THE ELIPHALET TOUCH
Eliphalet Cardomay was not, in the true sense of the word, a Bohemian.
In his own particular way he was rather conventional. He knew he had not
been drunk by any intentional intemperance of his own, yet the memory of
the affair at Brigan was a nightmare to which even Manning was not
permitted to refer.
To a man who has formed for himself certain high standards of behaviour,
even the inadvertent collapse of any one of these is a matter of acute
distress. Eliphalet Cardomay hated insobriety. The word conjured up in
his mind a vision of a last scene in his married life. He regarded
drunkenness as the thief of virtue, and with Eliphalet virtue was of
supreme account. So far as lay within his power he suppressed any
tendency in his company toward what is inaccurately termed by laymen,
“theatrical arrangements.”
To prevent some little wanderer from committing a false and foolish step
he would take any amount of trouble. Eliphalet Cardomay was, despite the
failure of his own marriage, a romanticist. He would gladly walk ten
miles to a wedding, and an equal distance on his hands to a christening.
There is a sentimental kink in most childless old men. A wise and loving
parent Eliphalet Cardomay would have made, had the fates not willed it
otherwise, for he was the very type of sentimentalist who gladly would
have given his every possession to have his dress-tie—on the rare
occasions he wore one—tied by dainty daughter-fingers. But no daughter
bore the name of Cardomay—he was alone and self-contained, and watched
all around him a world of apathetic parents seemingly insensible to the
happiness that was theirs. And so, in his little way, Eliphalet fathered
his flock, guided and ferried them over rough waters, gave them gentle,
easy advices, and, without saying much about it, contrived to do a deal
of good.
* * * * *
Some girls are always old enough to be on their own—others are never
old enough to be on their own, even when middle-age has made their
girlhood a sham.
Of the latter order was Miss Eunice Terry, whose real name was Mary
Kent. She became Eunice Terry on her accession to the stage because she
foolishly believed such verbal extravagances would facilitate her ascent
of the ladder of Fame. The foolishness of Eunice did not stop with her
choice of a name, for the stage had scarcely claimed her as its own
before she adopted the practice of calling everyone “My dear,” of
colouring her naturally pretty face with unnatural pigments, and of
wearing clothes, and particularly boots, of a type which no man admires,
except on evenings of frivolity removed from the home circle.
Had Eunice Terry been a wise little girl she would have remained Mary
Kent even though on the stage. For Mary Kent was quite an attractive
person, and far more likely to figure in the cast of a play than any
amount of Eunice Terrys. But she was not a wise little girl, she was a
very foolish one, and her folly was the cause of a growing grief in the
heart of Henry Churchill, who had loved her with joy as Mary, and
continued to do so with melancholy as Eunice.
Henry Churchill was a big, conventional young man, with a
disproportionately small salary derived from an estate agent. He had
first met Mary when the latter was employed by the same firm as typist,
and had succumbed at once to her fascinations.
They spent four delightful months getting engaged, and, after working
hours, would sit on the pebbles of Bognor beach and make delicious plans
for the future. There was only one cloud to dim the skies of these
pleasant discourses, and that was Mary’s constantly expressed ambition
to go on the stage.
“I should have gone ages ago,” she would say, “if it hadn’t been for
Auntie, and you know what she is.”
And Henry secretly thanked Heaven for Auntie, for, knowing nothing
whatever about the stage or stage-folk, he very properly disapproved of
both.
Auntie, it appears, was the stumbling-block to many joyous enterprises.
It was she who insisted that he must earn fully two hundred a year
before she would consent to the match.
“Mary wants any amount of looking after,” she said, “and you’re not old
enough yet to look after yourself.”
A premature marriage was thus averted, and the young lovers consoled
themselves by privately condemning Auntie’s tyranny and common-sense.
Then one day Auntie died, unexpectedly and inconspicuously on the
horsehair sofa in the parlour, and Mary Kent was left alone in the world
to work out her own destiny.
It might be imagined that Henry embraced the opportunity to make her his
wife then and there, but Auntie had left, by way of a legacy, a certain
amount of the one-time detested common-sense. Reviewing his financial
position by the clear light of before-breakfast sunshine, he was forced
to admit that a salary that barely sufficed to satisfy his own needs
would inevitably prove insufficient for two. He conveyed this weighty
decision to the ears of his adored one, who, deprived of the same
clarity of vision that had been given to him, accepted it as a token of
waning affection.
“If you can’t keep me,” she sobbed, “then I’ll keep both of us.”
Sorely perplexed, he asked her what she meant.
“I shall go on the stage and earn a huge salary, and then perhaps you’ll
be sorry.”
“Don’t talk like that, Mary,” he begged.
“I always meant to go when Auntie died, as it makes no difference,
anyhow, and now I shall.”
These remarks being somewhat involved, Henry Churchill scarcely knew how
to answer, so he said the worst thing possible.
“I don’t see how you can go on the stage without knowing anything about
acting.”
“I do know something about it, and when you see me driving about in my
carriage I sha’n’t take any notice of you, and that’ll pay you out!”
Henry pondered for a moment before replying:
“Surely you have more respect for your poor aunt’s memory than to go
talking about carriages, like that?”
But Mary only pouted, and never said another word during the whole walk
home.
Next morning Miss Mary Kent’s place at the estate agent’s was
unoccupied, and when Henry, after an agonising three hours, rushed round
to her abode, he found a letter awaiting him, the gist of which was she
had gone to make her fortune on the stage, and though she would always
love him she must give rein to her artistic abilities before the
consummation of their happiness could be achieved.
Beginner’s luck is no fable, and it was certainly exampled when Mary
Kent presented herself at the stage-door of the Theatre Royal, Brighton,
at the psychological moment Eliphalet Cardomay decided that another
lady-guest was required for the reception-scene at the Ambassador’s.
The Brighton _Herald_ had commented upon the quality and lack of guests
in this important function, and Eliphalet, viewing the scene from the
wings, was bound to confess there was justice in their observations.
It is not pleasant for an actor of his standing to read in the “What
People are Saying” column that “The Ambassador at the Royal this week
hasn’t many friends, and what he has hardly seem worth knowing.”
As a general rule, guests can be made to double in other acts with
peasants, gardeners, or policemen, but in this particular play there
were no peasants, policemen, or gardeners; hence, to invite more than a
select few to the Ambassadorial rout was a distinct extravagance.
Nevertheless, it would not do if people got hold of the idea that he was
cheese-paring. Accordingly, at the end of the matinée, he called the
stage-manager, and addressed him as follows:
“Mr. Manning, you will endeavour to find a girl and a young gentleman to
walk on in the third act; the stage is not sufficiently dressed.”
“Right you are, Guv’nor,” said the stage-manager. “There was a girl
asking for a job at the stage-door five minutes ago. Nip down the road,
Sydney, and try and catch the young lady.”
Sydney, the call-boy, departed with speed, and came up with Mary at the
corner of the street.
“The Guv’nor wants to have a look at you, miss,” he said. “Might be a
shop going.”
With fluttering heart Mary retraced her footsteps, and was led by Sydney
to that most hideous of structures, the back of the stage.
But it was all wonderful to Mary, especially when she found herself
within a few paces of the great Mr. Cardomay, irreproachably attired in
evening-dress, with a velvet collar, and wearing many mystic orders on
his white shirt front.
Mr. Manning detached himself from his employer, who melted into the
wings, and, twisting the card she had left at the stage-door between
forefinger and thumb, approached her.
To the tyro Mr. Manning was rather terrifying. His bowler hat, which he
always wore either on the extreme back or the extreme front of his head,
seemed menacing, as also did the extinguished cigarette which stuck to
his lower lip and engaged upon the strangest evolutions as he spoke.
“Y-e-es,” he said, looking her up and down. “Um! Of course I know what
you can do. What have you done?”
“Nothing,” said Mary, startled into speaking the truth.
Mr. Manning sucked his teeth and shook his head. At this juncture
Eliphalet Cardomay appeared from behind the scenery, and said:
“All right, Manning, make the engagement. She will enter after the
French Consul and his wife—cross down right and sit in chair below
settee until music cue, then off; on again at finale by door right. Walk
it through and see the wardrobe-mistress. Tell Boscombe to make a
duration of tour contract.” And without another word he vanished into
the shadows.
“Am I really engaged?” panted Mary. “Is it a good part?”
“No worse than other walk-on,” replied Manning. “Come on through this
door; you’ll have to go on to-night, and I want some tea.”
It is questionable whether the inclusion of Miss Eunice Terry at the
Ambassador’s reception greatly improved the scene. For certainly never
was a guest more awkward.
With jealous amazement she viewed the natural ease of the other young
ladies in the crowd, and envied them their mellifluous laughter. Earlier
in the evening she had listened with awe to the conversation in the
dressing-room, and had marked how each, according to her own tale, was
usually to be seen in highly important rôles, but being sick of
“resting” had accepted a “walk-on” as a “fill-in.” From the way the
Christian names of stage celebrities flew about Mary judged them to be
well in with the _élite_ of the profession. After a few days she learnt
that it was not essential to be personally acquainted with such persons
as Julia Neilson or Marie Löhr, before speaking of them as “Julia” or
“Marie.”
These familiarities intrigued her greatly, and before the week was out
she was able to refer to H. B. Irving as “Harry” or Dion Boucicault as
“Dot” without the slightest embarrassment. Eliphalet Cardomay was the
only person never spoken of by an abbreviation. He was and remained “The
Guv’nor.”
Mr. Manning, the stage-manager, automatically became “Freddie,” not to
be confounded with Fred, which, as everyone knows, was reserved for Fred
Terry.
“Freddie” was the subject of much conversation, indeed about forty per
cent, of the entire output either started with “Freddie is a brick, you
know,” or “Freddie is a perfect beast.”
Another twenty per cent, was given over to the doings of the call-boy,
“that little devil, Sydney,” and the remaining to reminiscences of past
successes, or such remarks as:
“I feel a perfect rag to-day.”
“Have you seen the show at So-and-so?”
“My dear, he was perfectly awful!”
“There was nothing but paper in the house.”
“But I always do love Marian; she makes me cry, of course.”
“She’s such a dear off the stage.” And so forth and so on.
Harmless stuff for the most part—not, as a rule, scandalous—always and
without exception vapid and silly.
They are dear, kind-hearted, empty-headed little ladies who sail their
boats round the fringes of the lake of dramatic art. They belong to a
_genus_ of its own. They never play parts—in the main they couldn’t if
they tried—in the main they don’t want to. They are content to talk
big, to walk on and on in one “show” after another, until at last they
have walked away their good looks and disappear to an even greater
obscurity than that of the peasant or the guest.
But Eunice Terry was not in all respects the counterpart of these other
girls. At least she was ambitious. She desired success, fame—that is to
say, she desired the advantages these conditions carried with them. It
did not occur to her that to be successful and beloved of the public one
must give the public something by way of return. She was out for her
chance without even considering whether or no she would be able to make
good if she got it. So, instead of thinking about her profession, she
devoted herself entirely to acquiring silly habits of speech and little
vulgarities of attire which robbed her of all her good taste and most of
her good looks.
On the day Eliphalet Cardomay engaged her he made the following note in
a little book kept for that purpose. “18th January. Engaged Eunice
Terry. A guinea for eight performances and one-fourteenth for any
addition. Looks about twenty years of age, pretty, slightly wistful;
evidently inexperienced. Might be suitable for very sympathetic parts.
Note: the name Eunice Terry seems strangely out of keeping—Dorothy or
Mary would be more appropriate.” Having made this entry he forgot all
about her until one day when he decided to revive “East Lynne,” and
then, in looking through his first-impression book for a suitable
“Joyce,” the faithful nurse, he came across the paragraph, and at once
dispatched the call-boy for Mr. Manning.
“Manning,” he said, “I’ve been thinking of Miss Terry for the part of
Joyce. Is she still with us?”
“Yes, Guv’nor. Of course, we’ve never tried her out.”
Eliphalet nodded.
“That should hardly matter. I have a note here that she is simple and
sympathetic. With these attributes the part will play itself. Will you
send her to me?”
There was a tremendous flutter in the dressing-room when Mr. Manning
popped in his head and said:
“Guv’nor wants to see you, Miss Terry. Look slippy!”
Eunice, dressed for the street, felt her hour of triumph was at hand.
“If I’d only known in the morning,” she gasped, “I’d have put on my fawn
coat and skirt. This old thing’s a rag. Does this white fox look dirty,
dear?”
“No; you look sweet, dear.”
Followed some frenzied powdering—some dexterous touches with a
be-rouged hare’s-foot—the borrowing of a pair of white gloves from one
girl, “that lovely parasol” from another, and a hurried departure to
meet her fate.
At the door of Mr. Cardomay’s room she halted. It would not do to appear
flurried. She must be calm and remember all the wonderful things she had
learnt during the last six weeks. She must stand her ground as an
artiste, and it was comforting to reflect upon the irreproachable plinth
provided by her patent-leather boots, with the uppers that soared
upwards to the height of her knee. She knocked, and heard the answering
“Come in.”
Mr. Cardomay was engaged in writing in an autograph book as she entered,
and he laid it aside and turned his eyes towards her. What he saw seemed
to surprise him, for he contracted his brows a little. He had expected
to find the same little rosy-cheeked runaway from Bognor, but, instead,
here was a young lady all over white fur, white boots, white powder,
long gloves and short skirts.
“There’s some mistake, I think,” he said. “I asked for Miss Terry.”
“I’m Eunice Terry.”
“Tch-tch! dear me, you will think it very strange that I hardly know the
young ladies in my own company.”
“Oh, not at all,” she replied. “One knocks up against so many people on
the road, doesn’t one?”
He nodded gravely. Evidently the young lady was no use for the part,
but, being kind-hearted, he hardly knew how to get rid of her.
“I sent for you,” he said untruthfully, “to ask if you were any relation
of the Terrys.”
Eunice’s high hopes came down with a bump.
“Not really a relation,” she answered. “Of course, we know Fred very
well.”
“Um!” said Eliphalet. “Well, I trust you’re happy in the company. Good
afternoon.”
Eunice turned to go, then, with sudden courage stayed and said: “I was
hoping, Mr. Cardomay, you had got something for me in the next show. I’m
simply dying to play a part—a big part.”
The unsatisfied fatherly instinct in Eliphalet Cardomay came to the
surface, and pointing to a chair, he said:
“Sit down a minute. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty.”
“Have you a father or a mother?”
“No. I used to live with an old aunt. She was a frightful ogre, Mr.
Cardomay. Wouldn’t let me go on the stage. So silly.”
“She is dead?”
“Yes.”
“What a pity. And you are not engaged?”
“Well, only in a way. I don’t think I shall ever marry him; not, at any
rate, until I’m famous. You see, he’s foolish about the stage, too.
Seemed to think it would spoil me.”
Eliphalet’s eyes wandered to the white boots elaborately displayed for
his benefit.
“Poor young man,” was his comment.
“He’s a great dear, of course, and I like him very much, but I couldn’t
let him stand in the way of my career, could I?”
“He won’t.”
“I’m so glad you agree with me.”
“Real love does not stand in the way of an artistic career, it advances
it.”
“I’m madly keen to get on.”
“What do you call getting on?”
“I mean to have one’s name and photograph in all the papers, to keep a
motor, and be recognised—all that sort of thing.”
Eliphalet smiled ironically. “At least it was an honest answer,” he
said. “The last girl to whom I put the same question replied: ‘To play
Lady Macbeth better than anyone else.’”
“How silly!” said Eunice.
And Eliphalet rose to put an end to the interview.
“Do you think you will have something for me?” she hazarded.
“Advice at any time you need it, and, as a little to go on with, don’t
lose track of that poor young man.”
Everyone had waited in the dressing-room to hear the result of her
interview, and a salvo of “Well’s” and “Did you fix anything?” was fired
from the expectant circle.
“I’d rather not say,” she answered evasively. “He particularly said I
mustn’t mention it to anyone.”
These were brave words, and brave also was the gaiety of the song she
sang as she left the theatre. But that night, after the gas had been
turned out in the lodging she shared with another girl, Eunice Terry
found herself crying, and seemed in no great likelihood of stopping.
Flora Wayne, her companion, heard the sobs in her sleep, and, instantly
sitting bolt upright and wide awake, as only a woman can, demanded what
was the matter. Whereupon Mary Kent forgot that she was Eunice Terry,
and whimpered with piteous grief, because she hadn’t got on and didn’t
understand why Mr. Cardomay should have sent for her and given her
nothing.
“Why don’t I get on?” asked the tear-stained one pathetically.
And Flora, like the fool she undoubtedly was, whispered various reasons
by which, according to her study of human beings, it appeared that to
rise upon the stage was only possible for those who consented to fall in
other ways.
“It’s the only way to get a start,” said Flora. “Because I wouldn’t take
it is why I have always stuck where I am.” And having sown the canker of
this perilous seed in the fertile soil of the silly little brain beside
her, Flora turned over and continued her broken sleep.
But Eunice lay awake and turned the matter over in her mind. It was a
disturbing thought that art and virtue could never be allied, and she
wondered very deeply if it were so, approaching the subject as fearfully
as a child with a strange dog.
She had been in Mr. Cardomay’s company four months when this mental
crisis occurred, and during these months Henry Churchill, to bury the
sorrow of her loss, had plunged himself so deeply into work at the Real
Estate Agent’s, that he had attracted the favourable attention of his
superiors. One bright day he was sent for to the inner office, where he
found Mr. Robins, senior partner of the firm of Robins, Robins and
Crusoe, who informed him of their intention of starting a new branch at
Lancingdon and placing him in charge, as manager, with a salary of two
hundred and fifty a year and a commission on business transacted. This
momentous interview took place on the day before Henry Churchill’s
annual holiday, and it was not unnatural, after a night’s rest in which
he set his mind in order, he should have packed a bag and after studying
a theatrical paper hastened off to the town where his Mary was playing,
to tell her the wonderful news and seek to rescue her from the paths of
unrighteousness and sin.
Having arrived and taken a room at a temperance hotel, he lost no time
in seeking out the theatre. To a young man of gentle upbringing it
required no small courage to turn down that narrow alley towards the
stage-door—that alley which in his imagination was at the conclusion of
each evening performance probably chock-a-block with the gilded youth of
the city, each one bearing a bouquet of exotic flowers designed to
anæsthetise the blossom of his heart into accepting their addresses.
Fortunately he was spared the indignity of asking for her at the
stage-door, for at the moment of his arrival she herself stepped out.
For a moment he failed to recognise her—so little of the original Mary
remained under the mask of pink powder and the screen of white fox, but
the features of the little figure were the same.
The “Mary!” he exclaimed savoured more of rebuke than recognition.
“Why, it’s Harry!” she cried, with a genuine pleasure in her voice.
But he was so shocked by the silly little changes she had made in
herself that the tone of welcome was lost to his ears, and it was only
with difficulty he restrained himself from saying many foolish things.
“Is there anywhere we could go and have a few words together?” he
gravely asked.
“Yes, rather! How about the Mik?”
“Mik?”
“Mikado,” she replied. “It’s much better than the Royal, you know; the
Royal’s always so full. Fancy your turning up! I’m real glad to see you,
boy!”
Henry had never been called “Boy” before, and it grated on his ears as
the powder offended his eyes.
All the way to the Mikado Eunice kept up a sharp rattle of dressing-room
remarks, about poor dear Flo who couldn’t act a bit, but was such a dear
for all that; about Sydney Lennox, who had played second leads with
Fred, and was reported to have ticked off Dot before an entire West End
company; and endless other showy fragments intended to impress him with
the manner of her success, since the day they had parted.
As a matter of fact she had another reason for talking, and that was to
hide her own feelings, which had been sorely upset by a short interview
she had forced on “Freddie” Manning half an hour before.
Like all good stage-managers, Manning assiduously avoided persons who
sought to converse with him on business subjects—but this time Eunice
had caught him unawares at the end of a passage that led to a blank
wall.
“Mr. Manning,” she had said, “do be a dear and tell me straight out what
my chances are.”
Manning rubbed his small, round ended nose and screwed up his features,
like a child before a dose of physic.
“Dare say there’ll be a walk-on for you in the next show,” he said at
last.
“But I mean my chances of a part—a real part.”
“Umph!” remarked the stage-manager. “What do you want to play parts for,
anyway?”
“But I do. Please tell me, and don’t tease.”
Mr. Manning could be very straightforward when he wished.
“Acting’s like everything else,” he said. “It’s got to be learned. No
one’s going to give you a part unless you give something in return.”
It was a perfectly innocent speech, but, thanks to the vapourings of
Flora, Eunice Terry read its meaning all wrong.
“And that’s the only way to get on?” she asked nervously.
“Sure!” responded Freddie. “You don’t get anything for nothing in this
life.” Then very dexterously he slipped past her down the passage.
Henry listened to her chatter with growing displeasure, but it was not
until they had seated themselves at a table in that Japanese-fanny,
coffee-smelling restaurant known as the “Mik” that he really spoke his
mind.
“Now, look here, Mary,” he said. “I want to talk to you very straight.
Mr. Robins has offered me the managership at the Lancingdon branch, with
the salary of £250 a year.”
“Oh, I am glad!” said Eunice Terry, laying a white-gloved hand on his
sleeve. “That’s fine!”
“The question is whether you will throw up this business and marry me.”
For a moment she made no answer. Awhile she turned over in her mind the
words of Flora and Freddie Manning. Here was this big, honest young man,
who really did love her, and there was that remote phantom of possible
success, with its barrier of the price to be paid. It would be very nice
to set up house with Harry with two-fifty a year, for after all the
thirty shillings a week she earned didn’t go far, and really and truly
there was nothing very sensational or exciting in her present life. When
she lifted her head she was smiling very prettily, and it was on her
lips to say “Yes,” when some demon, possibly the ghost of Auntie,
inspired Henry Churchill to say:
“Of course, if you consent, there must be an end to all this making-up
business.”
“Oh!” gasped Eunice. “How dare you speak to me like that!”
“It’s better we should understand each other. I dare say all this is
very suitable to your present mode of life, but it wouldn’t do in
Lancingdon.”
“You beast!” she said. “If you think I’d marry you and be a rotten
little estate agent’s wife, you’re wrong. You talk about the stage like
that, and know nothing about it. I’d be a pretty sort of fool if I gave
up the stage for you!”
“Is this the little Mary I used to know?” inquired Henry Churchill,
employing an old formula.
“No, it isn’t. I’ve grown up a lot.”
“Grown into bad ways,” said Henry Churchill, getting deeper into
trouble. “Come, come, Mary, let us forget this unhappy chapter of your
life and begin again with a clean sheet.”
“I’ve got a clean sheet.” She stamped her foot. “How dare you talk to me
as if I was a wicked woman!”
“I am trying to prevent such a thing.”
“Funny way of doing it. If anything does happen to me, it’ll be your
fault. I hope—I hope I go thoroughly to the bad—just to pay you out.”
“I forbid you to say such things.”
“You forbid! You have no control over me. I lead my life in my own
way—with my art.”
Considering that Henry’s main desire was to placate her wrath, his
response of “I don’t see how you can call being one of a crowd ‘Art,’”
was as infelicitous as you could wish.
Mary rose with the single word “Cad!” and, flinging the white fox about
her shoulders, swept from the room.
Henry did not attempt to follow her, but sat gazing into a
highly-decorated coffee-cup and chewed the cud of tragedy. The love of
his life was ruined—his beautiful image destroyed by the vile pollution
of the stage. A great resentment surged through him that such
destructive machinery should be allowed to exist to lure the righteous
to their undoing.
On the table before him was a throw-away of the week’s play. He picked
it up and held it at arm’s length, as though it were a tract of the
devil. The name Eliphalet Cardomay shrieked from the page in block type.
That was the fellow—he was the man at whose door her ruin must be laid.
Henry Churchill crumpled the paper fiercely, and as he saw the name
twist up in his grasp a thought came to him.
That evening, at ten o’clock, he was at the stage-door, demanding that
his card should be conveyed to Mr. Cardomay.
“Never sees anyone till after the show,” said the doorkeeper, and
returned to his football edition.
It was well after eleven before Henry eventually found himself in Mr.
Cardomay’s dressing-room. Possibly he expected to see some Satanic
apparition, for certainly he was a little astonished to find himself in
the presence of a grey-haired and elderly gentleman, with a
deeply-seamed face, which he was thoughtfully wiping with a towel. Over
the edge of the towel peered a pair of shrewd but kindly eyes.
“Yes? What can I do for you?”
“I—My name is Henry Churchill.”
“I had already gathered as much from your card.”
“I am here on a matter of very important business.”
“You are seeking an engagement, perhaps?” It was said very kindly.
“No—far from it,” replied Henry. “In fact, I may say that I despise the
stage and everything to do with it.”
A whimsical smile played round the corners of Eliphalet’s eyes.
“You appear to have chosen an odd place to make such an assertion,” was
all he said.
“Perhaps, but I didn’t come on that score. You have a girl here named
Mary Kent.”
“Not here, believe me.”
“There’s no use denying it. She—she’s a member of your—troupe.”
Eliphalet held up his hand. “Mr. Churchill,” he said, “would you mind
going away and not returning until you have bettered your vocabulary and
learnt a modicum of good manners?”
The distinction with which this speech was delivered quite took the wind
from Henry’s sails.
“I—I am sorry,” he said, “but what would you say if your affianced were
ruined—spoiled and painted up like a Jezebel?”
“Do you accuse me of ruining, spoiling and painting up a certain Miss
Mary Kent? Because I assure you I have never before heard the lady’s
name.”
“You know her better, perhaps, as Eunice Terry?”
“Miss Terry? Dear me! Really! So you are the young man of whom she
spoke. The young man I advised her not to lose sight of.”
“You advised her?”
“Certainly. I sensed that you might prove a valuable sheet-anchor
to—well, rather a will-o’-the-wisp little craft. I hope, Mr. Churchill,
you have come to carry her away to the hymeneal altar?”
“That’s what I did come for, but, thanks to your teaching, it’s all
knocked on the head.”
“My teaching?”
“Yes. Since you taught her to get herself up—talk a lot of silly
theatrical shop, and put on stagey ways.”
“My dear young man, those very stagey ways you speak of are none of my
teaching. Indeed, but for their existence I might have done something to
advance the little lady in her profession. It was their presence
dissuaded me and also caused me to advise her not to lose touch with
you.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are many young and very foolish girls whom the glamour of the
stage attracts—who are in no way suited, nor try to suit themselves,
for success upon the boards. Oddly enough, they solace their souls with
trumpery talk and silly vanities. They are good enough in themselves,
but weak, do you see? Unable to grasp the essentials of a fine picture
while hypnotised with the glitter of a cheap gilt frame. With a little
care—a little sympathy—a little tact—they can be won away from where
they are not wanted to where they are wanted. Now I advise you to talk
to this little runaway very gently. Condole with her on the lack of
opportunity she has had, but plead your love as a finer and greater
outlet for her self-expression. Do this, Mr. Churchill, and upon my
word, within a month you’ll be happily house-hunting, with her hand upon
your arm.”
“It’s no good,” said Henry Churchill. “I have talked to her.”
“What did you say?”
“Told her I heartily disapproved of everything she was doing.”
“That was unwise.”
“I believe in saying what I think.”
“Yet people who always say what they think rarely have the privilege of
doing what they like. You have made a regrettable mistake, and there is
nothing left for you to do but leave her horizon until the memory of it
has vanished.”
“But I want to marry her.”
“Precisely. Hence my suggestion.”
“Look here: will you promise not to re-engage her after this piece?”
“Why should I?”
“I want to get her out of this business.”
“You would not achieve your object that way. She is pretty enough to
ensure her getting another engagement, and while she is with me she is
unlikely to come to any harm. No; I shall engage her and re-engage her
for one crowd after another, in the hope that she will surfeit of
walking on, and that it will soak into her little head that she is not
destined for a great career. And now, good night, Mr. Churchill—some
matters of business——”
But Henry did not move at once.
“I am not at all sure,” he said, “you are going about this business in
the best way.”
Eliphalet smiled. “Of course you are not. But then you are not a student
of human nature, and by profession I am. Good night, again.”
But Henry Churchill disregarded Mr. Cardomay’s advice, and wrote a
letter to Mary urging her to abandon a profession in which she was
doomed to failure, and accept his hand in marriage. This
foolishly-constructed affair fired her determination to show him, at all
costs, that she could succeed, and moreover to say that she never wished
to see or hear from him again. Both letters, in a fit of emotional
confidence, she showed to Flora, who, being a meddlesome little
busybody, decided that it was merely a lovers’ quarrel, and determined
to act as intermediary and secretly keep the unhappy young man informed
as to his sweetheart’s doings.
Now it was just at this critical time that Sydney Lennox (he who was
reputed to have ticked off Dot Boucicault before a West End company)
chanced to cast a favouring eye upon the cherry-lipped Eunice. Sydney
Lennox was attracting a good deal of attention in the company, for it
was common knowledge that in a few weeks’ time he was taking out a tour
of his own. The younger members would haunt his exits in the hope of a
chance word with him, and many there were who besought him to give them
work. Then one night, during one of his waits, Eunice boldly bearded the
lion and asked if he couldn’t find her a part to play.
Mr. Lennox blew a cloud of cigarette-smoke towards the ceiling and
watched it disappear.
“Can you act, then?” he demanded.
“Oh, I’m certain I could if I had the chance.”
“And you want me to back the chance you can, eh?” It was not a pretty
speech, but Mr. Lennox was like that. “Nothing doing, my dear,” he
finished up.
“I’m sorry,” said Eunice, and turned sadly away.
Something in the cut of her retreating little figure made an appeal to
Sydney Lennox, for he called out:
“Here! Come back a minute.”
She turned expectantly, and he allowed his eyes to wander over her.
Certainly she was pretty, very pretty. Quite an asset on a summer tour.
“Got any people?”
“No; I’m an orphan.”
“On your own, then?”
“Yes; and I’m awfully keen to get on.”
Mr. Lennox rubbed his chin.
“Find things pretty dull, don’t you?”
“I’m bored to tears with being in the crowd. I’d give anything to get
out of it and play a part.”
“You would? I see—I see. Right! Well, come and talk to me again.” He
touched her shoulder with a light, familiar touch, and walked towards
his entrance.
A week later Flora noticed a great excitement in her companion’s manner.
“What’s the matter, Euny?” she asked.
“I—I’m to play second lead in Mr. Lennox’s tour.”
“Euny!”
“Yes. Isn’t it splendid?”
But Flora made no answer for a moment; then she said very slowly, “Is it
splendid?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“I’d like to know the terms that got you that shop.”
Then Eunice burst out with:
“You told me yourself it was the only way to get a start. I shouldn’t be
the first, and——”
But Flora interrupted.
“Don’t you touch it, Euny,” she said. “Don’t be a fool. You’d never
forgive yourself, and it isn’t as if you’re likely to get on.”
Ah! that unhappy string! Why must all her advisers harp upon it?
“Isn’t it? Well, I will get on, you’ll see. I’m not going to be an old
stick-in-the-mud all my life—like—like some people.”
That night Flora wrote to Harry for the last time, and told him the
state of affairs.
On receipt of the letter Henry Churchill went quite mad. Seizing his hat
and an umbrella, he rushed to the station and steamed Mary-wards by the
first train. Had he possessed such a thing, he would probably have taken
a revolver rather than an umbrella, for his intentions were certainly
lethal.
The great length of the railway journey had the effect of partially
flattening his effervescence, and surely the hand of Providence was
evident in the fact that the first person he met on arriving at his
destination was Eliphalet Cardomay. The sight of the old actor peaceably
pursuing his way brought about a fresh paroxysm of anger.
Had not Eliphalet been a man of ready perceptions, it is probable that
he would have made neither head nor tail of the torrent of reproaches
and threats that fell from Henry’s lips; but through it all he was able
to discern that here was real tragedy, and that the need for action was
immediate. With great presence of mind he piloted the distraught young
man into an adjacent dairy and, placing before him a bun and a glass of
milk, besought him to drink and assuage his heat. And since no one can
be really violent in the butter-smelling coolth of a dairy, he managed
to extract the story and at the same time bring the narrator to a more
rational mood.
“If you will leave it to me,” he said, “I promise you on my word of
honour I will put this matter right. I only ask you to go away and wait
until I send for you. Do this, and all will be well.” Thereafter he
piloted Henry back to the station and waited until the south-bound train
bore him out of view. Then his brows came together and the lines of his
mouth hardened.
That night he sent for Lennox, and after a few small formalities,
including the offer of a chair and a cigarette, he said:
“I hear you are thinking of Miss Terry for the second lead in your new
production.”
“I had thought of her,” conceded Lennox.
Eliphalet placed his finger-tips together.
“Is that quite wise?” he asked. “She is young and very inexperienced.”
“Quite so; but one can but try her.”
“I see no reason why you should try her. There are many others far more
suitable.”
“Very likely, but I’ve promised this girl. Of course, if the audiences
don’t like her, it will be easy enough to take her out of the bill.”
“Will it? Will it?” There was an insistent note in Eliphalet’s voice.
“Why not?”
“Would your obligation towards the young lady be fairly discharged if
you did?”
“What obligation?”
“To be frank, Mr. Lennox, I understand you have made certain
proposals—er—conditions to her—which I regret should have come from a
member of my company.”
Sydney Lennox rose rather stiffly.
“I don’t admit your right to interfere in my private affairs, Mr.
Cardomay. What I may choose to do or not to do is no possible concern of
yours.”
“No?” came the mild rejoinder. “But it happens that I take a personal
interest in this young lady.”
“Indeed?” said Lennox, then added unforgiveably, “First come, first
served.”
One assumes that Sydney Lennox had played in his time many villains, for
he deported himself throughout the offensive inspired by his previous
remark, with a cynical calm little short of remarkable. Briefly and very
much to the point Eliphalet Cardomay spoke his mind, and what he said
could hardly have been pleasant hearing.
At the conclusion, Lennox bowed and walked towards the door. Here he
turned with:
“What a pity so much eloquence should have been wasted. Doubtless your
next move will be to warn the little Eunice against my machinations, but
let me assure you that her ambition to get on will certainly outweigh
your most moral representations.”
“That being so,” replied Eliphalet, “I must think of other means.”
“There are no other means.” And with this Parthian arrow Lennox
withdrew.
It was a challenge, and Eliphalet Cardomay bit his nails over it until
he was “called.”
While in his bath that night, after a period of much brain-racking, the
“other means” suddenly illumined his brain, causing him to rise so
abruptly that nearly a gallon of water splashed on the oilcloth,
percolated through the ceiling of the parlour below and figured to the
extent of fifteen and six-pence on his week’s account.
The next morning he said to Manning:
“I am going to give a special matinée at Birmingham the week after next.
Second Act of ‘The Corsican Brothers’—Trial Scene from ‘The Merchant of
Venice’ and—and—well, I shall think of something.”
Freddie Manning politely asked what the idea was.
“I wish to—er—to try out some of our younger members.”
At the stage-door he encountered Miss Terry, and beckoned her into his
dressing-room.
“They tell me you are to play a part in Lennox’s tour. Hum?”
“Yes,” said Eunice, with a slight increase of colour.
“It is, in a sense, unfortunate, since I myself had possibilities for
you.”
Eunice almost seized his arm.
“Oh, Mr. Cardomay,” she exclaimed, “do you really mean that? Oh, I wish
you would!”
“Some other time, then, perhaps.”
“No, now. I’d much rather now.”
“But your contract with Mr. Lennox?”
“I haven’t signed one. Please——”
“Perhaps it would be a mistake, since what I have to offer is only a
single performance. Naturally, if your success merited it, I should look
after your future.”
In her excitement Eunice rose and paced up and down.
“Please, please let me do it. I don’t really want to take the other
engagement—not a bit, I don’t. What was it you thought of me for?”
“A special matinée in three weeks’ time. Selections from my favourite
plays. I should want you for the Trial Scene in ‘The Merchant of
Venice.’ For—for Portia, in fact.”
“Portia!” repeated Eunice. “Is it a good part?”
“It has made many reputations,” he gravely answered, without a shade of
a smile.
“I’ll accept. I’ll tell Mr. Lennox at once. Oh, thank you ever so much.”
“There, there,” said Eliphalet, patting her shoulder with a kindly hand.
“Don’t be too grateful. One never knows!”
Sydney Lennox played a losing hand rather creditably. He even refrained
from expressing his views on the reason for Eliphalet’s action. Possibly
he thought that to do so would have reflected but little glamour on his
own personality.
At the rehearsals everybody remarked to everybody else on the
extraordinary lack of guidance Eliphalet gave to the youthful Portia.
“She’s simply awful, my dear,” said her dressing-room companion, “but he
doesn’t seem to mind.”
A day or two before the matinée Eliphalet sent a letter to Henry
Churchill, saying he had to give Miss Terry a “chance.” “Doubtless,” he
wrote, “you will think I am behaving unfairly towards you by so doing,
but I am convinced that it is the wisest course. I want you to be
present and to come round after the performance (not before) and pay
your respects to the little débutante.”
To be sure of a good attendance an early-closing day was chosen, and a
general invitation issued to the Hepplewhite Steel Works Shakespeare
Society.
“Don’t know what they’ll think of our Portia, Guv’nor,” said Manning.
“But we _shall_ know, whatever they think,” replied Eliphalet sweetly.
He had chosen an act from one of his most popular melodramas to complete
the programme, and the Trial Scene was reserved for the final item.
Certainly it was a meaty audience who were gathered in. The theatre was
packed with a cheerful “How-do-you-do” whistling crowd, who hurled
recognitions and shrill pleasantries from one part of the house to the
other.
In the second row of the stalls sat Henry Churchill. He had the look of
a man attending his own funeral.
Within his bosom there surged a great resentment against Eliphalet
Cardomay, a resentment which would certainly find expression when their
meeting took place after the performance. His anger was not lessened
when he found himself greatly enthralled by “The Corsican Brothers,” and
worked up to a keen pitch of excitement by the act from “The Weir.” It
was infuriating that this shameless mummer could be capable of inspiring
sensations other than those of disgust in his properly ordered brain.
Then he found himself overtaken by a feeling of great nervous
apprehension. In a few minutes he would be seeing his beloved bathed in
the effulgent glow of the lime—treading the first stage of the road to
ruin.
Then the curtain rose on the Trial Scene.
It must be confessed, after the generous and lurid fare that had been
accorded them, the audience (not excepting the Hepplewhite Shakespeare
Society) failed to look forward with any pleasurable anticipation to
this example of the Bard’s genius.
Very naturally they felt aggrieved that William Shakespeare should have
been dragged into an afternoon’s entertainment, when the time allotted
him might have been more profitably spent with the work of some lesser
littérateur. Consequently their attitude was disposed to be hostile.
Wonderful to relate, Eunice Terry felt no apprehensions. She was quite
certain of herself. She had spent long hours “getting” her “silly old
lines,” and she had “got” them. True, she thought the part was a “dud
and a stuma,” and she didn’t pretend to understand half the things she
had to say—still, that was the way with Shakespeare, and she had a
“perfect duck of a make-up.” Violet O’Neal had helped her with it, and
never were lily tints and rose more happily blended. She was as sure of
her success as though already her picture postcards had gone into the
hundredth edition.
Before going on, she approached Mr. Cardomay, sombre and Semitic as the
Merchant, and asked, more for something to say than from any doubt on
the point, “D’you think I shall be all right?” and he gravely replied,
“You will do everything I expect of you.”
It would not be fair to follow the performance through its disastrous
stages of incompetence and “dry-up” to the abrupt and unfinished climax.
The Shakespearean Society were chiefly responsible for the disturbance.
From the moment of Eunice’s first entrance they felt an insult had been
placed upon their intelligence, an insult that called for immediate
reprisals. The Quality of Mercy is all very well, but when you are told
about it by someone who evidently hasn’t the slightest idea what she is
talking about, the most lenient is apt to change his mercy to a Quality
of Justice.
To borrow a phrase from the parlance of “the road,” Eunice Terry asked
for, and got, “the Bird.”
At first she didn’t understand, and floundered on hopelessly through a
quagmire of unbalanced lines. Then, to an accompaniment of shouts and
whistles, the truth dawned on her, and her little lower lip shot out and
began to work spasmodically.
Seeing which, Henry Churchill got up and “engaged” the gallery.
“You cowards!” he cried.
And Freddie Manning from the prompt corner took advantage of the tumult
to shout:
“Shall I ring down, Guv’nor?”
“No,” said Eliphalet, but he had to shut his eyes to hide the grief on
the little face before him. “Go on, Miss Terry.”
“I—I can’t.”
“You must.”
“I can’t—I’ve forgotten—I don’t want to——”
“Rotten!” shouted the house with one accord. “Rotten!”
Then Eunice burst into tears and rushed from the stage, and
simultaneously Henry Churchill fought his way out of the stalls.
“I am very sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” said Eliphalet Cardomay, and
the curtain fell.
Eunice Terry was crying brokenly against a scene flat, but he offered
her no word of comfort or condolence. He had seen Henry Churchill’s
furious exit from the stalls, and he hoped he wouldn’t be long.
“I am afraid you have done yourself very little good, Miss Terry,” he
said.
“I—I’ll never act again!” she sobbed.
Then, at the psychological moment, when all the world was against her,
came Henry Churchill, with a broad shoulder, to soak up her tears.
“As for you, sir, to expose her to such—such brutal treatment,” he
exploded over his enveloping arm, “if you were a younger man,
I’d—I’d——”
“Why?” said Eliphalet.
“As it is, I shall take her away here and now. Yes, and if you sue us
for breach of contract, we shall fight.”
“Don’t fight,” said Eliphalet quietly. “Rather live happily ever
afterwards.”
“Go, dear, put on your things, and I’ll get you out of this.”
“Yes, Henry.”
And so anxiously did she obey his instructions that she took off her
stage make-up and forgot to put on the one for the street. She even
forgot the white fox in her haste to be off.
Through his dressing-room window Eliphalet Cardomay watched Henry
Churchill, still scarlet with indignation, place Mary Kent in a cab and
drive away.
“I have often remarked, Manning,” he said, “one gets very little thanks
for doing things for people.”