III
‚ÄúTalk about a frost!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe, immediately after the performance on Monday night.
“You could skate on it for weeks,” said Susie gloomily. “And I’ll swear I’ve a temperature of 102.”
‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôm sure you look it, my dear,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe told her. Then she went on, passionately: ‚ÄúWas there an audience at all tonight? Was there anybody in the house? I thought I heard a sound once from somewhere, but was I mistaken? Does Tewborough know we‚Äôre here?‚Äù she asked wildly.
“It knows but it doesn’t care,” said Susie.
‚ÄúI said to Joe last night: ‚ÄòMark my words, Joe, this is going to be a bad week. I feel it in my bones,‚Äô I said. Tomorrow, I shall spend most of the day in bed‚ÅÝ‚Äîand what a bed, my dear!‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm sure it‚Äôs one of those beds that rise in the middle, like a camel. And the room has no outlook and no cosiness. Not over-clean and the walls all covered with photographs of Oddfellows. But I shall spend most of tomorrow in it, nursing myself, and, then I shall come down again tomorrow night, but if I‚Äôm no better the next day I shall not be here, I shall go sick. The last thing that can be said of me is that I disappoint my public, but what I have to ask myself now, my dear, is this: Have I got a public in Tewborough?‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚ÄîIs it worth it?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe produced these questions with an air of triumph.
“No, it isn’t worth it,” said Elsie crossly, “and I wish you’d shut up. What’s the good of talking?”
“Jimmy looked really bad tonight, I thought,” Susie said reflectively.
‚ÄúI expect we all looked bad.‚Äù Elsie sniffed hard. ‚ÄúI know I feel rotten enough, and feeling rotten isn‚Äôt a hobby of mine like it is of Jimmy‚Äôs. Me for some aspirin tonight. Come on, Susie, you are slow. Let‚Äôs get out of this thing they call a theatre. Theatre Royal‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy God! Theatre Dustbin‚ÅÝ‚Äîif you ask me. Oh, ca‚Äëar‚Äëm on!‚Äù
On Tuesday night there were exactly fifty-three people in the audience. It was miserable when they kept silent, and it was worse when they applauded, for then you seemed to hear the empty spaces mocking the thin faint clap-clap-clap. Not that they applauded often. All the heart had gone out of the Good Companions. They trailed through the performance, and the only time they showed any signs of liveliness was when their growing irritation got the upper hand. Elsie complained bitterly of Jerry Jerningham; Susie openly accused Inigo of murdering her accompaniments; and even the good-humoured Joe began grumbling. Several of them declared it was high time Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had learned his business, and were instantly told by that indignant little man to go and mind their own, which was, he asserted, ‚Äúin poor fettle.‚Äù Jimmy Nunn was strangely listless, and it was queer and disconcerting to see him so quiet, so yellow, and shaky. Miss Trant, who felt very apologetic about her disastrous venture, though it was she and not the others who would suffer most from the certain dead loss on the week, tried to smooth out these prickly relations and to cheer everybody up, but the heart had gone out of her too. The dismal town and the miserable waif of a theatre kept her spirits forever sinking, for to leave one was only to encounter the other.
Wednesday brought a fog, not one of the choking yellow London horrors, but still a good thick blanketing fog, which settled on the town early in the morning and stayed there all day. The Good Companions sat huddled in their several rooms, trying to make the most of tiny fires and horsehair armchairs or sofas, reading papers that seemed to describe another planet, under greeny-white tattered gas-mantles, dozing and shivering and occasionally getting up to peer out of the steaming windows at the grey woolly nothingness outside. Of all of them, perhaps Inigo was the most cheerful, simply because the aspiring author in him now rose to the occasion. That author, who worked more fitfully than ever in these days, had not yet finished “The Last Knapsack,” having set it aside on the plea that wintry weather brought about an unpropitious atmosphere, but nevertheless he now made his appearance again.
‚ÄúOff with the motley and on with the inkstand‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs what I say,‚Äù Inigo told Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, in their common sitting-room. ‚ÄúI was in the middle of a song, but I can‚Äôt think about songs now. The mood, the mood‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMaster Oakroyd‚ÅÝ‚Äîis dead against any pierrotry. I was intended to be a man of letters and not a mountebank, and today I begin an essay‚ÅÝ‚Äîvery bitter‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat I shall call ‚ÄòEngland‚Äôs Pleasant Land.‚Äô It will deal with the town of Tewborough, with a few such other resorts thrown in, and will be devilish ironical, bitter, absolutely. It will relieve my feelings, and it‚Äôll also make some of ‚Äôem sit up.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the idear,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, puffing comfortably at his pipe and beaming across the hearth at his companion. ‚ÄúIf you can‚Äôt do it wi‚Äô Tewborough, you‚Äôll nivver do it with owt. But who‚Äôs these that‚Äôs going to be made to sit up?‚Äù
‚ÄúWell‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîpeople responsible for such a state of things,‚Äù replied Inigo, vaguely but severely.
‚ÄúI nivver knaw who they are,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd confessed. ‚ÄúOther fowk allus knaws, though. It‚Äôs allus either capitalists or t‚Äôworkingmen, or it‚Äôs this Parlyment or t‚Äôlast, or it‚Äôs landowners and employers or it‚Äôs Bolshies. I can nivver mak‚Äô nowt out on it mysen, can‚Äôt tell whose fault it is, but then I‚Äôm not one o‚Äô t‚Äôclever sort. It‚Äôs allus all a right muddle to me. But you‚Äôll mak‚Äô summat owt on it, I dare say. And while you‚Äôre at it, just slip in a nasty piece about yon‚Äô Droke who owns t‚Äôthe‚Äëater. Put us i‚Äô t‚Äôcart and right, he has. I call him a mucky mean old man, who owt to be going round wi‚Äô a little rag-and-bone barrer, he owt. But get thysen going, lad. Get it aht o‚Äô thy system.‚Äù
Inigo nodded gravely, lit a pipe, then without hesitation and with a fine flourish wrote at top of his first sheet: ‚ÄúEngland‚Äôs Pleasant Land: by I. Jollifant.‚Äù Nor did he stop there. He actually began the essay itself. ‚ÄúIt is eleven o‚Äôclock,‚Äù he wrote. Having stared at this for a minute or two, he crossed it out and put in its place: ‚ÄúI have just looked through the window, which is gemmed with moisture.‚Äù This did not please him, so out it came, and he began a new sheet, at which he frowned for nearly ten minutes. Then he wrote: ‚ÄúOutside, this morning, the spoil of many clanking years‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù; crossed out ‚Äúclanking‚Äù; crossed everything out; then drew six faces and absentmindedly decorated them with curly moustaches; then sighed, filled and lit his pipe again, and leaned back in his chair.
From the hall outside came the sound of a very slow dragging footstep. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked up from his newspaper.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôll be Mr.¬ÝMord,‚Äù he announced, ‚Äúand he‚Äôs coming in here‚ÅÝ‚Äîif he can nobbut manage it.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said this with a certain relish, as if he rather liked breaking bad news.
Inigo groaned. We have already heard Mr.¬ÝOakroyd describe their landlady‚Äôs husband, and since then Inigo has had two encounters with the purple and swollen invalid. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry for him, my heart bleeds, absolutely,‚Äù Inigo muttered quickly, ‚Äúbut I can‚Äôt stand having him about. It‚Äôs like watching a ghastly slow-motion film. Have I time to get out?‚Äù
He had not time to get out. There was a vague knock at the door. Then the door opened slowly, very slowly, a maddening inch or two at a time, and finally admitted the stricken Mr.¬ÝMord, who looked purpler and puffier than ever. He stood just inside the room for at least a minute, and then, having partly recovered from the journey, he produced, with all the care of a man saying something for the first time in a foreign language, the words: ‚ÄúGood morning, gen‚Äëel‚Äëmen.‚Äù Then he nodded, very slowly. Then he smiled, and his smile was so leisurely that there was time to remark the appearance and disappearance of every crease in his dark swollen face. Then he made a step forward, then another step forward, then another. He saw a chair, seemed to examine it very thoroughly, and finally moved towards it. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll take‚ÅÝ‚Äîa seat‚ÅÝ‚Äîif‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs all‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe same‚ÅÝ‚Äîto you‚ÅÝ‚Äîgen‚Äëel‚Äëmen,‚Äù he said; and when he spoke it seemed as if every syllable was an achievement. Then he lowered himself into the chair, carefully placed a puffy hand on each knee, turned his head round slowly to look first at one and then at the other, and ended by attempting speech once more. ‚ÄúSeems‚ÅÝ‚Äîto me‚ÅÝ‚Äîa foggy‚ÅÝ‚Äîmorning,‚Äù was his verdict. ‚ÄúUsed‚ÅÝ‚Äîto get‚ÅÝ‚Äîlot o‚Äô fog‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere‚ÅÝ‚Äîone time.‚Äù
‚ÄúRather, yes! Awful lot of fog! Nasty thing, fog! Never liked it myself.‚Äù Inigo found himself jerking out these idiotic phrases at what seemed an incredible speed. ‚ÄúMust excuse me now, Mr.¬ÝMord. Awfully busy. Have to rush off.‚Äù And off he rushed, at least until he found himself outside the room, when he stopped and wondered where to go and what to do. The bedroom was miserably cold and cheerless, and he would have to sit in his overcoat there and probably have to listen to the old woman coughing in the next bedroom. If he wandered about the house, at any moment he might meet that mysterious and terrifying female who peeped round corners, gave a sudden screech, and then went scampering away. On the other hand, he could not possibly stay in the sitting-room and watch Mr.¬ÝMord‚Äôs horrible slow-motion performance. He went to the front door and looked outside. It was chill and ghostly. He crept upstairs to his bedroom, snuggled under his overcoat on the bed, and read a stained old copy of Tom Bourke of Ours.
It was chill and ghostly too in the theatre that night. They played and danced and sang like people in a miserable dream. Nobody was completely laid up yet, but nobody was any better. There were more grumblings and complaints, and it looked as if there would soon be downright feuds between the various bickering and snarling members of the troupe.
On Thursday the fog turned into black rain. This was the day on which most of the shops closed in Tewborough and the surrounding districts, and there were hopes of a better audience for that night. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had been round to the theatre for half an hour, returned in the middle of the afternoon to smoke a pipe with Inigo by the fire, and told him there were a few scattered bookings.
“Shop fowk here’s got a bit more to spend than t’other fowk, so happen we’ll ha’ summat like a nordience tonight,” he remarked. “But if it isn’t one thing, it’ll be t’other.”
“And what do you mean by that, my sage Bruddersfordian?” asked Inigo lazily.
‚ÄúBother wi‚Äô t‚Äôtroupe,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd with great promptness. ‚ÄúBound to be a bit of bust-up soon, mark my word. All at it. And some on ‚Äôem‚Äôll get rough edge o‚Äô my tongue afore so long an‚Äô all, way they‚Äôre going on. And there‚Äôs owd Jimmy there, looking fit to drop, right poorly. And another thing. When I were going on, I saw yon Morton Mitcham coming out of a pub and I could see he‚Äôd had a few. Well, just afore I leaves the‚Äëater in he comes wi‚Äô that chap, Finnegan‚ÅÝ‚Äîboth on ‚Äôem a bit goggly‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they‚Äôve getten a bottle o‚Äô whisky wi‚Äô ‚Äôem, a full un. They‚Äôll be at it nar, pair on ‚Äôem. Just you keep yer eye on yon Mitcham tonight. If he isn‚Äôt three sheets i‚Äô t‚Äôwind by tonight, call me a liar, lad.‚Äù
Inigo could not keep an eye on Mr.¬ÝMitcham before the performance began because Mr.¬ÝMitcham was nowhere to be seen. When the curtain went up, he was still missing. There were more people in the theatre that night than there had been on all the other three nights put together; the place was about half-full, a good many people having come in from neighbouring small towns and villages, and it had a livelier air; with the result that the players themselves felt more cheerful. The only exception was Jimmy Nunn, who was more listless and shaky than ever. At the end of the third item, a song by Joe, and while the audience was still clapping, Mr.¬ÝMitcham made his entrance. His makeup was very sketchy and he appeared to have a rather glassy stare. He was fairly steady but nevertheless contrived to knock a chair over before he sat down himself. For quite ten minutes, during which his assistance was not required, he sat, a huge huddled figure, staring at his banjo. At the end of that time, when Jimmy Nunn was about to announce the next item, Mr.¬ÝMitcham suddenly sat up and began playing. Jimmy, who had no idea what was wrong, stared at him, but there was no help for it. So Mr.¬ÝMitcham went on playing, very loudly and at top speed, and the rest of them had to pretend that it was part of the programme. Ten minutes, quarter of an hour, twenty minutes passed, and still Mr.¬ÝMitcham went twanging away, until at last the audience, half-admiring and half-bored, burst into applause. Then he stopped, staggered forward, bowed, and suddenly roared out: ‚ÄúLa‚Äôies shenelmen!‚ÅÝ‚Äîone thing wanner say‚ÅÝ‚Äîone thing‚ÅÝ‚Äîthas all‚ÅÝ‚Äîjus‚Äô one.‚Äù And then, taking a deep breath, he bellowed: ‚ÄúFour times roun‚Äô the worl‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù; and bowed again. At this the audience applauded again, while the other performers, now stiff with horror, tried to look as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Smiling idiotically, Mr.¬ÝMitcham now held up a long shaky hand, and said: ‚ÄúProsheeding ennertainmen‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîpermission, la‚Äôies an‚Äô shenelmen‚ÅÝ‚Äîfew fea‚Äôs leshermain. Will any la‚Äôy‚ÅÝ‚Äîany shenelman‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAny la‚Äôy‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAny shenelman‚ÅÝ‚Äîany-any-anybody‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe stopped for a moment‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äútake-a-card?‚Äù And he held out his banjo.
Inigo, catching an agonized glance from Jimmy, immediately started playing as loud as he could, and Joe was able to hustle Mr.¬ÝMitcham off the stage in such a way that the incident appeared to be a well-rehearsed gag. Once in the wings, Joe took care that it should not be repeated, hurrying the protesting Mitcham down to the dressing-room, while the others went on with the performance.
Miss Trant always confessed that she went in terror of drunken men, but there was no sign of it that night. She was so angry that she insisted upon seeing Mr.¬ÝMitcham as soon as she could. Even when he rose or wobbled to his feet, towered above her, and brought out again that large idiotic smile, she found she was not at all frightened but only wanted to shake some sense and decency into the great silly old disgusting baby.
“Goo’ eening, Miss Tran’,” he said genially. “Goo’ housh to-ni’ and I gorrem goin’, didden I now?”
‚ÄúPlease go home at once, Mr.¬ÝMitcham,‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúYou ought to be ashamed of yourself.‚Äù
He looked pained, and for a moment or two regarded her in silence with reproachful goggly eyes. ‚ÄúMish Tran‚Äô, these not wordsh of a frien‚Äô,‚Äù and he wagged his head mournfully. ‚ÄúNo, no, no. Who gorrem goin‚Äô? Didden I? Four time roun‚Äô the worl‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîfour times, mindjew‚ÅÝ‚ÄîFour‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô still gerring ‚Äôem goin‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMorton Mitcham.‚Äù
She turned away in disgust and looked appealingly at Joe, who had not returned to the stage. “Come on, ol’ man,” said Joe. “Just you get yourself going.”
Mr.¬ÝMitcham seemed to regard this as a brilliant though bitter repartee. ‚ÄúClever, clever,‚Äù he said, shaking his head, ‚Äúbur nor wordsh of a frien‚Äô. Bur if I‚Äôm nor wanned, I‚Äôll‚ÅÝ‚Äîgo.‚Äù And he suddenly went reeling away. Joe took charge of him, telling Miss Trant that he would be back at the theatre before the second half of the show began. For a moment now, Miss Trant felt inclined to go too, to turn her back on the wretched theatre and let herself cool down in her room at the hotel. She made up her mind that Mitcham should leave the troupe as soon as possible. She was still furious. To behave like that, just when things were so bad for her, was downright disloyalty, and the thought of it angered and then saddened her.
This was not the worst the evening had to offer, however, for in the middle of the second half of the show, Jimmy Nunn suddenly collapsed. He had sung one of his two songs‚ÅÝ‚Äîor at least had struggled through it somehow‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had made his first bow and then retired to the wings to make some slight change in his costume: Inigo was already playing the opening bars of the second song; when Jimmy, instead of changing, stared vacantly for a minute, gave a curious little moan, and would have fallen full length if Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was standing by, had not caught him in time. Under his comic makeup (as a postman) his face was deathly pale; his lips were blue; and there were horrible little convulsive movements in all his limbs. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd knew that poor Jimmy always carried a small flask of brandy about with him, and this was discovered in the dressing-room. Miss Trant, trembling, managed to force some of the brandy between the blue lips, while Mr.¬ÝOakroyd supported the head and shoulders. There was some confusion on the stage, but all the time Inigo was still playing the same idiotic pom-pom-poppa-pom, pom-pom poppa-pom for that second song which now might never be sung again. The audience was growing restive; there was some stamping of feet at the back.
Jimmy stirred; some colour returned to his cheeks; and he opened his eyes. He was able to sip a little more brandy.
“We must get a doctor,” said Miss Trant.
Jimmy shook his head. “No. No doctor,” he muttered. “All right in a minute. Carry on show.”
It was Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham, of all people, who took command of the situation now. He darted into the wings, exchanged a word with Miss Trant, then, pale but fairly composed, returned to the stage, stopped Inigo, and said: ‚ÄúLadies and gentlemen, Ai regret to announce thet Mr.¬ÝJaymy Nen will nat‚ÅÝ‚Äîare‚ÅÝ‚Äîbe able to continue his pawt of the‚ÅÝ‚Äîer programme‚ÅÝ‚Äîawing to ar‚ÅÝ‚Äîsudden indisposition.‚Äù Here he stopped for a moment, and there was a noise somewhere in the auditorium. It seemed as if somebody was trying to get out in a hurry. ‚ÄúThe next item‚ÅÝ‚Äîar‚ÅÝ‚Äîwill be a bahlad by Miss Stella Cavendish.‚Äù At which the audience clapped, as audiences always do; Mrs.¬ÝJoe walked over to the piano, looking very dignified but in such a flutter that she spilled half her music; Mr.¬ÝJerningham, that intrepid exquisite, gravely took a seat; and the performance continued.
They got Jimmy to his dressing-room and he was still muttering that he did not want to see a doctor when there came the sound of voices from the corridor outside. ‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt knaw, Missis,‚Äù Miss Trant heard Mr.¬ÝOakroyd saying. The next moment a thin middle-aged woman in black had stalked into the dressing-room and, ignoring Miss Trant and Joe, was bending over Jimmy, who was staring at her with his mouth wide open.
“And how are you now, James?” she said, still examining him closely.
Recovering now from his first shock of surprise, he gave the ghost of a grin. ‚ÄúNot so bad, Carrie. What‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou doing here?‚Äù
“You look badly, James. I thought you did earlier on. It won’t do, James. You’re a sick man. You’re not fit to be sitting here, with that silly paint on your face. You want looking after.”
Miss Trant, who had been too astonished to speak at first and then had not known what to say, now made a slight movement.
‚ÄúI dare say you‚Äôre wondering what I‚Äôm doing here,‚Äù said the determined woman, looking at Miss Trant with an unfriendly eye. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôm Mrs.¬ÝNunn. And as soon as they gave out he wasn‚Äôt well, I came round to see him. And it‚Äôs lucky I happened to be here. I knew you were coming here because two of your troupe I saw the other Sunday at Hicklefield Station told me you were coming. You saw me out of the window that day, James,‚Äù she added grimly.
“Yes, I did,” said Jimmy, and left it at that.
‚ÄúYes, yes, of course, I see,‚Äù said Miss Trant hastily. She felt very embarrassed. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôve been trying to persuade Mr.¬ÝNunn to see a doctor. I know he hasn‚Äôt been well all the week.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd never likely to be,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝNunn scornfully. ‚ÄúNothing proper to eat, wet clothes, and dirty lodgings, I know! He ought to be in bed now. Tewborough Theatre Royal! Well, he‚Äôs going to hear what I‚Äôve got to say now. He‚Äôs heard it before but this time perhaps he‚Äôll believe me.‚Äù
This left Miss Trant no alternative but to go and leave this strangely united pair alone. Joe had already stolen out, so now Miss Trant followed his example. About a quarter of an hour later, in the wings, she found herself confronted by Mrs.¬ÝNunn again, and it was quite obvious that that determined woman had decided what was to be done. The very look of her reminded Miss Trant of a coiled steel spring.
‚ÄúJames Nunn is coming with me,‚Äù she announced at once. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs in a poor way and I‚Äôm going to look after him. You must manage as best you can without him‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, but naturally, I don‚Äôt want him to go on playing here when he‚Äôs so ill,‚Äù Miss Trant protested. This extraordinary woman seemed to imagine they were ready to drag poor Jimmy on to the stage if necessary. ‚ÄúBut where‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm sorry, but I don‚Äôt quite understand‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere is he going?‚Äù
‚ÄúWith me,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝNunn promptly and firmly. ‚ÄúI live about twelve miles away, between here and Hicklefield. I‚Äôve got a shop. That‚Äôs why I came today, half-day closing. James Nunn‚Äôs gone his way and I‚Äôve gone mine, but we‚Äôre husband and wife, nothing alters that, and I‚Äôm not going to stand by and do nothing when he‚Äôs in such a state. I told him where it would land him before he‚Äôd done but he wouldn‚Äôt have it. Now he‚Äôs beginning to learn.‚Äù She looked as if she were about to turn away, but brought out another remark as if it were a postscript. ‚ÄúYour troupe‚Äôs not got enough go in it, not half enough go; you want to keep them up to the mark better, Miss.‚Äù And with that she stalked away.
Miss Trant, gasping a little, stared after her, and wondered what she ought to do. Finally, she stayed where she was for another ten minutes or so, then went down to Jimmy’s dressing-room again. Jimmy would want to see her before he went, and after all she had a right to know what was going to happen to him. But the dressing-room was empty. It was incredible that they could have gone like that, without another word, but there it was; they could not be found. Jimmy’s astonishing wife had spirited him away, just as if she were a witch. “I shall believe in a minute she was a witch,” she told herself miserably, as she drifted back down the dingy smelly corridor. Her head ached and she felt ready to cry at any moment. Oh, this wretched, wretched Tewborough! She stayed to see the end of the performance, which had dwindled into a mere dismal sketch of their usual show, and to tell the others what had happened. Too tired and dispirited to join in their wild surmising and speculating, she crawled to her hotel, lay awake and listened to the black rain still falling on Tewborough, and felt alone in an ugly and incomprehensible world.
The next morning, as she sat scribbling letters over the coffee-room fire, a visitor was announced. It was Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham. He looked ancient and bilious; longer than ever but more ruinous; and he seemed to come creaking into the room, an unmelodious jangle of bones. He came forward, one hand clutching his sad sombrero and the other nervously fingering the immense buttons of his overcoat, the Silver King. Miss Trant remembered this name for his overcoat‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe had forgotten all about it, and it returned unbidden‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then she told herself that she could not possibly send him away. And in any case, with Jimmy absent, it would not be wise, she reflected.
‚ÄúMiss Trant,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham began very solemnly, in his deep harsh drawl, ‚ÄúI am here to make what apology I can‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor last night. I understand that I nearly let down the show‚ÅÝ‚Äîat a difficult time, too‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I believe I also offended you personally.‚Äù His eyes stared hollowly at her above his sunken and yellow cheeks. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry. I‚Äôm very sorry indeed. I throw myself upon your mercy, believe me.‚Äù
‚ÄúAll right, Mr.¬ÝMitcham,‚Äù she said hastily. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure it won‚Äôt happen again‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“It will not happen again.”
‚ÄúVery well, then‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she felt like this gigantic creature‚Äôs schoolmistress; it was absurd‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwe won‚Äôt say anything more about it.‚Äù
‚ÄúMiss Trant, this is generous of you. It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs wonderful.‚Äù Then, rather surprisingly, he stopped, lowered his massive, eyebrows, and looked at her with something like disapproval. ‚ÄúBut it won‚Äôt do,‚Äù he went on, with an air of mournful reproach. ‚ÄúSomething must be said about it. I ought to be ashamed of myself and I am ashamed of myself; but I doubt if I‚Äôm sufficiently ashamed of myself. Tell me here and now, Miss Trant, how disappointed and disgusted you are. For me, Morton Mitcham, the oldest and most experienced member of the party, the man who ought to see you through, the one trouper you ought to be able to depend on‚ÅÝ‚Äîto behave like that! Gah!‚ÅÝ‚Äîit makes me sick to think of it. And Jimmy ill too! The show right up against it! And what am I doing? Rub it in, Miss Trant, rub it in. Ask me how I‚Äôd like you to tell people that Morton Mitcham let you down. You can‚Äôt say too much or put it too strong,‚Äù he went on, just as if she really had said all these things. ‚ÄúI deserve it, every word of it.‚Äù
She could not help smiling. ‚ÄúIf you insist, of course, I will say that I think you behaved very badly‚ÅÝ‚Äîor at least very stupidly, and that I was really angry about it last night. In fact, I had made up my mind‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
He held up a hand. ‚ÄúPardon me for interrupting,‚Äù he said earnestly, ‚Äúbut there‚Äôs just one thing I‚Äôve got to tell you. It couldn‚Äôt have happened anywhere but in this place. Tewborough, Miss Trant, has been my what‚Äôs-its-name‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy Waterloo. Yes, it‚Äôs downed me. I don‚Äôt know whether I‚Äôm getting too old for the road or what‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut here, in Tewborough this week, I‚Äôve touched rock bottom.‚Äù
“So have I,” said Miss Trant, not without bitterness.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm an old traveller, a bit of a vagabond, if you like,‚Äù he went on, with a certain mournful gusto, ‚Äúbut I‚Äôm an artist too. The temperament‚Äôs there, all the time, a lion waiting to pounce. I must have something‚ÅÝ‚Äîa bit of adventure, a bit of good cheer, a hand from the audience, a new show going well, anything will do, I don‚Äôt ask for a lot. But in Tewborough‚ÅÝ‚Äîso far as I‚Äôm concerned‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere‚Äôs been nothing. The place, the people, the rooms, the theatre, the show frozen out every night‚ÅÝ‚Äîbelieve me, Miss Trant, I‚Äôm an old trouper, four times round the world, but I‚Äôve nerves and all this has just got on ‚Äôem. I‚Äôll put it to you frankly‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôd just got to light the place up somehow, and yesterday I overdid the illuminations. And that‚Äôs how it is.‚Äù
‚ÄúI understand,‚Äù she assured him. And she did. She could almost find it in her heart to envy him his toping. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all been a mistake, I know,‚Äù she said wearily, ‚Äúand I think we‚Äôre all having a bad time and suffering from nerves. It‚Äôs not like the same concert party. But you must help me out now, especially since poor Jimmy‚Äôs been rushed off somewhere‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know where‚ÅÝ‚Äîby his wife. We‚Äôre in an awful muddle now.‚Äù
“Miss Trant,” he said very impressively, “you have here a man who’s going to see you through, whatever happens. Whatever you’re doing, making up a new programme, anything, you can count on Morton Mitcham. I’ll give half a show, if you like; it won’t be the first time I’ve done it. Only say the word, whatever it is, and I’m there.”
“Thank you,” she cried, still amused but also rather touched.
“Thank you.” And then he added gravely: “I should like to shake hands on that, Miss Trant, if you don’t mind.”
So they shook hands, and then Mr.¬ÝMitcham immediately became his cheerful and reminiscent self again and insisted upon telling her all about various places he had visited that were not unlike Tewborough, though it was hard for anybody but Mr.¬ÝMitcham to see any resemblance. Then he departed, after assuring her again that she had in him, Morton Mitcham, the man who would see her through, the man who was prepared, if necessary, to keep the show going by himself.
And that very night he was compelled to keep his promise in part, for a dreadful thing happened. Jimmy was absent; but then they had expected that. But Jerry Jerningham was missing too. At first they imagined he was merely late, and after waiting a few minutes they began without him, a sadly depleted troupe playing to a sadly depleted audience. No message had been received from him at the theatre, and finally Miss Trant sent Mr.¬ÝOakroyd round to his rooms to see what had happened. Meanwhile, the others carried on as best they could. The absence of both Jimmy and Jerningham made a terrible hole in the programme. Susie and Mr.¬ÝMitcham, however, contrived to fill up and supply some comic relief, gagging desperately. When Mr.¬ÝOakroyd returned, he had a story to tell that only heightened the mystery. ‚ÄúWoman at his lodgings doesn‚Äôt knaw where he is,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúHe said nowt to her. But a car come this morning, she says, and he went off in it. He didn‚Äôt tak‚Äô onny luggage‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe took notice o‚Äô that, you can bet yer‚Äô life, ‚Äôcos she‚Äôd want paying afore she‚Äôd let him tak‚Äô owt away‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he didn‚Äôt let on where he was off to or say owt at all to her. But it wouldn‚Äôt cap me,‚Äù he concluded, ‚Äúif he hadn‚Äôt ta‚Äôen his hook bart luggage, just gi‚Äôn us the go-by.‚Äù
“I don’t know what that means,” said Miss Trant rather peevishly, “so I can’t say whether I agree with you or not.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd shot a curious glance at her. This was not like Miss Trant. ‚ÄúI mean,‚Äù he said shortly, ‚Äúhe‚Äôs gone off, luggage or no luggage. I can‚Äôt say it plainer ner that.‚Äù It must be confessed that all their tempers were a trifle frayed by this time.
Miss Trant walked away without another word. It did not matter where Jerningham had gone, the fact remained that he was not where he ought to have been, that he had let them down. She was hurt, angry. When the interval came, she found that Elsie and Susie were no longer on speaking terms and that Mrs.¬ÝJoe had a complaint to make about the conduct of Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, who seemed to imagine, Mrs.¬ÝJoe observed, that the programme belonged to him. Miss Trant refused to listen to any of them. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be babyish,‚Äù she snapped, to their astonishment, and turned her back on them. She had had as much as she could possibly stand, she told herself; the whole week a grim fiasco, money thrown away; Jimmy ill, missing; Jerningham missing; the rest of them getting drunk or wrangling, not making the slightest attempt to help her out; no loyalty, no comradeship; the whole thing in ruins. She felt she was sick of it all. Here she was, stuck in this awful place, trudging through black streets, her time spent in either a dingy hotel or a dirty broken-down theatre, and this misery was costing her more than the most expensive holiday she could devise for herself. She could not hang about and watch the performance trailing to an end; she wanted to go to bed, to read something distant, gay, and adventurous, to forget Tewborough and its horrible Theatre Royal and the Good Companions‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe very name made her wince; but first, there was something to be done.
That was why, when the show was over, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said to them all: ‚ÄúMiss Trant‚Äôs gone home, but you‚Äôve to look at notice-board by t‚Äôdoor.‚Äù On the notice-board was a sheet of paper that summoned them all, in the name of E. Trant, to attend a meeting on the stage the following day, Saturday, at noon: Urgent.