DURING the epic days which followed, the mind of Sir Toby was haunted
by this inquiry. But there were matters almost as vital to vex
that ingenuous soul. From the first the rehearsals were not at all
satisfactory. The author of “The Lady of Laxton” did not pretend to be
more than a tyro in theatrical affairs and the company he had gathered
to embody the heir of his invention was as resolutely “amateur,” if
rather less enthusiastic, than himself. In the first place “social
position” was felt to be even more important than histrionic ability,
a fact which made the eleventh-hour defection of Mr. Montagu Jupp the
more to be deplored. He was to have been the prop and mainstay of “the
production.” But, as the cynical Garden shrewdly declared, the astute
Montagu must have smelt a rat.
“I hope, Pot,” said that critic when the second rehearsal had come to
its dismal end and a dark specter was invading Sir Toby’s life, “you
were not such a fool as to let Jupp see the list of your people.”
Sir Toby ingenuously admitted that he had.
“Hence the pyramids, my boy.” The relentless Garden chuckled.
“Unavoidably detained. Important business. Great Cumberland place!”
_Flaneur_ of the _Dramatic and Sporting Weekly_ whistled a few bars of
Chopin’s Funeral March. “You little fathead, you ought to be bled for
the simples!”
“I assure you, old man,” said Sir Toby, almost tearfully, “Lady Elfreda
simply knocked ’em endways in Yorkshire in the ‘Duke of Killiecrankie.’”
“But you can’t hear a word she says.”
It was fatally true, and there was the crux of the whole matter. The
star artiste, upon whom so very much depended, might never have been
on a stage before. So far she was grievously disappointing. She showed
little intelligence and less aptitude, and she was so shy of opening
her mouth that it seemed certain that “on the night” she would not be
heard by the first row of stalls.
So much was clear already even to the capacity of Sir Toby Philpot.
Indeed it was slowly beginning to dawn upon him that somebody must
have been “pulling his leg.” He had been too ready to take the word
of others, of Monty Jupp for example, that Lady Elfreda had so much
talent, “that she could play the ingénues out of all the West End
theaters.” That was the memorable phrase the sagacious and admired
Montagu had used. The old wretch had simply been pulling his leg. No
wonder that important business kept him from Clavering St. Mary’s.
“What a fool I have been,” reflected the despondent author, “not to
take the simple precaution of seeing the girl act before counting upon
her to pull us through.”
In the course of the third rehearsal, which proved even more trying
than the other two, the company began to show unmistakable signs
of mutiny. Mrs. Spencer-Jobling, for instance, who felt she had a
reputation to lose on the stage if nowhere else, became so openly
and mordantly sarcastic that she actually reduced the leading lady
to tears. Later in the day a sort of informal meeting was held in
the library, at which Garden presided, in the course of which it was
decided to present an ultimatum to Sir Toby. Either he must obtain
professional assistance and advice or the cast would throw up their
parts en masse.
Only five days now remained, for on the following Tuesday the
performance was due in the Assembly Rooms. Faced by this ultimatum Sir
Toby was in despair. But one fact was clear. If the situation was to be
saved a Titan was called for. At all hazards the recalcitrant Montagu
must come down to Clavering Park. And all the art, all the tact, all
the experience of even that superman would be necessary if the curtain
was to rise on Tuesday afternoon.
With the ferocity of despair Sir Toby telephoned at once to the great
man’s chambers in the Albany. Alas, Mr. Montagu Jupp was out of town,
but he was expected from Newmarket in the course of that evening. Soon
after dinner Sir Toby telephoned again, but Montagu had not returned.
Finally, on the verge of midnight, the author telephoned a third time
and on this occasion success rewarded him. The authentic voice of
Montagu informed him that he had just donned his pyjamas. That plea,
however, was of no avail; for a long twenty minutes he had to suffer
the prayers and the entreaties of the unlucky author of “The Lady of
Laxton.” But to these he was deaf. Mr. Montagu Jupp had reasons of his
own for not throwing himself into the breach. He remained adamant.
Important business must keep him in town for at least another week,
shamelessly adding particularly as he had just lost a valuable day at
Newmarket.
Then it was that Sir Toby, knowing all to be lost unless Montagu
relented, hastily decided upon a final and desperate throw. He would
run up to town by the early morning train and so bring home to the
great man the extreme urgency of the whole position. And in the evening
he would return with him to Clavering Park if flesh and blood could
compass that essential deed.