THE DEAR DEPARTED
If Eliphalet Cardomay never pretended Mornice June was his own daughter
he certainly never checked her from calling him Father, or any other
such title her fancy devised. A man on the very wrong side of sixty, who
has never been so called, finds the sound of that name comes very
sweetly to his ears.
When he met her at the station on her return from the tour, she halloed
“Father” from the carriage window, and leapt into his arms before the
train had stopped.
Usually Eliphalet was a ceremonious man under the eye of the public, but
on this occasion he returned her embraces with a warmth equal to her
own.
“Dear me!” he said, as arm-in-arm, the gust of welcome having subsided,
they walked from the station. “Dear me! I wouldn’t have believed I could
be so happy and excited. I haven’t been kissed on a railway platform
since——”
“When?”
He hesitated. “Oh, a very long while ago.”
His thoughts strayed back over a chasm of years, to the time when this
girl’s mother, in the first flights of their courtship, embarrassed him
grievously by the publicity of her affections.
“I was thinking of your mother,” he said at last.
“Oh!” replied Mornice, who was hoping for a more spirited confidence.
“You know,” he went on, “when I see you, I sometimes wish I had been a
little more tolerant. It is a wonderful possession—a child of one’s
own.”
“You might not have liked me so well,” said Mornice gaily. Her face took
more serious lines. “I was only fourteen when she cleared out and left
me on my own—but it wouldn’t have been any good—I can see that. She
wasn’t a bit nice, I’m afraid.”
There was a quality of frankness about Mornice. She invariably spoke her
mind. A bad mother was none the better for being her own. Mrs.
Harrington May, late Mrs. Eliphalet Cardomay, _née_ Blanche Cannon, was
not a lady to inspire affection in other than masculine hearts, and even
there not a quality to endure.
“Then you do not miss your mother?”
“Not a bit.”
“No,” said Eliphalet thoughtfully; “and no more do I. Well, well; I have
arranged with the syndicate—yes, I had to climb down about playing
‘Hamlet,’ and now we are going to put up ‘The Night Cry,’ after all. The
cast is engaged and we start rehearsing here this week.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” said Mornice. Then with a shade of nervousness, “And
who have you got to do my part?”
“Yourself, of course.”
“Me?—Oh, but, Pummy, I can’t. Didn’t I write and tell you? Thought I
had—at least, I didn’t think I had, exactly, but I meant to.”
“Tell me what?” Eliphalet looked genuinely startled.
“Oh, Daddy fatherums, don’t—don’t look so serious, please. It’s—I——
Well, I met a young man—a boy—a gentleman—oh, yes, always the perfect
gentleman. No, but he’s a dear, really; I mean, he’s awfully nice and
_very_ clever, and—— Well, I didn’t want to be a drag on you, and you
never actually told me you were going to open, so I didn’t see how I
could very well refuse—could I?”
Eliphalet stopped dead, with:
“Good God, what are you talking about?”
“Yes. I knew you’d disapprove, and I knew if I waited to ask you, you
wouldn’t let me; so I took my courage in both hands, shut my eyes, and
said, ‘Yes.’ But it’s only for six weeks.”
From his tail-pocket Eliphalet drew a large silk handkerchief and mopped
his brow.
“What is only for six weeks?” he managed to ask.
“I told you—this Cinema engagement, of course.”
“Thank you,” he said faintly. “If you don’t mind, we will go into this
dairy and take a glass of milk.”
Not until they had seated themselves at the small marble-topped table,
with two china beakers of milk and some sponge-cakes on white saucers
before them, did he speak again.
“One should never mystify one’s audience: that is a first principle in
our profession. Remember it, my dear, and you will save people from many
unnecessary shocks. Now, about this engagement?”
So Mornice told him how one Ronald Knight, who was “really awfully
nice,” had seen her playing at Colwyn Bay, and had come round “after the
show” with a most alluring offer.
“They are a new firm, and, just think! they are going to pay me a pound
a day—and I’m to play lead in the film. Oh, Daddy fatherums, I’m to
play the Village Maid!” And, kissing the tips of her fingers, she dabbed
them on the end of the old man’s nose.
Taking into consideration Eliphalet’s strong distaste for the Cinema—a
distaste rendered more poignant by his own recent unsuccessful exploits
before the camera—it is surprising that he did not at once quash the
whole idea. The fact remains, however, that he did not. He knew in
honesty to his ideals he should have taken up a very severe standpoint,
but instead he caressed the end of his nose lovingly, where the sense of
the kiss she had dabbed upon it still endured.
“Well, well, well!” he said. “There is no better way of learning a
mistake than by experience—and that I am not justified in denying you.
But after the six weeks, Mornice, you will return to me.”
“Oh, you darling, to let me!” she exclaimed, delightedly. “And of course
I’ll do whatever you say I must.”
He seemed to ponder for a while, and presently said:
“What was it you called me a moment ago? Some quite odd name.”
“Daddy fatherums?”
“That was it—yes.”
“Do you like being called that?”
“Yes, I do,” he confessed, after the manner of an expert tasting a rare
wine. “I do. It is very foolish of me, no doubt—idiotic—but I like it
notwithstanding.”
An old man will do a great deal for a girl—that is sufficiently
obvious; and so, for that matter, will a young one.
To avoid losing any of her society Eliphalet shifted the scene of his
rehearsals and all the cast to Chester, in which town, on account of its
historic surroundings, the film was being taken.
His theatrical lodging-book showed no addresses of the landladies of
Chester, but Mornice promised to drop a card to Ronald Knight to arrange
rooms and meet them at the station.
Ronald Knight, it subsequently appeared, was not the manager of the film
company, but the manager’s son. He was a young man of dramatic
enthusiasm and ambition.
In Mornice’s conversations he recurred with great frequency, under such
titles as Ron, Ronny, Spud, The Boy—or Pyjams. (The latter being
arrived at by a kind of inverted reasoning, _sic_.
Knight—Knightie—Nightie; and since the masculine of nightie equals
pyjamas, hence Pyjams.)
Eliphalet was somewhat hard put to it to recognise a single personality
under so many alternative names. He gathered that Mr. Knight was well
placed in the esteem of his protégée, and on that account suffered
mildly jealous pangs. These he was not too subtle to betray—when
Mornice would tactfully remark:
“The boy is frightfully anxious to meet you. He just thrilled when I
told him I was your sort-of-daughter.”
“Yes, yes, that is very likely,” said Eliphalet, ironically; but he was
none the less pleased by these nosegays of speech.
So the whole cast of “The Night Cry” were entrained for Chester, where
in due course they arrived. Mr. Knight was waiting on the platform, and
sprang to open the door of Eliphalet’s compartment.
“Here’s The Boy,” cried Mornice. “Now, Spud, be polite, and shake hands
with Mr. Cardomay.”
Ronald Knight was naturally polite, and did as he was bid, with “It’s a
very great pleasure to meet you, sir.” While Mornice, in the background,
gratuitously supplied, “I call him Daddy fatherums, and sometimes
Pummy.”
Eliphalet frowned a little. An old man does not care to have his pet
name hung on the line for all to behold.
“Oh, she’s boasting,” said Ronald, with some neatness, who, reversely,
as a young man, was charmed to have been called “Spud” in public.
“Mornice tells me she has asked you to find us some accommodations,”
said Eliphalet.
“Oh! I forgot to,” gasped Mornice, in instant contrition. Then: “Hold
out your hand, Morny!”
Ronald laughed as she inflicted punishment upon herself.
“I know a few addresses, Mr. Cardomay. Or perhaps you will stay at the
hotel?”
“I prefer rooms—they are more homely.”
A couple of addresses were written on the back of an envelope (“No, not
that one.” Eliphalet recognised Mornice’s writing, and smiled), and
armed with these, he and she and their more portable assets climbed into
a cab.
Ronald was a shade disappointed at being left behind, but he had told
Mornice they would want to see her at the office by five o’clock. To
which she replied:
“I’ll be there at four, then, and you can do me a tea beforehand. By-oh,
Ron,” as they rattled over the cobbles of the station yard.
“Now,” said Eliphalet, “we have a choice between Mrs. Devon and Mrs.
Montmorency. Which shall it be?”
Mornice voted in favour of “The West Countrie” as being less
high-sounding than Montmorency. Accordingly they addressed themselves to
Mrs. Devon’s knocker.
Alas! but the good lady’s rooms were already engaged. Yes, she had heard
of Mrs. Montmorency, but could claim no actual acquaintance.
“I think,” she hazarded, “she’s been abroad a good deal. But there! it
doesn’t do to say anything, and there isn’t any reason to suppose she
won’t make you comfortable—but still! That’s the house at the
corner—Number Six. The one with the funny blinds.”
So they crossed the road and attacked the bell of Number Six, and after
a decent pause the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with an apron
but no cap.
Eliphalet addressed her as “Madam” and enquired if she were Mrs.
Montmorency.
“No,” came the reply, with a touch of pride, so Mornice thought. “No,
but I do for her. I’m Emma. What might you want?”
“We are requiring two bedrooms and a sitting-room.”
“Y-es. We could do that. Are you theatricals? But there! I needn’t ask,
for it’s stamped on your faces as plain as the words on a wall.”
Eliphalet remarked that the doorstep was inhospitable, and suggested
they might be invited to inspect the rooms.
“You shall see them,” said Emma, adding, “Such as they are.” She led
them within. “There—this’d be the sitting-room, if you was to take it.”
“But it is, in any case,” said Mornice with a twinkle.
Emma shook her head discouragingly.
“Well, come!” said Eliphalet. “This is quite comfortable.”
It was the twin of every other theatrical parlour, with its ponderous
wallpaper, plush upholsterings and curtains, palm pedestal in the window
and draper’s paintings on the walls.
Emma nodded gloomily.
“I suppose it’s all right,” she allowed. “If you want to see the
bedrooms, you’ll ’ave to climb the stairs, for there’s no other way.”
She led the procession to the floor above, and revealed two reasonably
well-kept bedrooms, with blue linoleum on the floors and scarlet Paisley
eiderdowns on the beds.
“I think this should suit us very well. Er—what about terms, now?”
Emma straightened a little doormat with the dilapidated toe of her shoe.
“’Ardly know what to say about terms. You see, she’s funny about ’em.
Tries to get all she can—but she always takes less.”
“Perhaps I could speak to her?”
“No, no, you couldn’t, not very well. Y’see, she’s out—Saturday!—You
know what I mean. You must arrange with me or not at all.”
“Certainly, as you please.”
“What about twenty-five shillings, then?”
Eliphalet hesitated, on principle.
“We should probably be here for three weeks,” he observed.
“Then you’re not playing in the town?”
“No; rehearsing.”
“That’s a pity, ’cause I’d ’ave asked for a seat Friday. ’Sides, if
you’re r’hearsing, it’s unlikely you’d be able to afford twenty-five.”
“We could afford a great deal more,” said Eliphalet, with a touch of
silly pride. “But one does not pay more than a penny for a penny bun.”
“But even then you may get a stale one,” replied Emma philosophically.
“Well, I should think twenty-five shillings ’ud be enough, then. ’Tis
enough, as a matter of fac’—plenty.”
“Very well; we will leave it at that.”
“All right. I ’spec’ she’ll raise a rare to-do about it, but one can’t
help that. Pity she wasn’t ’ome ’erself—but there, it’s Saturday, and
you know what that means! ’Ave you ’ad your dinners?”
“No,” said Mornice; “and we’re dreadfully hungry.”
“Well, I suppose a chop each ’ud do, for liver’s very dear, and I don’t
suppose you want to spend much.”
“A chop will be excellent.”
“Then I’ll leave you to wash your ’ands. There are some bits of yellow
in the soap-dishes, but if you’ve brought your own, I’d use it.”
At the top of the stairs she turned and addressed Mornice.
“You may as well be warned. The ’andle of the water-jug in your room is
only stuck on with fish-glue, so you’d better lift by the sides when
you’re pouring out. Three people ’ave paid for that ’andle already.”
“Thanks awfully,” said Mornie, trying not to laugh.
“Thought I’d tell you. Not but what you’re sure to forget; then you’ll
make the fourth.” And with this melancholy foreboding Emma descended
toward the kitchen.
Emma’s cooking of the chops was of more attractive quality than her
conversational manner of introducing them. She further supplemented the
meal with a sweet omelette, expressing a doubt, while serving it, that
the price of the eggs used would probably “put them in a state” when
they had to settle the bill.
Mornice was enchanted with Emma, and gave a graphic performance of her
voice and manner for Eliphalet’s after-dinner delectation.
“She’s lovely,” declared Mornice; “and I only hope Mrs. ‘Montblancmangy’
will be half as funny.”
The lady in question did not arrive home until after Mornice had set out
to meet Ronald Knight. It was about five-thirty when Eliphalet heard the
click of a key in the front door and the sound of footsteps in the
passage. Apparently, the owner of the house was a clumsy person, for a
great rattling betokened a collision with the umbrella-stand. There
followed the noise of objects falling, and Eliphalet undertook to
surmise that the three plush-backed clothes-brushes had been flung from
their brass hooks to the floor. A certain amount of scuffling ensued,
and then a female voice, speaking in detached tones, said:
“Dash the things! Let ’em lie!”
Acting on this resolution, the footsteps continued their way down the
passage, and a door at the far end banged.
“H’m!” said Eliphalet Cardomay.
Emma came from the kitchen and entered her mistress’s parlour.
Mrs. Montmorency was seated in a wicker chair, and her head moved from
side to side in a rhythmic measure. On the floor beside her lay various
belongings—a bag, an umbrella and a pair of gloves. Upon her lap was a
large brown-paper parcel, suggestive of the wine merchant, and this she
grasped securely by a small leather handle.
She was a largely-built woman on the wrong side of fifty, and the
clothes she wore would have befitted better a less advanced age. Large
plaques of jewellery shone from her expansive bosom and implicated
themselves in the lace and trimmings of her blouse. Across her shoulders
was a fur cape, which, in conversational periods, she styled as “My
mink.” An elaborate hat, at the moment somewhat awry, reposed upon her
butter-coloured hair—hair dressed _à la pompadour_. Her face was a fine
shade of purple, the intensity of which had been somewhat toned down by
a liberal application of powder.
“I’ve let the rooms,” remarked Emma. “Theatricals—an old chap and ’is
daughter.”
“Decidedly!” replied Mrs. Montmorency, her head still moving and
increasing the raffish angle of her hat. “Decidedly! I should think so,
indeed! Why, good gracious me, yes!”
“If you know all about it, there’s no call for me to tell you.”
“None whatever—decidedly not! What did you say?”
“Oh, you’re—you’re Saturday!” said Emma.
Mrs. Montmorency stiffened.
“Any sauciness, and out you go—bag and baggage, lock, stock and
barrel!”
“You wouldn’t part with the barrel—not if you thought there was
anything in it,” returned Emma, with asperity.
“I think, Emma, you forget who you’re speaking to. Now, what did you say
about the rooms?”
“Let ’em, that’s all. Twenty-one shillings a week for the two upstair
fronts and the sitting, and they’ll stay three weeks like as not.”
“This comes of my going out!” declared Mrs. Montmorency. “It means that
I can’t go out, and that’s what it _does_ mean! Who, may I ask, please,
have you let my rooms to at such a price?”
“Old fellow and his daughter.”
“Daughter, indeed! Decidedly, I should say so. A nice thing altogether.
Well! it’s what I expected—no more, no less.”
“You can tell ’em to go if you’re not satisfied—I ’aven’t sheeted the
beds yet.”
“That’s at my pleasure, and one more piece of sauciness and you’ll be
the one to go. But I’ll charge them for the cruet—ninepence a week, and
any breakages will be double—double. And now, please, what are the
names of the precious pair?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“No, you wouldn’t—decidedly not. You’d turn my house into a warren for
all the rag-bag and nameless vagabonds in the town. I’ll see them
myself, and you can be sure I’ll have my say, too.”
“Then I should take off my ’at and straighten up a bit first—for you
look for all the world like a needle in a hay-stack.”
Emma walked from the room and slammed the door.
Mrs. Montmorency rose from her chair and, approaching the mirror on the
mantelshelf, Narcissus-fashion surveyed her own loveliness therein.
Seemingly she found Emma’s counsel good, for she removed her hat and
cast it upon a chair, where it was crushed in the emotional crisis that
followed. Her hair she pawed and patted into some pretensions to
order—her face she enriched with a fresh crust of powder. From a
scent-spray, convenient to hand, she directed a jet of some
heliotrope-coloured fluid upon her bosom. This done, she straightened
her figure and passed out into the passage, with primmed lips.
To avoid the impression that by letting a room she sacrificed the
privilege of entering it at will, she turned the handle of Eliphalet’s
door, without knocking, and walked inside.
It happened that the old actor had closed his eyes for a few moments and
was sleeping—his back toward her. Mrs. Montmorency sniffed, but,
failing to awaken him, circumnavigated the table until his features, lit
up by the cast-down glare of the incandescent gas, confronted her own.
For a moment she looked and then, with a curious throttled cry, turned
about and fled.
Eliphalet sprang to his feet and arrived in the passage in time to see
the door at the far end swing to with a bang that shook the house.
“How very curious!” he said, and returned to his chair.
“God! It’s Cardy,” gasped Mrs. Montmorency, panting breathlessly against
the mantelpiece.
She rang the bell furiously, but when Emma arrived waved her away with,
“No—no—I want nothing. I’ve had a shock, that’s all; but I can
manage.”
She managed uncommonly well, and it must be considered as providential
that her purchases that afternoon had included two bottles of brandy
whereby the ill effects of the shock were capable of being warded off.
By the time the first bottle was at half-tide, she was able to review
the situation less fearfully.
Here was her first husband—the man who divorced her—living under the
same roof as a guest, and with him was a grown-up daughter.
What would be the result of this intolerable coincidence? As a late
member of the Boards herself, her imagination supplied many startling
solutions. The conventional idea was that Eliphalet, realising what he
had thrown away, would implore her to take pity and return to the
shelter of his arms; the dramatic, that after years of anger and dull
hatred, the sight of her would cast him into such a frenzy that murder
would be done. In support of this theory came the memory of how once he
had called out his man to fight with pistols for the sake of her honour.
It was all very irritating and tiresome, coming as it did at the time
when she had settled down to peaceable ways of living. As fruits of many
affectionate years, she was left with money enough to buy the small
lodging-house, and a matter of fifty pounds per annum over and above to
guarantee a convivial Saturday at the end of each week. This was not
affluence by any means, but it sufficed to make life endurable. It was
impossible that Eliphalet would be in so good a position, and was it not
more than likely that if he discovered her, his first thoughts would be
to negotiate a loan?
This latter theory caused Mrs. Montmorency more uneasiness than any
other. Generosity was not a strong point, beyond the latitude she
allowed herself for personal indulgences. Clearly, then, Eliphalet
Cardomay’s propinquity was not to be encouraged.
Once more she rang the bell for Emma.
“What terms did you ask these people for my rooms?” she demanded.
“I asked ’em twenty-five.”
“And they beat you down?”
“Oh, yes,” said Emma, who was sick of the whole affair.
“I thought as much. And where are they playing?”
“Nowhere. They’re r’hearsing.”
“Indeed! And who ever heard of letting rooms to an actor who was
rehearsing?”
“They’ve got to sleep somewhere while they’re doing it—haven’t they?”
“They are not going to sleep here—not after to-night, or to-morrow at
the latest. That I _have_ made up my mind to. This house is not a
charitable institution; whatever else it may be, it isn’t that.”
“A truer word never passed your lips,” said Emma, and escaped before the
inevitable warning about sauciness found expression.
Mrs. Montmorency drank soberly for an hour to lubricate her reflections.
She heard Mornice come in about eight o’clock, and was fired with a
desire to go into the passage and denounce her. This project, however,
she abandoned for want of material for the accusation. She decided that
a dignified letter would be the best means of being rid of the pair of
them, and this she set about to write. But, chiefly due to the error of
dipping the wrong end of the pen into the ink, the dignity failed to
appear on the page. Even in her semi-bemused condition she realised that
Eliphalet could hardly be expected to fathom the meaning of her
shadow-graphs, and so decided to leave the matter unsettled until the
morning. That being so, it was obviously a slight on her maker of cognac
to leave the bottle unemptied—and, after all, it was Saturday.
She was singing some little trifle of song when, about ten o’clock, she
perilously mounted the stairs toward the oblivion of her bed-chamber.
With the arrival of the day Mrs. Montmorency was able to approach the
problem with a clearer headache. She recollected, with a start, that
only a few inches of brick and plaster separated her from her one-time
husband.
Emma did not offer her breakfast on Sunday mornings, for to do so was to
incur a rebuke for sauciness—and so, when dressed, nothing prevented
Mrs. Montmorency from getting to work at once upon the eviction of her
tenants.
For a long while she sat with the pen in her mouth and her brows
contracted in thought. To tell the truth, she was not gifted with a high
standard of literary attainment. As a girl, she could dash off as many
as you please of the “My own darling boy” sort of letters which ended
with “tons of love and kisses,” but this severer kind of exchange
presented abundant difficulties. With the exception of Eliphalet, none
of her husbands, or those who had passed as such, was of a scholarly
turn. Harrington May, Mornice’s father, on whose account Eliphalet had
divorced her, though by no means a fool, had not troubled to obtrude his
erudition upon her. Similarly, none of the other hands through which she
had passed had used their skill to mould her intellect.
At last, however, she contrived a letter which gave her every sort of
satisfaction. It ran:
SIR,—_My Emma in my absence let you rooms at terms
unsatisfactory to myself. Mrs. Montmorency is a lady who does
not take in lodgers without good credenshalls. This is not to in
any way say that your credenshalls may not be all right, but as
I have no knowledge of you she feels the let is not
satisfactorily. It would be necessary under such a state as
yours for payment to be made for the whole time of three weeks
in advance. As it is not likely under your present state you
could do this or be able she feels obliged to ask you to go
elsewhere without trying to be impolite._
_I beg to remain_,
_Yours faithfully,_
MRS. B. MONTMORENCY.
Mornice had brought Ronald in to lunch, and this letter was handed to
Eliphalet simultaneously with the apple-tart. He frowned a little as he
read it, and remarking “Extraordinary woman!” handed it to Mornice.
“Oh, it’s sweet!” cried Mornice. “Read it, Pyjams.” Then to Emma, “Do
ask her to come in.”
Emma had been schooled in what to say should this request be made. Her
manner of putting it was:
“She’s in bed. Bit funny to-day! You know what I mean.”
“I will reply later,” said Eliphalet. When Emma had left the room, he
picked up the thread of the former conversation—his familiar views upon
the degradation of acting for the Cinema.
“Yet, sir,” said Ronald, who had listened very politely, “I am sure Miss
Mornice June would have a great future in the film. My father agrees
with me.”
“There is no future for the film, my boy,” corrected Eliphalet. “Now,
for the stage——”
Ronald Knight agreed heartily that the art of the stage ranked on a far
higher plane, and expressed his own very proper ambitions in this
direction.
On the whole, Eliphalet was pleased with the young man, and lost his
sense of jealousy when Mornice “Ronnied” and “Spuddied” him.
After he had gone and Eliphalet had replied for about the nineteenth
time, “Certainly he is a very agreeable young fellow,” he turned to the
matter of the letter again.
“It is very curious,” he said, after reading it a second time, “but
there is something familiar about the composition and handwriting of
this note.”
“Now you say so, it strikes me too,” said Mornice.
He laughed. “Then I am sure it is merely imagination on my part. But
that is unimportant. This is very offensive, and I am seriously disposed
to ask for the bill and go.”
Mornice dissuaded him. Emma made her laugh, she said, and her bed was a
dream without lumps. Probably the poor thing was hard up, and it was
just a try on to get money in advance.
“Well, if that is so, and you are satisfied, there is no reason why she
should not have it.”
Accordingly he sat down and wrote:
MADAME,—_I am in receipt of your letter and hasten to applaud
the spirit of caution that inspired it._
_It has not been my habit to give credentials when taking rooms,
since I believed my name to be a sufficient guarantee of
probity. However, since this appears to be a condition you
require, I enclose five pounds, three guineas being for rent and
the remainder towards current expenses._
_Awaiting your acknowledgment and receipt_,
_Yours faithfully_,
ELIPHALET CARDOMAY
(with a flourish beneath).
“Well, is he going? Was he wild?” demanded Mrs. Montmorency when Emma
brought the note.
“Neither, by the looks of it.”
“Oh, dear! Give me the letter, then, and don’t stand there looking as
if—if——” She could think of nothing, so opened the envelope instead.
The sight of the five-pound note gave her astonishment and perplexity.
“Isn’t it like him!” she exclaimed, when she had read what he had to
say. “Prosy old fool!”
“Eh?” inquired Emma.
“I was not addressing you.”
She bit one of her short, podgy fingers, and thought hard. “Wish I could
see him for a moment.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because you’ve let all the front room windows, like the fool you are.
That’s the worst of a house without a basement.”
“Go and see ’im in his room—’e’s there.”
“I won’t, and I don’t want any saucy suggestions from you, either.” She
tapped her foot and fingered the five-pound note indecisively. “You’ve
been in the provinces all the while I’ve been abroad. Have you ever
heard of Eliphalet Cardomay?”
“’Course. Who ’asn’t? Runs his own companies, doesn’t ’e? I suppose
anyone who’s heard of Queen Anne ’as ’eard of ’im.”
“His own companies? What sort of theatres?”
“Big drama houses.”
“Oh! Oh! That’s the worst of being out of the swim so long. H’m! Wonder
if it ’ud be a mistake——” She took a pen and wrote a receipt for five
pounds. “With Mrs. Montmorency’s compliments, please, and tell him she
is satisfied.”
Emma placed it on the arm of Eliphalet’s chair, saying:
“All right! You don’t ’ave to go, after all.”
Eliphalet Cardomay’s five-pound note had created a profound impression
on Mrs. Montmorency. That he, at his age, could produce so large a sum
without protest or difficulty argued that he must be in a singularly
sound financial position. A man who could do so much could probably do
more—and if that were the case——
She had worked out her life on strictly practical lines—the margin for
enjoyment being limited by her tangible assets. It was purely motives of
economy that only allowed the indulgence of a single “Saturday” in the
week. With a little more capital a “Saturday” might also occur on
Tuesday. Her “mink” might cease to be a substitute and become mink.
Scented soaps, patchouli, and many other nose-offending delicacies might
spring into being about her. A cellar, even, might be started, and a
silver mirror added to her gradually-dwindling toilet appointments.
Clearly, it was not advisable to cast Eliphalet forth without first
plumbing his resources. That grown-up daughter was rather a
stumbling-block. Daughters are unsympathetic creatures, and it might
very well be that she would stand in the way of her father’s generous
impulses. The main thing to do was to find out exactly what their
position was, and meanwhile to lie low.
For three days Mrs. Montmorency digested her plans and took great pains
to avoid meeting her guests. This necessity resulted in some very near
shaves; in one case driving her to take refuge in the cistern-cupboard.
Emma was valueless, since she declined to interrogate either Eliphalet
or Mornice on the matter of their private affairs, and it was only by
accident that Mrs. Montmorency learnt that Mr. Ronald Knight, who
visited the house nearly every day, was the gentleman who had
recommended them to her tender graces.
This was a happy windfall, for it provided an excuse for offering him
her thanks and at the same time drawing from him a little private
conversation.
The following afternoon, which was too wet and dark to be of use to the
film folk, Mr. Knight returned with Mornice and entered the house.
No sooner did Mrs. Montmorency hear his voice in the sitting-room than
she opened the front door and passed out.
There was a broad-minded pastry-cook’s at the corner of the street,
where cherry-brandy and sweet wines were dispensed to nervous ladies,
and, using this as an observation-post, Mrs. Montmorency sat down to a
pleasant hour of waiting.
“Mr. Cardomay out?” said Ronald, warming his hands before the fire.
“Yup. They’re doing the second act—he won’t be in till five.”
Ronald bore the tidings with fortitude.
“You’re going to be awfully good in that film, Morny,” he said.
“Think so?”
“Sure so! If it gets released and well booked they’ll be after you like
flies—all the big firms.”
“Bon!” said Mornice, who could throw a spice of French into her
conversation.
“Morny!”
“That’s me!”
“I suppose dozens of men have adored you?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll take a tram to-morrow, if you please, and look at their
little graves.”
“Have you ever loved any of them?”
“All of them.”
“Any _one_ more than the rest?”
“Yes; but not so’s you’d notice.”
“It wouldn’t be very original of me, then, to say I loved you?”
“It would be if you didn’t.”
He scarcely knew how to take that, but he tried:
“D’you want me to be original?”
“If you can’t be natural,” she said.
“If I were natural,” said Ronald, with a deep breath, “I should ask you
to marry me—when I’ve got on and have a good position. Will you?”
“Well, come, Ronnie,” said Mornice, who was used to protestations of
love but a stranger to proposals of marriage; “it’s a sporting offer,
isn’t it?”
“Do you take it, then?”
She bit her pretty little mouth into all manner of tantalising and
absurd shapes.
“Well, I’d like to have it by me to think about and enjoy all by my
lonesome.”
“You want me to go away? I will!”
“Norrabit! You stop. I’ll let you know some day. The matter shall have
our serious consideration,” she added, and laughed provokingly.
He got up and stood beside her.
“Morny, it’s awfully difficult to stop without wanting to—to——”
“Yes?”
“To kiss you.”
“Well,” said Mornice, “and what’s to prevent you, please?”
“You might not like it.”
“But I’m certain I should.”
She pouted up into his face, and he kissed her, and she kissed him—and
very proper, too.
There is a deal too much nonsense talked about kissing; it should be
encouraged, for all that bacteriologists say to the contrary. Reliable
young people, with properly ordered minds, ought to kiss each other far
more frequently than they do. It is a delightful, frank and wholesome
pastime—and does any amount of good all round. Of course, if you are a
prude and attach an absurd significance to a kiss, there is no more to
be said, and it is your own look-out and your own loss. But if you take
it as a seal of good fellowship, and expression of the youthfulness that
sings in every decent heart, however old, it is right and good and
proper. Besides, no one will mind, that way. They will slap you on the
back and say you are a jolly good fellow, and she’s a dear, sweet,
natural girl, and your wife will kiss your own particular pal’s husband,
and she will snuggle none the less close to you on that account, nor
will you press his hand with any the less warmth. If we abandoned
kissing the people we don’t want to kiss, and only gave our caresses to
the ones we do, the world would be an ever so much jollier little globe
to live upon.
Ronald was in a very glorified frame of mind when he came down the road,
and, seeing him, Mrs. Montmorency rose from her fourth cherry-brandy and
debouched from the confectioner’s.
“I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Knight,” she said.
He raised his hat.
“Yes,” he said; “but forgive me if I——”
“I am Mrs. Montmorency. You were kind enough to recommend me to my
present guests.”
“Ah, yes! So I did.”
“It was so kind of you, and I wish to say how grateful I am.”
“Oh, not at all—delighted! Good afternoon!” For Ronald was very happy
with his thoughts.
“I am stepping your way, Mr. Knight, and if you don’t mind, we’ll walk
together.”
What could he do but acquiesce?
“It is rather a delicate thing to say,” she went on, “but—well, I’m
rather particular, and I’ve been abroad for a good many years.” (She
branched aside to give a few impressions of the Antipodes.) “So, you
see, I’ve rather lost touch. What I do want to know is, are the
Cardomays quite nice people?”
Ronald supported them hotly and enthusiastically. He represented
Eliphalet as a delightful personality who, professionally, was second
only to Sir Henry Irving in the hearts of the public.
This was encouraging, but Mrs. Montmorency had not gained all the
information she required.
“And the dear young lady—such a sweet girl, I think—she’s entirely
dependent on the old gentleman, I suppose?”
“No, indeed,” returned Ronald. “She’s playing lead in an important film
production at a very substantial salary.”
“How nice! Nothing I like better than to hear of young people getting
on. I’m an old pro. myself, Mr. Knight; used to be quite a star in my
day. But, dear me! I’ve passed my turning. Thank you so much, and good
afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” repeated Ronald, delighted to be rid of the lady of
haunting odours.
“That settles it,” said Mrs. Montmorency to herself. “It wouldn’t be
fair to me if I didn’t take the chance.”
At breakfast next day Eliphalet found a note on his plate stating that
Mrs. Montmorency would be highly honoured if he would favour her with a
call in her private boudoir at six that evening. He sent a reply to the
effect that he would be pleased to come at the time stated.
Meanwhile Mrs. Montmorency was rehearsing the reconciliation scene from
every possible mental angle. She decided to adopt the attitude of a
tired woman, sick of the world and its frivolities—a woman who yearned
for tenderness and the warmth of a home fire. Contrition there should be
in plenty—a hint of many privations, bravely borne, and a show of still
amply-filled wells of affection wherefrom a man might fill his bucket
with joy.
She ransacked her wardrobe and produced a peignoir constituting a cross
between a kimono and a Nottingham lace curtain. This garment, she felt
sure, would lay siege to any heart. With her own hands she ironed and
prepared it, then laid it aside upon the bed until the hour for dressing
should arrive. Naturally, these exertions called for stimulant, and a
bottle of brandy was broached with beneficial results. From a hidden
recess she unearthed an early portrait of Eliphalet, and this she placed
in a frame, occupied by some more recent tenant of her affections, and
hung it on the wall in her boudoir. Emma was despatched, not without
protest, to procure half-a-dozen arum lilies and half an ounce of
cachous. The lilies were bestowed in vases on the mantelshelf, and the
cachous fought a losing fight with the brandy-fumes.
All being in readiness, she mounted the stairs, abandoned her corsets,
donned the peignoir, and made what little improvements to her face were
expedient with creams and powder.
“I can’t imagine what she wants with me,” said Eliphalet, “but” he
glanced at his watch—“I soon shall.”
Throwing Mornice a smile, he went down the passage toward the private
boudoir. There was no answer to his knock, so he turned the handle and
walked inside. Mrs. Montmorency hung over the bannisters above, and
watched him enter.
Finding himself alone, his first thought was to retire, but an innate
curiosity caused him to look about him first. The lilies attracted his
attention, or rather diverted it from the garish vulgarity of the other
decorations. His eye was caught by the photographs on the walls, for he
recognised several old faces among them. All theatrical lodgings are
plastered with portraits of the various actors who have distinguished
them with their presence, but there was something in the sequence of the
portraits that seemed oddly familiar. Somewhere, on some past wall, he
had seen the same picture gallery assembled. Where? He turned and found
himself face to face with his own portrait—his portrait as a very young
man; written across it in ink, autumnal-brown with time, were the words:
“To my dear Blanche—Eliphalet.”
“Good God!” he whispered.
Then said a voice behind him, speaking in trembling accents:
“I’ve been so miserable, Cardy. All these years I have never known a
moment’s peace and quietude.”
He revolved slowly and confronted the woman who had been his wife. Her
hands outstretched toward him. He did not move, but looked her over
gravely. Dolled up, painted, and smelling of half-a-dozen cheap perfumes
that strove in vain to subordinate the reek of still stronger
waters—she was all that his fancy pictured she would be.
“So it’s you, Blanche,” he said.
“Yes, me—what’s left.” (He nodded at that.) “If you knew, Cardy, what I
have gone through—what my conscience has suffered for the way I served
you, you would take pity. That’s why——” She made a gesture as though
to say, “Behold the wreckage”—“And you—you so young-looking, so
handsome, and with a beautiful grown-up daughter! Oh, Cardy, it’s too
much to bear. You must forgive me and take me back.”
Sobbing piteously, she fell into his arms.
Eliphalet let her sob for as long as he could hold his breath; then he
placed her in a chair and seated himself as far away as possible.
“Need you envy me so acutely?” he said. “You married again, and bore a
daughter after you ceased to be my wife.”
“That’s true,” she nodded, dabbing her nose, which sprang to a bright
purple at the touch; “but it’s cruel to remind me.”
“Why?” His voice was courteous, but unsympathetic.
“She—Oh, and she was such a pretty, dainty little thing. I can’t speak
of her, Cardy. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
With a choking voice she replied:
“She was taken—taken——”
“You mean she died?”
“Died; yes. Only fourteen—getting on so nicely, too; beginning to earn
her own keep, like the one you’ve got. But there, you’ve always been the
lucky one.”
“By God,” he said, “I think I have.”
It was an awkward remark to counter, so Blanche kept up her pathetic
wail.
“It would be like the touch of my own child, just to see your daughter.”
“You shall,” said he, and walked to the door.
This movement was ahead of its cue, so she hastened to exclaim:
“Yes, but not now—wait till I’m myself again. Cardy, can you—will you
let me come into your life again?”
“We can discuss that later, I wish to show you my daughter first.”
He went straight to his sitting-room.
“Mornice,” he said. “Our landlady—she—she’s your mother. I want you to
come with me.”
Mornice gasped, but made no articulate reply. Hand in hand, they entered
Mrs. Montmorency’s boudoir.
It occupied a full five seconds before Mrs. Montmorency grasped the
situation; when she did, she sat bolt upright and exclaimed, “O God!” in
the most colloquial way imaginable.
Mornice said nothing, which in the circumstances was the best thing to
do.
“Well,” said Eliphalet, “is there anything to be gained by continuing
the scene?”
Mrs. Montmorency rose and gave herself away.
“Well, you were earning a good living, weren’t you?” she demanded of
Mornice. “My—er—friend didn’t like children, and I had my own way to
make. Then when I met Mr. Montmorency abroad, and told him about you, he
couldn’t be bothered.”
“Yes, I quite understand,” said Mornice.
“Girls should be made to look after themselves.”
Eliphalet cut in with “I think all that is necessary has been said.”
Blanche breathed desperately through her nose. She had lost ground, and
saw no hope of regaining it. As a last cast—a final appeal to the
emotions, she volunteered to faint.
“I’m going off!” she cried. “Quick—brandy!” Her faltering gestures
indicated the cellarette very concisely.
Eliphalet poured a measure into a convenient glass, and she gulped at it
greedily.
Then the faint—an unconvincing affair of eyelid work and
hand-twitching—took place. From a kind of innate chivalry they waited
until such a time as she thought fit to recover.
“We will say good-bye, Blanche,” said Eliphalet. “Your daughter and I
have our packing to do. Is there anything else you wish to say to her?”
“No, there isn’t,” came the uncompromising reply.
“Good-bye, then.”
“But I’ll say this to you, though,” said Blanche. “You are a pig—that’s
what you are—an old pig!”
They went out, closing the door as her similes climbed the ladder of
abuse in a ringing crescendo.
Later, as they drove through the cool night air, toward the hotel,
Eliphalet thoughtfully said:
“You were right, my dear; it wouldn’t have been any good. But it’s a
pity for you.”
“Why?” she answered, laying her warm little hand in his. “I’ve got a
Daddy fatherums, haven’t I?”