TO bed--to dream, but not to sleep. The situation that shaped itself
so fantastically to Girlie’s mind in the tardy hours of a long and
wakeful night was almost more than she could bear. Here was the last
straw. Playing with human souls is a perilous game. In drifting at
another’s bidding into such a position she had not reckoned upon the
cost to herself. She was not of the stuff of which the real adventuress
is made. The whole affair was really an outrage upon her deepest
instincts. She had neither the cynicism, the native impudence nor “the
sense of the theater” to keep the thing going. Somewhere about the hour
of four, when the night was at its darkest and her courage was very
low, she resolved to make an end. With remorse inflicting such torments
upon her there seemed nothing else to do. She spent the rest of the
night feverishly planning a way out. None there was, alas, that could
hope to spare her the tragic weight of humiliation, and worse than
humiliation she had so honestly earned; but as far as possible she must
defend herself against a public exposure.
Until getting-up time came she strove with this problem. But she was
caught in a trap from which there was no escape. Daylight stealing into
the cell of the condemned could not have been more unwelcome than
the faint rose of dawn creeping through the blinds of King Edward’s
bedroom. Girlie did not know how to face another day. The matutinal cup
of tea, brought to her at eight o’clock by a very trim housemaid, found
her in an abject state of “nerves.” She had reached the conclusion by
this time that her only hope lay in immediate flight. By some miracle
Mr. Jupp had not yet denounced her, but she felt sure it could only
be a question of hours. And even if the miracle went on and he still
refrained from doing so, the position into which she had allowed
herself to drift with Lord Duckingfield was quite unendurable. She was
now haunted by the thought of this good and simple man for whom she had
a real regard.
Yes, she must get away. But where could she go? To The Laurels? Only
too clearly did she realize that there was nothing to hope for from
that quarter--at any rate if she flagrantly disobeyed her instructions.
Besides in her present state of mental and moral weakness she really
went in fear of her Evil Genius.
After a time her mind began to run upon an aunt in Scotland. Now that
she had wantonly forfeited her only means of getting a living, that
austere dame, an elder sister of her mother’s, whom she remembered but
faintly, was the only relation or friend to whom she could turn. Her
recollection of Aunt Alice was dim and it was not agreeable. Aunt Alice
lived a long way off, she was the wife of a struggling doctor with a
large family of her own, and the best her niece could hope for was an
astonished and grudging welcome. Still there seemed no alternative now.
Wrought upon by the need for action, Girlie got out of bed and took her
purse from the left hand drawer of the dressing table. In a state of
nervous excitement she hunted for the address of Aunt Alice. Presently
she was rewarded with the sight of an old letter bearing the postmark
“Inverness.” Her heart sank. She knew nothing of Inverness, except that
it was somewhere in the north of Scotland.
Further examination of the inside of the purse revealed that her means
of getting to Inverness amounted to just two pounds, five shillings and
ninepence. Such a meager sum, even if it allowed her to get so far,
which at the present cost of travel was very doubtful, would provide
absolutely nothing to live upon. That fact alone seemed to make the
project hopeless. For one weak instant, in the face of this rebuff, her
mind reverted to Lady Elfreda’s jewels, to which she had access. But
the thought--if thought it could be called--was at once dismissed. Not
for a moment could any scheme of that kind be entertained. All the same
she indulged in a forlorn little sigh as the fact came home to her once
more that nature had not designed her for the adventuress _pur sang_.
In spite, however, of such a lack of means her mind continued to run
upon Inverness. Throughout an uncomfortable, appetiteless breakfast
the thought of that distant haven obsessed her. She managed to nibble
a piece of toast under the eye of the attentive and solicitous Lord
Duckingfield, who had so assiduously helped her to this simple fare
with a comment upon its meagerness. This morning, as every morning, he
was the soul of kindness and courtesy. But she was quite unable to talk
to him; in fact, she did not dare to look in his direction. It was a
great relief when at last she was able to carry Bradshaw to the good
log fire in the hall.
There, upon the scene of the previous evening’s tragi-comedy she delved
further into the problem of transporting herself from Clavering St.
Mary’s to the north of Scotland.
One important fact in regard to a very long and tortuous journey was
soon established. The sum of two pounds five shillings and ninepence
rendered the project hopeless.
Bradshaw in hand, she was still trying to meet a not unexpected facer,
when a voice of rather delicately reproachful curiosity came from over
her shoulder. It was that of the hostess and Girlie felt a tremor of
guilty dismay.
“Not thinking of leaving us, are you, Lady Elfreda?”
Quickly and nervously Girlie replied that she was not.
“Of course you’re not,” Mrs. Minever laughed. “Until after Tuesday
at all events. You have only three days now.” Mrs. Minever laughed a
second time, perhaps a shade sardonically. “How relieved you’ll be! I
am sure you have found us very dull. But when you get to Amory Towers
you’ll be able to play piquet with Mrs. Lancelot. I hope you are a good
player. Mrs. Lancelot, I believe, is very proud of her piquet.”
The yellow chrysanthemum lady was a little inclined to quiz. She
was the soul of good nature, but Girlie’s aloof detachment from her
surroundings invited criticism. The manner of the chief guest was
so constrained, so unnatural, that the only explanation was “side.”
Evidently this daughter of Lord Carabbas had such a sense of her
position that she did not find it easy to mix with other people on
terms of equality. Yet when the worst had been said of the yellow
chrysanthemum lady she was really the least censorious of women.
Besides, she was not in a mood for chaff this morning, no matter how
fully it was deserved or how much the occasion called for it. Mrs.
Minever, in point of fact, was graver this morning, more resolutely
serious than the guest had yet seen her. In Mrs. Minever’s own words,
“a very provoking thing had happened.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Minever in a fluttered tone, “you must please tell
your maid to be sure and keep your jewels under lock and key. One of my
rings--a rather valuable one--has disappeared. And you heard what Mrs.
Lancelot said yesterday? I’m afraid there is not the slightest doubt
that a gang of burglars is at work in the neighborhood.”
Readily enough Girlie promised to keep her jewels under lock and key.
“Of course it may be some one in the house. We are always changing our
servants. My husband is consulting the police.”
Girlie’s heart sank. She did not need to be very wise or very clever
to foresee the bearing such a circumstance would have upon her flight.
If she bolted now, without ostensible cause, the mere fact would be
terribly against her. Even as it was, when her imposture was revealed,
she felt sure it would go hard with her; yet with these deeper grounds
for even blacker suspicion, she was likely to be faced with a charge
she was wholly unable to meet.
Her nerve was badly shaken, but this new turn of events gave her a
sudden distaste for the half-formed plan. Beyond the crude fact that
she simply lacked the money to undertake the journey there was now an
even stronger reason why she should continue to stand her ground.
All the same the standing of her ground promised to be a soul testing
process. It was by no means certain that her courage would hold out.
For one thing the mere sight of Lord Duckingfield had the power to
involve her in a perfect orgy of conflicting emotions. If the look
of him, gravely polite, rather anxiously formal, meant anything, he
was clearly waiting for his answer. Why had she not had the strength
of mind to let him know the previous evening that he sought the
impossible? What was the good of having perceptions and fine feelings,
if one did not act in accordance with them?
Then as if the unhappy affair of Lord Duckingfield was not enough,
there was the perennial question of Mr. Montagu Jupp. Why he had not
denounced her already, heaven alone could tell!
The Deputy was far from suspecting the simple truth that it had not
yet begun to dawn upon Montagu that this was not the lady he had
met. Having drawn the long bow so freely himself he was not able to
criticize her closely; his own impression of the youngest girl of “old
man Carabbas” was decidedly vague. Still it was to be supposed that a
whole day devoted to the ill-starred “Lady of Laxton” would have done
much to enlighten him. As a matter of fact it did not. For Girlie,
at the nadir of her fortunes, was now inspired with the courage of
despair. Moved to a strange recklessness by the sheer weight of her
woes, she rose beyond the level of herself.
This unexpected result was due in part, no doubt, to Mr. Montagu
Jupp. That gentleman certainly knew his business. And at rehearsals
he had a way with him. Not only had he the art of smoothing tempers
and generally “oiling the wheels,” but the secret was his also of
evolving order out of chaos. The incompetence of Sir Toby and the
insubordination of several members of the cast had produced such a
hopeless tangle in the improvised theater in the east wing of the house
that for the time being even the inefficiency of the leading lady had
been overshadowed. But as soon as Montagu set his hand to the plow “The
Lady of Laxton” took a decided turn for the better.
Very well that it was so. There were but three days now to the
performance in the Assembly Rooms at Clavering, and by all the portents
“the most dismal fiasco of modern times,” in the gloomy and mordant
words of Garden was in prospect. But Montagu was no common man. He had
a faculty for “sizing things up,” moreover he knew how to get them
done. Privately he was of opinion that Sir Toby’s masterpiece beat all
records in the way of sheer ineptitude, but wild horses would not have
dragged it out of him. Besides he had been too long and too intimately
associated with the English theater in all its aspects to let a little
matter of that kind upset him. None knew better than he what could
be really achieved in the way of human imbecility. And after all, as
Montagu argued with himself, the players were but a scratch company
of extremely amateurish amateurs, while the audience at the best he
described as “C3 Provincial.”
Girlie was not a “quick study,” but she was an extremely conscientious
one. Long hours of application had made her absolutely word perfect in
her part. And there indeed she had a decided “pull” over the others.
Not one made the least pretence of being word perfect; several of them
could hardly be said to have looked at their lines. For instance, Mrs.
Spencer-Jobling was a particularly flagrant offender; but one and all
were animated by a robust conviction that “they would be all right on
the night”--in this case on Tuesday afternoon.
By comparison with these temper-trying people, Girlie shone. She really
did know her words, and although her manner of delivering them left
much to be desired, she was docile, intelligent, almost painfully
anxious to learn, so that on a first acquaintance and superficially
regarded, Mr. Jupp was inclined to consider her “the pick of the lot.”
But as he confided to Garden, over a pre-luncheon cocktail, “She was
not exactly a Siddons.”
In truth, however, Mr. Jupp, although he was far from guessing the
fact, had already exercised a kind of hypnotic influence upon the
leading lady. His natural gift “of bringing out the best in people”
had had an even greater effect upon Girlie than upon the less
impressionable members of the cast. Unconsciously she had at once
responded to the magnetic influence of this king among “producers.” And
yet the process may not have been wholly unconscious after all.
The poor Deputy was at the end of her tether. Not knowing which way to
turn, not knowing what to do, convinced that at any moment the fate she
so richly deserved must overtake her, she threw in all her reserves.
She abandoned herself entirely to the business of the hour. Not daring
to look before or after, she was like one under sentence of death.
Before being cast forever into outer darkness, her courage seemed to
make one last spasmodic flare.
In the course of that day there were two long rehearsals. But Girlie
threw so much spirit into her acting and she was on such terms with
the words of a diffuse and thankless part, that for the time being
her tragic inefficiency was veiled. By comparison with the casual,
imperceptive, bored people whose duty it was to play up to her, the
leading lady actually shone.
“Yes, old bye--the best of the bunch,” Montagu confided to the
incredulous Garden over a well-earned whisky and soda during an
interval for tea. “Not saying much of course. She can’t act for sour
apples but she does _try_.”
“But, my son”--Garden the incredulous, to whom sooner or later
all secrets were revealed, knew only too well the weakness of his
man--“that ass over there said that you said this little filly could
play all the ingénues off the West End stage.”
“Did I?” Mr. Jupp spoke with the innocence of a rather large size in
cherubs, whom he so much resembled.
“You did.”
“Well, old bye,” Montagu fondled a pendulous chin, “one says so many
damn silly things in the course of a lifetime, doesn’t one?”
Garden was fain to admit that it might be so, but of all the
foolishness ever perpetrated Montagu Jupp’s original dictum upon Lady
Elfreda’s acting was “the terminus.”
All the same, to the general astonishment, including that of Sir Toby
that hardened optimist, by the end of a long and strenuous day the
stock of Lady Elfreda was showing a decided tendency to rise. Those who
had worked with the leading lady at her worst, and a pretty hopeless
worst it had seemed, could not understand the change. They resented
the excellence of her memory--she actually knew all her stupid words
by heart!--yet beyond everything else they resented the new air of
intelligence that had come upon her.
The spirit and the interest she had been able to display in response
to the demands of Mr. Montagu Jupp told heavily against her now. The
others bitterly recalled her long week of silence, of indifference to
her fellow guests, of her strange ignorance of every subject on which
their tongues had run. They were now forced to conclude that all this
had been a pose. It was a new form of “side.” Moreover it was a form so
subtle that it was very difficult to meet. Lady Elfreda’s pretense of
not knowing anything about anything was pure affectation in the eyes of
those whose aim in life was to know everything about everything and not
be ashamed of saying so. And they would not be able to forgive it. It
was a subtle way of “scoring them off.”
“Sidey little cat, I hate her,” thus Mrs. Spencer-Jobling in the depths
of her heart. “Anyway, on Tuesday, with a bit of luck, I think I ought
to be able to kill her big scene in the third act.”
A mad world! As soon as Lady Elfreda began to show signs of leading her
comrades out of the slough of despond in which for a whole week they
had been engulfed, her unpopularity crystallized into virile personal
dislike. Henceforward, among the ladies of the house party at any rate,
she was never mentioned by name; she was always referred to as the S.
L. C.