Alexandra began to tell about her sudden dismissal. De Freyne had been
in a good temper and apparently had no grievance against her. Every one
in the chorus knew there was always the chance of not being kept on for
the run of the piece. He was the managerial autocrat of stageland and
he did what he liked. A fortnight's notice or a fortnight's salary in
lieu of notice discharged his obligations so far as his chorus was
concerned.
Quite formally and with much the same stereotyped form of regret as an
editor employs in rejecting a suitable contribution, he told Alexandra
that he did not feel himself justified in retaining her services.
"Are you--dissatisfied with me?" she faltered, utterly taken aback.
"No, not exactly. You're a hard worker."
"Then--?"
"I simply find I don't need you. I'm sorry, but there it is."
"Is it--because I didn't get a new dress when you spoke to us? I
couldn't afford to," she said simply.
De Freyne fidgeted with some papers on his desk.
"Oh, that's all finished and done with," he answered without looking at
her.
"But I'd like to know where I've failed, please, Mr. De Freyne. It's
very important that I should know. I shall have to find another
engagement."
De Freyne gave her a searching look.
"You may get on all right elsewhere," he said. "I'll tell you the truth
for once in a way. You're not the right type. Don't you see you're not
the sort of material I've got to provide? Hang it all, it's my living.
Do you think I surround myself with the belles of Houndsditch and the
Lord knows where because I like it? The only kind of girl I've any use
for is the one who, besides working in business hours, makes a show in
smart places the rest of her time. Miss Mortimer was a good instance of
what I mean until she got swelled head. You're a lady and you won't do.
Forget you are one and you can stop on or come back again. I mean
that."
She knew what he meant, and since she had no intention of modeling
herself on Miss Mortimer she also did not attempt to argue the matter.
De Freyne, for some unaccountable reason, tried to justify himself.
"I daresay you think me a sort of understudy to Apollyon, but if you'll
look at things impartially I'm not as bad as all that. The girls I
engage come to me knowing I can find them the best market. I give them
far better chances than they can get anywhere else. You and your friend
are--accidents. You have either got to clear or--conform. In the case
of your friend, don't you think it's rather a shame to persuade her to
buck up against things? She's not like you. It's not doing her a good
turn. I've given her a chance to-day...."
He let the words sink in.
Alexandra left the theater, dismissed.
Her luck looked desperately bad. It was unlikely that she would get
another engagement until the autumn, if then. It was a long time to
wait. True, she might go and stay with her nearest relatives, the
Anglo-Indian Colonel, his wife and daughters, but they lived in
Devonshire. Once in Devonshire it was morally certain that she would
have to remain there, dependent on people with whom she had nothing in
common. Her purse would not allow her to make frequent journeys to
London to find work.
She did not want to give up the stage without a struggle. It would be
horribly humiliating to own herself beaten. She believed in her
dramatic ability. She was not afraid of roughing it, but she had not
seen the rocks ahead. When she turned over in her mind other ways of
earning a living difficulties presented themselves. She could not do
office work: she knew nothing of shorthand or typewriting. She might
apply for the post of children's governess or companion, but would she
be acceptable for either? There would be questions as to her previous
experience. All she would be able to cite would be a fortnight's
stage-work in the chorus, hardly the right qualification for a guardian
of youth or companionship to a lady! She could picture the instinctive
drawing-back of a prospective employer and the murmured "I'm afraid you
won't do...."
No, she would have to go on as she had begun or drop by the way.
She walked the sun-blistered pavements, hardly noticing where she was
going, trying to think what to do, where to go. The same old
heart-rending round would begin again--Denton's, Blackmoore's, Hart's,
the lesser known agencies, and "nothing for you to-day. Look in again,
dear."
How she was going to live she simply did not know. A fortnight's
salary! ... She could not guess how many hundreds of men and women of
the same profession as herself were facing the same problem without even
the fortnight's salary between them and destitution.
Then there was Maggy. Unless Maggy "conformed," she would be told to go
too. De Freyne's words stuck in her mind: "Isn't it rather a shame to
persuade her to buck up against things? It's not doing her a good turn."
"Things," of course, was a euphemism for Fate. She had never meant to
impose her own moral views on Maggy. She didn't want to spoil her
material prospects. Maggy had shown again and again that it was only on
her, Alexandra's, account that she had elected to make a stand. There
was ever a hint of irresolution behind her apparent firmness. Alexandra
was fairly sure that if Maggy found a man who would gain her affection
and treat her well she would be ready to be convinced that there was no
harm in an unlegalized union. That she had not succumbed in the past was
no argument that she would remain unassailable in the future. Alexandra
was perhaps standing in her light. In one sense she was protecting her,
in the other she was taking the bread out of her mouth. She did not
feel herself privileged to coerce the younger girl when she could not
help her or even help herself. Maggy was not fiercely virginal. Once
she had taken the initial step she would lose her sensitiveness. Nature
would demand that she take it sooner or later. She was frail, because
at heart she was so simple, so unhesitatingly unafraid to go where her
instincts led her.
Alexandra made up her mind that she would not try to influence her. It
was not fair. But she hoped she would not yield to temptation.
Something in the thought of Maggy surrendering twisted her heartstrings.
It made her feel so dreadfully sorry. It was as though she dimly
foresaw that if Maggy snatched at the sham thing Joy, she would see it
turn to sorrow, to dust and ashes....
She found herself before the door of their lodging. She had walked
there mechanically with dragging steps. De Freyne had said that he had
given Maggy a chance that afternoon. Alexandra recalled her happy,
flushed face, the look of excitation in her eyes. Maggy had evidently
liked the man, whoever he was. It was only three o'clock. She did not
expect her back yet. She was probably still enjoying herself
tremendously. Alexandra wondered how much Maggy cared for her after all,
how soon before she would leave her to fight it out alone.
And she found Maggy in before her. Maggy had made tea, she had taken
off Alexandra's hat and knelt down and drawn off her shoes....
Alexandra put down her cup and stretched out her hand across the table.
Maggy took it and gave it a squeeze.
"There's a bit of poetry I learnt once," she said. "I say it whenever I
feel the limit. It's a sort of psalm.
"All's well with the world, my friend,
And there isn't an ache that lasts;
All troubles will have an end,
And the rain and the bitter blasts.
There is sleep when the evil is done,
There's substance beneath the foam;
And the bully old yellow sun will shine
Till the cows come home!"
"Can't you see 'em in your mind's eye, Lexie dear, a string of
them--brown ones with soft eyes--their heads moving from side to side,
coming down the long lane just round the turning ... and the sun shining
behind them through clouds.... Cheer up, ducky!"