Alexandra's longing to act, to appear before an impartial audience in a
play reflecting every-day life, was at last satisfied when the tour
began. Her part was a very small one, that of a parlormaid only, but it
did not prevent her going through the usual phases of stage fright at
the first performance. On the second night she was calm and collected.
At the end of a week it surprised her to find that she was no longer
under the spell of theatricalism.
Had she joined the company in the ordinary way the glamour of the stage
would have got hold of her and remained with her for a long time. As an
insignificant member of it, out of touch with its leading light, she
would have imagined mysteries where none existed. But from the very
first all these so-called mysteries were exposed. She was like the
assistant to the conjuror: she saw how things were done.
In the first place, Mrs. Lambert did not pose as any high-priestess of
the drama: she was rather contemptuous of the stage. She thought of it
as a way to make an easy living, that was all. Alexandra's notions about
the stage were all associated with Art: Mrs. Lambert's were confined to
figures. She and her manager talked business unexcitedly for an hour
every day, never esthetics. She was mildly amused when Alexandra showed
her enthusiasm for acting, as she did in that first week.
"You'll get over it, my dear," she said. "It's not an art, merely a
matter of temperament. If acting were creative one could take it
seriously, but it isn't. The author creates; the actor only represents.
When I'm acting I often feel like the inside of a moving picture show.
It's all mechanical."
"But," said Alexandra, "you weren't always like that? When you first
went on the stage--"
"I felt as you do, all emotion and inexperience. Now that I've lived and
am disillusioned I know that the stage is only a business, and not a
very edifying one. The public don't see that side of it, fortunately.
They think only of the amusement it provides. If they would stop there
it wouldn't matter: but they have such a mania for everything theatrical
in this country, such a desire to penetrate beyond the footlights, that
they quite forget the necessity for a curtain between the make-believe
of the stage and themselves. They're like a child with a toy. They want
to see the inside mechanism, and directly they do they suffer the usual
disappointment. I never take people 'behind'; if I do I always find
they never again want to pay for a seat 'in front.' We're only
shop-keepers, after all, and shop-keepers don't invite their customers
behind the counter, any more than the customers are in the habit of
asking their butcher or their baker to dinner. Somehow you can't get
the public to see things like that. Instead of keeping members of the
stage at a distance, treating them like kennel-dogs, they invite them to
their houses and pamper them. It makes them more conceited and
self-sufficient than they are already. I don't deny that a few actors
and actresses are decently born and bred, indoor dogs, so to speak,
knowing their manners; but that's no reason why the whole pack should be
made free of the public's drawing rooms.... Let us walk up to the
cathedral and spend a quiet hour there."
The tour had opened in a small cathedral town, and the three hours spent
at the theater each night hardly counted in their daily round. They
motored about the surrounding country, or read, talked and did
needlework in the private sitting room of their quiet hotel. Such a
life, placid and yet full of pleasant occupation, was delightful to
Alexandra. She found the weekly change from town to town exhilarating,
and the journey each Sunday in Mrs. Lambert's comfortable landaulette a
luxurious mode of traveling.
At the end of their first week Chalfont came down and remained with them
for the rest of the tour. Both he and Mrs. Lambert treated Alexandra on
terms of equality so that she never felt an intruder on their intimacy.
Before her they made no secret of their attachment, but she never
regarded it as anything more close than what might exist between old and
tried friends. Sometimes she detected in Mrs. Lambert quite a sisterly
attitude toward Lord Chalfont. That was probably accounted for by the
differences in their ages, she being a few years the elder.
Chalfont often asked after Maggy. He had quite an open admiration for
her, which Mrs. Lambert shared. But, unlike him, she seldom asked for
news of her. At the time, Alexandra did not notice this apparent lack
of interest. She was not able to impart anything about Maggy for the
simple reason that she had not heard from her. Only twice during the
early days of the tour had there been a letter from her. After that,
although Alexandra repeatedly wrote, she got no reply. She could not
help wondering at this silence. It was not like Maggy. Later, when she
spoke of it to Mrs. Lambert, the latter did not seem surprised.
"You're sure to hear from her soon. She may be away," she said.
And a letter did arrive from Maggy shortly afterwards. It was written
in pencil and strangely shaky, quite unlike her habitual hand, which
although childish, was remarkably firm. She said very little, confirmed
Mrs. Lambert's prophecy by admitting that she had been away for a
change, owing to which she had not received Alexandra's letters until
her return. She ended with a postscript which had evidently been added
in a burst of feeling.
"I love Fred more than ever, Lexie. I couldn't exist without him. He
has been such a dear since I got back."
Alexandra passed it across the breakfast table to Mrs. Lambert, with the
remark:
"It's from Maggy. She doesn't say what has been the matter with her,
though."
Chalfont looked up.
"Has your friend been ill?" he asked with concern. "I'm sorry to hear
that. We must send her some flowers, Ada."
"Yes, we will," Mrs. Lambert concurred.
After breakfast he went out to buy some. When he came back Mrs. Lambert
was alone in the room.
"What beauties!" she said, lifting the lid of the box he had brought in
with him. "Catherine Mermets."
She hung over the roses, the bitter-sweet of the memories they evoked
coming up to her with their delicate fragrance. Chalfont always bought
her Catherine Mermets when they were in bloom, great masses of them; but
it was Hugh Lambert who had first given her a bunch of three, purchased
at a street corner at sixpence each in the days when sixpences were
scarce with him.
"I got them because they are your favorites," he said. "I thought she
would be sure to like what you like. Anyway, what's good enough for you
is good enough for anybody."
She put her arm over his shoulder and kissed him.
"You're always so thoughtful, and so loyal," she said. "I'm getting old
and you remain steadfast. It seems such an irony of fate that I can't
love you as you deserve. Although Hugh has no claim on my feelings or
my memory, I can't forget him. I give you so little, Leonard. One day,
perhaps, some girl will love you worthily, and make up for my meanness."
He smiled down at her, shaking his head.
"Keep those roses," he said. "I'll get Miss Delamere some more."
"No, no, I want her to have them. Put your card in. Shall I write the
address?"
Woolf was with Maggy when the post brought her the roses. He cut the
string and stood looking on while she removed the tissue wrappings.
"Oh, roses!" she cried delightedly. "Who can have sent them?"
They had traveled as well as could be expected of cut flowers, but they
were flagging a little for want of water.
Woolf pounced on the card that accompanied them.
"'Lord Chalfont,'" he read, and scowled at the club address in the
corner. "Damn his impudence sending you flowers! And how the devil
does he know your address?" he demanded angrily.
Maggy was perturbed at this outburst.
"You needn't mind, Fred," she said placably.
"Did you tell him where you lived?"
"Of course not. You needn't go back to that. You said you'd forgiven me
for going to lunch with Mrs. Lambert that day. You know I met him
there, and that's all there is in it. He must have known that I--I
hadn't been well--through Lexie, and sent the flowers out of
politeness." She turned the lid of the box up. "The address is in a
woman's hand: Mrs. Lambert's. There's nothing to look so furious about."
The fact that flowers should come to Maggy from a comparative stranger
would not, of itself, have irritated Woolf. She often received flowers
now, and from men she had never met. Her good looks and prominence at
the Pall Mall accounted for this. Woolf made no objection. The
admiration of other men for her rather enhanced her desirability in his
eyes. He took it as a tribute to his own good taste in having secured
possession of her. But Chalfont's name affected him in much the same
manner as a red rag does a bull. It blinded him with rage because it
stood for everything that he himself was devoid of--birth, breeding,
nobility of nature--and, moreover, because it was that of the man who
had humbled him by having him turned out of the select club to which he
aspired to membership. That incident had touched Woolf on the raw. It
was much as if he had been told that he was unworthy of association with
gentlemen.
He picked up the roses and pitched them into the fireplace.
"Damned cheek, sending you a few pennyworth of dead flowers!" he flared
out. "I'll go and buy you some live ones!"
Maggy did not protest. She had learnt discretion with Woolf. He flung
out of the flat. Half-an-hour later a messenger boy came with a
magnificent bouquet of freshly-cut Catherine Mermets.
Maggy was so happy arranging them.