III
Miss Trant sighed with relief. This was the street they were looking for, and though it was not far from the centre of the town, it had been very difficult indeed to find, and she was weary of stopping to ask the way, turning in crowded streets, dodging trams and lorries, all of which she had been doing for the last hour. It was a grimy and melancholy street, one of those that have steadily fallen in the social scale these last forty years, that begin by housing prosperous merchants and bank managers and gradually decline to the humble level of theatrical lodgings, corset agencies, palmists’ consulting-rooms, and other and more dubious enterprises. The other end of the street, not far away, was blocked by a high wall. They had stopped the car a few yards round the corner, and now looked down the street, wondering what to do.
‚ÄúLook,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, pointing. ‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt that it? It‚Äôs just like this.‚Äù
The car stood outside a house about halfway down on the left; it was the only one in the street. Miss Trant was sure it was hers. What a pity she couldn’t take it without a word! But some explanation was necessary, of course. Perhaps she could get it back without being involved in the affairs of the Tipsteads.
“Hadn’t I better go first?” she asked. “I shall have to see your husband, of course. What’s the name of this woman?”
‚ÄúIf you mean her second name, I don‚Äôt know. It was just Effie on the letter. So far as I can see and from what Willy said, everybody in the town just called her Effie. They would, wouldn‚Äôt they?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead added vindictively.
“Well, I simply refuse to go up to that house and ask for Effie.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps you had better go first and inquire for your husband.”
‚ÄúNo, that wouldn‚Äôt do. I‚Äôll tell you what. I‚Äôll get out here and wait a bit. You drive right up to the house and ask for Eric‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝTipstead‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou see, and I‚Äôll‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll‚ÅÝ‚Äîcome in later on.‚Äù She was very excited now.
After some hesitation, Miss Trant agreed, though she did not understand what Mrs.¬ÝTipstead intended to do and could not imagine her waiting outside in the street very long. She drove up to the house, discovered that the car really was her own, with all its luggage there just as she had packed it in that morning, then knocked at the door, not very loudly because she suddenly felt quite uncomfortable, almost guilty, as if she were a spy. This feeling did not last long, however, and as nobody came she gave the door, which did not look as if it had had any attention from anybody for years, a good sound rapping. Then she noticed there was one of those old-fashioned bells that have to be pulled out. She gave it a little tug, but it did not move. She gave it a hard tug and immediately fell back with about a yard of wire in her hand. At that moment, of course, before she could release the wire, the door was opened.
“Good evening,” said the man who had opened the door. He had a thick husky sort of voice.
“Good evening,” gasped Miss Trant, feeling very foolish. She let go of the bell handle and it hung down absurdly, at the end of its yard of wire.
“You’ve had a bit o’ bother with that, have you? Out of date, you know, out of date. All electric now, isn’t it. You can’t stir for it,” he observed amiably. He was a stout elderly man with a prominent reddish nose, an expanse of grey-bristled jowl, and a pair of spectacles pushed up to his damp forehead. One hand clasped a newspaper, and the other, now that the door was open, replaced in his mouth a short clay pipe. He wore neither coat nor collar, was lax in the matter of buttons, and altogether was a figure of unlovely ease.
‚ÄúIs Mr.¬ÝTipstead here, please?‚Äù
He took out his pipe to think this over. “Tipstead? Tipstead? Nothing to do with the Bird-in-Hand Friendly Society, is it? ’Cos that’s two doors down. We’re always getting ’em here.”
‚ÄúNo, it hasn‚Äôt. I was told Mr.¬ÝTipstead was staying here. He took my car by mistake, and I‚Äôve got his.‚Äù
The man’s eyes grew rounder, then one of them gave her a wink. He leaned forward. “Our Effie’s chap, you mean,” he whispered. “I’ve heard about that car. Didn’t know his name was Tipstead, though. ‘Eric’ she calls him. ‘Eric or Little by Little,’ I said, right off. And he didn’t like it, neither. Come in.”
No sooner had Miss Trant followed him into the dilapidated little hall than the large blonde herself, Effie, bounced out of a back room, crying: “Who is it, Unkerlarthur?”
‚ÄúHalf a minute, half a minute! You‚Äôll soon know.‚Äù And Uncle Arthur ushered Miss Trant into this same back room, a rather small and dark apartment that contained a bewildering assortment of small tables and knickknacks and fretwork brackets and photographs. Among these, not unlike a knickknack or piece of fretwork, was seated Mr.¬ÝTipstead, nervously pulling at a cigarette.
Miss Trant addressed herself to him at once. ‚ÄúYou probably remember me. I was lunching at the next table to you this morning. You went off in my car‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
She could say no more. Mr.¬ÝTipstead sprang forward excitedly, and he and his Effie began explaining at the top of their voices. They continued for several minutes, first one of them taking the lead, then the other, correcting one another, as they went along. But it was Effie who concluded the explanation. ‚ÄúAnd so we found your name and address on one of the bags and were going to write this very minute, weren‚Äôt we, Eric, to tell you how it had happened, and Eric was going to offer to drive it back for you, weren‚Äôt you, Eric, to make it all right, and we‚Äôd sent a telegram to the hotel to ask about his car, you see, because that was left behind and somebody might have got it, hadn‚Äôt we, Eric?‚Äù
“Your car’s outside.”
“Outside!”
“Yes,” Miss Trant went on, “I came up here in it.”
“Thank God!” cried Effie, blowing hard. She had dropped the manner she had assumed at lunch, probably finding it too great a strain in such a crisis, and was clearly now her own natural self, dramatic, voluble, vulgar.
A weak smile lit up the face of Mr.¬ÝTipstead, who still had that vague hunted look. ‚ÄúWell, that‚Äôs a bit of all right. And thank you very much, Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîTrant. That‚Äôs it, isn‚Äôt it‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Trant? We got the name right, you see. And we can just change over now, can‚Äôt we? Drive it all right? Yours was OK. It‚Äôs the same bus, you know, but a bit newer than mine.‚Äù
‚ÄúJust fancy!‚Äù And Effie‚Äôs eyes, which were her best feature and looked quite bright under her thickly pencilled lashes, travelled from Mr.¬ÝTipstead to Miss Trant, from Miss Trant to Unkerlarthur who was leaning against the door, puffing at his little clay, and enjoying every moment of the scene. Gaiety itself, Effie invited them all to fancy with her. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve no idea what a load you‚Äôve taken off our minds,‚Äù she told Miss Trant. ‚ÄúIt was just spoiling everything, wasn‚Äôt it, Eric?‚Äù She smiled hugely at that gentleman and threw an arm about his shoulders. It was a fine solid arm coming out boldly, imperially, from the short sleeve of her lilac silk jumper, and it seemed to announce at that moment that it was ready to protect an Eric it contrived to diminish from all the trials and assaults of this world. Mr.¬ÝTipstead wriggled a little in its embrace.
“Now then, Miss Trant,” Effie continued, “do sit down and make yourself at home. And Unkerlarthur, if you’re going to stop in this room, you’ll have to go and put a collar and a coat on and make yourself look respectable; we’re not just by ourselves now. Aren’t you playing at the theatre this week?”
‚ÄúI am that.‚Äù And Uncle Arthur blew out his cheeks, sent his hands sawing backwards and forwards and, in short, gave an excellent imitation of a trombone player. ‚ÄúPom-pom-poppa-pom. Pom-pom-poppa-pom. It‚Äôs a musical comedy‚ÅÝ‚ÄîThe Girl in the Garage‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis week‚ÅÝ‚Äîaugmented orchestra‚ÅÝ‚Äîso I‚Äôm in. You‚Äôll soon be rid of me. I‚Äôll have to go and change soon.‚Äù And he gave Miss Trant, who had turned to look at him, a prodigious wink. We know, don‚Äôt we?‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe wink said to her.
Miss Trant did not know, but she smiled at him. She liked Uncle Arthur, somehow, and the thought that he was one of those mysterious creatures who creep from under the stage and sit so coolly, blowing or fiddling away, in their little deep trench, gave her a thrill. She had always been fond of the theatre‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe whole enchanted absurdity of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had never been able to go often enough.
“I’m sure you must be tired, Miss Trant,” Erne continued. “Now do sit yourself down and make yourself at home.”
“I won’t, if you don’t mind. Now that we’ve settled which car is which, I think I’d better go.” And it occurred to Miss Trant, when she had said this, that she had not the faintest idea where she was going.
Effie looked really disappointed, almost aggrieved. “Oh, but after coming all that way and bringing Eric’s car and us taking your car nearly all the day and you coming right out of your way like this! We can’t let you run away like that, can we, Eric? Hello! What’s the matter with you, Eric? No, don’t interrupt him. He’s thought of something, thought of it deep down in his little head, all by himself, and he’ll tell us if we’ll keep quiet a minute.”
This was badinage heavy enough to make an elephant wince, but it had no effect upon Mr.¬ÝTipstead, who still stared at Miss Trant, with his round little mouth open. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been trying to work it out,‚Äù he said at last, giving his weak laugh. ‚ÄúThis is what I can‚Äôt understand. How do you come to be here, Miss Trant? This address wasn‚Äôt on any of the bags was it?‚Äù
“I’ve no idea,” replied Miss Trant easily. “I never looked at the bags.”
“Well, I never did! I never thought of that.” Effie looked from one to the other. “You just came here and we’d got your car and you’d got ours and I never thought any more about it. Well, how did you know we were coming to this house? Hello! What’s that?” There was a repeated knocking at the front door. “Unkerlarthur, go and see who that is.”
“It’s somebody come to put the rent and rates up, ’cos he’s seen two cars standing at the door,” remarked Uncle Arthur, with a waggish glance all round. They could hear him chuckling down the hall.
‚ÄúWell, you don‚Äôt mind us asking, do you,‚Äù Eflie pursued, ‚Äúbut really it does seem funny, doesn‚Äôt it, you coming here‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝTipstead held up his hand. ‚ÄúHalf a minute,‚Äù he said, listening. Then he rose to his feet, a very shaky little man. There was a sound of voices in the hall.
“What’s the matter? Who is it?” cried Effie, now looking alarmed.
“It’s her,” said Eric in a very small voice. It really seemed as if all his colour had ebbed away; he was obviously terrified.
Mrs.¬ÝTipstead marched into the room, a little figure but compact, charged with energy, all bristling. She halted, gave a quick glance at the astonished Effie, then surveyed the shrinking figure of her husband. ‚ÄúWell, Eric, I‚Äôve followed you, you see.‚Äù
Effie made a last desperate attempt to carry off the situation with a high hand. “Here,” she cried, “who told you to come in here? What do you want?”
Mrs.¬ÝTipstead was fully equal to the situation. The question presented her with a magnificent cue. ‚ÄúWhat do I want?‚Äù she cried. She pointed to the wretched Tipstead. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what I want. My husband.‚Äù
“O my God!” groaned Uncle Arthur at the door, and he promptly shut it and left himself on the other side.
“Now then, Eric,” his wife continued briskly, “I’m not going to argue with you here. You can take your choice here and now. Just make up your mind whether you’ll stay here with this woman or go back to the shop with me. One or the other. And it’s the last time, mind.”
‚ÄúEric, no; you wouldn‚Äôt, would you, Eric!‚Äù As she shrieked this out, Effie looked as if she were about to fling herself bodily at poor little Mr.¬ÝTipstead, who would certainly have gone down like a ninepin. He shrank back, moistened his lips with his tongue, and looked utterly abject.
“Not after all you’ve said, Eric,” moaned Effie, who was rapidly going to pieces.
‚ÄúYou be quiet and leave him alone,‚Äù commanded Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. ‚ÄúLet him make his own mind up.‚Äù
There was a silence.
‚ÄúWell?‚Äù asked Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. Eric looked up, looked down, cleared his throat, swung one foot, cleared his throat again, swung the other foot, then made a sound that bore no resemblance to any known word.
There was another silence.
It was Miss Trant who broke it, shattered it completely. Miss Trant, who had no business to be there at all. At the sight of Tipstead standing there, so dumb, so abject, a kind of angry shame had begun to take possession of her mind, had pricked and then at last gored her until she could bear it no longer.
‚ÄúOh, for goodness‚Äô sake, say something or do something!‚Äù she cried to him, stamping her foot and beating her hands together. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt stand like that. Do have some courage, and either go or stay. Anything, anything but this! It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîabsolutely vile.‚Äù She was too excited to be surprised at herself, though this was perhaps the most astonishing speech she had ever made.
He said nothing but at last he did something. Slowly, with bent head, absurdly, pitiably like a small boy in deep disgrace, he walked to the door, opened it, and went out. He was going back home. Without saying a word, his wife immediately followed after him. The two left behind never moved. Effie stared at the open door, her lower lip hanging foolishly. A few moments later, Mrs.¬ÝTipstead marched in again.
“He’d left his hat in here,” she announced. She picked it up from the sideboard, flashed a smiling glance at Miss Trant as she passed, and went out, this time closing the door behind her. There came the sound of a car being started outside in the street.
Before Miss Trant could do anything at all, Effie suddenly became alarmingly active. She ran to the door and then came running back again, crying ‚ÄúOh, he‚Äôs gone, he‚Äôs gone. I‚Äôve lost him, I‚Äôve lost him‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîor something that sounded like that. With a final gesture of despair, she flung one arm along the mantelpiece and knocked over a large pink vase. Perhaps the hideous cheerfulness of this object enraged her, for now she picked it up and hurled it into the fender, instantly smashing it to pieces. Then she threw herself into the armchair and burst into a storm of tears, sobbed and sobbed, her whole body shaking and her feet drumming on the floor.
It was an alarming spectacle. Effie was no chit of a girl but a woman on a very generous scale. The room did not seem large enough for such convulsions. It was incredible that they could have been set in motion by Mr.¬ÝTipstead. ‚ÄúIn another minute,‚Äù Miss Trant thought, ‚Äúshe‚Äôll be in hysterics,‚Äù and saw herself trying to hold Effie down as she had once had to hold down a maid at home. She was annoyed with herself for not having gone before this, but on the other hand she felt she could not go now, not at this moment. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt, don‚Äôt!‚Äù she cried, and moved a step or two forward, with the intention of doing something. But she did not know what to do. The usual consolatory little actions seemed absurd, like trying to give a pat or two to an earthquake.
“Now what’s up here?” Uncle Arthur was puffing and blowing before them, looking from one to the other. “Has that chap gone?” he asked Miss Trant. “I thought I heard him. Nay, lass, bear up, bear up.” He gave his niece an affectionate slap or two on the shoulder. “You’re well rid of him. He was nowt but two-pennorth o’ copper. Nay, lass, take it easy, take it easy.”
Effie refused to take it easy. Violently she shook herself free from his hand, drummed her feet on the floor again, and cried louder than ever.
‚ÄúWell, you must have it out, I suppose,‚Äù he observed philosophically. Then he glanced at the hearth. ‚ÄúGone and smashed an ornament and all,‚Äù he said to Miss Trant, lowering his voice and speaking confidentially. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt help it, you know. Temperament, that‚Äôs what it is. We‚Äôve all got it; runs in the family. If we‚Äôre up, we‚Äôre up, but if we‚Äôre down, we‚Äôre down. It goes with talent, you know, and it‚Äôs always been the same i‚Äô this family. Her mother‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe was my sister‚ÅÝ‚Äîcould sing ‚ÄòThe Volunteer Organist‚Äô and suchlike and make a whole club-roomful cry‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut if she were cross, she‚Äôd raise the roof, break anything. And her grandfather‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy father, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas the best euphonium-player the Old Dyke Band ever had‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve known ‚Äôem come fifty miles to hear his ‚ÄòDeath o‚Äô Nelson‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut if he didn‚Äôt want to play, he wouldn‚Äôt play, you couldn‚Äôt make him. It wasn‚Äôt beer, you know,‚Äù he added earnestly, as if to arrest the thought that surely must be uppermost in his listener‚Äôs mind. ‚ÄúHe liked a drop, but it wasn‚Äôt that. It was temperament. It runs in the family. I‚Äôm a bit that way myself. But I‚Äôll have to be off.‚Äù He was dressed for the theatre now, for he was wearing a very old dress coat and waistcoat, a queer turned-down collar and about an inch of black tie. He caught Miss Trant‚Äôs surprised glance, and winked at her. ‚ÄúAr,‚Äù he remarked complacently, ‚ÄúI know what you‚Äôre thinking.‚Äù
“Do you? Well, what am I thinking?” Miss Trant was amused.
“You’re thinking ‘He’s gone and forgotten to change his trousers,’ that what’s your thinking.”
Miss Trant laughed. “Well, as a matter of fact, I was.” And with good reason, for he still wore the same trousers he was wearing before and they were blue.
Uncle Arthur winked again. “What the eye doesn’t see, the heart won’t miss,” he observed. “I’m only on duty, you might say, from the waist up, and I could wear a kilt or clogs and it ’ud make no difference you see. You notice next time you’re at the theatre, and you’ll see what I mean.”
Effie was being overlooked and so she stopped crying, to exclaim indignantly: “That’s right, Unkerlarthur, go on, don’t bother about me! Standing there talking about trousers and kilts! And look at me!”
“Well, you feel a bit better now, Effie lass, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.” And to prove it she began again.
“Well, I must be off,” he said hastily.
“And so must I,” said Miss Trant.
“No, no, Miss Grant,” cried Eme, “don’t leave me to myself. I won’t be responsible if I’m left to myself, I won’t really. Don’t go.”
Uncle Arthur stared at Miss Trant in pained surprise. “Nay, Miss, have a heart. You’re not busy, are you? Well, stop on a bit and keep her company.”
“Nobody wants me, nobody,” moaned Effie.
“Course they do, Effie lass,” said her uncle heartily. “Miss Dent here will stop and look after you a bit. I’m off then! Be good!” He gave Miss Trant a last wink as he went out.
Effie sniffed a little, then began to dry her eyes. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet I look a sight, don‚Äôt I?‚Äù And undoubtedly she did. ‚ÄúDo sit down and make yourself comfortable. I don‚Äôt want to keep you here if you‚Äôve anything to do, of course, but I wish you‚Äôd stay a bit. There‚Äôs nobody here, and if I‚Äôm by myself tonight, I shall get the jimjams, what with all the excitement there‚Äôs been today and the state I‚Äôve been in this last week and the way he went off just now. If Unkerlarthur hadn‚Äôt been working at the theatre this week, he‚Äôd have stayed with me‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a good sort is Unkerlarthur‚ÅÝ‚Äîand this is really his house; well, really, me and my sister Elsie and him we all join in it, and we let rooms to theatricals, you know, as well, because my family has always been concerned with the profession, and I went on the stage for a time and then had to leave, it was too bad for my nerves, and Elsie‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs younger than me and very talented‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs still on, doing concert party work, you know.‚Äù All this came out in one unbroken torrent while she was still dabbing her eyes and patting her hair. How she contrived to say so much and say it so quickly, having apparently been in hysterics two minutes before, was a mystery.
‚ÄúNow, Miss Grant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Effie began again.
“Trant,” the lady put in, correcting her.
‚ÄúOh, you must excuse me. Of course it‚Äôs Trant, isn‚Äôt it. I had the name right at first, and then what with one thing and another‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDid you catch my name? Longstaff, it is.‚Äù She stood up and examined herself in the mirror. ‚ÄúFirst thing I must do is to tidy myself up a bit. I‚Äôll just slip upstairs, if you don‚Äôt mind. Take your hat off, Miss Trant, and rest yourself properly. What about a cup of tea and something to eat?‚Äù
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs awfully kind of you,‚Äù said Miss Trant, who was really touched by this show of hospitality. She was not merely an intruding stranger, she was the villain of the piece, for had she not brought Mrs.¬ÝTipstead to this very door? It was clear, however, that Effie was anxious to keep her there, probably because she needed a listener more than usual this melancholy evening. ‚ÄúBut I had tea, you know, some time ago,‚Äù Miss Trant went on. ‚ÄúAnd I really don‚Äôt think I want any more, thank you.‚Äù She took a sensible interest in food, and had already begun to wonder about dinner.
‚ÄúAh, that‚Äôs afternoon tea, you mean,‚Äù said Effie, ‚Äúbut we go in for high tea in these parts, though as a matter of fact in this house supper‚Äôs the big do, and I‚Äôll tell you why. You see what with Unkerlarthur being at the theatre and then us letting rooms to the profession, none of them really wants anything solid till the shows are over, about half past ten to eleven, that‚Äôs the time they want a proper set-to, and so Mrs.¬ÝMoore‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs the woman that looks after the house‚ÅÝ‚Äîgoes away in the afternoon and then doesn‚Äôt come back till about nine or half past and then cooks something hot for everybody, you see.‚Äù
“That’s a very queer way of living,” said Miss Trant. “I don’t understand how anybody sleeps after that.”
‚ÄúThey don‚Äôt, you know, not early. But they can stay in bed in the morning. And they couldn‚Äôt have a solid meal just before the show. Take these we‚Äôve let to this week‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve not seen them but Unkerlarthur told me they were here again, and they‚Äôve been here before‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Four Romanies‚ÅÝ‚Äîacrobats, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôll probably have seen ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre a good turn‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, if they‚Äôd their dinners at night and then went on to do their show, they‚Äôd have to be taken to hospital in ten minutes. And even Unkerlarthur has to wait. I‚Äôve heard him say many a time ‚ÄòGive me a good plateful of steak and kidney pudding and you just might as well push a cake of soap up the old trombone.‚Äô Can‚Äôt play, you see, after that.‚Äù
“I see. But you needn’t wait, eh?”
“Oh, no, not at all. They weren’t expecting me, anyhow, tonight. That’s why I say let’s have a bit of something now. I could nip out for something in a minute. Just rough-and-ready, take-us-as-you-find-us, you know.”
Miss Trant was not anxious to take them as she found them. “Look here,” she said, “won’t you come out to some hotel and have dinner with me? And by the way, I can’t possibly leave Sheffield tonight. I must find an hotel to stay in tonight, and I must go and put my car away too.”
‚ÄúWith having these Romanies here‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough one of ‚Äôem‚Äôs only a dwarf‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou never saw such a little man‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôre rather full up, though I dare say I could squeeze you in here somewhere‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Don’t trouble, thank you,” said Miss Trant earnestly. The thought of being squeezed in there was too much even for her new adventurousness. “Probably you can take me to some hotel where I can stay and we can have dinner too.”
“I’d love that,” cried Effie enthusiastically. “It’s very nice of you, I’m sure, and if it’s not saying too much, I don’t mind telling you it’s just what I need a night like this, I mean having a little friendly outing. Hello!” She broke off, and listened. “Front door again. Hope it’s somebody for the Bird-in-Hand this time. I’m getting nervous.” She giggled uneasily, departed, only to return the next moment with a telegram in her hand. “It’s for Unkerlarthur. What’s he doing with telegrams? Here, I’m going to open this. It’s all in the family.” She did open it and, characteristically, read it out at once. “Here, listen to this. Show bust all stranded send other basket passenger train also three pounds anything wheres Effie. Elsie. Well, I don’t know! What do you think of that?” She stared at Miss Trant.
“I don’t think anything of it,” replied Miss Trant, “because I don’t understand it. What does she mean?”
‚ÄúShe doesn‚Äôt know I‚Äôm here, you see,‚Äù cried Effie excitedly. ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôll bet anything she rang up Lichfield to tell me, and they told her I‚Äôd gone, they didn‚Äôt know where. Rawsley this is from. I knew they were at Rawsley all last week. It‚Äôs just like her, too, sending a long telegram like this‚ÅÝ‚Äîover a shilling, you see. It‚Äôs a funny thing those girls have always got money for telegrams, doesn‚Äôt matter how broke they are. They never write, nobody on the stage ever writes.‚Äù
“Yes, but what does it mean?” Miss Trant was now so curious that she was quite impatient. These little glimpses of that mysterious world behind the painted scenes excited her.
‚ÄúWell, don‚Äôt you see, the show‚Äôs suddenly busted‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe was with a concert party, pierrot troupe, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they‚Äôre all stranded. The old business. No salaries for a few weeks, then one morning the manager or the fellow that‚Äôs running it isn‚Äôt there, and they‚Äôre all up a gum tree. That‚Äôs what happened to them at what‚Äôs its name‚ÅÝ‚ÄîRawsley.‚Äù
“Where’s that?”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs somewhere in the Midlands, not above thirty or forty miles from Lichfield. That‚Äôs all I know. I never heard of it before. It‚Äôs one of these small towns, you know, that some concert parties try out when they‚Äôve finished a season at the seaside. And now she wants her other basket sending on, by passenger train, you see, so she‚Äôll get it in good time, and a pound or two to get her out of the place. Some mangy old ma‚Äôs probably claimed her basket till she gets paid for her rooms. I‚Äôll get that basket‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs got all her other props in‚ÅÝ‚Äîoff in the morning, and if Unkerlarthur‚Äôs got a spare quid or two‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôcos I haven‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll post that on too, first thing.‚Äù
“You’ve got her address, of course?” Miss Trant did not inquire out of mere politeness; she was really interested.
Erne looked blank. “Well, if that isn’t just like her! She sends a long splathering telegram and never puts her address in it.”
“Can’t you send it to the theatre?”
‚ÄúThey‚Äôve not been showing at a theatre because there isn‚Äôt one at Rawsley. It‚Äôs one of those holes where you do three nights at the Corn Exchange or all next week at the Assembly Rooms. Don‚Äôt I know ‚Äôem! Nowhere to dress and all draughts and the curtain never works. It‚Äôll have to go to the post office, that‚Äôs all, and take its chance‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean the money. The basket‚Äôll have to go to the station. It‚Äôs what I call a mess. Here, I‚Äôm going to tidy up, and then we‚Äôll go out and talk about this after. Won‚Äôt you come up?‚Äù
“No, thanks. I might as well wait until I get to the hotel and then I shall have my things.”
“All right. I shan’t be long. You have a look at our photos.”
The walls were covered with photographs, and Miss Trant spent the next quarter of an hour examining them. It was like catching a glimpse, in a peepshow, of another world. There were photographs of large ladies in tights, massive Dick Whittingtons and Prince Charmings, or small ladies in ballet skirts or pierrot costume. There were photographs of gentlemen in evening dress, in battered hats and monstrous-check trousers, in nothing at all but leopard skins and laced boots. Niggers and fairies and tramps and pierrettes stared out with the same wide impersonal smile. Nearly every photograph had not only a dashing signature, followed by a brief but imposing description of the writer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúLeading Comedian in Hot Times, Principal Girl Mother Goose, Starring in The Doodahs,‚Äù and so forth‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut also flung out, with a prodigality of exclamation marks, some such message as ‚ÄúHeaps of Love!‚Äù or ‚ÄúAll the Best!!‚Äù It was impossible not to believe that the subjects of these photographs were living in a whirl of success; they seemed to smile out of a glittering triumph. Only by making an effort could Miss Trant realize that these radiant creatures might be stranded in little towns and be reduced to spending their last shillings on SOS telegrams. But she was aided by the sight of a postcard, crammed with broad grins and frills and pompoms, sent by Elsie herself, now so forlorn at Rawsley. It was all curiously fascinating. Here was a world that seemed as far away and fantastic as any of those she explored so eagerly in her favourite fiction, that of the embattled Huguenots or the Young Pretender, and yet it was only just round the corner. Indeed, she had one foot in it at that moment. That was an exciting thought, and though she laughed at herself a little, nevertheless the foolish little thrill of it remained, like a tune going on somewhere at the back of her mind.
Then Effie bounced in. Miss Trant had hoped that Effie would depress her evening’s toilet to the level of this disastrous day. She looked forward to seeing Effie more cheerful in mind but far more subdued in appearance. Actually, however, Effie was now more flamboyant than ever; her hair was a wilder gamboge; her eyebrows and lashes were astonishingly blackened and her mouth was a fiercesome daub of vermilion; her dress was a vivid green; and she carried an imitation Spanish shawl that promised to be the final catastrophe.
“I don’t know whether to wear it or not,” she mused. “Pretty isn’t it?”
‚ÄúI shouldn‚Äôt wear it if I were you,‚Äù Miss Trant counselled earnestly. She was relieved to find that her companion immediately and quite meekly put the shawl away. It was soon apparent, however, that Effie had made her final onslaught upon the day‚Äôs melancholy upstairs in her room; she had called up her last reserves from her wardrobe and dressing-table and had gained a brief victory; but now she could do no more. Her appearance was hardily triumphant, but her manner became more and more subdued. When the car had been put away, the room secured at the hotel, and they sat down to dinner, Effie chattered no longer. Over the soup she looked as wistful as it is possible for a person so large, so bright of hue, to look when eating soup. After that she became sentimental, confidential. She would not talk of Elsie or Unkerlarthur; her thoughts were with Mr.¬ÝTipstead.
“I didn’t think anything of him at first, you know, Miss Trant,” she confided mournfully. “Thought he was a little swanker. He kept coming in and there was a bit of talk about him because he’d won a prize in one of these competitions. But that got nowhere with me, I can tell you; and I’m used to admiration and men saying silly things, what with being on the stage and then hotel work; they all run after you, you know, or pretend to, just to pass the time. But he kept coming in and coming in, and we got to exchanging bits of jokes, you know; and he’d make me laugh sometimes. You wouldn’t think he was droll, would you?”
“I shouldn’t,” replied Miss Trant promptly and with decision.
‚ÄúWell, he is. But that was nothing. I‚Äôve met ‚Äôem far funnier than him‚ÅÝ‚Äîmake a cat laugh, some of the fellows I‚Äôve known would. Then, one day, I was walking round in the afternoon‚ÅÝ‚Äîoff duty, you know, and nothing much to do‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he comes along, and we go for a bit of a walk and sit down, and he asks me about my life, where I‚Äôve been and all that, and then he tells me all about himself, how he‚Äôs married and it‚Äôs all been a mistake and how his wife doesn‚Äôt understand him and won‚Äôt think about anything but making money‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I must say I think that’s nonsense,” Miss Trant put in. “I should think she understood him only too well. But men always say that, at least they always do in books and plays.”
‚ÄúWell, in real life, they‚Äôll say anything for twopence, that‚Äôs my experience. And we‚Äôll always believe ‚Äôem. At least,‚Äù she added, with a sudden gleam of sagacity, ‚Äúwe‚Äôll believe ‚Äôem if they tell us what we want to believe. Anyhow, that started it. I felt sorry for him, and he said how sorry he was for me‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you can do with a bit of sympathy when you‚Äôve had nothing but a row of great fat fellows all talking silly round the bar every night. And then all of a sudden quicker than catching flu‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe got a real fascination for me; couldn‚Äôt keep my mind off him. I‚Äôd have gone anywhere, any time, to see him. But you know what it is.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôm not sure that I do,‚Äù Miss Trant replied, with some hesitation. There came, unbidden, to her mind the thought of a tall Scots ship‚Äôs doctor, a deep voice, a glint of hair about prominent cheekbones. Hugh McFarlane. How queer to think of him now! But then, hadn‚Äôt she suddenly thought about him the other day, when Mrs.¬ÝChillingford had told her that Dorothy was engaged? It was time she forgot about him. She knew less about him now than she did about‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝTipstead. Yet, really, that was queer, too. She hardly noticed what Effie was saying. Something about her being pretty. The word startled her into attention.
“Pretty!” she cried. “Don’t be absurd. I’m not pretty, and never was.”
‚ÄúMy words but you are!‚Äù exclaimed Effie in all seriousness. ‚ÄúAnd don‚Äôt think I‚Äôm flattering you, either, ‚Äôcos I never flatter anybody‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs not my way. Course you‚Äôre pretty. I only wish I was half so pretty. You‚Äôve got lovely hair and eyes and teeth‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre your own, aren‚Äôt they?‚ÅÝ‚Äîand nice features and a nice slim figure. Mind you, Miss Trant‚ÅÝ‚Äîif you‚Äôll let me say so‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt think you make the best of yourself. Your style‚Äôs too quiet‚ÅÝ‚Äîof course, it‚Äôs ladylike and all that, but you can have too much of the ladylike, if you see what I mean.‚Äù
Miss Trant did not see what she meant, or did not choose to see. Effie told her and produced, among other things, what she called “some tips and wrinkles you won’t find in any of the books of words,” and this she did with great precision and fluency but still with a certain melancholy, as if life were all over for her and she was only shouting a few last messages to the fading shore. Most of this advice Miss Trant instantly decided to ignore, not having any desire to look like a human oleograph, but now and again she heard something that left her more determined than ever to take stock of herself. Indeed, she was all eager attention, having been started into it by the initial compliment. Elizabeth Trant of the Old Hall, Hitherton-on-the-Wole, was sitting in the dining-room of an hotel in Sheffield with a barmaid, a large, loud, and badly painted female who had failed that day to capture another woman’s husband; and because she had just been told she was pretty, Colonel Trant’s daughter was pleased and excited at once, perhaps better pleased and more excited than she had been for years. Hitherton would never have believed it.
Was it this conversation, was it the sight of those photographs in the sitting-room, was it merely a sudden lack of interest in cathedrals, at Liverpool or elsewhere, or was it a combination of all these things that made Miss Trant offer her services? She will be seen arriving at other decisions but at none really of greater importance than this, which is of such moment indeed that everything related up to now has been a mere overture to it. It came easily enough, and as usual with nothing to indicate that here was a little lever that might move whole worlds. Effie had returned to the subject of Mr.¬ÝTipstead, whose sun was still setting with her; then she had passed rather mournfully to talk of herself and her own prospects, and hinted at trying the next day for a place in a certain gentlemanly bar in Sheffield, where apparently she might be able to piece together a broken heart; and finally and momentously she arrived again at her sister Elsie, waiting in Rawsley for her basket and some money. It was then that Miss Trant made her offer.
“If you like, I’ll take them down for you tomorrow,” she announced quite calmly. “No, it won’t take me out of my way because really I haven’t got a way. I was going to Liverpool to see the cathedral but I’d much rather go to Rawsley and see your sister.”
Effie agreed with enthusiasm. It was arranged that Miss Trant should call at the house next morning for the basket and whatever sum Unkerlarthur might be able to raise at such short notice. There would be no difficulty, Effie pointed out, in finding Elsie in a town of that size, where everybody knew everybody else’s business. She launched upon a description of Elsie that soon became a bewildering biography, and at last Miss Trant had to cut her short, pleading that she was tired and would like to go to bed early. That was quite enough. Instantly, Effie was for rushing her upstairs at once and putting her to bed with her own hands, and by the time Miss Trant had excused herself from any such treatment, she was tired indeed.
The day had been so long, so eventful, so cluttered with other people’s lives, with Tipsteadery, that it seemed to press upon her now, a weight and huddle of experience not to be borne without some little respite of darkness and quiet. Thus it was a relief to see the last of Effie, now almost tearful again and threatening huge embraces, to meet the chill emptiness of the hotel bedroom, as impersonal as a packing case, to slip out of the day altogether, after having crowned it with a little gesture of one’s own. In short, Miss Trant did not regret her change of programme and slept well.