"Well, my dears," said the Professor, "and how are you, eh? Got nice and
sunburnt, and done yourselves good, have you? Bee, my dear, you might
just touch the bell--I told the girl not to make the tea until we rang.
Let me have a look at you both now!" He looked at Hilda. "Come, come,
that's first rate! And what's the news?"
"Oh, we're splendid," she replied. "I don't think there's any news; we
just did nothing. That is, I did nothing, and Bee worked. You might have
come down to us, Dad, if only for a day! We were always expecting a wire
to tell us you were coming."
"Yes, I know, my dear," he said, "I know; you wrote me. When I read your
letter I thought I really would go down; I made up my mind to. 'Now I
know what I'll do,' I thought; 'I won't answer her--I'll say nothing
about it--and on Saturday I'll pack my bag, and take her by surprise.'
But God bless my soul! when Saturday came I couldn't get away, my dear,
I couldn't get away." His glance wandered to his other daughter, and
rested on her doubtfully. "Or perhaps it was you who wrote, Bee? One of
you did, I know; it's all the same."
"Just the same, father," she said, "all the same; we both wanted you."
The teapot was brought in presently, and half a dozen words were uttered
which did more to make her feel at home again than anything that had
happened yet. The servant knocked a cup over, put a forefinger inside
it, in setting it right, and said in a hoarse whisper, "Can I speak to
you, Miss?"
When the conference with the servant was over, Bee carried her father's
cup to the armchair, and took Hilda's to the sofa; and the Professor
murmured in the tone that belongs to after-thoughts:
"And did you make your studies, Bee?"
"Yes, thanks, father."
"That's right. Many?"
"Oh, just as many as I hoped to do. I'm rather pleased with one of them."
"_That's_ right."
"Anything new here, father?"
"In a way, my dear, in a way; the new man has taken over the Theatre
Royal. Mobsby has left the town; I hear he has gone to Nottingham. You
might give me another piece of sugar, a very small piece--or break a
lump in halves."
"The new man taken over the theatre?" said Hilda. "Have you written to
him about the opera?"
"Have you, father?" asked Bee, searching the sugar-basin.
"Yes," he said, "yes, I did write to him. I'm afraid he's not a
gentleman. I dropped him a line, explaining matters, and offering to
call on him one day when he had an hour to spare, if he would suggest an
appointment, and he--er--I got no answer."
"Perhaps the letter didn't reach him, dear."
"I fancied that might be the reason," said the Professor; "the same idea
occurred to me. So I wrote to him again, but----No, I'm afraid both
letters reached him. Now Mobsby used to answer--I'll give him credit
for that. He wasn't enterprising, but he was civil, at all events; he
made excuses for declining my work. This Mr. Jordan seems to have no
enterprise, and no politeness either. We don't go to the Royal any more,
my dears! I put my foot down about that. For the future when we take
tickets for a theatre, they shall be for the Grand."
"The Royal always has the best companies, though," pouted Hilda; "and
the audience at the Grand is so dirty."
"For all that we shall go to the Grand," repeated the Professor; "it's
the only dignified protest I can make. While the Royal remains under
this fellow's management it will see no money of mine. I am quite firm
on that point--unless of course diplomacy effects anything," he added,
"unless diplomacy effects anything."
"Diplomacy can't effect much with a man who doesn't answer your
letters," said Hilda. Her voice was tart.
"What more do you think of doing, then, father?" inquired Bee. "Have you
a plan?"
"I never let the grass grow under my feet, you know; when there is an
opportunity, I make the most of it. A friend at court may do a great
deal, and the other afternoon----" He sipped slowly, and spread his
handkerchief across his knee. "It seemed almost providential; I don't
do such a thing once in two months, but it was a very hot day, and
I was tired and thirsty; it was on my way home from Great Hunby. I
turned into the 'George' for something to drink, my dear, and I made
the acquaintance of Mr. Jordan's business manager. The thin edge of the
wedge, perhaps! though I am never sanguine. Of course I did no more than
mention the opera--the merest word--but he seemed interested. The next
time we meet I shall refer to it again. It may lead to something. He was
intelligent. He may pull the strings. I'm never sanguine, but it stands
to reason that the business manager of a theatre has a lot to say in
the conduct of affairs. If I cultivate him----" He looked about him
impatiently. "You might pass me the tobacco-jar, my dear."
She got up, and took it from the mantelpiece, and gave it to him.
"Here it is, father. If you cultivate him, you think he might use his
influence with Mr. Jordan?"
"Just so. But _festina lente_, my dear--hasten slowly. Don't look too
far ahead. It's because people look too far ahead that they trip in
reading aloud. The same principle, exactly! The eye travels too fast,
and the tongue stumbles. Half the mistakes that the pupils make in
reading blank verse are due to the fact that they look too far ahead.
In life, as in reading, we should clearly enunciate one word at a
time. What was I going to say?... Yes, having made his acquaintance,
there's no telling what it may lead to if I show the young man a
little hospitality. It's quite on the cards that Mr. Jordan may sing a
different tune and ask me to let him hear the opera. If he should do
that, I--I am not vindictive--if he should do that, and give the work
his honest consideration, we would certainly go to the Royal as usual."
The prospect of his showing a new young man a little hospitality
smoothed the frown from Hilda's brow. The young men of Beckenhampton
were mercenary, and girls who had been her schoolfellows and knew her
age--girls who had no other attraction than their fathers' incomes--had
married in their teens. She was not without a lurking fear of being
"left on the shelf," as she phrased it; in which misgiving she
resembled a multitude of girls who look equally superior to the fear
and the phrase. It is, indeed, an unpleasant comment on our method of
bringing up the maiden that in the minds of even the most modest girls,
the eagerness to marry should precede the wish to marry any man in
particular. To the blunter and less refined sensibilities of the male
there seems something a little indelicate in this impartial eagerness.
The Professor's intention commended itself to Hilda so warmly, that
during the next few days she introduced the subject of the opera more
than once. It was not until she had been back from Godstone a week,
however, that the growth of the grass to which he had made reference
was in any way checked. And then chance was the mower. She had gone but
with him, ostensibly to help him to choose a hat, and of a truth to
prevent his choosing one, for the years during which man is free to
exercise his own judgment about his own clothes are few. As they turned
into Market Street, he gave her a nudge, so hard that it hurt her, and
waving his hand to a stranger, slackened his pace. The stranger, who
had been hurrying past, saw that the elderly bore was accompanied by a
bewilderingly pretty girl, and came promptly to a standstill--in his
bearing all the deference which a young man can yield to old age under
the eyes of beauty.
"Oh, how do you do, Professor Sorrenford?"
"Ah, pleased to meet you again," exclaimed the Professor. "Let
me--er--my daughter; Mr. Harris--my daughter."
Vivian made another bow--one far different from the shamefaced bob
of the local swains, Hilda thought. It was, indeed, modelled on the
obeisance he saw the lovers make to the heroines when he was counting
the house in the dress-circle.
"Mr. Harris is a new-comer to the town," said the Professor blandly.
"I am afraid Mr. Harris must find it very dull?" murmured the girl.
The jeune premier was his exemplar still: "It reveals new attractions
every day!" he declared. He looked at her significantly. Her eyelids
drooped. The father saw nothing but the opera in his desk.--
"Yes, I think, myself, there are many attractions to be found in the
place," he said; "though, as an old resident--one of the very oldest
residents, in fact--I may be too partial, perhaps. I have been in
Beckenhampton now--how many years? I begin to lose count. People will
tell you that the name of 'Sorrenford' is as well known here as the
name of--ha, ha--the name of the Theatre Royal, itself. Mr. Harris is
interested in the Theatre Royal, my dear--the scene of so many of our
pleasant evenings."
"Oh, indeed?" She was gently surprised. "You're at the theatre, Mr.
Harris?"
"In the front," he said. "I hope we shall give you some pleasanter
evenings still under the new régime, Miss Sorrenford. We mean to make
the house one of the most go-ahead theatres in the provinces." His tone
was bright, inspiriting. He struck her as likely to succeed in anything
that he undertook.
"We shall not fail to sample the--er--the bill of fare," said the
Professor; "ha, ha, the bill of fare! We shall pay you an early visit.
I hope you'll return it. A composer's time is not his own, but we are
always glad to see our friends on Sunday nights. If you have nothing
better to do one Sunday----"
"I shall be charmed."
"Mr. Harris is busy on week nights like yourself," put in Hilda with a
smile.
"To be sure!--like myself. Sunday is really the only day a professional
man has a chance to be sociable, isn't it? We have a bond in common.
Take us as we are, Mr. Harris. Drop in. Pot luck, and a little music,
and a hearty welcome. Now don't forget. Let us be among the first in
Beckenhampton to--to make you feel at home in it."
"I shall be charmed," repeated Vivian, gazing undisguised admiration
at Hilda. She gave him her hand. He crossed the road victoriously; the
father and daughter continued their way to the hatter's.
For some seconds the old man was silent, wrapt in ecstatic reverie. Then
he broke out:
"Well? Eh? Not bad--what do you think? Did you notice how glad he was
I invited him? He's been asking about me since I saw him; he's been
turning the opera over in his mind. That's the plain English of it. Very
cordial, but he can't take _me_ in! There's the pounds, shillings, and
pence interest underneath, my dear! _I_ saw through him." He chuckled.
"He's nibbling--the business manager is nibbling! It won't be long
before he comes, you'll see!... We'd better have a Perrin's for supper
next Sunday, my dear, on the chance of his turning up."
Vivian was much pleased to have somewhere to go, and he made no longer
delay in presenting himself than he considered that appearances
required. Sunday had been dismal enough while he was with a company
on tour; here in his new post, without even a game of napoleon on a
railway journey to mitigate the tedium, he had found it drearier still.
The opportunity for talking to a girl who wasn't a barmaid would have
tempted him had the girl been plain; when she was admitted to be the
prettiest girl in Beckenhampton--or, as the landlord of the "George" had
it, "the belle of our town"--he felt that it was really a matter for
rejoicing.
And his host's greeting was as warm as his invitation. Certainly his
performance on the 'cello after supper was rather a nuisance, but "the
belle" made a delightful picture as an accompanist; and when she sang
an entirely new ballad about Dead Days and a Garden, with a tune that a
fellow could catch, to take away the taste of the classics commanded by
her papa, the visitor felt quite a stir of sentiment.
And he was given another whisky-and-soda, and another of the six cigars
which the Professor had arranged in a cigar-box that had lain empty for
years. Even when "Father" had been persuaded to let Mr. Harris hear
"something from the opera" and Mr. Harris began to realise that the
garrulous old gentleman wanted more from him than compliments, the
evening was not a disappointment; the younger girl was so enchanting,
and the atmosphere of a home was such a novelty. It was impossible for
Vivian to be sorry he had come, though he perceived that it would be
unwise to define the boundaries of his position in the theatre if he
wished to come often.
"Do you play or sing yourself, Mr. Harris?" Bee inquired.
"No," he said; "no, I'm not musical." In this musical family he
regretted to acknowledge it.
"Sure?" asked Hilda, swinging round on the stool.
"Oh yes, unfortunately--quite sure." He was at the point of adding:
"Though I was, brought up in the thick of it all," but to explain that
his mother's second husband had been a negro was never agreeable to him.
"I'm awfully fond of it, though! I could listen to singing all night.
Won't you give us something else? Do, please; don't get up!"
"I really don't know what there is." She ruffled the stack beside her
listlessly. "I'm afraid there's nothing else for me to sing."
"Let me help you find something."
"If you can. If you really haven't had enough?"
He went across to her, and they bent their heads over the heap together;
and he hung at the piano while she sang another entirely new ballad
about Days that were No More, and a Stream.
When she finished he murmured "Thank you," and threw into his manner the
suggestion of being too much moved to say anything more lengthy.
"It's rather pretty, isn't it?" she said, lifting her eyes in the
candle-light.
"Yes; and your voice----" he sighed expressively.
"Oh!" she looked down again, affording him a good view of her lashes,
and stroked the keys. "My voice is really as small as a voice can be."
"I've never heard one that carried me away as yours does. Do you
know--I suppose you'll be shocked--but I like the drawing-room
ballad--sometimes--nearly as well as the classical things."
"I like them better," she said archly.
"Do you?" He was delighted. "So do I. I hadn't the courage to own that."
"I daren't let my father hear. It would be high treason."
They both laughed. The pretence of having a secret together was quite
charming.
"I see there is a concert announced for Thursday fortnight at the Town
Hall," remarked the Professor. "Those are pleasures you're unable to
enjoy, Mr. Harris, eh? I suppose you can't leave the theatre? But there
is a big bill. We shall have some fine artists. We shall have a treat,
quite a rare treat."
"Yes," said Vivian. "I know. I'm afraid it'll spoil our Thursday night's
house; I wish they had fixed it for another evening. Thursday is our
best night in the dress-circle as a rule."
"How lovely it must be," exclaimed Hilda, "to go to the theatre every
evening! Though I suppose you get tired of it, too?"
"I should think it was nicer in the country than in London," said Bee,
"isn't it? You do see a different piece here every week."
"Yes," he answered. "One gets a change. But I never see a piece right
through, you know. There's so much to do in front."
"The business of a theatre," observed the Professor ponderously,
"is naturally enormous. The outsider has no conception of
the--er--intricacies of theatrical management. These young ladies look
at the stage in the limelight, they know nothing of the commercial
element of the enterprise. The sea of figures in which the manager wades
is to them of course a _terra incognita_."
Vivian stroked his moustache, and hid a smile.
"Yes, the figures are a bit of a bore," he said. "I was acting manager
to a company on tour before I joined Jordan. That was more bother still,
you know."
"Acting manager?" said Hilda. "To manage the acting I should have
thought was jolly?"
"Oh, I had nothing to do with the stage! 'Acting manager' and 'business
manager' mean the same thing."
"How curious!"
"Yes, it is rather odd. No, I had nothing to do with the stage, but
there were the journeys to arrange then, and there are always people in
a company who grumble at the train call, whatever time it's for. If you
take them early they complain because they have to get up so soon; and
if you take them late, they say they've never known a tour on which they
had to make so many journeys at night. And of course it's always the
poor acting manager's fault!"
"Why not take them in the afternoon? Wouldn't that get over the
difficulty?"
"Well, you can't travel from Bristol to Yarmouth in an afternoon, and
that was one of the journeys we had to make. The train call was for
twelve o'clock Saturday night, after the show, and we didn't get into
Yarmouth till the next evening. How cross some of them were!"
"So should _I_ have been!"
He tried to look as if he couldn't imagine her cross. "It wasn't very
pleasant certainly. At four in the morning we were at a standstill.
Black dark. And we had to stick in the station till half-past seven.
There was no refreshment room open, of course; we all sat shivering in
the train. And it rained. Oh! how it rained! About six o'clock, one
of the ladies asked two or three of us into her compartment, and made
tea with a little spirit-lamp that she had brought. I think I enjoyed
that tea more than any I've ever drunk, but we didn't get a solid meal
till we reached Peterborough--three hours more to wait. It had stopped
raining by then, and we had roast mutton at an hotel, and yawned at the
cathedral."
"I hope you took the good Samaritan who had given you the tea?" said the
Professor.
"We did, yes. As a matter of fact, the leading man proposed to her
during the wait at Peterborough. It was the tea that had done it--he
said he hadn't believed any woman could look so nice at 6 A.M. Of course
the other ladies declared she had curled her hair before she invited
us into the compartment, but that was jealousy; he was a good-looking
chap, and getting ten pounds a week.... They were engaged all the tour."
"Do you mean that they married then?" Bee asked.
"No, they didn't marry, but they were engaged all the tour. They
quarrelled at the Grand, Islington. Her father had been a celebrated
wit, and she used to say awfully insulting things and think they were
funny."
It was nearly midnight when he rose to go. He was perhaps less
impressionable than most young men of his age, less addicted to wasting
time in flirtations that promised nothing more satisfactory than a kiss
and a keepsake; but as he strode down the silent road to his apartments
he was not quite fancy-free in the moonlight, his reverie was not quite
so practical as usual. He resolved to send a box to the Professor at the
earliest date that it was desirable to "put a little paper out"; and as
he foresaw himself welcoming the party in the foyer, he was gratified
to reflect that he looked his best in an evening suit. He was also
gratified to reflect that "the belle" must go for walks, and examine the
windows in the High Street, and that her sister couldn't be always with
her.
After he had gone the Professor said--
"Well, he was taken by what he heard of the opera, I think? He'll
mention it to Jordan if I'm not very much mistaken. Rome wasn't built in
a day, but I've laid the foundation stone. We're getting on!"
"Yes, I'm sure he liked it," answered Bee. "I wish it had been Mr.
Jordan himself, though. Don't you think Mr. Harris is rather young to
have much authority, father?"
"Tut, tut," replied the composer tetchily, "what nonsense! He's shrewd,
he's a smart fellow. What do you suppose he came for--to smoke a cigar
with me? Business men don't run after strangers for nothing. You talk
without considering. There's always a motive for these friendly actions,
my dear. Women don't look beneath the surface; I could never teach your
poor mother, God bless her! to look beneath the surface. I daresay he'll
drop in next Sunday again; it wouldn't surprise me at all."
He turned to Hilda, as he generally did when he wasn't in trouble. And
Hilda nodded--and smiled.