"WE GET NO SHOW."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Clytie Calmour as a vehement ring sounded at
the front gate, obviously produced by the owner of the large red head
which surmounted that portal. "Great Scott! but whoever called this
shebang Siege House named it well. Here's our last butcher pestering
for his account for the seventh time. Now, dad, shell out."
"Don't talk rot, Clytie. You know I haven't got a stiver. He'll have
to wait till next quarter-day. Tell him that, and let him go to the
devil."
"Yes, yes; that's all right. But meanwhile we shall have to be
vegetarians."
"This infernal dunning gets on a man's nerves. It oughtn't to be
allowed," grumbled old Calmour, who, it being only breakfast-time, was
not sufficiently drunk to philosophise.
"No, it oughtn't," cut in Bob; "but this time tell him we'll square with
him next week to a dead cert, Clytie, and deal with him ever after. You
know, dad. You were forgetting," with a significant wink.
"I wonder what nefarious plan you're hatching between you," said Delia.
"But I'd be sorry for Wells if he depended upon it for getting his
money."
"Oh, shut up," snarled Bob. "You weren't so blazing straight-laced and
sanctimonious until you got taken up by the nobs, either. By Jove, I
believe Clytie's got round him after all. What a girl she is!"
For the exasperated tradesman, who had been delivering himself of all
sorts of uncomplimentary sayings, on the appearance of Clytie on the
scene had evidently thawed with a suddenness which was quite miraculous,
and was seen to salute quite respectfully as he turned away.
"I've fixed him," she said serenely as she entered. "He'll send round.
We shan't have to vegetate to-day."
This sort of incident was common at Siege House, which, by the way, had
really been so named by a former owner who had taken part in the siege
of Delhi. Indeed, it was a mystery how they lived. Old Calmour's
pension was not large, and generally forestalled, yet somehow they
managed to rub along.
"When are you going to start for Haldane's, Delia?" went on Bob, who was
inclined to make himself disagreeable.
"Soon."
"Soon? Can't be too soon, eh? It's surprising how these old widowers
freeze on to you. First Wagram, now Haldane," jeered Bob.
But there came a look into the face of his would-be victim that he did
not like. Delia had a temper, both quick and hot when roused, as he had
more than once had reason to know, wherefore now his asinine guffaw
seemed to dwindle. Clytie intervened.
"Shut your head, Bob," she said decisively. "You open it a great deal
too much, and generally at the wrong time. Likewise clear; we've had
enough of you. Besides, you're late. Pownall and Skreet must be
absolutely languishing for you and your valuable services. Do you hear?
Clear."
Whatever hold the speaker had upon Bob it was obviously a tight one, for
he never failed in his obedience. Such was rendered grumblingly,
indeed, but rendered it was. Now he retreated to the door, grunting a
surly "All right."
"What are those two up to, do you think, Clytie?" said Delia. "The old
man's going to Pownall and Skreet's as well as Bob."
The last named at this juncture put his head in at the door to shout
out:
"Which is the one, Delia? Wagram or Haldane?" and withdrew it in a
hurry lest a well-aimed missile might considerably damage it--for of
such were the ways of Siege House.
"I don't know. There may be a judgment summons out against him that we
know nothing about--or anything," answered Clytie with a tinge of
anxiety.
"You don't think they're up to any mischief with regard to that wretched
gnu affair?" said Delia anxiously.
"No--no; I've put my foot on that. And Pownall and Skreet are infernal
thieves. Look how they fleeced me. They couldn't let Charlie Vance's
thousand pass through their hands without sticking to a lot of it.
Called it costs! Why, they ought to have got those from the other side.
Well, that's all gone, and I don't know how we're going to raise the
wind. A cool thou, wouldn't come in badly just now. By the way, Delia,
supposing my scheme fell through, how would it be to bring off something
of that kind--on the principle of `half-an-egg'? And it would be a
dashed sight more than a cool thou, this time, for the Wagrams are
Croesus compared with the Vances."
"Oh, that'll do, Clytie. I suppose, as Bob says, I must have become
straitlaced and sanctimonious; but I hate to look upon it in that light.
I'm not meaning to reflect on you, mind; but, rather than do the other
thing, I'd starve."
"So might we. Oh, I don't mind," was the serene answer. "Only, look
here, Delia, and see where we come in. It's like having first-rate
teeth but nothing to eat with them. Here we are, two devilish
good-looking girls, each in our own way, yet we get no show. What's the
use of our looks if they're to be nothing more than an instrument for
cajoling a red-headed butcher into giving us further `tick'--as in the
present case?"
"What's the use? None at all," said Delia bitterly--"nor ever will be.
We don't seem to `get there,' and it's my belief we never shall."
"We've a margin left yet, thank the Lord; and you never know your luck.
Well, Delia, you've a ripping day before you, at any rate. If I were
you I should start early and ride slow. You never look your best coming
in hot and blown. And make all you can and half as much again of your
chances, for, as I said, you never know your luck."
What Clytie had stated, in her characteristically slangy way, was rather
under the truth. These two, possessed of exceptional powers of
attractiveness, had, as she put it, "no show." Nor did their relative
attractions clash. The one, with her limpid blue eyes, Grecian profile,
and tall serenity of carriage, made an effective contrast to the
rounder, more voluptuous outlines of the other, with her dark, clear
skin and mantling complexion, bright hazel eyes and full, ruddy lips.
But their circumstances and surroundings were all against them; and,
handicapped by tippling, disreputable old Calmour as a parent, those
they would have had to do with fought shy of them, and those they would
not--well, they would not.
"There's the second post," said Delia with a sigh. "More duns, I
suppose."
She went to the door just as the postman rapped his double knock, and
returned immediately with two letters.
"Both for me, but--I don't know the first at all."
"It's Haldane, putting you off, of course."
"Oh, Clytie, don't," quickly answered Delia, to whom such an eventuality
would have constituted the keenest of disappointments. "No; it's all
right," tremulously tearing open both envelopes. "But--they're not for
me at all, they're for you. They're about typing, but they're both
directed `Miss Calmour.'"
"Let's see." Then reading: "`Madam,--you have been mentioned to me by
Mr Wagram Wagram--' Ah, that's all right." And she went on with the
letter, which ran to the effect that the writer wanted the MS of a novel
of 80,000 words typed, asking her terms, and throwing out a promise
that, if such were satisfactory, he would be happy to entrust her with
all his work. The name was a fairly well-known one.
"Now, what shall I ask him? If I say a shilling a thousand, there's a
four-pound job. But, then, he may answer he can get it done for
tenpence, which is quite true. If he had _seen_ me I'd ask him fifteen
pence."
"Do it anyhow. You can always come down."
"No fear; not through the post. Well, I'll ask him a bob, and chance
it."
"He could well afford it. He must be making pots of money, according to
the newspapers."
"M--yes--according to the newspapers. Now, then, Delia, here we are.
`Mr Wagram Wagram' again. It's a she this time, and starts on tenpence.
Knows her way about evidently; hints at ninepence because of the
inconvenience of postage, and it's only two short stories of 4000
apiece. Well, I'll take her on, too, at tenpence. You can't haggle up
our own sweet sex. Well done, Wagram Wagram. It's brickish of him; and
I'd just begun to think he'd forgotten what he said, or had only said it
for something to say. Four quid, and a trifle over; that'll help stave
off Wells. Just in the nick of time too."
"Yes; isn't it good of him?"
"Who? Wells? Oh, Wagram. Yes. Quite so. It is rather. Good job you
went over to Hilversea the other day, Delia; it may have reminded him."
"I don't think he'd ever have forgotten. Oh, but it was lovely there--
the whole thing. It was like being in another atmosphere, another
world."
Clytie, the shrewd, the practical, put her head a little to one side as
she scrutinised her sister.
"Make it one then, dear; make it yours. You've got some sort of show at
last, if you only work it right. I'm sorry, though, we let Bob into the
scheme. What asses we were, or rather I was. One oughtn't so much as
to have mentioned a thing of that sort in his hearing."
"No, indeed. But the idea is too ridiculous for anything."
"Because he is Wagram Wagram of Hilversea. Supposing he were Wagram
Wagram of nowhere? What then, Delia?"
"Ah!"
Clytie shook her pretty head slightly and smiled to herself. The quick
eagerness of the exclamation, the soft look that came into her sister's
eyes, told her all there was to tell.
"You're handicapped," she said. "You can't play the part. You're
handicapped by genuineness. Never mind; even that may count as an
advantage."