked up Houndsditch and passed through Bishopsgate
Street again.
At the Bank she took an omnibus for home. The only other fare was a
bouncing girl in a big hat with feathers.
“Going to the market, my dear? No? I hates it myself, too, so I goes to
the 'alls instead. Come from the country, don't ye? Same here. Father's
a farmer, but he's got sixteen besides me, so I won't be missed. Live?
I live at Mother Nan's dress-house now. Nice gloves, ain't they? My hat?
Glad you like the style. I generally get a new hat once a week, and as
for gloves, if anybody likes me----”
That night in her musty bedroom Glory wrote home while little Slyboots
slept: “'The best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft aglee.' Witness
me!
“I intended to send you some Christmas presents, but the snow has
been so industrious that not a mouse has stirred if he could help it.
However, I send three big kisses instead, and a pair of mittens for
grandfather--worked with my own hands, because I wouldn't allow any
good Brownie to do it for me. Tell Aunt Rachel I _do_ see the Prince and
Princess sometimes. I saw them at the theatre the other night. Yes, the
theatre! You must not be shocked--we are rather gay in London--we go
to the theatre occasionally. It is so interesting to meet all the great
people! You see I am fairly launched in fashionable society, but I love
everybody just the same as ever, and the moment the candle is out I
shall be thinking of Glenfaba and seeing the 'Waits,' and 'Oiel Verree,'
and 'Hunting the Wren,' and grandfather smoking his pipe in the study
by the light of the fire, and Sir Thomas Traddles, the tailless, purring
and blinking at his feet. Merry Christmas to you, my dears! By-bye.”