MORNICE JUNE
Eliphalet Cardomay stretched himself luxuriously on a green-painted
arm-chair by the Achilles Statue in Hyde Park.
He was wearing a new broad-brimmed grey felt hat, and the seasonableness
of his attire spread to a pair of dark felt spats, below which the
bright spring sunshine reflected itself on the surface of his
well-blacked boots.
It was pleasing to lounge under the new-foliaged plane trees and watch
fashionable London sedately disporting itself on the gravel paths—to
see the riders cantering in the Row, and to hear the “clot-clot” and
pleasant jingle of harness as the smart people drove by. Something in
the pageantry of it all appealed to his dramatic sense. Piccadilly—the
Strand—Oxford Street—awoke no sympathetic chords in his being—he was
more at ease and happier in any of the great thoroughfares of
Manchester, Leeds or Glasgow, but this great meeting-place of England’s
noblest-born stirred him strangely.
The tide of well-dressed men and beautifully-gowned women set his mind
upon a sad train of thought. They were not for him, these select; his
poster on a hoarding they would pass by without a second glance. They
belonged to the great ones of the London stage—that mighty little
clique whose doors were barred to such as he. That very morning he had
seen a few of the upper theatrical ten walking in the Park, and, even as
the thought crossed his mind, Sir Charles Cleeve, an actor knight, and
his fashionable wife, drove past in a high phaeton drawn by a pair of
piebalds. A real live duchess turned in her carriage to smile a greeting
to them. (Eliphalet knew she was a duchess, for he had often seen her
portrait in the illustrated weeklies, hanging on Smith’s book-stalls in
the Midland stations.) A clever woman Sir Charles’s wife. All the world
knew that the high ground he now held unchallenged had in part been won
for him by her tireless energy, tact and charm.
It was a great thing for an actor to possess such a wife. He fell to
wondering whether, had his choice been as happy, he, too, might not have
been a member of the Garrick Club, a driver of phaetons, a recipient of
smiles from duchesses. He could hardly refrain from smiling at the
thought of the figure his wife would have cut in polite society. Yet she
had been an able enough actress in her day. Poor Blanche—poor,
empty-headed, self-centred, easy-virtued Blanche. It required an effort
to reconstruct her picture in his mind. Twenty-seven years is a long
time, and even pleasant pictures had faded in less. Once he had loved
her, like a very Romeo, and set her on a pinnacle higher than any
balcony. He shivered, as with horrible clarity he saw the night when,
returning late from the theatre (there had been a rehearsal after the
show), he had found her in their wretched little parlour, drinking a
wretched brand of champagne with Harrington May, the leading-man. The
same Harrington May who had fled from the field of honour—to return
later, as a fly returns to a pot of jam.
Everyone has supper with everyone else on the provincial stage. It is
one of the best and friendliest traditions of the Road, and Eliphalet,
born and bred of the Boards, would have thought no ill to find her
entertaining one or a dozen men at any hour of the night. But this was
different. It was not the friendly little repast with its scrambled eggs
and rattle of theatrical shop; it was frankly a carouse. There were
empty tinselled bottles on the table, and those down whose throats the
liquid had passed were drunk—Harrington May dully, and his wife
stupidly. She had her head on the man’s shoulder, and was laughing in a
loose, trumpery way.
It was useless to talk to them, for May was not in a state to
distinguish between flattery and abuse, while she was in a mood to say
things no man would desire a third person to hear. Accordingly, he
postponed his observations until next morning, and when that came it
appeared she had the more to say. With bitter emphasis she stated that,
as a husband, Eliphalet fell far short of her ideals. Apart from the
miserable salary he earned, which, in itself, was an insult to a woman
who was earning a larger one (for Blanche was playing the villainess and
he the juvenile, and in those days virtue was cheaper than crime), she
abhorred his studious nature, his ridiculous name, and his attitude
towards life in general. She was of a lively temperament—a temperament
calling for plenty of sparkle and sunshine (he had thought of those
empty bottles downstairs), and accordingly had decided to leave him for
good.
Eliphalet offered little or no opposition. He had known for a long while
that sooner or later their ill-assorted union would come to an end.
“Very well,” he had said; “I won’t stand in the way of your happiness.
You shall have a divorce as soon as it can be arranged.”
Instead of regarding this as a token of goodwill, Blanche had reviled
him. It was obvious, she cried, he had no love for her, and merely made
her his wife for the sake of the better salary she earned; and—now he
seized the chance of a divorce in the hope of wringing heavy damages
from Harrington.
“I want no damages,” he replied. “Maybe I shall find my reward without.”
Eliphalet did not have a speaking part in the scene that followed. His
first line was “Thank God,” and that was after the door had slammed.
So Harrington May assumed responsibilities for Eliphalet Cardomay’s
matrimonial obligations, and when the decree _nisi_ was made absolute,
he took “Miss Blanche Cannon” to be his lawful wedded wife.
How the union had turned out Eliphalet never knew, since from the hour
she left his house he had met neither the one nor the other. Indirectly
he heard that as fruit of their love a daughter had been born—and that
was the only thing for which he envied Harrington May. He might have
saved himself the trouble, for poor Harrington, possibly from ecstasy at
the sight of this miniature edition of her faultless mother, shortly
afterwards gave up the ghost. Blanche, whose appreciation for a change
of diet had not waned with his decease, took unto herself a lover, and
fades from view in a mist of misguided emotions.
“Dear me! Surely I am not mistaken—it is Mr. Cardomay?”
At the sound of his own name Eliphalet’s mind came back to the present
with a jolt.
Standing before him, leaning on an ebony cane, stood a middle-aged
gentleman, faultlessly dressed and of aristocratic bearing.
Eliphalet rose. “I am,” he said, “but for the moment——”
“No—no—no,” hastily interposed the other, “you could hardly be
expected to remember me. Both you and I, Mr. Cardomay, in our separate
spheres, are engaged in catering for these.” He made a slight gesture
toward the passers-by. “We met but once, and that on the occasion of
your very admirable performance of Cellini.”
Eliphalet blushed at the words, although no undercurrent of satire was
conveyed. That same “very admirable performance of Cellini” stood for
him as a door that barred him from London theatres for all time.
“Yes, yes,” he said, to hide his confusion, “I do remember you. Mr.
Bridge Deansgate, who owns the Mall Theatre, is it not?”
Mr. Deansgate smiled affably.
“But please don’t stand,” he begged. “And, if I may, I will sit beside
you. That’s better. Yes, yes, yes; I often wonder why we see so little
of you in town, Mr. Cardomay—but perhaps your presence here
betokens——”
“No,” came the hasty assurance. “I am spending a few weeks’ holiday
before my next tour.”
“Indeed. I understand your recent production was a great success—great.
You are stopping in Mayfair—near the Park—yes?”
“I have some rooms in Camden Town.”
“Ah. I have often heard it spoken of as a most healthy district. For the
moment I forget the nature of the soil—gravel, I believe. And so you
are taking a few weeks’ immunity from work? Umhum! Yes—yes. Now I
wonder—but still, if you are resting, perhaps not.”
“You were about to suggest?”
“Nothing, nothing. A fleeting idea, that is all, prompted by this happy
encounter. As doubtless you have heard, we are producing ‘Hamlet’ for
four weeks, and it occurred to me—but perhaps I should offend you. We
have an admirable cast, and in many ways it would be a pleasant
engagement. You see, nowadays it is so hard to find actors who still
understand the grand old method.”
He inclined his head gracefully to Eliphalet, who bowed in response.
“I am disposed to be interested,” he said.
“For the Ghost, now, where is a manager to turn? That very thought was
possessing my brain when I chanced to look up and see you. If you are
not otherwise engaged, how would it be to stroll to the Corner and pick
up a hansom? They have a _chef_ at the Garrick with a true appreciation
of how a Châteaubriand should be cooked.”
The upshot of this conversation and an excellent lunch was to find
Eliphalet Cardomay, at three o’clock the same afternoon, discussing
terms with the business manager of the Mall.
“I never talk about money,” Mr. Deansgate had said. “Tell Dawson to give
you what you want.”
Winslow Dawson was an agreeable little man, who had the habit of paying
less than you intended to accept, at the same time conveying the
impression that you had bested him all along the line. He carried his
hands permanently in his trousers pockets, from whence they never
appeared to emerge, even when a door had to be opened or shut or a
contract signed. He performed these functions, so it seemed, by some
balancing feat of prestidigitation. He had a habit of balancing on his
heels and contemplating his patent-leather toes. He would remain thus
during a long discussion, then look up with the sunniest of smiles and
say, “Then that’s settled, isn’t it?”
When Eliphalet left the theatre it was in a very happy mood. After all,
he would appear in London again, and—what was better still—in a part
regarding the rendering of which he could scarcely be at fault.
Mr. Deansgate had said, “Do just as you like with it, my dear Cardomay;
we have every confidence in you.”
In honour of the occasion he stood himself tea at Fuller’s and ate quite
a large piece of walnut cake.
“A delightful management,” he reflected. “This is better than a holiday,
old boy.”
Perhaps he felt a shade awkward at the rehearsal next morning to find
the stage thronged with so many unfamiliar faces, but for the most part
they were a friendly company, and very soon he was quite at ease with
the men.
The ladies he found difficult, being so totally dissimilar to the
homely, good-natured souls who played with him on his hundred tours.
There was a Miss Helen Winter, who played the Queen and whose
personality caused him alarm. She seemed far more like a duchess than
the real example he had seen in the Park. Her clothes were severe to a
fault, and she used lorgnettes with awful precision. Somehow the sense
of these instruments pervaded her even in the Castle of Elsinore.
When they were introduced she said:
“How do you do, _dear_ Mr. Cardomay. I have heard so much about you.”
Then departed quickly, as though fearing he might be tempted to tell her
more.
For Ophelia one of London’s younger emotional actresses had been
secured. Her emotions were more acutely demonstrated off the stage than
on, for it appeared, despite a healthy exterior, she was racked with
torments arising from an ailment described as “my neuralgia.” She spoke
of her neuralgia as others might say “My Mother.” It was indeed her most
cherished possession, and only through the good offices of
smelling-salts and aspirin was she able to encompass the calls made upon
her artistry.
Eliphalet, having made the acquaintance of the young lady and her
neuralgia, and being attracted by neither, sought for someone to talk
with during his long waits. In so doing he espied Miss Mornice June.
Mornice was absurdly pretty. She had big black-lashed eyes and a mass of
whitey-gold fluffy hair. She played the part of the Player Queen, and
held sway over the hearts of the small-part young gentlemen and those
engaged as “extras.”
They gathered about her in the wings and sought the favour of her smile.
Neither did they seek in vain, for Mornice had a quality of
responsiveness that caused all who came in contact with her to believe
themselves vital to her well-being. Did they come with jests, her
laughter was light-hearted and unstinted; did they come in sorrow, she
was quick to sympathise, and real tears would moisten her lashes. An
extremely sensitive person was Mornice, who answered every vibration
about her—be it grave or gay. Not in mood alone but in outline, her
entire being seemed to impregnate itself with the spirit of the moment.
She would break off suddenly in the merriest laugh to respond to a bar
of music wailing pathetically from a hidden violin.
“Just listen! Isn’t it wonderful!” she would say, transformed into a
picture of rapt adoration. Then in a second she was back again to her
faun-like merriment, exchanging jokes that a properly brought up young
lady would have failed to understand.
“Who is the little lady yonder?” Eliphalet asked.
Miss Helen Winter threw a flickering glance in the direction of his
gaze.
“I _really_ couldn’t tell you, _dear_ Mr. Cardomay, for I don’t know. A
nice little thing, no doubt, but hardly a lady. She gives me the
impression of being on the stage for the purpose of earning a living.”
This was too subtle for Eliphalet, and he asked for an explanation.
“I mean she has no people—no money. She acts for a livelihood. Of
course that is purely a surmise, but I am sure I am right. The stage is
full of young girls who are trying to earn their living. It is very sad,
when one comes to think of it.”
Being herself a dweller in Park Street, with no real occasion to act,
Miss Winter was one of the rapidly increasing class who make it
impossible for the really needy to find employment.
Eliphalet was blissfully ignorant of the methods London managers had
begun to use. He did not know that it had become quite _de rigueur_ to
engage society ladies to play leading parts, irrespective of talent and
merely for the sake of the smart friends they attracted. It is the Box
Office that counts, first, last and always. Remember that, some of you
clever young ladies, before you abandon the typewriter or the
comfortable certainty of the Insurance Office.
“To me,” he said, “that stands to her credit. She strikes me as a most
charming little girl.”
“Oh, quite—quite, _dear_ Mr. Cardomay, but provincial—very, very
provincial.” And having delivered this two-edged thrust, she sailed away
to pastures new.
So Eliphalet asked the same question of Polonius.
“Mornice June, her name is. Something in her, I fancy. Forget who told
me she’s been earning her living since she was fourteen. Her people were
a bad lot—deserted her—so they say.”
Eliphalet did not need to introduce himself, for the very next day
Mornice marched up and gave him a cheery smile.
“Do you mind if I talk?” she said. “You look so homish to me. I can’t
get on with these London people a bit.”
He made room for her on the roll of carpet, and she sat beside him.
“Yet, my dear,” he answered, “you seem to be very popular.”
“With those silly boys, yes! But even they are different. I say, I’m
sure you know all about playing in Shakespeare. I do wish you’d be an
absolute dear, and hear me my lines. I’m certain I shall get a fearful
‘bird’ from his Nibs.” (His Nibs was her name for the eminent producer.)
“It’s the blank verse that does me. I’ve never tackled verse before,
except ‘I am Lily, called the Flowers’ Queen, the goodest, sweetest
fairy ever seen.’ You know—you flip up through a star trap and get it
off your chest, where the white limes meet.”
She delivered the cheap couplet with perfect mimicry of pantomime style,
then clapped her hands and laughed gaily. Eliphalet caught the infection
of her spirit, and laughed too.
“But you will be a dear, and help me, won’t you?” she appealed, picking
a speck of fluff from the knee of his trousers. “I say, you didn’t brush
yourself very carefully this morning, did you?”
“I stand corrected,” said Eliphalet; “but my dresser is away on his
holiday.”
“Aren’t you married, then?”
“No—not now.”
Mornice’s face became serious at once.
“You poor dear, I am so sorry. Is she——?”
But Eliphalet took the book from her hand.
“Come,” he said, “let us hear those lines. We will go down this
corridor, where we shall be undisturbed.”
As a rule, when you hold the book for someone who is almost a stranger
they are anxious and awkward, but it was not so with Mornice.
“It’s just here where she enters with the Player King. There! Got it?
Right-o.”
In a second she flung herself into the spirit of the scene. Gesture,
voice and feature were alike unchained to the emergency of the
situation. At the right moment she dropped to her knees and with
outstretched arms poured forth the protestations of undying fidelity
with ringing vibrations of emotion. When she had finished, she sprang to
her feet and exclaimed:
“There! that’s the best I can do!”
Eliphalet was amazed. Never before had he seen anyone more liberally
endowed with natural ability. And yet he knew this ability was
misguided—that Mornice June suffered from a fatal facility.
Spontaneous ease of obtaining effects is perhaps the most dangerous
asset an artist may possess. You will find it in legions of draughtsmen,
who will dash off what is seemingly the cleverest sketch and actually a
mere tangle of inaccuracy—wrong in every line and detail. They are born
with a box of tricks—any one of which may be drawn from its docket at a
second’s notice.
Reach-me-down art—and as unlike the real thing as a city tailor’s
ready-for-wear garments to the creations of a Savile Row expert.
It was beyond Eliphalet Cardomay’s skill to point out the fundamental
fault in the girl’s acting, and it was beyond his skill to indicate the
fortune to which her facile skill directed her. Had one of those wise
and energetic gentlemen been present, those gentlemen who project their
three-reel productions upon a white screen and who speak of “Close-ups,”
“Eyes that register well,” “Panoraming the Camera,” and so forth, he
would have recognised at once the great future awaiting Miss Mornice
June in the broad estates of Filmland.
“I have nothing but admiration,” said Eliphalet. “You must have studied
hard to do so well.”
“Studied! I just swotted up the lines, that’s all. How does one study?”
“By considering the relative values of what one is saying and inflecting
the lines accordingly.”
“Oh, I should never be able to do that. I just get a thing, or I don’t
get it. But d’you really think it’ll do?”
“I imagine it will do more than well.”
“Oh, you are a dear! I was sure you’d give me the ‘bird.’”
“Tell me: you have been on the stage for some long while?”
“Um. Donkeys’ years; but I’m thinking of chucking it.”
“Giving it up?”
“Yes; for the ‘movies.’”
Eliphalet was aghast. To him the Cinema was a very degrading profession.
“I think, my dear,” he said, “you would find that a very poor
alternative to our beautiful art.”
“But I love the ‘movies,’ and I’m sure I should be able to blink myself
to fame. I can cry like old Billy-oh when I want to—and the wet-lash
stunt is half the battle, y’know.”
Just then one of her many admirers came down the corridor. He was a
smooth-haired, self-satisfied looking fellow, who played the Second
Player.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said. “We shall have to go on
in a minute.”
Eliphalet moved away and left them together.
“You are a rotter, Morny, to talk to that old blighter and leave me in
the lurch.”
“He’s a duck,” said Mornice, “and I love him.”
“I think you love everyone except me.”
“Darling,” she exclaimed with outstretched arms, “I love you to
distraction. Without you the world would be a desert track, or tract,
whichever it is.”
“Then for God’s sake give me a kiss!”
Mornice considered the proposition in pouting perplexity. Then she
laughed and said:
“Don’t be such a stupid little fool, Ken.”
“You always say that when I come to the point.”
“Avoid the point then, darling, and you won’t get your pretty little
puds pricked.”
“Look here, will you come out to lunch with me?”
“Will I—will I? No. I won’t, but I’ll come to tea instead, and pay my
own share.”
“Won’t you let me kiss you? I’m in deadly earnest, Morny.”
“If you’re in deadly earnest you shall kiss me. Oh, but not now. You
shall kiss me on the back of the ear when it comes to the cue for the
kiss in our scene.” And so saying, she ducked her head and bolted down
the corridor as fast as she could run.
During the fortnight of rehearsals Eliphalet saw a great deal of
Mornice, and they became inseparable friends. She told him her name was
really Alice May, but she couldn’t endure Alice, so had achieved Mornice
from the deeps of her imagination. She had elected the riper month of
June instead of May because it sounded jollier after Mornice. Of her
people she scarcely ever spoke. Once, in the course of conversation, she
chanced to remark:
“Oh yes, he did a vamoose—like mother.”
“What is a ‘vamoose’?” he asked.
“When you skip off and leave everything to look after itself.”
“And that is what happened with you?”
“Umps! I’ve been on my own since I wore pigtails.”
Eliphalet was silent, thinking of the risks to which this child must
have been exposed in her struggle for a living. Intuitively she read his
thoughts, and said:
“I can look after myself, though. Don’t you worry!”
“I am quite confident of that,” he replied. Then, after a slight
hesitancy, “But aren’t you a shade unwise to encourage the admiration of
all these young men? That Mr. Kenneth Luke, for instance?”
“Oh, Ken’s all right. He went to Oxford College, so he ought to know how
to behave.”
Eliphalet smiled and shook his head dubiously. It seemed to him that her
reasoning was not quite conclusive.
To tell the truth, Master Kenneth had been a little too importunate of
late, and Mornice had been considering the advisability of “choking him
off.” However, since her one scene had to be played with him, she had
thought it better to keep on friendly terms.
Eliphalet Cardomay was more than pleased with the notices the press gave
him after the first night. “A rendering full of the best traditions of
Shakespeare,” said one. “Mr. Cardomay’s beautiful voice was heard to
advantage,” said another.
It was gratifying to hear his “beautiful voice” spoken of as though the
whole world knew of its existence. He began to regain some of the
confidence lost after his last London appearance. He fell to wondering
what they would have said had he appeared as Hamlet instead of the
Ghost, and concluded, erroneously, the papers would have been equally
flattering.
He had never played Hamlet, and the idea of doing so on some future tour
possessed him. Little Mornice June should be given the part of Ophelia,
and would certainly outshine the neuralgic young lady in her rendering.
All she needed was guidance.
Eliphalet had quite made up his mind to engage Mornice on a long
contract, not only for her talent, but because he could not endure the
thought of losing sight of her. Somehow she filled an empty space in his
heart that long had craved for a tenant. It is good for a man to have
some interests in life outside his work, and he had none.
There was something in Mornice that awoke a queer familiarity with
another episode of his life, but when he tried to place the impression
it would not develop. Was it perhaps with scatter-brained little Eunice
Terry, whom he had disillusioned about the stage? No! For beyond the
“Nice” at the ends of their Christian names there was little enough
semblance. Mornice had her head screwed on the right way, whereas Eunice
had nearly had hers screwed off.
One morning a rehearsal had been called for some minor alterations, and
Eliphalet was sitting with his back against a scene-flat, when he heard
Mornice’s voice on the other side.
“Poor Ken,” she was saying. “Oh, dear, what a sad and gloomy face!”
“You know how to cure it,” came the answer.
“I? I only seem to make it worse.”
“That’s true. You’re playing with me, Morny, and I’ve had enough of it.”
“Well, if you’re too old to play, go and sit in the corner with a book.”
“For God’s sake chuck fooling. After all, you can’t afford to turn me
down like this, and I’m not the chap to put up with it for ever.”
It was a graceless speech, and Eliphalet was astonished at the girl’s
answer.
“You old silly, I don’t want to turn you down. I’d like you to be happy
as the rest are.”
“Well, make me happy, then.”
“’Course I will—if I can.”
“If you can! Look here, Morny; come and have supper with me after the
show to-night.” She did not reply, and he went on: “Why, hang it, you
must have been out to supper scores of times.”
“Yes, I have—scores and scores.”
“Will you come, then?” There was more than eagerness in his tone.
“I may as well, I suppose. Very well, then—yes.”
“At last! And that’s a bargain, isn’t it? There’s no going back now?
Where would you like to go? Cecil?—Savoy? Just say, and I’ll ring up
for a room at once.”
“A room! What for?”
“We shan’t want to be disturbed.”
“Shan’t we? Now look here, Ken; if I come to supper with you we sup in
the main restaurant, or not at all.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about that. You can safely leave the arrangements
to me.”
“Right; I will. And I’ll leave you the supper, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve taken a very intense dislike to you. I think you are an absolute
low little rotter.”
Eliphalet, on the other side of the piece of scenery, murmured a prayer
of thanksgiving.
“You do?” said Kenneth. “Well, if that’s so, you won’t be disappointed.
I may not be great shakes in the company, but I can promise to make it
none too pleasant a place for you—unless you say you are sorry.”
It was all very ill-conditioned and childish.
“The only thing I’m sorry about,” said Mornice, “is that I didn’t smack
your face days ago.” She marched off, the picture of outraged dignity.
And Eliphalet, as a student of nature, reflected that the young man had
received a more valuable lesson than all his ’Varsity training had
provided, and, when the rancour had abated, would profit very greatly
therefrom.
It is always disappointing when one’s opinions prove to be at fault.
Possibly this in some measure added to Eliphalet’s cold fury at what
took place that evening.
He had gone down earlier than usual and was standing in the wings,
watching the Play Scene. Mornice and Kenneth Luke as the Player King and
Queen, with arms interlaced, came on to the stage within the stage and
began to speak their lines, and there followed the most paltry piece of
meanness Eliphalet had ever beheld. A deliberate effort to “queer” a
fellow-player.
Seemingly Kenneth Luke had profited nothing by his lesson of the morning
and was determined to take it out of his mentor by the unkindest method.
He ended his first speech with so inconclusive an inflection that it was
well-nigh impossible for her to speak her lines. Not satisfied with
this, he introduced long pauses in the wrong places and when she,
believing he had forgotten his part, began to speak, he spoke also, with
the result that the words jumbled together unintelligibly.
Mornice did her best, but had lost the thread of the scene and broke
down. So Kenneth prompted her audibly, and no sooner had she started
than he essayed to “queer” her afresh. But that was not all, for when,
in the course of the scene, he lay down for his afternoon repose, or
“secure hour,” he contrived to lie upon the train of her gown. Certainly
he did it very discreetly, and none but Eliphalet saw. It appeared from
the front to be mere carelessness when Mornice, in backing from the
stage, stumbled, tried to recover herself and fell noisily down the
rostrum steps.
The effect of a roar of laughter in that part of the play can be
imagined. The act, in the vulgar parlance, was “dished.”
Even through his make-up of ghostly green Eliphalet Cardomay went quite
purple.
To trifle with one’s art was to him an unforgivable offence—but when
that trifling was done in a Shakespearian production, a London theatre,
and as a piece of sheer malice against a young girl——!
The muscles of his hands knotted convulsively. This was a matter that
could be dealt with in only one way. He made a movement toward the back
of the stage, then checked himself. He would be wanted for his last
scene in a moment. He must wait until after that, and then——!
It is to be feared that Eliphalet Cardomay’s countenance did not wear
that expression of seraphic benignity it should when he appeared behind
the gauzy curtain and Hamlet spoke the lines, “Look here upon this
picture and on this.” He contrived to impart the full measure of appeal
into the final words, “Speak to her, Hamlet,” then hurried from the
stage, stripping off his draperies and breathing through the nose.
On the first dressing-room landing Mornice was standing, and before her,
looking very different from his usual placid self, was Mr. Winslow
Dawson.
“That sort of thing may do for the provinces,” he was saying, “but it
won’t do in the Mall Theatre. I have never seen such an exhibition.”
“I didn’t forget my cue,” said Mornice pathetically. “Really and truly,
I didn’t—and it wasn’t my fault I fell down.”
Mr. Dawson made an impatient gesture with his head.
“Mr. Luke,” he said. Kenneth Luke stepped out of the shadows, “you play
the scene together—what have you to say?”
“Well. I certainly noticed Miss June seemed rather all over the place,
and——”
“One minute,” said Eliphalet, steering into the middle of the group.
Mr. Dawson turned.
“We are rather busy,” he began.
“And so am I,” said Eliphalet, “and my business won’t wait.” Then,
addressing Kenneth Luke, “Now, you—put up your hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“Put them up. I’m going to give you a thrashing. Do you understand
that?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Kenneth insolently. “And what the devil are you
interfering for?”
“For the pleasure of doing that,” said Eliphalet, and hit him with
surprising vigour on the end of the nose.
“Damn!” roared the youngster, and drew back his arm with intention of
countering. But somehow it entangled in his cloak and before he had
freed it, Eliphalet had pranced in and rained upon him a veritable
tornado of blows. More by luck than judgment one of them took Kenneth on
the point of the jaw, and put him to sleep behind a curtain of falling
stars.
“I say! whatever is all this about?” exclaimed Mr. Dawson.
“A—piece of—just retribution and N-nemesis. Tell him, my
dear—I—I’m——”
Then very gracefully, as he was graceful in all things, Eliphalet
Cardomay tottered and collapsed across the body of his prostrate foe.
It is not a wise proceeding for a man on the wrong side of sixty to
engage in a rough-and-tumble. The results are apt to produce cardiac
disturbances. The doctor, who was called in, said afterwards there was a
time when he doubted whether Mr. Cardomay’s heart was equal to the task
of adjusting itself. Certainly the old actor was in a sorry way when he
was placed in Mr. Deansgate’s private brougham and driven off to Camden
Town under the guardianship of a very anxious Mornice. She had explained
how the circumstances came about, and Mr. Deansgate sent a polite
request to Kenneth Luke to call at his office before leaving.
The result of this interview was significantly betrayed by the presence
of Kenneth Luke’s “card” in the following Thursday’s issue of the _Daily
Telegraph_, with the words “At Liberty” following his name.
Mornice and the landlady put Eliphalet to bed and tucked him in as
though he were a child. He complained of being thirsty and very tired,
and hardly seemed aware of his surroundings.
“I shan’t leave him to-night,” whispered Mornice. “Perhaps you’d give me
a comfy chair, Ma dear, then I can watch restfully.”
And as the good Mrs. Albion liked being addressed as “Ma dear,” she
produced her best armchair (a forbidding affair of varnished walnut,
American cloth and brass-headed nails), and set it beside the bed. She
also put a match to the fire and, on the principle of “If you’re not
going to sleep, you must eat,” cooked up “a bit o’ supper.” She did not
leave the room until satisfied that Mornice had done justice to the
grilled herring and jug of hot coffee. Then she gave her a “nice” kiss
and a whispered good night.
Mornice lowered the gas, and, taking Eliphalet’s hand, sat beside him.
The Old Card was very restless, and rambled in his mind and speech.
Fragments of disjointed sentences and long out-of-use quotations came
from his lips. Once he snatched away his hand and cried “Put them up!”
Very gently Mornice soothed him and regained his hand.
“I’m sure I was right—a blackguard,” muttered Eliphalet. “And she
little more than a child—clever—dear child! With a little training, a
little care—‘Have you a daughter? Let her not walk in the sun.’ I’ve no
daughter—no child—nothing. That’s so, old boy; that’s so.”
“Ssh!” whispered Mornice. “You must go to sleep. Ssh!”
“Who’s that?” He spoke in a startled tone.
“It’s me—Mornice.”
“‘Me, Mornice’—No—‘I,’ Mornice, ‘I’—a little training—a little
guidance.” His voice trailed away into silence. When next he spoke it
was to ask:
“What’s the time?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Three at night—and that was a woman’s voice, I don’t understand. Who
are you?”
She told him again.
“Three o’clock at night—No, not Mornice—you’re Blanche—poor old
Blanche! And yet so much seems to have happened since—and Blanche—I
don’t know!”
Mornice started violently.
“Why do you call me Blanche?”
The quick sound of her voice roused the old man from his wanderings, for
he turned, rose on his elbow, and looked at her.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” he said. “Why are you here?”
“You’ve been ill,” she replied. “Don’t you remember?”
“Ah, yes, yes, I remember now.”
“Tell me,” she begged. “A moment ago you called me Blanche.”
“I did!—good God, yes! That’s where the resemblance lies.”
“Who were you speaking of?”
“Blanche Cannon. Before you were born she was my wife.”
“But she is my mother. Then am I——?”
Eliphalet had taken her hands and was looking at her with wide-opened
eyes.
“How I wish you were!” he said. “But you came after, my dear.”
“Then,” said Mornice very positively but very tenderly, “whether I am,
or whether I’m not, whether you like it or whether you don’t, I’m going
to be your daughter—See!” And she kissed him as a daughter should.
At the theatre a week later the Lady of the Lorgnettes addressed She of
the Neuralgia.
“My _dear_,” she said. “Have you heard the news? _That_ Mr. Cardomay has
taken _that_ Miss Something-or-other June to live with him. _Really_, it
is extraordinary what these _stage_ people will do.”
And She of the Neuralgia was constrained to take two aspirins in rapid
succession to recover from the tidings, while the Lady of the Lorgnettes
turned aside to congratulate _that_ Mr. Cardomay on his speedy recovery.